Aw.

I appear to have lost my only follower, unless blogspot is glitching out like it does sometimes.

EDIT: Yup. Glitching.

Hoorah, my ego lives.

Some Practice -- The Date

Just an attempt at writing people as realistically as I can. This'll be done in two parts.

    Phil sat in the restaraunt with a great deal of anxiety hanging over his shoulders. He hadn't been on a date since he was twenty-four, and that was averaging out at about a decade ago. It wasn't that he didn't have time. Instead, it was a matter of nerve. He had always had trouble with women, what they did to his senses, and the fact that his mind raced too fast about things. One moment he was looking at her, the next he was thinking about kids, and all of it goes to hell from there. But he decided to try again, when he met Molly Ivanchuk.
    She was a gorgeous woman, about twenty-eight, twenty-nine. He never had the courage to ask her actual age. He didn't want to screw things up. She was a writer, and a smart one at that. Really liked sci-fi. But she smoked, which was why he was in the smoking section now... it was a habit he would be willing to put up with, for her. She was good enough to ignore little issues like that. She was smart, and funny, and a little grumpy at times but he just thought that made her all the cuter. She wasn't bashful, either.   
    There she is, he thought as she entered the restaurant, rubbing the back of her neck, a clear sign of nervousness. It made him feel better, to know she was nervous too. He hated the feeling that he was the only one who felt like he was bad at this game. Well, not a game. But something close. A dance, a puzzle, something.   
    He took a moment to look her over, and by god, she seemed to be even prettier. Instead of the brown, loose turtleneck and washed out jeans he had seen her in earlier, she was standing their in a deep blue dress, like midnight without any city lights, her pale skin accentuated by the darkness of the fabric as it showed off every curve it covered. Her orange hair was tied up in a bun like last time, but it seemed glammed up, somehow, as if the colour had been intensified, and it framed the most gorgeous face, with soft grey eyes, thin eyebrows, lips ruby red with lipstick...
    "Like what you see," she said with a cheeky grin --her Ukrainian accent still thick-- knocking Phil out of his little daze and into a blush of embarassment "hm?"
    Phil stuttered a little at first, but gathered himself.
    Don't fuck this up, damnit.
    "Heh, yeah..." He looked her up and down again. "Honestly, Mol, you look great." He said with sincerity.   
    She chuckled softly. Not a giggle, thank God, but a chuckle. Deep, but pleasant.
    "I'm glad you think so," she said with the slightest blush on her cheeks "it's not often I dress up."
    She took her seat and smiled at him for a few moments, not saying anything, before, after what seemed like a couple hundred eternities:
    "You look really good yourself, Phil. I really like that shade of grey on you."
    Phil was wearing a full suit, because it was that kind of restaurant, with a green tie and pearl white shirt underneath. He didn't necessarily like suits, because they made him feel like he was still at work in the firm, but this was one that had a special place in his heart, being a gift from his brother before he went off to fight in the Gulf.
    "Thanks, Mol. It was a gift. Did you find the place okay?" He asked, already resorting to cliches.
    Molly nodded, and smiled at him again, her perfect white teeth bared. "You know, Phil, we've gone on a few dates, but, um... We really don't know each other much, you know that?"
    Phil looked down at the table, giving a brief nod in agreement. Somehow, the words made him feel like he had failed, somehow. But what could he tell her? He was an accountant who hadn't had a date in ten years and the most interesting thing that happened to him recently was someone accidentally melting their computer by removing their fan at the office.
    "Well, uh... I guess we should start getting to know each other better, then," he said, mustering up some confidence and hoping it didn't sound as much like an innuendo as he feared it did.
    Molly laughed. That was a good sign. She kept smiling at him, too. That was really good. It made him feel great, even.
    "Alright, well, let's talk about... I don't know, childhoods? Jobs? I mean, you know what I do but I really don't know what you do."
    Phil flushed a little. "Well, um... I'm an accountant."
    Molly just smiled, and nodded. "I thought about doing something like that, since I'm good with numbers and I know business, but... I don't know, I just can't stand the office thing." She slowly drew her finger over to Phil's chin, and tipped it up gently. "But that's what happens when your brother moves around with you a lot."
    "Brother?" Phil asked, wondering if, just perhaps, he should be worried.
    Giving a quick "mmhmm!" of confirmation, a look of joyful nostalgia crossed her face, like someone returning home for the first time in a long while.
    "Yes, my brother," she started "Kostyantin. Loved me dearly, and very protective. Father and mother died early on, but Kostyantin always looked out for me. We jumped from place to place and he homeschooled me... He was never very smart himself, but he was good at communicating ideas and he got help from friends. We only ever really settled down here, in Charlotte, when I needed to go to college, which was aboooouuut... nine years ago, I think. You lose track of time, sometimes."
    Phil raised an eyebrow. "Why did you have to keep moving around?"
    Molly's face took on an air of sadness, subtle but obvious to Phil.
    "Our parents angered the wrong people, back in the USSR, and... Well, the vendetta passed onto us. The problem is dealt with, but it stuck with us for a long time."
    Phil put his hand on Molly's, looking at her with genuine concern. "Listen, I'm sorry I asked. I didn't know you had it tha--"
    Molly put a finger on his lips, her smile returned, much to Phil's relief. "Shh, Phil. It's okay, it's over. Besides, we're getting to know each other, aren't we?"

We're Not Getting Dumber, Damnit.

I hate the movie Idiocracy.

With a passion.

This isn't because of artistic merit or actual quality of the film. It is because it has become an excuse for every smarmy cockhole on the planet to say "oh, the plebeians are taking over (and yes, some people have actually used the word plebeian. Well, they tried, until I forced them to eat their own eyes)  and this is what humanity is going to look like." We're not. The uneducated, the unintelligent, have always outnumbered the genuinely smart and they're definitely still here. In fact, there's a lot more, now. But this movie is like masturbation to the people with superiority complexes. The people who say the world is getting dumber almost never include themselves, as if they're some paragon of intelligence and wisdom. They're not. They're a paragon of cocks. The creme de la creme of anal hemmhoraging.


It's tantamount to auto-fellatio. Of course we're not getting dumber. Why the Hell would we be? I know a hell of a lot more than the average medieval peasant and so does everyone else. I know more than my great-great grandparents did at the turn of the century. I can tell you a little bit about string theory, I understand prose, I can tell you everything about the Burgundians and the Franks during the Dark Ages.


So no, we're not getting dumber. It's just people who need a reason to feel superior now have an outlet.

Sleep.

I sleep a lot. That's the short version of this post. If you don't want to read about my problems, don't read this post.

It's not that I want to, though I do enjoy sleeping, but constantly feel the need to. Even now, when I'm going to bed at a time one might even call respectable (which is, again, against my will) I'm still tired the next day at eightish. I really don't know what's causing it. I've been fully grown for a long time, but back when I was younger, say around sixteen, I had a similar problem for a while when I was growing/going to bed at the time even a vampire would cringe at.  But now it's just happening. I guess it's my body trying to tell me I'm doing something wrong but I'll be damned if I know what it is. My friend, who shall from now on be known as Jester, thought perhaps it was either too much stress or none at all. I'm not sure I agree, but I will admit a lot of things can stress me out.

In any case, it's pissing me off. I think I'm just going to go stock up on red bull and espressos and blitz the tiredness out of existence, then let it laugh as the crash comes. That seems to be the plan.

ADDENDUM: Another great thought by the Jester -- I am actually attempting hibernation through the winter.


I fucking hate winter.

A Lesson in Economics in the City of Nantes

The Esteemed Wizard Longshadow was in a spot of trouble. Ten years ago, in 1652, he had left his home of Ireland with his manservant Mr. Quin to live in the city of Nantes. Just two years prior, Charles the Second had dispatched of the rodent problem infesting Britain which had been the cause of the pair's departure, but the city of Nantes had endeared itself to them so they remained. However, in that decade, the city had failed to reciprocate that endearment, for various reasons, the least of which was the Esteemed Wizard's infamously rakeish behaviour, and they found themselves forcibly ousted from their home by a group of unscrupulous (indeed, even more unscrupulous than the Esteemed Wizard) gentlemen to whom Longshadow owed a rather large sum of louis d'ors.

            “I simply do not see why we don't just give them the money and be done with it, sir,” said Mr. Quin, who finished packing yet another trunk full of books and magical baubles, “especially considering we most certainly have enough.”

            Longshadow turned to his chamberlain, haphazardly tossing yet another bottle of brandy into his trunk. He grinned, his mouth overlong, and rested his back against the trunk.

            “You see, my dear Mr. Quin, I have considered that,” he looked out the window, wondering just when the men would arrive for the pair “but I have come to the conclusion that would much prefer to just kill me and take the money off of my corpse. They're that sort of people.”

            Longshadow scratched the back of his head, and laughed to himself. “Besides, we don't actually have any money anymore...” He looked back out the window again “because I gambled it away last night.”
            Mr. Quin sighed audibly, and wrinkled his nose, which caused the red moustache sitting just below it to bristle.

            “How prudent of you, sir,” grunted Mr. Quin “and how do you expect us to escape, pray tell?”

            Longshadow pulled the bottle of brandy from the trunk once again, and popped the top to take a deep drink, before wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. He grinned even broader.

            “Well, you see, it's quite brilliant,” Longshadow said with a self-conscious sarcasm.

            Mr. Quin sighed. “We're going to jump out the window, aren't we?”

            “Damned mind-reader!” exclaimed Longshadow. “the only question is who goes first. Out of respect for you, Mr. Quin, I nominate yourself.”

            Running his hands through his hair, Mr. Quin groaned. “Of course you do, sir.”

            The banter of the two was interrupted by a loud pounding on the door. Both of them hoped that it was perhaps someone other than the rogues to whom the Wizard owed the money, but those hopes were for naught when a shouting rang through the halls.
            “Ou est notre argent, vous radin irlandaise?” roared the voice.

            Longshadow looked at Mr. Quin.

            “Still going first?”      

            Mr. Quin responded by simply pushing his master out of the way, kicking the window open with some force. Despite the steep drop, Mr. Quin leapt out the window without hesitation, two trunks full of books in his arms. When he hit the ground, Quin managed to keep his footing and remain standing.

            “I don't know if I could do that!” called down Longshadow. “Maybe I should try another way!”

            Before Mr. Quin could respond, Longshadow heard the door  smash open, and several insults in both French and Breton reach his ears as the collectors came plodding up the stairs. Losing all apprehension, Longshadow leapt from the window and into the alleyway which it looked over. Unfortunately, he lacked the grace his chamberlain did, and crumpled up into a ball upon hitting the ground, dropping his trunks. Quickly, the chamberlain ran to his master's side.

            “Sir, are you alright?!” Mr. Quin cried with alarm.    

            “No...” moaned Longshadow. “I'm almost certain the brandy shattered.”

            Rolling his eyes, Mr. Quin helped Longshadow to his feet and dusted him off.

            “Always one to prioritise, sir.”

            Checking the damage to his clothing, which was minimal, Longshadow looked up to see that the collectors had indeed enough foresight to place a man at opposite ends of the alley-way, both of which were armed with pistols, presumably loaded.

            “Mm, it seems we have failed to outsmart them, Mr. Quin,” mused Longshadow in a tone ill-fitting for the danger of the situation.

            “I was simply waiting for you to notice, sir,” replied Mr. Quin in a similarly dry tone.

            Longshadow gave a grin, indicating he was to be the one to handle the situation.

            “Mes amis,” he began “il n'ya aucun probleme. Je vais vous donner votre argent tout suite.”

            The men with the pistols looked at him, then at each other from across the alley, and said in unison:         

            “Beth?”

            Groaning, Longshadow buried his face in his hands.

            “Bretons.” he announced with some exasperation.

Quickly, the Bretons called out to their companions in their native tongue, grinning in triumph at Longshadow and his chamberlain, as if they had performed some great feat in waiting at the opposite ends of an alleyway with loaded firearms. Most of the men simply ran down from the stairs in the house to the alley, but the leader, whom Longshadow knew as Le Froid, or, in a more civilised tongue, “the Cold”, leapt from the window and landed in a fashion similar to Mr. Quin without so much as a wince or a stumble.

            Le Froid was different from his compatriots in that he was firstly, Lyonnaise, and secondly, he was a Huguenot unlike his Breton Catholic underlings. He carried himself with a dignified air, and dressed himself in the height of French fashion – pleated breeches made from the finest imported Spanish fabric, a deep red coat embroidered with some obscure family crest; most likely fallen nobles who lost their position after Henry the Fourth lost his power over to his son, or rather, to the esteemed Cardinal Richelieu. His hair was covered by that of a particularly ridiculous wig, which was quite fashionable in France, for the more ridiculous you looked, the higher your status and respectability. 

            “Ah, Monsieur Longshadow,” he said with malicious glee “how fortu--”

            “I hate to interrupt, but,” said Longshadow in a typical display of inability to gauge the danger of a situation “I'm not a 'monsieur'. Like how you call a physician “doctor” or a priest “father”, you called a wizard, well... Wizard.”

            Le Froid stared at Longshadow for a few moments, before grunting loudly and gesturing to the men armed with pistols. “Saethu y Gwyddel a'i was!” Roughly translated, and filtered through the fact that Le Froid had never bothered to learn Breton and instead learnt Welsh, and then considering his Welsh was quite terrible, what Le Froid said was “Shoot the Irishman and his servant”.

            Now, in any normal story, when the protagonists are faced with being shot at by two men armed with pistols, they would die in the name of realism. But there is nothing realistic about a novel about magic. So, it was quite possible for the balls of lead to zoom right past their targets, past the crowds, and hit each gunman square in the torso, killing them instantly. Still, it gave everyone in the alley a bit of pause as they took in the sheer improbability of the situation.

            “...Merde.” muttered Le Froid, observing the two Bretons and the holes in their chests. Looking at the other men, some of whom were quite in shock, he calmly said “Encore.”

            Unfortunately for the gang, who opted to brandish all manner of instruments to bludgeon, gore and slash the two subjects of their ire, they were dealing with a Wizard. Already having prepared for a rush, Longshadow completed his spell, and the Breton gang and their Lyonnaise leader could only watch in horror as the brickwork of the alley surged up at them like a wave of stone, dashing the heavy bricks into their craniums, knocking many into unconsciousness and just as many into the after-life awaiting them.

            Longshadow grinned to himself. “Well, that went well,” he said with intense self-satisfaction “what do you think, Mr. Quin?”

            Mr. Quin did not respond, as Longshadow had been quite indiscriminate about who the spell hit, the only terms being “not himself”, and as such the chamberlain laid upon the ground, blood running from his nose.

            Groaning, Longshadow nudged the prone servant with his foot.

            “Do get up, Mr. Quin. I can't afford you being dead or I'll have to carry all my things to Paris by myself and that's quite a trek.” When the manservant did not respond, he kept nudging him with his foot, harder and harder each time.

            “For the love of God, sir,” started Mr. Quin in a tone of intense annoyance mixed with grogginess from a possible concussion “stop kicking me before I make you eat your shoes.”

            Sitting up, Mr. Quin wiped his nose with a handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket, looking down at the blood and tutting. He sighed as he rose to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself, taking deep breaths.

            “I would request,” said Mr. Quin, glaring daggers at his master “that you do not forget I am here next time you decide to hurl heavy stone about.”

            Shrugging with childish innocence, Longshadow replied with a tone of genuine, though underwhelming, remorse. “I really did not intend to hurt you, Mr. Quin. I'm simply forgetful.”

            Mr. Quin rolled his eyes, and surveyed the piles of bodies and bricks about them with some concern. He knelt and took the pulse of one, then looked up at his master as he vigorously wiped his hand off with the handkerchief.

            “Sir, some of these men are dead. We best get out of here before the guards arrive... I hardly suspect we'd have enough money to bribe...” He gestured to the bodies “this off even if we were the King of Poland.”

            Longshadow looked at the bodies with pity. “Well, I scarcely meant to kill them.” This seeming regret was spoilt, however, when he started looting some of the bodies for their coinpurses, and when one revived with a start, kicking him in the head and back into unconsciousness. “Well, I suppose you're right. Let us depart, Mr. Quin. I hardly look forward to being hanged.”

           

An introduction.

Hello, I'm Mock Johnson. This is my blog -- a place for me to put down whatever I am writing at the moment for public consumption. At present, I am an unemployed, unkempt and unpleasant person who lives in an equally unpleasant city surrounded by exceedingly unpleasant people. I am crass, trite and cliche and you should probably ignore this blog if you have any sort of self-respect. I will shock, offend and belittle your beliefs because I openly feel they are inferior to mine and what's more, I'm right. At no point will you ever feel anything but the most intense loathing for me and my writings, which will certainly be seen as amounting to little more than scribblings by an untalented lunatic with no eye for prose or any capacity for anything but half-hearted self-deprecation and very poor jokes.

Enjoy.