Traceur

It was hard to follow the twitter feed.

@chasescene

The posts came so fast.

Only a couple a week at first.

But, if you gave yourself 10 mins time, a phone with a map with a GPS
system giving real time updates and some speed and skill with
meatspace hacking…

You could join up with this guys.

I can't believe this only started... what? A month and a half ago??

Nothing public lead on to what they are doing.

And if you could catch them, you were already initiated.

We would meet randomly, inconstantly. No pattern to the location. Only
the obstacles

"Today, we are finding my cat. He's gone missing, he's really fucking
fast."

Through the trees at the park after Stank's tweeker fast tabby.
Fastest fucking cat I've ever seen, but that thing could sail through
bushes and on and off of fire escapes and roof tops.

We started wearing little medallions of Ganesh, Lord of Obstacles.
Some would offer up prayers before they would go.

A murmur or two of protection, or guidance or strength.

Then off like a gun.

All of us acting like we were auditioning for the best fucking chase
scene in a movie ever.

But then

A child is drowning.

Then your child has been kidnapped.

You are in too deep.

But you can't unhack that which you have just hacked, you can close
down the neural path ways you've opened, you have to see where this
path leads you.

Because that's what keeps you swift, that's what keeps you alive.

And you have to say, when you reach your destination, that every fiber
in your being was present regardless of the outcome.

Or the mistakes you made.

I've seen a kid split his kneecap right open after a bad fall.

Most everyone sails past him, to the next goal, the next objective.

These guys are adrenaline junkies and will burn

I stop because it's not just speed, it's also endurance.

If I'm running through a doorway and my friend trips on his way
through, he comes with me because I stop to help him. It's because
even if I'm one of the last human beings on the planet, I want and
know that that kind of organism can survive.

And must.

End of line

Percy@meatspace.com

District 9

Perci types...

Apartheid was still alive in this world not more 15 years ago. It's amazing how quickly I forgot. I remember why I wanted to forget.

There is something about injustice and the violence of poverty and the indifference to humanity that acts as a match to spark a fire in a heart.

To become a chalice; One forever filled, over flowing with compassion.

Cruelty overcome, by a promise, an empathy and a vow.

Locked in the shell of the other, the oppresed minority, the forgotten.

Hoping that his gift of compassion and humanity, in exchange for your life and freedom is repaid. Looking upwards to the heavens.

Three years. Waiting. Another man waiting 27 years imprisoned.

It has the same sad poetry of a story of a kind uncle morning the loss of his only son and a battle he commanded.

Tolerating injustice weathers away the passion for life the longer it occurs.

The Buddah teaches that the only way to experience true empathy is is to know another's suffering and to know that you too are subject to this frailty.
From this is born compassion.

Promise something to me, my friends. The next time you see someone that you are able to help, please do.

And I promise you that it will provide a moment of inspiration for you.

The Accordians

"Then we shall strike an accord," he said, "and we shall hold to it through anything, and every trial, our rigid ethical code will never fail! We are..."

Then they raised their chalices in unison, and chanted, "The Accordians!"

As the saying goes, it takes a discordian to play an Accordian.

No one knows when the Special Ones first appeared, though of course there are those who believe they have always been here. It hasn't been that long, and no one can say they've shown any sign of aging.

There was Warrior Poet, the most famous of them all, in his own way, though almost nothing was known about him. He was the Jesse James of the Special Ones, making headlines as he quietly stalked the cities of America, his exploits strewn across front page headlines.

He was one of the first to be sighted, to be labeled, though no one knows how many others there were, waiting in the shadows, biding their time while their existence was unknown.

If anyone had bothered to ask, they would have learned they was at least one more: Warrior Poet was looking for him.

Gods, bless the psychics. They have never failed to feel pain.

Stan Van Hassle hated learning new languages, but it had fascinated him to hear the language being spoken, still, in real life. He stopped his pacing for a moment, looked back down at the book and began counting from 1 to 10 again.

"Un, daa, tree, kiare, queig...shey, shaight...shite," he said, putting on a British accent, as he checked his copy of 'Manx for Dummies' swiftly, "hoght, nuy, jeih."

He shook his head and continued pacing. Languages had never been his strength, but he was determined to impress the Bishop of Sodor.

He had never told anyone, but when he way young, and he almost died of TB, his parents took him to live in Ireland with his great-aunt. He lived there from less than a year old until after he was 3, and he spoke Irish like a 7 year old, as if he somehow knew his time there was limited, and spent all his time on the language.

For whatever reason, once he picked up English, he didn't seem at all interested in learning another. He didn't really know much Scottish or Welsh but he had traveled a bit and saw enough movies that he could tell which one was being spoken.

But the language that he had heard earlier wasn't either, and it wasn't Irish, but it was so similar, he just knew he was missing something. That something was the language known as Manx.

He thought back to his meeting with the Bishop, the words he had accidently heard him speak.

He still didn't know what they meant, but he had a strange feeling it was important. Beacause one word he was sure he knew. In Irish is was "bás", but it was basically the same thing in Manx, "baase".

And if there was a chance it was his death, he wanted to know about it.

He shook his head. He had made his deal, and now he had to play his hand. The disc wasn't worth anything to him besides what he could get for it, anyway.

But if the Bishop of Sodor spoke secretly in Manx, to messangers wearing the signet of the House of the Keys, then he knew he'd better know it too.

[I made notes on this story line a while ago, here http://copperpot.livejournal.com/95876.html ]

The Assassin and the Emperor

Simon: I need you to read something Perci
Perci: Sure, just let me finish up the dishes. Brb
Ok, back. What is it?
Simon: Sending you a .doc right now.

My father is a medicine man. He taught me that there are many toxins and evil spirits in this world. He taught me the value of Maintaining a relationship with the earth lest our sterile world kill off our last good medicine.
I’ve eaten the hash of the assassins. I’ve been sent to the earthly garden and seen through the moon and illusion of it. I have embraced the sacred feminine and married it to my warrior self.
The being I have created will be silent, moving through the crowd of this globe, amongst so many innocents in pursuit of my target. And when I am placed, undetected amongst the world’s tightest security, speaking casually of sports and weather with humanities most paranoid, I am my most calm and serene.
And when I am in distance to strike, to pierce the frail mortal shell of the VIP target, a president, a pope, a CEO or the head of a crime syndicate, I pull out my gun, aim it point blank at his forehead and pull the trigger. A flag pops out inches from their head and says live.
Minds are blow, empires fall, paradigms shift. As men in suits, soldiers with guns, news teams swirl around us, the target and I share an intimacy not even the closest lovers share. There is a look in his eyes and he is thankful for his life. No one dies, except me, maybe. But it hardly matters.
I’m transformed into a being of light and consciousness. The singularity has already happened and I’ve met my future self and we’ve shifted the timeline.
A suicide-less bomber. And when they search my body, the will only find a message; a single piece of paper.
Be lucid!

Perci: That’s really bizarre, who wrote it.
Simon: That’s the part that bothers me the most. I think I may have.

Catch-up

"Munay-ki." Betty Boatman and her brother Perci both smiled and bowed to one another as they finished up their ritual. They rose and moved into his living room, that was being bathed in the Seattle afternoon sunlight. Tea had been prepared, the smell of yerba matte was invigorating. Perci's iPod was quietly playing. Both siblings sat and sipped their tea for several minutes without speaking before Betty noticed Perci's body nervous body language.

"I need your help, Betty."

This was a powerful admonition. Her brother was one of the most power and focused shamans she had ever met. She had never seen anything phase the man. Betty tried hard to control her rising fear.

"Remember that thing that Simon and I found a year ago."

She remembered he had posted about it in his LJ. "Yes, the disc."

"We've lost it."

Betty had to swallow air several times before she could respond. "Lost it?" Her mind raced with all of the powers and abilities the disc had granted. The last time she had seen her brother, he had visited her in the Midwest, flying in on what appeared to be a shimmering shoulder protrusions of light.

"Lost... but its been found." Perci produced a business card in his left hand from no where.