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.

Meditation on Pentacles

The Yogi floated before his computer, its name emblazoned on the side of the monitor. Maya. His fingers moved above the keyboard without touching. The monitor flashed with input.

The Yogi pulled up his feeds. The screen dove into an endless see of webpages. The look of passionless detachment was a near permanent fixture on his face. Until, in the midst of the sea of information, the Yogi raised his hand and his monitor stopped on a particular blog. It was a LJ post, someone had reviewed a game called Plants vs Zombies. His eyes scanned through the page a lightning speed.

The slightest smile broke on his face. His other hand rose in benediction and a credit card rose from his nearby wallet. It zoomed through the air like a witch's broomstick and swipped through the card reader on the side of his computer.

The Yogi sipped his grande latte as he scanned through today's etsy post. Hmmm, Arm Candy for the Queen of Hearts. What a novel concept.