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Author Topic: The Laws Of Futility  (Read 7201 times)


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The Laws Of Futility
« on: November 04, 2009, 01:03:14 pm »

Two long neglected stories combined in an attempt to get them told. This will, eventually, be a shortish, probably unpublishable novel. Near future.

Here's the first three chapters:

Chapter 1

i. surveillance

Of course he sees them arrive. They won't understand, but what they understand is based on ancient paradigms that no longer matter. He sees them arrive via a hundred cell phones and cheap digital cameras, flashed towards them in quick, subversive gestures: their own hard built surveillance state attitude turned against them as it must be turned.

He watches the various feeds, watches them troop from the planes. Ninja black, body armored. Faces hidden behind hoods and masks. They do not look human, as their heavy boots tromp in synchronized rhythm down landing ramps onto tarmac. No longer human, by their own conscious choice.

Pigs, the lot of them.

But only fifty. He is, for a brief moment, disappointed. Far from his goal. Far from the finish line.

But fifty is the most they've ever sent in one go.

Fifty, for the moment, will have to do.

Everybody's world ends personally. That's a truth that can't be denied.

Some die in fire, some in the quiet leech of freezing cold. Some wracked in agony by poison. The lucky at the end of a long life, drifting away after a delicious dinner and many sweet goodbye kisses.

His died as he hunkered like a coward in a hiding hole, accompanied by a symphony of enraged dogs.

His ended with the sight of a two year old screaming, frantically rocking a baby doll in her arms. A baby doll with melted hair and a deformed head. Rocking, rocking. Seeking comfort by trying desperately to give it. Seeking comfort in a world falling apart before her eyes.

When he thinks back, when he dreams of that moment (as he does nearly every night) he realizes that this vendetta has more to do with that horrible moment in the short life of his baby cousin than the deaths of his uncles. He lies when he claims otherwise. He lies to himself, most of the time.

Every shot fired, every trap sprung, every skull collected. Urged on by that single image - by that unholy justice demanded for a child who cannot articulate the desire for justice.

Justice that demands two hundred head of pig.

ii. in brief

"What is this son of a bitch's name?" Agent Dangeld asks his new assistant.

She's a quick, polite sort. "James Franklin Farmer, sir," she says in her crisp, perfectly modulated voice. She passes a depressingly thin dossier to him. "No real criminal record. No real records of any sort."

The agent pretends to glance through the file, catching glimpses of Ms. Amanda Tate as he does so, assessing her, letting the voices argue.

He's not schizophrenic - a dozen doctors have assured him of that. The voices - which have been with him for as long as he can remember - make no pretense of control or play none of the noted power games amongst themselves.

"Ugly but nice bod," says Rickie, the perpetual teenager. "Consolation prize."

Hiram sniffs. "First in class at UofM, Top 10 percent at Arlington. Her looks are the last thing we need to worry about."

"A wild card," mutters Rook, ever paranoid. "And too young to really judge."

Dangeld drops the file on the desk in front of him. Amanda Tate stares at him attentively.

"Why the lack of records? Child of hermits?"

A half smile. Dangeld reflects that Rickie is right. She's not a pretty woman. That smile is far from seductive.

"Not quite, sir. Just a hillbilly. Born and raised in these mountains." She grabs the file and pages through it, using it as a reminder. "High school dropout. No college. Busted once for possession of marijuana."

"No different than half the hicks in this hole in the world, then," Dangeld snorts.


"Why then?"

Tate settles back, cocking her head in thought. "Local consensus is revenge."


Tate returns to her file. "Last year - 6 months and three days ago to be precise - A heavy DEA/BATF CoOp Unit performed a routine raid on the property of Paul and Elmer Farmer."


"Uncles, sir."


"Propagation," Tate returns. "Dead to rights with almost two hundred mature plants. Real connoisseur strains according to the final reports. Extremely potent NoCal/BC boutique hybrids. 450 dollar an ounce stuff, even in these boondocks."

Dangeld sighs and rubs his forehead. He can almost guess the rest of this story.

"The Farmer's were well known to be firearms freaks and pretty damned hard core anti-gov types. The CoOp Unit went in hard and heavy."


Tate shrugs. "Five dead agents from a 20 man unit. The Farmer Brothers had armor piercing ammo and both the steel and the will to use it. Both men killed. Their house was burned. The crop that wasn't destroyed was seized."

Dangeld shook his head. When he started this job a story like that would have made the rounds to every agent in every agency as soon as it happened. These days, it was so common that it barely registered on the grapevine.

Tate wasn't finished. "The Joint Unit didn't know that Paul Farmer's daughter and grandchild were visiting from Georgia."


"Neither were killed, but both spent time in hospital. Both have developed some deep seated psychological problems as well." Tate had a nasty smirk, and she showed it off. "Though it wouldn't surprise me if that was mainly an attempt to snag a government check and a lifetime script for Xanax."

Dangeld ignored that.

"So their nephew decides it's up to him to get revenge."

"Until we received his…pleasant little manifesto…he was actually thought to have been either killed in the raid or fled the state when informed of it. He was a known accomplice - dealer and errand runner - for his uncles."

Dangeld picked the single sheet of paper from his desk, the message that had started this whole mess. The message that had sent him to this civilization forsaken sprawl of hills and impassable roads, as head of a Homeland Security CoOp unit of fifty troops. A contingent of the best DEA/BATF/FBI anti-terrorism forces available:










Tate has read it a hundred times at least. I had been found on the bodies of two DEA agents on secret maneuvers in these hills, looking for commercial pot grows.

The agents had been missing their weapons, body armor, electronics and heads.

Not fled, nor hiding. The voice was Rook. There was something unmistakably satisfied about it.

Fighting, by God!


iii. dear momma

I write this simply to say goodbye, and to plead with you to leave this area. Go stay with Aunt Flora in Gatlinburg, or your cousin Jean in Ohio. But please leave. This is not a situation that will resolve itself or blow over. No disrespect, but this isn't a matter for prayer and trust in the Lord.

If the Lord has anything to do with this, it's the Lord who parted the sea and dealt with Pharaoh. It's the Lord who made the rock call out 'No hiding place!' when the unfaithful sought sanctuary from his wrath.

I know what you are thinking: that your Jimmy finally found an elaborate enough form of suicide to suit his temper. I won't argue with that, Momma. You may even be right.

But I know this:

What they did to Uncle Paul and Uncle Elmer was wrong. Flat wrong. They were hurting nobody. Taking from nobody. They weren't stealing or killing or touching a hair on an innocent head. They were growing a flower they liked to smoke.

I have to do this. This is what I've been left with. The only path open to me.

Remember when you used to tell me that the Lord put every soul on this Earth for a purpose? And that one day every soul discovered that purpose?

I'll leave it at that.

I don't expect to convince you of anything but leaving. Please go. This will be over soon enough. But go to where it's safe.

Give my love to the family, especially Autumn and Cecee.

Know that I love you, always have, always will.

Goodbye, Momma.

Your son,


Chapter 2

i. home to roost

It's the morning rush on the Chicago freeway, and the asphalt veins that feed the not yet awakened city are clogged with a million tons of metal, plastic, glass and people.

Jams happen, little knots of anger and frustration, as other lanes flash by at close to  a hundred miles per hour. Tired and still groggy drivers navigate in blind habit and routine, driving one handed while the other clutches a styrocup of hot black coffee. It's the age of the geosynch nav car and the comtrolled digisat traffic routing, but for all the remote drives and safety features and taxpayer funded computer control lanes, most folks still only trust their own hands on the wheel and eyes on the road.

"It's a great shame," remarked an exasperated Sen. David Willis of Nebraska, only the day before. "that the expense and effort of the Safe Lanes Initiative is being wasted by a populace fearful of an utterly benevolent technology."

That basic monkey instinct will save hundreds this morning.

"Goddamit!" Carla mutters as she feels the bump and unmistakable thumping that meant her left rear tire was flat and the rim riding the road. She flicks on her hazard lights and slows, making her careful way into the breakdown lane. She curses again under her breath. She is already late for work, and this would be her third late morning in the young month and her performance review was due in a few weeks.

She is pulling the spare from her trunk, the lid raised, when the thudding boom of the first explosion slams her back onto her ass and caused her to bite a neat little chunk from the tip of her tongue. The raised lid keeps her from being blinded by the initial flash, and the bulk of the large and fuel hogging Navigator saves her from debris.

There on the ground, Carla O'Neill hears a sound she will never forget, that will haunt her dreams until the day she dies:

The sound of the arteries of Chicago developing a blood clot. The slamming roar of tons of metal intersecting each other. The white noise hiss of hundreds of panes of safety glass shattering under duress. And below it all, perhaps on some hidden psychic wavelength, the fear laden death screams of almost five hundred people.

She staggers to her feet and steps around her car, blood leaking from her mouth, shock and fear still numbing the wound to her tongue.

She watches, helpless, as the pile up happens. As dozens of people fight desperately against the futile laws of kinetic motion. As brakes scream like a herd of stallions led to slaughter, all centered around the harsh glare of a burning something that rages in the center of the freeway, seeming to pull the cars and trucks to it, a baleful magnet, belching black oily smoke like a pipe upthrust from hell.

When she finally pulls her eyes away and dials 911 on her cell phone, she is sobbing, the tears flowing as freely as the blood from her mouth. Her words are choked out, and they spit red gore into the mouthpiece of the little phone.

And these are the only words she can find to say, as the calm operator attempts to soothe her:


Her eyes flutter back to the ongoing death a half-mile from her, and the stink of the thing finally reaches her.

Dead rubber and gas. Burning transmission and brake fluids, the reek of paint boiling off overheated metal. And below it all, the sweet high stink of burning flesh.

Still calling for a deity who has apparently glanced away, Carla O'Neill vomits and passes out, crushing her phone as she fell.

One of the lucky ones.

A view from the air, as it happens:

The semi -- a '96 model Freightliner -- explodes in two stages in the center lane just as it passes the Wacker exit. The cab goes first, a red thumping blast that acts as a primer for the larger payload in the trailer. It jackknifes viciously as it explodes, sending flaming chunks of steel and aluminum in a blistering shower over it's fellow traffic.

The pile up begins, almost majestic in it's tragic inevitability.

Those opting to travel in the Safe Lanes take the brunt of the blow. The computers controlling their vehicles barely slow as they slam them into the twisting boil of colliding metal and burning fuel. The wary drivers with eyes on the road and hands on the wheel fare better, able to swerve off, sometimes flipping their vehicles, sometimes causing smaller knots of accident, but avoiding the roasting death of the central crush.

It lasts about six minutes, the pile up. Four hundred and sixty people die in those six minutes, hundreds more are injured, many severely.
Fire and emergency services arrive quickly, and the general decency of humanity is shown by the fact that most of those who manage to avoid death and injury risk both to drag their fellow commuters from smashed and burning cars.

And the deeper and more evil instincts of humanity are illustrated as well, moments after the calamity, when the following statement flashes across the Internet and arrives at every media outlets doorstep:








« Last Edit: November 04, 2009, 01:06:09 pm by Door Into Summer »


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #1 on: November 04, 2009, 01:04:28 pm »

ii: in the web

Naria O'Neil sprays laughter as she watches the destruction unfold on the screen. After she catches her breath, and the giggles subside, she speaks to Fillip, who is sort of her boyfriend, and mainly her dope dealer.

"I hope my fucking mom's in that shit," Her tone is not angry or bitter, but airily casual, despite the fact that she truly does hope her mother is dead in the wreckage that flames in crystal high-def on the flatscreen before her.

Fillip just grunts. The bitch is crazy, no doubt about that. But she's rich (to him, at least), and kind of hot if you could ignore all the shit she is pierced with. Narias face is like a portrait of a pretty fifteen year old that has been used as a dartboard, if all the darts were surreal spirals and skulls and gleaming claws. In addition to dependable sex, he could count on her buying lots of good dope and sharing it with him. As a matter of fact, since he'd met her at the beginning of the year, he'd been able to ditch most of his other customers. Fillip isn't an ambitious hustler, he just wants to get stoned for free.

He finishes the blunt off with a final twist between his lips. They go numb from the potent extracted psilocybin and speed he'd laced the sticky hydro bud with. He makes the speed himself, with the small but versatile chemistry lab he'd set up in his grandmothers basement. It's quality shit. Fillip takes pride in his work. He dangles the blunt over the flame of one of Naria's ever present black candles, twisting it expertly to dry. He's more than a little impatient for some wake and bake.

"Your Ma ain't so bad," Filip says, and instantly regrets it. The fact that it's his honest opinion is moot.

"Fuck you!" Naria shrills, slapping at him and missing. "She's a stupid corporate whore. A square pegger. She's a fucking drone. I hate her."

"Yeah. Sorry. I forgot."

But he silently hopes that Naria's mother is nowhere near that mess he can't look at on the screen. She is a cheerful, tired looking  woman who has always been nice to him. She had called him once, when Naria had taken off for a few days after an argument. After he'd truthfully told her he hadn't seen her, she had cried on the phone, and he'd done his stoned best to console her. She'd told him how she'd worked her fingers to the bone to give Naria what she wanted, and how it had gotten her nothing but scorn in return. To Filip, who's father had died in Iraq when he was a little kid, and who's mother had abandoned him to smoke crack on the Southside, such things were almost mythical; like a fairy tale come true.

He never looked at Naria the same after, and sometimes felt disgusted that he put up with her.

But the bills gotta get paid. Drugs don't buy themselves.

He puts fire to the end of the now dry blunt, sucks in a lungful in and holds it, contemplating the burning ember as the true juice is separated from the dross in the filters of his lungs and sped up his veins to his brain. The home made speed helps the 'sybin hit fast. In just a few minutes the walls of reality will fade slightly and start to tell their stories.

He passes it to Naria, and forces himself to look at the screen.

God almighty. What a clusterfuck.

"I hope she's burning in there." Naria says.

Filip clenches his teeth together and says nothing. He fights the momentary urge to turn around and slap her. But the 'sybin hits and the world around him starts to tell stories. Patterns crawl on the walls, images begin to emerge from the random.

Old Spider didn't raise his head, and Filip almost sighs in relief. Coyote and Raven seem to rule the day. Stories crawl on the wall and he focuses on them.

Naria taps him impatiently on the shoulder. He accepts the blunt.

"Tomorrow I Ascend," Naria says, and the tone of her voice tells him that she'll want to fuck soon.

Coyote and Raven sing to him. Old Spider stays quiet.

Filip knows deep in his heart that Old Spider was God. And when God speaks, awful things are revealed. Coyote and Raven just tell stories, and dance.

He doesn't want to think about Naria's Acension.

He doesn't want to hear Old Spider.

He doesn't want to look at the hell on that screen anymore.

He hits the blunt and looks away. He closed his eyes. He hopes Naria's mom is safe. Carla, he reminds himself. Her name is Carla.

What a fucking clusterfuck.

Then he feels Old Spider, suddenly close. He feels his eyes pulled to the screen, and -- sure as hell -- he can see the faint trace of his outline, billowing from the smoke of the burning pile up.

Things are happening Filip, my boy, Old Spider whispers in the complex patterns now crawling across the wall, and dripping down to flash across the screen and the image it shone into his eyes.

Big shit is happening. You'd better be ready.

Filip passes the blunt to Naria and sighs.

Old Spider is always right.

Chapter 3[/b]

i. stranger on the mountain

Dangeld felt the cool touch of unwelcome as soon as he stepped into the restaurant.

All heads turned toward him and the cheery jingle of bells as the door whooshed close. The fading smiles and hard eyes were cooler than the cranked up air conditioning. He was lucky that the place was sparsely populated: many more focusing on him with such disdain would have been intimidating. But Dangeld was a thirty year veteran of the Bureau. He could handle the typical small town reception. Over the years, as Federal involvement drifted closer to local, that reception had grown ever chillier.

He smiled at the glares, ignoring them, and focused on the interior of the restaurant. Nice little place, actually. Natural wood paneling in dark muted colors. Big, slow turning ceiling fans kept the air moving and an admittedly delicious smell from the kitchen wafting through the place. The decoration was rustic but not overtly so: driftwood and local art, tasteful landscapes and portraits mostly, decorated the walls. The place had a warm and cozy feel that stopped shy of insular.

A waitress stepped up to him. She was a pretty little thing: big eyes and dark hair. A natural girl, lip gloss her only concession to decoration. Only the forced smile marred her attractiveness.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, tone making it clear that she hoped not.

He opened his mouth to speak and was cut off by a voice from across the room. "Over here, Carol," it said. "Gentleman'll be lookin' for me, no doubt."

It was a deep, gravelly voice, filled with both humor and confidence. He looked towards it and saw the man occupying what was obviously a reserved table. Just before the hallway that led to the kitchen, by a big picture window, and under one of the air conditioning vents.

Dangeld nodded to the girl and made his way over. He put out his hand. "Agent Quentin Dangeld," he introduced himself. "FBI, National Emergency Unit, on loan to the Louisville branch."

They shook, the local man nodding. "Couldn't mistake you, sir. I'm Tommy Stewart, Sheriff of this county."

Dangeld sat and flipped the menu in front of him open from habit, all the while checking out this Sheriff. He'd met hundreds in his day, and they were usually more similar than different. They were usually dangerous, too, he'd found.

Stewart was a big man, verging on huge. Well over six foot and solid. Not really fat if you ignored the expansive beergut and a little puffiness around the jowls.

As he scanned him, he felt himself being scanned.

Careful, Rook whispered in the back of his mind. This one is far smarter than he lets on. He'll act friendly with you. Do not buy it.

An older couple made a show of leaving, glaring at Dangeld all the way up to the cash register, where they paid for their unfinished lunch and then stalked out, noses in the air.

"Hmmm," Dangeld said. "Was that because I'm a Fed or was it because I'm a Yankee?"

Stewart laughed, a little too heartily. Dangeld decided Rook was, as usual, right.

"That was Charles and Emily Stiltner," he informed the Agent. "Farmer is a third cousin."

"Ahh," Dangeld muttered.

"Oh, don't take it wrong: on most days they wouldn't have stopped for the boy if they'd seen him limping on the side of the road. They're church-folk and he, well, ain't." Stewart grinned wider. "But you're an outsider." He laughed. "And a Yankee."

"And blood is thicker than water in these parts," Dangeld finished.

Stewart gave him a long, appraising look. "You hungry?" he asked.

Dangeld flipped the menu closed and returned the gaze. "Not really."

Stewart stood and adjusted his gunbelt, then slapped his hat on with purpose.

"Then come on. Got something to show you. Might just let you know what you're up against." He tossed money on the table and headed out.

Dangeld followed him, intrigued, but listening to the whisper in the back of his mind:

Careful, careful....

ii. GenChatForum 6-10, 9:33 pm

"fuckdapolice" says:

anybody who ain't on farmerman's side should be rounded the fuck up and shot! first against the wall when the revolution comes muhfuckers! i'm from the area, i know what the goddam feds are doing to the appalachian people! we're being treated like fifth fucking class citizens and worse. they come stomping in, smashing and burning, fucking around where they got no business sticking there noses and expect what?? to be greeted with hugs 'n fuckin' kisses? gimme a fuckin' break!!

get this: not even the goddam PIGS like the feds!! they don't even want to help them out!!

goddam feds. they push and push and push and when somebody, finally pushes back they act all shocked and stunned!! they almost killed a two year old little girl because of fucking WEED, man!! that's NUTZ!!

keep pushing hillbillies and we eventually push back! HARD!!

"restofmylife" says:

I had to laugh reading your post. It displays almost everything wrong with this country at the moment. Good job! [/sarcasm]

Regionalism, deification of a murderer, acceptance of the drug culture, witless profanity, pointless anger directed at the wrong targets. And mostly, the incredible lack of respect for legitimate authority.

About the only thing I agree with is that you are a 'hillbilly.' And I don't mean that as a compliment. (Duh -- does anyone? LOL!)

Like it or not, we live in a democracy. And, in a democracy, the elected officials choose the policies they wish to govern the society and appoint those they deem best suited to carry out those policies. Your insane hatred of law enforcement has no place in a democracy. If you don't like it, you have two choices: either vote in people with different policies or move out! Leave!

Most of us appreciate law enforcement for keeping us safe.

"mindandmatter" says:

Hey "rest", why didn't you just say:



iii. treasure, hidden

Exhausted and nervous, Autumn Farmer topped the rise and slumped against the base of the ancient oak her father had used as a marker. She wiped sweat out of her eyes and slid to the ground for the moment. It had been a couple of years since she'd billy-goated her way around the hills she'd grown up in. It wasn't a skill you kept without practice. Her legs felt rubbery and weak, and her knees ached.

But she was here. And what she had come for was only a few hundred feet away.

After catching her breath, she stood and headed out. She was a short girl, tending towards chubby -- though the two and a half months she'd spent in the psychiatric hospital had brought her down to thin.

The trail had never been much of a trail, by design. And months of neglect had pretty much eradicated it. After a few hesitant steps, she stopped looking for it and just let instinct guide her.

She smelled it before she saw it, and the smell guided her in like a homing beacon. When she stepped into the sudden patch of sunlight, she saw the plants, tall and proud. She smiled like a fool.

This was one of her dad's many 'backup' spots. Paul Farmer was never a man to put all his eggs in one basket.

The plants were about two weeks from perfect, so they were ready for harvest now. She slid the backpack off, rolled up her sleeves and set to work.

And was floored by sudden, intense emotion. She'd done this since childhood with her dad and uncle, with an assortment of cousins. It was a family tradition and a time of the year better than Christmas. Harvest was their time, a couple of months where everyone was happy and experimental strains were tested. When her dad saw the fruits of a years labor and care.

She fell to her knees, sobs impossible to stop. I'll never see him again, she realized. I'll never walk into the house and have him say "You wanna smoke some of this ol' dirt I bought?" and have him roll up a joint of bomb. See his eyes light up when we bragged on it. That was all he ever wanted you goddam pigs. To grow the best and have people know he grew the best.

Slowly the sobs faded, replaced by something fiercer but easier to deal with: rage. For the first time she thought of what her cousin James was doing and felt more than fear for him. Felt more than pity for the men he'd killed and those he would kill.

She felt righteous about it, and a little shame that he was the one who had to do it.

She wiped her eyes and moved quickly. She plucked the buds with precision and speed, placing them in paper bags and bundling them into the back pack. She'd carefully dry and cure them at home. Most of it was to sell, and she'd make a killing on it.

She wondered, then, if there was any way she could get money -- or supplies, better yet -- to James.

She was almost finished, the backpack crammed full, when she realized that hers wasn't the first harvest. Someone had been at them before her. Someone who knew what they were doing.

Inspiration struck her. She hurried back to the marker tree and found the little heart quickly. "A + J", an artifact of the crush she'd carried for her cousin throughout her childhood.

Directly below it, in the leaf litter, were signs of recent disturbance. A few seconds of digging and she found it. A Ziplock bag. Inside was a thick envelope. On the front was her name in James' sloppy cursive writing.

She stuffed the letter to the bottom of the backpack and headed down the hill, heart singing. Oh, the downhill side was so much easier!

And on her back she carried both relief and hope, in two distinct forms.

« Last Edit: November 04, 2009, 06:42:39 pm by Door Into Summer »


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #2 on: November 04, 2009, 03:44:19 pm »

Interesting stuff.  Thanks for posting it, George; whether it's published or not, it's appreciated.

It's fun to conceive of inventive ways of dispatching villains in manners that make the scene difficult to solve, isn't it? 

Dangeld's voices are a nice touch.  He brings to mind Mr. Smith in The Matrix trilogy, with the voices adding an extra dimension to it.  Most writers give "crazy" signals to the killer, not the "authoritah", so the bit of a twist is refreshing.

Looking forward to more; post when you can.

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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #3 on: November 05, 2009, 01:44:31 pm »


Very nicely written.

Interesting note: my MP3 player had Velvet Revolver's Set Me Free playing when I started reading Chapter 2.  :ph34r:
Tyrants and criminals prefer UNARMED victims - ME
Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats - HL Mencken


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #4 on: November 14, 2009, 01:14:22 am »

Awesome story, Ive really gotten turned on to your work. I eagerly await more!


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #5 on: November 14, 2009, 03:11:02 am »

I'll try to post the next three chapters soon. Much of the story is written in rough draft, all of it is extensively outlined. It's just a matter of polishing, and finding the time to polish.

The next three chapters will finish off part one. This is a three part story, with a short first act, a longer second act, and a short final act. All the chapters are about the same length, and they all use the same Dos Passos/Brunner-esque multi-point-of-view. A kaleidoscope, sort of.

For those interested, here is the basic outline:

Laws Of Futility

I. State Of The Union

1. After The Push
2. Home To Roost
3. Strangers On The Mountain
4. What Really Runs The World
5. Spin Control
6. The Mask Comes Off

II. Two Hundred Head Of Pig

7. The Fifty
8. Gauntlets
9. Rumors & Lies (I)
10. Hell Broke Loose
11. Fanmail
12. Old Spider Takes A Side
13. Rumors & Lies (II)
14. High & Narrow
15. Innashit
16. Graffiti
17. The Mountains Washed Away
18. Rumors & Lies (III)

III. The Blood Of Tyrants

19. Spark & Tinder
20. The Last Argument
21. "...said The Joker to The Thief."
22. Jackboot Boogie
23. Crows Pass
24. Lights Out

Epilouge: "You'll Know 'Em By Their Eyes..."

« Last Edit: November 14, 2009, 03:16:58 am by Door Into Summer »


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #6 on: November 14, 2009, 10:50:24 am »

Suggestion: Write this in installments and put them up on Lulu as you complete them.

Please.  :notworthy:
Unthinking respect for authority is the greatest enemy of truth.
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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #7 on: November 14, 2009, 12:15:07 pm »

I see seeking revenge on agents of an agency that kills your family, on a smart-ass raid to enforce a law that should never exist.

I do not understand exploding a truck on a freeway and murdering hundreds of innocents.  To overturn an oppressive government, the good will, or at least the LACK of objection from the bulk of the population is needed.  One does not gain such by random killings of those from whom you need support.
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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #8 on: November 14, 2009, 01:05:03 pm »

I see seeking revenge on agents of an agency that kills your family, on a smart-ass raid to enforce a law that should never exist.

I do not understand exploding a truck on a freeway and murdering hundreds of innocents.  To overturn an oppressive government, the good will, or at least the LACK of objection from the bulk of the population is needed.  One does not gain such by random killings of those from whom you need support.

The Roosting Chickens are terroristic commie scum, claiming to be attacking 'opression' when they're actually attacking the productive, using Ward Churchill's idiotic and evil 'little Eichmann' comparison.

Not all revolutions, or revolutionaries, are moral. There are a lot more shitheels than heroics in this story.
« Last Edit: November 14, 2009, 01:15:48 pm by Door Into Summer »


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #9 on: November 21, 2009, 02:06:09 pm »

when they're actually attacking the productive, using Ward Churchill's idiotic and evil 'little Eichmann' comparison.
And to be truthful, the story never said whether the pileup was planned, or rather some random event, with someone incidentally claiming responsibility for it in the aftermath.............only that there was an can only assume, for now anyways, that it was a "terrorist act".............
Even some cowboy and indian outlaws in the 1800's eventually stopped sleeping under buffalo skins, and came to town to entertain paying customers. For some I imagine the bruising of their ego never healed.

We all have some scar tissue that never lets us completely forget the intent of the adventure.


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #10 on: January 02, 2010, 12:11:37 am »

Finished in first draft, currently being copy-edited and critiqued. 78,000 words.

I'll keep everyone posted. :)

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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #11 on: January 02, 2010, 03:53:57 am »

Cool. Looking forward to it. That's long enough that I'll have to load it into my iPhone and read it over many nights.
"The state can only survive as long as a majority is programmed to believe that theft isn't wrong if it's called taxation or asset forfeiture or eminent domain, that assault and kidnapping isn't wrong if it's called arrest, that mass murder isn't wrong if it's called war." -- Bill St. Clair

"Separation of Earth and state!" -- Bill St. Clair


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #12 on: January 02, 2010, 04:00:05 am »

Cool. Looking forward to it. That's long enough that I'll have to load it into my iPhone and read it over many nights.

Soon as I get a clean draft (spelling/gram. check) I'll make sure to get you a copy. Shouldn't be more than a couple weeks. RTF ok, or do you need a certain file format?

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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #13 on: January 02, 2010, 04:51:46 am »

RTF ok, or do you need a certain file format?

Almost anything will work. I lose most of the formatting in the conversion process, so plain text is actually the best, since it can't rely on formatting. But if RTF is easiest for you, it'll work fine for me.
"The state can only survive as long as a majority is programmed to believe that theft isn't wrong if it's called taxation or asset forfeiture or eminent domain, that assault and kidnapping isn't wrong if it's called arrest, that mass murder isn't wrong if it's called war." -- Bill St. Clair

"Separation of Earth and state!" -- Bill St. Clair


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Re: The Laws Of Futility
« Reply #14 on: January 02, 2010, 05:57:54 pm »

Can't wait!
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