Ever since I got the rejection
letter from Moenia Prima Community College, my parents have been bugging me
about going out and getting a job. To
this point I’ve blown them off. Today
that changed. This change didn’t happen
because I felt it was necessary. This
change happened because my father felt it was necessary. Actually, my father told me it was
necessary. My Dad sat me down and
sternly said to me, “Hato, you’re going out there and you’re finding a job,
because if you’re not working or going to school, you’re out of here. Do you understand that?” Yes, I did understand that.
I spent the afternoon looking
through the want ads and filling out job applications. This was a completely enjoyable experience
that was made all the better by my Dad being around and checking up on my
progress every half minute. Really.
There is one part of this process
that I find disturbing. More disturbing
than my Dad getting angry, which he rarely does. When I filled out the application for the
position of office assistant at Barrett Copeland and Reno, I was asked for my
race. This wasn’t buried deep in
questions like “What do you feel is your best quality?” This was the second question I was asked to
answer, right after “What is your name?”
Why the fuck was I asked this question?
What kind of difference does my race make? Are you going to tell me that a verbrecher
with the same educational experience as me can do a better job than me? No fucking way.
I know that employees can ask this
question. I know that there’s no law
that says they can’t ask me what my race is.
My point is this: Just because
you can do something, does that mean you should do something? I mean, just because I can fill my Hipster
with pirated music, movies, and programs, does that mean that I should do
it? Well, I already do pirate all of
those things, but it’s wrong for me to do so, and I fully expect someday for
consequences to come down upon me.
That’s assuming anybody does find out that I’m a pirate, which they
won’t, unless I’m too caviler and begin boasting about my mammoth music
collection. By the way, I am now in
possession of every Moral Threat song ever released, and some that haven’t been
released.
Back to my point, in the time since
I’ve submitted my applications I’ve received some replies. Four of them were not rejections, in fact
those four want to interview me. Three
of them are in the next two weeks, while the fourth is right after I
graduate. The Postal Service job looks
the most promising seeing as Sparra already works there. The Warrior Technological job is kind of a
long shot, but I knew that when I applied.
I’m already not looking forward to my interview at Barrett, Copeland,
and Reno. I’ll probably keep the
Mattison interview just in case the three before it fall through. I have no idea what Mattison is, I’ll look
them up after I’m done with this entry.
Things are kind of looking up. Seems like things are on an upswing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find
the new Dramatica CD online. Hopefully
Dad won’t choose this particular half minute to look over my shoulder.
This is strange.
Not only have I gotten rejected by the three colleges I applied to, but
I received the same letter from all three.
Not similar letters, the same letter.
The same letter, worded in the same way, using the same font, on what
feels like the same paper. The only
difference between these letters is the logo of the college and the school
president who is writing to me.
Another strange thing is that all my friends also got
rejected from all the colleges they applied to, and they also got the same
rejection letter I did. Sparra’s
rejection letters were especially odd because all three letters he received
misspelled his name in the same way. I
asked my cousin Robert, who goes to the high school across town, and he said
he’s experienced the same thing. Not
only has he received rejection letters for college but most of his friends have
only received rejection letters. Among
his friends, the only ones who’ve received acceptance letters are the two of
his friends who are verbrechers.
I
hope there isn’t something sinister going on.
I try not to think that there’s something racial going on here, but my
mind tends to circle around back to that point.
I hope I’m proven wrong.
People at school started hearing
back from the colleges the applied to today.
Some people were disappointed with the replies they received. Some were pleased, not getting exactly what
they wanted but at least something good.
Others were nearly orgasmic. I
wish I was kidding. There were loud
screams of pure joy, people jumping around like a supercharged jumping bean,
and even people hyperventilating to the point that they passed out. And that was among the men.
One of the people who received news
today was Cam Sobe. This is the
offensive lineman who is as big as a refrigerator, has a head the size of a
cantaloupe that ate another cantaloupe, and who’s notable academic accomplishment
is one term getting a report card that spelt the word “FACBIFF”, if in fact
that is a word. Today Cam got word that
he was accepted to Dolore University, an accomplishment he couldn’t put into
words. Literally. He’s that fucking stupid.
This gave me hope for my application to Dolore
University. I mean, if a fat dumb
verbrecher like Cam can get it, surely I can, right? So, once school let out, I went straight home
and checked the mail. Among the junk
mail, credit card applications, bills, and lingerie catalogues Mom receives was
a letter from Dolore University. I tore
open the envelope and started reading the letter inside.
Dear Mr.
Shurtleff
It is out
unfortunate duty to tell you…
I didn’t read much further past
that. I don’t understand this. I have near perfect grades, participate in
several school clubs, and have as perfect of attendance as you can get. How did I not get in? How did I not get into Dolore and Cam did?
Still, I haven’t heard back from
Vierdestad or Moenia Prima yet, so there’s still hope. Hell, even if I don’t get into college, I can
still make a pretty penny writing term papers for Cam. I’m pretty sure he can’t play football if his
grades spell out the word “FFFFFFF”.
My little circle of friends has been
growing recently. This isn’t a new
thing, it ebbs and flows as we start dating people then break up with
them. The difference now is that my
little circle is as big as it’s ever been.
Everyone has their own boyfriend or girlfriend that they bring along
when we go eat, when we go hang out, when we go piss off verbrecher shopkeepers
down the street, or whatever. Everyone
has their own person who they’ve added to the group. Everyone but me.
It’s not that I don’t want a
girlfriend, I’d very much like to have one.
It’s just that I don’t think anyone is interested in me. The verbrecher girls sure aren’t, being
revolted by anyone or anything opfer is practically bred into them. The opfer girls might be interested… if I
didn’t hang out with Sparra. That guy is
just so damn sexy. Any time I’m talking
with a girl I’m sort of interested in the topic inevitably turns toward
Sparra. Even when he’s not around, it’s
always Sparra Sparra Sparra.
Delany did offer to try to hook me
up with a girl from her Math class. She
said this girl would be perfect for me, but she didn’t offer up any reasons
why. The concept of Delany hooking me up
with girls would be great if I weren’t really into Delany. It’s hard listening to Delany describe a girl
in her class who I might be into without saying “I’m into you.”
Perhaps things will get better for
me romantically once I get into college.
I submitted my applications today to Dolore University, Vierdestad Tech,
and Moenia Prima Community College.
Dolore is kind of a long shot, I’m not really up for moving to Trebyer
anyway. I’ll probably get into
Vierdestad Tech anyway. Hopefully Sparra
and Delany will join me there. Wanda is
hoping and praying she’ll get into Community College, which is odd seeing as
she’s told me on several occasions how she REALLY wants to get out of this town.
Hopefully everything will go well
and I’ll be going to college this fall.
Maybe I’ll meet the girl of my dreams at college and we’ll have one of
those storybook romances they make movies out of. Not pornographic movies, real ones.
There are two things that I can
count on from my parents every year on my birthday. One of them is an embarrassing party. I don’t mean embarrassing as in “Wow, this is
totally unexpected. This is all too
much. Thank you.” I mean embarrassing as in “What? You mean I have to go through this
again? And you invited my friends as
well? Gee, thanks.”
This is what I happened today. My Mom put the blindfold on me, led me to the
car, then let my Dad drive aimlessly for about an hour, all the while repeating
the phrase “No peeking.” This is all to
disorient me so that I don’t know where I’m going, despite the fact that I know
exactly where I’m going. It’s the same
place where we just held Sakoshi’s birthday: The Opfer Cultural Center next to
the mall.
At least my Dad gave me a good ride
this year. My Dad’s driving technique
involved him taking corners unexpectedly, zipping up hills and coasting down
the other side, and coming to firm fast stops.
I had fun, my Mom didn’t. Every
so often, my Mom would cry out, “Solanin, be careful. We don’t need to get in a crash on our way to
Hato’s party.”
To which my Dad responded, “Come on,
Belle, the kid’s having fun, right?”
My Mom started curing under her
breath, which caused me to say, “Dad, Mom’s cursing under her breath.” Then my Mom hit me hard on the head. She didn’t mean to hit me hard, Dad just
happened to take a corner at the same time that Mom was trying to playfully
strike me.
We got to the Cultural Center and
Mom led me into one of the ballrooms where everyone was trying to be
quiet. I know this because everyone was
saying “Shhh!”, which results in people making a lot of noise to get people to
stop making noise, which causes people to make a lot more noise to get people
to stop making noise, and so on, and so on, untill the noise in the room is
nearly deafening. Finally my Mom took
off my blindfold and the people exclaimed “Happy birthday Hato” at a volume
slightly lower than the shushing.
This year’s birthday party was about
the same as last year’s birthday party.
Same music, same food, same collection of family, friends, and
family. About the only difference
between this year and last year was the color of the streamers, red and gold as
opposed to green and orange. As I looked
around the ballroom, my Mom planted a kiss on my cheek and said, “So, what do
you think of your party?”
I lifted my arm and said, “They
misspelt the banner again.” I was
referring to the banner that hung overhead that read “Happy 18th
Birthday Shurtleff”. My parents use the
same banner for every birthday celebration.
All they have to do is change the number and it fits the situation. My Dad usually puts some comically large
number on the banner for my Mom’s birthday.
The only problem with this banner is the misspelling. We aren’t “Shurtlef’s”, we’re the
“Shurtleff’s”. People tend to forget the
double F’s at the end.
As the music started to ramp up, I
began to be showered with gifts. This
varied from music and movies from my friends, gift cards, and cash from my
younger relatives. After I unwrapped
every gift, I held it up and my Mom took a picture of me with it. Several of these pictures had to be retaken
because my mother caught my friends flashing what she thought were gang signs
in the background. My friends sure do
like to torture me.
The last present I opened was from
my parents, and in my mind I knew what it was.
Ever since I was eight years old, my parents have given me a journal for
my birthday, each titled “Journal (#)”.
This was my Dad’s idea. I don’t
know if it’s due to his work as an archivists or if it’s just something he’s
always been into, but my Dad is driven to have people document their
lives. What happens, where it happens,
when it happens, why it happens, and what they think about it. Receiving a journal is the other thing I can
count on from my parents every year on my birthday as a way to encourage me to
document my life. However, this year was
slightly different.
When I picked up the box the present
from my parents was in, I noticed it was smaller than normal. My first thought was that my parents had
noticed that I mainly use the journals they give me for doodling or writing bad
poetry. I opened the box and saw what
lay inside. It was a Hipster. A Hipster.
Not a knockoff, or Hipster Lite, a real, honest to God, 64GB
Hipster. I was elated.
The Hipster came packed with music,
mine and some my Dad’s been trying to get me into, as well as some
programs. There’s a radio program, a
news program, some game programs, and a program simply titled “Journal”. The Journal program is, oddly enough, a
program that allows you to maintain a journal.
So my parents did get me a journal for my birthday, they just got me a
different kind of journal. This was
confirmed to me when I read the inscription on the back of my Hipster. “Volume 11”.
After all the presents were opened
and I endured having to speak with many of my older family members who I only
have to endure once a year, my friends and I were permitted to bail on my
parent’s party in favor of some fun of my own.
I thanked my parents for the party and sincerely thanked them for the
Hipster. My Dad suggested I listen to
the Grandchester Meadows tracks that he put on my Hipster and I humored him by
saying that I would.
Sparra, Delany, Wanda, and I left
the party and went to our usual hangout, downtown. Not anywhere in particular downtown, just
downtown. We didn’t run into any
problems, outside of the verbrecher we like to antagonize by standing across
the street from his diner and drinking soda.
I know that’s something we shouldn’t do, but that guy shouldn’t be
aggravated with us just because we’re there.
I know that the verbrecher are in the majority, not just in numbers but
in what the control, but that doesn’t give them the right to stomp all over
us. What was I writing about? Oh yeah…
By the time my friends and I were
done having fun it was already well past nine.
We had to sneak home so that the cops wouldn’t catch us breaking curfew
and beat our asses and so our parents wouldn’t do the same. I think I did so successfully, except I swear
I woke up Sakoshi in the next room. I
bet he’s waiting just to tattle on me in the morning when Mom and Dad would be
both awake and conscious. I’ll have to
wake up early and make some of those pancakes he likes. Perhaps I can find a new pancake recipe on my
Hipster. I have to do something else on
this thing than listen to music and watch pornography.
I
am looking some help in identifying a commercial
that ran on USA Network. The commercial in question ran on Monday, July
30th, at approximately 12:36 A.M., during an episode of Political
Animals, episode title "The Woman Problem". The commercial in question
features Bay Buchanan, Senior Advisor at Romney For America, and the
video appears to be taken from an appearance she made on CNN's "The
Situation Room". The audio in this commercial is completely distorted,
none of the words that are being said are audible, all that is heard in
this commercial is choppy static. I am unable to idenfity on what date
the video is taken from, but the graphic that appears directly beneath
Bay Buchanan reads "ROMNEY AD: OBAMA "DOESN'T TELL THE TRUTH".
This
is a commercial I've seen several times before. However, I seem to be
unable to find any information about it. I've dug around online and
cannot even find any chatter about it.
Can
you help me in identifying who is responsible for this commercial, or
point me in the direction of somebody who can? Any help in this matter
will be appreciated.
Harry
O'Keefe
Recently,
Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid made some accusations about Mitt Romney's
taxes.These accusations have resulted
in Sen. Reid receiving a lot of criticism from press, pundits, fellow
politicians, and random people on Twitter.
These
accusations center on an anonymous claim by a Bain Capital investor that Mitt
Romney had not paid any taxes for a ten year period.These accusations were made in a phone call
to Sen. Reid's congressional office.
Most of
the pundits criticizing Sen. Reid have focused on the absurd nature of these
allegations, as well as the anonymity of the source of the allegations.While I too have problems with these
allegations, my problems do not lie directly with Senator Reid.They lie with the caller.Does anyone remember Jimmy O'Keefe?
Jimmy
O'Keefe is a self described journalist, antagonist, and real life
satirist.On multiple occasions, Jimmy
O'Keefe has released videos that have shown Democratic politicians, and other
liberal activists, in a negative light.These videos were procured using methods that many call underhanded,
unfair, and criminal.
The last
time I remember hearing of Mr. O'Keefe was when he tried to film unflattering
videos at the Occupy Wall Street protests that occurred last year.What has Jimmy O'Keefe been doing since
then?Who else has he inspired?What other self styles satirists exist out
there that would use tactics similar to Jimmy O'Keefe's?
Harry
Reid's accusations don't pass the smell test to me.This is not because I don't believe the
substance of them, although I must admit the substance of them seem completely
absurd to me.The source of the
accusations are suspect to me.It is my
honest belief that someone could call up Senator Reid's Congressional Office,
pass themselves off as a Bain Capital investor, and tell the Senator's office
things that they then would tell the media about.Harry Reid wouldn't be the first sitting
politician to be pranked like this.
Unless
the person making these accusations comes forward with substantive proof that
what he is saying is true, I am forced to conclude that these accusations are
false.Of course, all of these
allegations could be easily cleared up if Mitt Romney would release his tax
forms to the press.Those forms could
prove these allegations to be entirely ales and serve as a major embarrassment
to Senator Reed and the Democratic Party.
Settled by fur trappers in the year
1844, the city of Moenia Prima served as a resting point for travels making
their way between Dha Chathair and Trebyer.
Later on, Moenia Prima served as a haven for people who wanted to escape
the increasing influence of religion that came as a result of Dha Chathair’s
population explosion in 1863.
Moenia Prima experienced a
population boom when a facility that manufactured products for the Dolorian
military was built in 1980. With the
population boom came a diversification of the city’s residents. This resulted in an increase in the opfer
population in Moenia Prima, going from 11% of the total population in 1975 to
37% in 1984, with verbrechers making up the other 63%.
Like many other locations in Dolore,
the increase of opfers in Moenia Prima correlated with an increase in
crime. Many media figures in Moenia
Prima, as well as several politicians, blamed the increase in crime on the
opfers. This is despite much of the
increase being driven by a sharp and sustained increase in crimes being
committed by young verbrechers.
The scapegoating of opfers lead to
an increase in tensions between the majority verbrechers and the minority
opfers. The tensions resulted in the
Isotopia Riots in 1993. Despite the
riots going on for four days and resulting in nearly thirty-five million Valore
in damages, no substantial progress was made in quelling these tensions.
Before the situation currently going
on in Dolore flared up, the last Dolorian census, conducted in 2010, estimated
the population of Moenia Prima to be 83,112.
This work was started on August 10,
2010, and was finished on May 16, 2012.
No portion of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission from
the copyright holder. Sorry, no straight
up free ways to get the book in its complete entirety. You can either pay the small price for the
physical copy, the even smaller price for the digital copy, or wait for the
serialized version to slowly come out.
There are various ways that this work
will be distributed, both through traditional means and untraditional. It’s not that the writer dislikes the
traditional distribution method, it just hasn’t worked for him yet. If you think it can work for yourself, more
power to you. If you think it can work
for the writer, contact him.
Prologue
The story of the situation currently
going on in Dolore has been trickling out for weeks now. Most of the stories rely on footage smuggled
out of that country and second hand accounts.
What follows is a firsthand account of one person’s experience of the
situation going on in Dolore written as he was experiencing it. It is not a complete account of the situation
going on in Dolore, but it does provide an insight into the people involved in
it.
Volume 11 is a journal written by
Hato Shurtleff with the Hipster Journal Program, both through typing entries
out on the Hipster and by utilizing the voice recognition software on the
Hipster. At the start of Volume 11, Hato is an eighteen year old high school senior
living in Moenia Prima, Dolore. At the
start of each part there will be a short introduction written by myself, and
there is an event that is not written from Hato’s perspective, but the vast
majority of Volume 11 is written by Hato Shurtleff. It is written by Hato Shurtleff, about Hato
Shurtleff, involving things that happened to Hato Shurtleff. Contained in this account is also what Hato thoughts
are about the things that are going on.
The first entry in the account is dated Sunday, January 9th,
2011.
Hunter
Red, pictured left, is a nominally successful satirist, writer, and potential
lunch winner living in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Mr. Red is a recovering alcoholic, although his recovery has been less
than successful since he has stopped going to his prescribed therapy sessions,
and has begun drinking again. Hunter is
has a mostly negative viewpoint of the world, is distrustful of all humans, and
thoroughly enjoys cheesecake.
Robin
Anderson, pictured left, is Hunter Red's most recent ex-girlfriend. Hunter's relationship with Robin was
complicated by the fact that she is not real.
Robin is a product of an alcohol fueled hallucination. This was a hallucination that Hunter like to
experience, due to Miss Anderson being the only real serious girlfriend Mr. Red
has ever had. Robin is intelligent,
strong willed, and has a razor sharp wit.
Hunter
Red And Robin And A Beer Keg
Hunter
Red pulls up to his condo in Ruby, his big fucking SUV. He pulls into his garage backward and quickly
closes the garage door. Out of the back
of Ruby, Hunter pulls out a beer keg.
Hunter places the beer keg in an open spot on the floor of his garage,
then begins to speak as if someone is listening. No one is currently present in the garage as
Hunter begins to speak.
Hunter
Red- Yes, here now, the light of the
party on college campuses across the nation, your standard beer keg. Sure, kegs are illegal here in the state of
Utah, but the fuck I care. Alcohol laws
are made by old, fat, white, bigots who only want to control the population and
line their pockets with gold. Also, they
are fat.
Hunter
Red walks over to the toolchest he keeps in his garage, digs around for a
little bit, then finds what he was looking for, the tap for a beer keg. Hunter walks over, taps the keg, hooks up the
nozzle to it, then says-
Hunter
Red- Well, let's begin.
The
camera pans over to a clock on the wall of Hunter's garage. In typical television fashion, the hands on
the clock start to move quickly untill three hours and seventeen minutes have
gone by. After the timeshift, the camera
pans back over to Hunter. Mr. Red is
sitting on the floor of his garage, next to the beer keg, with the nozzle in
his mouth. It is clear from the visual
cues that Hunter has been spending the past three hours and seventeen minutes
drinking directly from the beer keg.
Hunter removes the nozzle from his mouth and says-
Hunter
Red- Yeah! Take that polimaticians. I just drank beer from a beer keg that was
full of beer from a beer keg because it was a keg that had beer in it because
it was a beer keg. (Loud belch) Ha ha ha!
YEAH!!!
The
camera pans away from Hunter to a door in the garage leading into the
house. The door is open and the room is
brightly lit. Through the door the sound
of a pair of high heels can be heard clacking on a hard wood floor, making
their way closer and closer to the door, the sound of which echoes throughout
the entire house. A figure walks into
the door frame, a beautiful figure wearing high heels silhouetted by the
intense light coming from the other room.
The camera follows the legs of the person, particularly the heels,
clacking with every step, as the figure walks through the door frame, across
the garage, over to where Hunter is sitting.
Hunter looks up at the figure, bleary-eyed and obviously drunk.
Hunter
Red- Hi.
I haven't seen you in a while.
You look voluminnomnoninous.
The
camera shot changes to reveal who it is that Hunter is talking to. The figure is Robin Anderson. Robin looks down at Hunter with
disappointment in her eyes.
Robin
Anderson- So, let me get this straight:
You drove all the way up to Evanston, risked getting caught and prosecuted,
just so you could get a giant container of beer.
There is
an unapologetic tone to Hunter's face when he says-
Hunter
Red- Yep.
Robin
Anderson- Did you save any for me.
Hunter
holds up the nozzle connected to the beer keg and presses the button on
it. A small stream of mostly beer foam
trickles out of the nozzle.
Hunter
Red- Nope.
Robin
maintains her disappointed look as she sit down next to Hunter on the floor of
the garage.
Robin
Anderson- You don't look good.
Hunter
Red- Did I ever?
Robin
Anderson- Yes, you did. You looked quite good when I was with you.
Hunter
Red- Not nearly as good as you look.
Robin
Anderson- Well, that goes without
saying. How have you been?
Hunter
Red- How have you been?
Robin
Anderson- Are you imitating me?
Hunter
Red- No.
Robin
Anderson- Are you sure, because you know
how I've been.
Hunter
Red- No I don't.
Robin
Anderson- I'm an alcohol fueled
hallucination.
Hunter
Red- That doesn't answer my question.
Robin
Anderson- I feel good, or bad. I'm not sure.
Not being real kind of makes you question how you feel about things.
Hunter
Red- What do you mean not being real?
Hunter
puts his hand on Robin's thigh.
Hunter
Red- You sure do feel real.
Robin
Anderson- Of course I feel real, this is
your hallucination.
Hunter
Red- Yeah, but even when I wasn't drunk
and somehow remembering hallucinating you, you felt real.
Robin
Anderson- Of course you thought my body
felt real.
Hunter
Red- No, I mean the connection we
had. The way you would talk with me, laugh
with me, converse with me, criticize me, all of the parts of a fully
functioning relationship, it felt real.
Robin
Anderson- But it wasn't.
Hunter
Red- Yeah.
A look of
incredible sadness comes over the face of Hunter. Robin looks at Hunter and says-
Robin
Anderson- Hunter, you need to move on.
Hunter
Red- No.
Robin
Anderson- Hunter, you need to move on.
Hunter
Red- No.
Robin
Anderson- Hunter, you need to-
Hunter
Red-(Angrily) I heard you, I just don't
want to.
Robin
Anderson- Why not?
Hunter
tries to stand up, but fails, falling hard on the concrete floor he was just
sitting on.
Robin
Anderson- I think you need help.
Hunter
tries to stand up again, with the same result as he had the first time.
Robin
Anderson- I think you need help.
Hunter
tries to stand up again, this time falling forward, landing hard on his
shoulder and laying on his back on the cold concrete floor. Robin stands up, looks over Hunter with a
kind of caring look in her eyes.
Robin
Anderson- Hunter, you need help. Hunter, you need to move on. You need to clean yourself up, for real this
time. You need to do this, because you
can't just spend your life obsessing over things that never were. You need to start dealing with things that
actually are. This world is a wonderful
place, and while I am not in it, many other things and people are. Hunter.
Hunter, can you hear me?
Hunter is
laying on his back on the cold concrete floor asleep. Robin eyes are again filled with
disappointment.
Robin
Anderson- (Sigh) I hope somewhere in his deep subconscious he
heard me.
Robin
Anderson walks across the garage floor, back through the door frame, and closes
it behind her.
END SCENE
In our
most desperate hours, we often grasp on to one another. For strength.
For stability. For someone. Someone so that in our hour of desperation we
do not face that desperation alone.
Take your normal superhero origin story. Guy gets powers, guy realizes he has powers, guy goes out to save the world. Now factor this in: the guy has a score to settle.
Everybody wonders what it is that makes them who they are. The Hawk thought that question was securely answered. However a meeting with a boy in a hospital causes him to question everything. Why he is, who he is, what he is, and even if he is.
Eleven years after the events of Consequences Of Mayorust, The Hawk finds himself dealing with many of the same issues that many of us deal with: A less than satisfying job, co-workers of variant annoyance, and a romantic life is unhealthy at best. Thrust into all this is Madison Medina, a well meaning woman who's adversarial relationship with The Hawk morphs into a kind of friendship. Madison, in addition to learning more about herself and her abilities, help to reveal deeper problems inside the organization both she and The Hawk work for.
In every workplace there is a person. A person who doesn't talk to anyone, has walled themselves socially, and seems openly hostile to everyone. Every workplace has this person, even if you don't know of such a person, they're there. The Black Robin Christmas Carol is the story of one of these people. It delves into who this person is, why this person is, and how this person can change for the better.
There is a story. A story of pain, a story of loss, a story of unspeakable horrors, a story that has not been given it's proper attention. Some are ignoring this story. Some are unaware of this story. Some know of this story but are complicit in it's darkness. This is a story that must be told. Told so that the good can stop it and the bad can feel shame for it.
When I thought up thig blog, the name I first thought up was "Random Bullshit". Quickly I recognized that this name would put some people off. Then I thought of the name "Random Bull****". That seemed to be to much clutter. Then I was inspired with the name that dons this blog today.
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