This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...
Monday, September 22, 2008
God Has Called Him Home
Bane passed away this morning surrounded by his family. They have given me permission to let you all know but this will not be the final post. His family will be putting one together so that he can say goodbye to you and so you can say goodbye to him.
I know a lot of you are aware of what his financial situation was like and I'll be doing a fundraiser to help pay for funeral and hospital expenses. Please don't donate anything into the paypal or amazon accounts because his banking accounts were frozen upon his death.
I will post the farewell from his family when they give it to me.
This isn't one of his jokes and I ask that if you comment you are respectful to his wife and kids. Anything else will be deleted immediately.
He was my friend and I loved him dearly and he will be greatly missed.
UPDATE: I have added my paypal account button to the sidebar. I will make sure Bane's family gets the money. If you would like to help them defray the medical costs (he was in the ICU for 3 days and it is going to be a staggering sum), you're welcome to donate at that account. If you are unwilling to use paypal, you can send something to the post office box I set up for him a couple of years ago. You can use the same address for any cards or letters you'd like to send to his family, but I WILL vet them all to make sure nothing inappropriate gets passed along. Checks can be made payable to me and I'll deposit it into the same paypal account.
Wendy Stewart PO Box 583 Rockford, IL 61105
Thank you everyone for your kind words to his family. I'm sure they appreciate it.
UPDATE II: I wanted to publicly thank all of you who donated and sent cards. My apologies for taking so long. I'm not really so rude in real life, I just wasn't sure how to do this. There are so many of you out there who have stepped up and helped Bane's family out and you don't know how much it is appreciated. In the past couple of months, your donations have literally kept his household running. Rent paid, food bought. I know this because I have called his wife to tell her that another couple of donations have come in and she has been on the verge of tears because she's had something or another that needs to be taken care of and this money has arrived literally in the nick of time. I'm trying to balance the privacy line with them because Bane could write all he wanted about his own life, yet I don't have that right. Please know that your donations have made a world of difference. If you check back in the archives in November of previous years, both his younger kids have birthdays close together in mid-November and early December. If you would like to send a card or small gift, you're welcome to do so at the PO box or even leave a comment here with well wishes for the kids. I'll make sure his wife knows what you have to say. She doesn't have a computer (Bane's older kids are mining it for his writings) and she cut out the internet service anyway because she can't afford it and doesn't use it. I plan on printing out all the comments for her, but they keep rolling in so at some point, I'll copy and paste them, mail them off and probably keep tabs for updates on what you have to say to him, to his family, to his kids, and even those moments, like I have, where you just have to come over and say something because you miss him so much.
Thank you, all. Thank you for your generosity and love and support of his family.
The big man regained consciousness, face down in leaves, in what tuned out to be a verdant forest when he lifted his head. His last memory before coming to here was of a wizened old man saying "Well, have a nice trip, then..." before touching him on the chest with his staff.
The big man took stock of himself. His guns were gone, along with their holsters. His wide-brimmed hat was gone, but he appeared to still have all of his small blades in place, including the straight razor mounted in a pouch underneath the long black hair at the nape of his neck.
He spotted his hat. It was being pulled along the forest floor by two small winged humanoid creatures, who kept trying to fly off with it, but the leather was too heavy for them. Then he spotted his sword belt. He'd never seen it before, but he knew it was his. All black leather, silver embossed, a long blade with an ebony grip, and a silver skull on the pommel. Its smaller twin, a long dirk, mounted crossdraw on the right side, and a series of throwing daggers mounted on the
Okay, I got distracted from this, and when I came back I was bored with it. If you want me to finish it, say so. But it likely won't be today. Let me know.
The big man threw his contract into the basement room, and followed him in. He was carrying a CD player with cassette capability. His contract scanned the room with frantic eyes...he thought he could get out, escape. The big man was having none of that, so he drew one of his Peacemakers and idly pointed it at him. His eyes focused on that hand cannon, and he settled down.
"So, let me tell you how things are gonna go..." said the big man. "You murdered the guys daughter. Her favorite song was 'the Hokey Pokey', and he wants you to dance to it until you can't dance anymore, and then I kill you. Personally, I'd beg me to shoot you right now, before this gets any uglier. So, which is it? Bullet? or dance til you drop, and then bullet?"
The contract croaked "Dance..." and the big man shuddered, knowing the torture he was in for. So, he set the player on a table he had brought in, slipped the little girl's favorite tape in, and pressed 'play'. "You put your right hand in, you pull your right hand out..." and so on. Ad nauseum. And this fucker was doing all the moves...he worked with kids a lot. Well, he used to, anyway.
The big man said to himself, after a bit, 'fuck, I'm never gonna get this song out of my head'. After a while longer, he started thinking about killing the guy right then and there, but he had never violated a straight up contract, and never would. Then he thought about just shooting himself, but he didn't have enough of the right kind of bullets. So, he listened to the Hokey Pokey, and watched it being performed, and after a while, when he saw his first stagger, he dug out the video recorder from a deep pocket of his duster, because the father wanted a record of the end.
After a while, it came. The guy staggered and went to one knee. He struggled to stand, and the big man was filming it all. He couldn't get up, and stayed there on his hands and knees, whining and drooling like the rabid dog he was. The big man filmed above the gun, and shattered his skull into dramatic pieces.
He turned off the camera, pulled the tape out, and blew the player into thousands of pieces. He allowed himself a shudder. This contract had been one of his toughest, ever.
It stood there in the field where it had been sent, standing naked in a perfectly semi-spherical crater that still smoked and flashes of lightning were just beginning to fade away.
It had no idea about sex, but its appearance was all male. It looked human, but inside it was a hyperalloy combat chassis - micro processor-controlled, fully armored. Very tough. But outside, it's living human tissue - flesh, skin, hair, blood, grown for the cyborgs...
And it had drawn attention to itself. All around the field shuffling creatures, smelling meat, shambled towards him, reaching out towards him. He did a combat scan, cataloged them all, evaluated no threat, and turned to leave. Suddenly, a thin smiling man appeared in front of him and smiled, showing sharp, sharp teeth. It turned its head like a dog, and went for his throat in a flash.
The Terminator stopped him, with a hand to the chest, then pressed in and ripped its heart out. It burst out a mouthful of saliva into the Terminator's face, and the Terminator slapped its head off. He noticed three more things just like this one, standing off at fifty yards, and noticing they were noticed, they turned to run. Bounding at them, he slapped their heads off as well, and stood there and ran a full diagnostic.
He never felt anything, and now he felt...different. He bent over at the waist, as a wave of nausea took him, and if he could know fear, he would have felt it now. His vision, always acute, had darkened, but he could see further, and with more acuity than his design specifications had allowed for. He could see the glow that comes from living things, the trees were pillars of light.
And then he felt something bite into his arm, and chew for a bit. He slapped its head off, and its body lay on the ground, its feet churning it into a circle, around, and round. He looked around, and found he was becoming surrounded. He could have destroyed all of them easily, but he would be doing it everywhere he went. He jumped backwards up to the lower branch of of a tree to compute.
His stomach contracted again, and suddenly he understood what these shuffling beasts wanted...meat. He never ate, unless he was on an infiltration mission, but he wanted to tear apart a human with his teeth and feast on their flesh. He wanted to chase them down and tear their throats out and drink and bathe in their blood. Suddenly, he realized that he had been exposed to two unique viruses, and even as they ravaged his meat-shell, Skynet could weaponize them, and his Mission Directive changed: Secure The Viruses.
So he tore branches off of the tree, and tossed them down to make a bonfire pile below. Then he tore his chest open, and opened a compartment and pulled out a phosphorous grenade, popped the top and pressed the button, and then dropped it into the woodpile he had made. He checked the temperature to see if it exceeded his design specifications, which it did not, so he jumped into the middle of it.
His meat began to bubble, and slough away. He used his hands where he could see, and then sat down in the fire to get every piece. The strange vision went away, then the hungers, and finally, he stepped out of the fire, a gleaming, steaming vision of death. The shuffling dead lost all interest, and turned away, off to look for food.
He opened another compartment in his chest, and brought out a vial. He leapt through the air and came down with the needled vial and stuck it into the base of the spine of the last of the shuffling dead until the tube filled with black blood. Then he scanned the field, and there they were, three more of the thin men with sharp teeth. He was on them before they could think to run, and held one down with a hand in its back, while the others fled.
Remembering its discomfort, the big silver man that was not a man, crushed the creature's head unto the ground, and ripped out its heart.
With the two vials secure in its chest cavity, it kept going until it found a high cave, and went in. It set its timer to send out a signal to Skynet twenty years in the future, set its defense options, then sat down on a rock and powered down. Its red eyes flickered a bit, then went out.
Go check out Chris Muir's link (click on the cartoon). I wish I could make money like that. Of course, he puts out a worthwhile product. Eat your heart out, Dilbert. Scott Adams couldn't get this sort of response. I hope some of my readers contributed to Chris. What other medium can you contribute directly to the creator of it besides blogging?
There's days I don't want to get out of bed, but I think of the latest chunk of change I got on PayPal, and roll out of bed, crack my knuckles, and hit the keyboard.
Since shaving has become so difficult for me, I shaved in the sink, whereas I usually use the shower. When I was done, I had to go sit down and catch my breath. I wonder if I broke my back some when I fell. Its been, what, two months? I've never hurt this bad for so long before.
I haven't had a shower since week before last. Even then, the wife gave me most of it, and dried me off, and it still wiped me out enough that she had to help me get dressed. By today, I had become the standard hobos and bums look up to. So I shave, and decide the rest isn't worth it. The wife says 'get in there or I'll put you into a rest home where they can take care of you'. I looked at her and snarled that as long as I had working finger, I would shoot myself before I went into one of those places, and she said 'yeah yeah, in the meantime get your smelly greasy ass in there to the shower so I can wash you up'.
It might hurt, but I can wash my own fuckin self up. Bitch. And I grumbled my way into the bathroom, and she stood by in case I fell, or needed some help. Then she dried me off. And poked me in the eye while drying my hair. Twice. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I had to come back in my room after she dressed me and do some magazine change drills just to feel like a man again.
I could still fuck you up if I had to, but it wouldn't be as pretty or neat...no professionalism, just slaughter. And then I'd have to go sit down and take a breather. Which is why if you behave yourself, you live. I've been practicing 'Knife Strokes For Fucking Cripples'. All movement comes from the spine, and it is hard to make a decent stroke when yours is fucked up. So I have been carrying my knucks when I (rarely) go out. You can 'set' yourself in a modified Horse stance, and slash with the knucks (believe it or not) and when you see bone (usually a forearm) and crippled them...brought then down to your level, as it were, pull your blade of choice and step in and cut yourself a slice.
'Course, me bein a crip an all, I'd just pull them into me and use a hammer blow with the knucks on the top of their skull, two or three quick ones, or until I got a cramp, whichever comes first. I am old, and crippled, and mean, so do not fuck with me. Yer damn right I have an inferiority complex.
I don't normally do that shit, but she has done so much for me and others, I went through the pain in the ass of signing up on the Milblog Site, then digging through her archives, and then went and voted for her. She's damn well worth it, plus your sexual organs will rot if you don't.
The next several days here are going to be, I believe the proper meteorological term is 'damn fucking hot.' Ugh. I froze my balls off last night in bed. Left my window open, and it got down to 49. I snuggled under quilts, and loved it. I have this dumb idea you can store up on the temperature you want, when it comes around.
Today, I blew some blood out of my nose into a kleenex. I showed everybody by waving it around, then I asked "Who wants a Raspberry Fruit Roll-up?!" I got to takers, and a couple of gaggers. I chased screaming kids around with it, but when I went to wipe it on the wife, she stuck her hand into the knife drawer and gave me a meaningful look. I backed off.
Hey, anybody see Geraldo get his bell rung by a piece of flying debris last night on Fox News? Now that's entertainment. I have no sympathy for the residents there. You wanna sit in a bar and party while the wind tosses around pilings like Tinkertoys? Fine. Die. And I wouldn't expend one penny to rescue your dumb ass, either. I've done plenty of crazy stuff in my life, but I've never done stupid.
I look at the area covered (affected) by Ike, and I can only say sonuvabitch. Where do you run to? I mean, it's gonna affect Chicago, for pity's sake. I would buy cigarettes and chew, and sell it to the emergency personnel, and the National Guard. No mark-up. I'd sell beer, and half-pints of whiskey. They'd all love me forever.
Well, as usual, nothing else is happening in the world as long as this storm bullshit is going on. Or the stupid train. I mean, how many times can that damn train crash? And how many times do we need to see the same pile of rubble on the Galveston shoreline? And you've seen one flood, you've seen them all. Give it a rest, guys.
Speaking of getting tired of stuff, I have handed out about a million warnings for bad behavior to the kids. And time-outs, and early bedtimes, and they have just been little assholes lately, anyway. I hate to use the belt. It makes me feel bad. But they were totally out of hand. Major violations like throwing things in the house. Constant arguing with everything the wife and I said. So Nat was sitting at the top of the stairs with John, and she wouldn't move to let me downstairs, explaining to me that there was plenty of room to get by. So I passed by a sluggish Johnny, and as I got in front of her, I stomped her foot and when she leaned forward, I gave her a good hard slap to the side of her jaw which I am sure made her see birdies. John scooted back out of the way as fast as he could.
I explained to them both that I was tired of being nice, and talking, and this was going to happen every time they pissed me off or were disrespectful to their mother, from now on. They were both remarkably well-behaved for the rest of the afternoon.
I'm not gonna do some smarmy tribute to the victims of that day. Sure, there were some heroic actions, but mostly, people died screaming, or in big wet splats after jumping. We had been being warned for years by experts that it was coming, but Bill Clinton was too busy getting his candle waxed to pay attention.
I just find the whole thing unutterably sad. It's like watching one of our great naval warships, holed through the side by enemy torpedoes, groan, and list, and then turn over and slip to the bottom with all hands. Where they sleep forever, our beloved dead.
That day in September forever rocked our world. Nothing has been the same since, and it will forever be so. It has divided Americans into deniers, people who don't care and just want a false sense of security, without making any sacrifice, and patriots.
You may recall me telling you about the fall I took several weeks ago in the living room? Yeah, I went to move with my usual alacrity, and it was brought to my attention that I don't have it anymore. So I took a dive into a pile of toys, and the wife had to pull me up and out of the pile.
Well, it hurt pretty damn good, and I knew I was dinged up pretty damn bad, but I didn't know how damn bad until I took my shirt off in front of the wife, and she gasped in horror. I turned around and looked in the mirror, and did some gasping of my own. I don't know when I have been hurt so bad, ever, and I have been in 11-15 major car accidents, been stomped, played contact sports, and had a mean (ex)wife.
I bet I have been pissing blood. It doesn't stop hurting, it just gets worse. I've told you I don't mind dying, death is just pain leaving the body. But when I can't get off the couch without help, I just want to cry in frustration. I wish I knew how. Gosh, I hurt. For over a month.
Speaking of dives, Nat took one down the stairs yesterday, and landed on her back in a pile of puzzles. Yeah, she's dinged up some. The wife taught her last week how to make 'meat sandwiches'. So she has graduated from PBJ's to turkey and bologna. She makes lunch for she and John, thank God, while the wife is at work. She is painting a two-story condo, and then she has to clean the place. I say 'thank God', because this sash of pain I am wearing around my middle precludes standing for long, or bending while load bearing. I direct them, and the kids do the laundry. Johnny rinses the dishes, and loads the dishwasher.
I put the soap in, start it, and then go sit down, gasping.
I have a jet black Saiga 7.62x39. It is an exact clone of the AK-47, was made by the same company in Russia, for that matter. Relatively recoilless, it is a beast. As many G.I.s' can attest, it makes a terrible wound. It will punch through a ballistic kick-plate as if it wasn't there, and zip through the rest of the 'bullet proof' vest as if it isn't there.With the 30 round mag in place, merely displaying the weapon will make people with bad intent back away. And if you're a bad guy, hearing that bolt get racked back will definitely give you pause.
I have two Ruger 10/22 carbines, loaded with 50 round banana clips. Both have synthetic stocks. One has a folding stock. Both have muzzle brakes. Both have scopes, mounted on special mounts that hold the scopes up, and let me see my open sights, so I can switch between views, long range, or short range.
I have a Winchester 30/30 that my grandfather bought when he was a young man. When I set it off, it is like the voice of God. The steel butt-plate chews up my shoulder within a few shots.
I'm gonna draw this to a close, because I'm boring myself. My favorite long (well, not all that long) gun is my Winchester AE .44 mg carbine. Loaded with Winchester Silvertips in .44 Special. Shoots like a pussycat, hits like a load of bricks. Compliments my Ruger .44 Blackhawk perfectly. I load full-house .44 Magnum in it. It's very easy on the hand. The pistol slides up in your hand when you fire. Ends up pointed up at the sky. You shoulda seen the wife's face when I slicked that big bastard out of the holster and put a round into her eye in less time than it takes your heart to beat once.
She cleared her throat, and said "I think I just peed a little..." and then "Please don't do that again."
"Awww, don't be a pussy..." I reassured her "these are just Snap Caps...you know, dummy rounds. Now, tell me that was fast."
"How would I know? I didn't see you move" she said. I was secretly pleased. I might not be able to kick your ass any more, but I can sure put a lot of new holes in it real quick.
Okay, I'm bored now. I'm not even to my other pistols. And I've left out some rifles. Hey, you wanna know the best shot I ever made? And I'm not talking when I used to shoot coins out of the air. Actually, I made two best shots. A best shot should have an element of personal danger to it. As in, someone could lose an eye. Or something.
First one was me and my foster brother. We were still in high school, and our reason for being in my back yard was probably to buy or sell drugs. There were at least a half dozen punks around him as I came walking down the sidewalk on the side of our house. I was wearing a tied down .38, the gunbelt slanted down to where I could just drop my hand and whoops, there it is.
It looked right away to me like something wasn't right, so I stopped about ten feet away. He was eating a red popsicle. He looked at me, then nodded towards his popsicle, and held it out. I drew, fired, clipped the stick completely off, and reholstered, all in one move. He held the stick out, and it was easy to see in the half he still held the gray semicircle where the bullet had hit. Those boys were remarkably mannerly after that.
As I've said, I used to have a reputation. And not Mother Theresa's kind.
I'm done with this. Some time I'll tell you all about the times I've shot at my ex-wife. I owe you a story, if you care. Sorry...
I have to write something, you want to read something. And I have no idea what I want to write. I am, quite simply, burned out. Every night I take a beating in bed. Flattening damn mattress, and I have (I think) PAP. The night-cramps while laying down are killer. It feels like getting shot in the leg. I wake up shrieking a bit, and I've had to tell the wife to leave me alone unless I croak out her name.
There now, wasn't that exciting and entertaining? Maybe I'll describe my stool to you later...No? You're really missing out, but okay, I guess. Your loss...
I'm really getting sick of people asking me 'how I am'. If you've been paying attention, I've told you already!!! It's like people think I met a Saint, and she got another tick-mark in her book of miracles that the Vatican keeps until you get enough to get made into a saint. Like S&H Green Stamps. Ain't gonna happen. Oh, a miracle could occur, but God doesn't always let you live, especially not assholes like me.
I won't take a liver that could keep someone worthier than me alive. Plus, surgery just gives me the creeps. What, too cheery for you? Shit, I could drop like a rock tomorrow. Guys my age who go to the gym, and jog, drop right in the middle of the golf course. Or fall face-first into their soup, and make no bubbles.
I have a great deal of pains and uncomfortabilities, but I can feel the prayers coming at me, because I have good days, too. And don't let my passing test your faith. I've got a bus to catch, and unless the Ticket-master tells me different, sooner or later, I have a one-way ticket to...well, wherever. When those doors hiss closed, and the gears engage, I'm just gonna sit back and laugh, and laugh.
I was gonna write something about her, but why should I, when I can link to someone else who has already done it, and better than I could have?
And sorry about the paucity of posting, here. I haven't been feeling well, and I have had other things to do. I'm gonna go get ready to get a haircut, now, and just cleaning up exhausts me like running a marathon.
The main reason that I haven't been around much this week is because the wife and I have been watching the Convention. Or the hurricane. Which was more fun.
Anyway, Palin rocked the casbah, McCain...not so much. I find I still despise him, and not because of what you stupid pacifist hippy Libertarians despise him for. Go suck off a tree. Ron Paul is still a dork, the Constitution is still dead, and unreadable from all of the butt-stains left all over it since Lincoln, so get over it. Besides, pacifists like you guys can't fight, I don't care what you say. Deal.
No, McCain is going to have to ride in on Palin's petticoat tails, so he better nurture that woman, because if he loses her, he loses me. And many others. Oh, and the election. The wife and I both agreed to that, this evening.
Sigh...there are things he has done wrong that are too numerous to mention. A few balloons, some confetti, and a few cute kids are not enough to dazzle me after that. When the wife and I vote, we vote for Palin. If she's not there? We are no shows. And that, quite simply, is all there is to it.
I had my own gang in high school, strictly for protection from the Goat Ropers and other assorted assholes. We had no tats, wore no weird clothing, and simply grouped together socially to beat your ass if you came at us. People rarely came at us. I hand-picked the members, and there were peripheral folks that hung around us for protection. I allowed it, because it made the group look bigger. We didn't even have a name. We just hung out and smoked and then left in small groups with a common destination to get to classes safely.
Now, you've got all of these huge gangs that have spread all over the country like a cancer. Gangster Disciples, Bloods, Crips, MS13, all of them sporting heavy weapons, killing civilians and each other (always a good thing) and becoming money-making business concerns, ones that sell every illegal thing money can buy, and performing every crime you can imagine, and some you can't.
I would have no problem at all with police death squads killing gangsters WITHOUT A TRIAL! all over town. It's likely they have had many trials already, yet here they are, somehow, walking your streets carrying illegal weapons, and committing crimes. And I'd kill the peewee's first, before they grow up to be big gangsters. Leave them on their backs, coughing blood, calling for their mommies...too bad the bitch is in prison for whoring, and for mugging a john.
People whine and beat their breasts about the gang problem, and do nothing. News organizations make money for reporting bad news, and then go home to their guarded, gated communities. 'Black Leaders' make money from the government for the gang problem, and work it like an industry.
Meanwhile, in Los Angeles a while back, some gangsters followed a young mother home from the store, and one of them followed her to the front door and blew her brains out all over her kids in the living room. It was just a gang initiation, you see. Left her purse by the body there on the floor, turned, and left. Yep, just an initiation. Wonder if he passed?
And We The People put up with this shit. The People cry like babies when they think their 'privacy' is being threatened, or to get and keep their pot, oh how the tears fall. But threaten our right to life, and everything goes quiet. Unless of course someone is threatening to not let them kill an infant.
I'd bet good money that if someone made a map of all of the places I couldn't go without getting fucked up or killed in this country, there would be less areas I could go to than areas that I couldn't. Tell me again about what a racist country we live in again?
It just may be racist, but honest Americans know in which direction that racism goes, and who the true racists really are.
Right up front, I'm just gonna tell you that this movie stinks on toast. I wouldn't even watch it if the DVD came with free pizza and beer. And before any asshole gets snarky about Vin Diesel, just let me tell you that I really like him. He is one of my favorite actors. He almost manages to make this turkey fly. Almost.
The movie makes the typical mistake of picking as a central figure that you want to see die horribly after the first frame. War of the Worlds did that with the horrible Dakota Fanning, and this movie continues the tradition with their central female protagonist. I wanted to kill her myself.
The chink chick from 'Crouching Tiger...' does an admirable job doing what she does, looking serious, and kicking lots of ass. I was wondering where I'd seen her before, and then I saw her first fight, recognized her fighting style, snapped my fingers and said "Crouching Tiger!" and the people I was with said 'oh, yeah!'
Speaking of, I was with my son, the Baby Marine, his squeeze, the wife, and it took the theatre 10 minutes to find someone qualified to run the projection equipment. And boy does this movie ever suck. Plot holes you could throw a cat through, unresolved red herrings, outrageously silly plot, terrible camera handling, silly dialog, oh, I could go on, but just suffice it to say that when we all stood out once again in the clean light of day, we just looked at each other and said 'what the fuck was that all about?'
And then went and had drinks. Which is what you should do until any urge to see this dumb, bad movie passes. No redeeming qualities whatsoever.