Saturday, February 27, 2010

Goodbye and Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish.



It was so long since I had seen you.
I doubted you would know me and knew you had long forgotten my breath on your spine as we slept in that old house.

Goodbye dear book, I am sorry to have outlived you like this.
But you offer me nothing but bitter memories now; when you opened for me and I gleaned knowledge and joy from you, sequentially.

Goodnight. I hope your spirit is infused into the milk carton or legal pad you are destined to become in this recycled world.

Goodbye dear book.



-Sid

Friday, February 05, 2010

"What we do often feels more like zookeeping than film-making": Jordan Thomas on BioShock 2

The raw text of my email interview with BioShock 2 creative director Jordan Thomas, in support of a piece for the Toronto Star.


Jordan Thomas, Creative Director, 2K Marin


Q: Well, how about I jump right into the heavy angle? BioShock -- it hit hard. It made people think, not just about the game but about games themselves. People fell all over themselves finding ways to praise it, it's paraded on the shoulders of gamers as "the [insert famous film here; Citizen Kane, etc.] of Games". A tough act to follow. Can you give me some insight into you mindset, your approach as you entered into the task of making a sequel to a game with that kind of profile?


I felt honored and humbled. My job is, in part, to treat the creative offspring of my former co-workers with respect – but also to avoid boring them with an excess of safety.


Without falling prey to hyperbole and overstating the challenge, in many ways calling any single, physical game BioShock 2 is to invite a parade of dissent. Because everyone seems to have sieved out different subjective rewards from the original, trying to please them all equally would have led to madness, as you suggest.


Fortunately, the artistic standards of my colleagues at 2K Marin and 2K Australia are unbelievably high, and I never saw them flinch. So it was more a question of picking our constants (returning to Rapture was a big one, we felt it had more to say) and making the game we personally wanted to play, knowing that a lot of smart people would queue with picket signs in the aftermath.


Q: Actually, that makes me think of a related question: What do you think of the sometimes hyperbolic laurels heaped on BioShock... was it, to your professional eye (and ear, and hand) the revolution/revelation it's made out to be?


I’m a little too close to it to comment meaningfully on long-term resonance, but I’ll try not to dodge your question completely, how’s that?


Certainly the depth of the story and the originality of the setting attracted me to work on the original as a level designer. And it was cathartic, in that Ken and the guys at Irrational had finally managed to bring this creative legacy of highly immersive, expressive niche games we all grew up on to a much wider audience.


I’m also interested in game scripts that play to the strengths of the medium, and I think the original BioShock did so in a way that was largely unprecedented. The BioShock 2 team have worked hard not to let that layered quality slip – hopefully fans will derive their own meaning from the sequel in a way that both inherits from (and yet departs from) the original.


Q: What would you say were the "keywords" that guided you (and your team) as you were conceiving the game's various aspects.


Well, one was ‘Expressivity’, and by that I mean that we want players to own the experience, to craft a play style which is all their own from a very broad array of tactical options.


Rapture is a living simulation which connects a diverse set of enemy behaviors to the game environment, and then supports hundreds of responses to the player’s dozens of weapons, tools, and other forms of input.


It’s especially rare in shooters, because, frankly, it hurts to get it right. With all that wild unpredictable player behavior to account for, what we do often feels more like zookeeping than, say, film-making. But the player’s feeling of self-expression is worth it.


The other is ‘Immediacy’, which distinguishes BioShock and BioShock 2 from some of their forebears. There’s a heavy emphasis on a punchy, readably concrete result to the use of any player tool. That helps you build a hypothesis, which becomes a strategy – even if you’re not a hardcore gamer.


If you zap a puddle of water in BioShock, highly visible electricity will crackle throughout the entire pool, making it clear that you’ve changed its state. Fire will cause an enemy to flee towards water. The player ‘does the math’ there, and feels clever for having worked it out.


Q: Like Rapture itself, BioShock felt very self-contained... when you started work on BioShock 2 (or even before that), what was the first angle you thought of in which to expand that hermetic world?


I was interested in a child’s eye view of Rapture … growing up in an insular, ultimately failed undersea utopia would be unlike anything our cultural norms could offer – the beauty and the horror of it.


That quickly became a much more zoomed-in, intimate story of a dysfunctional Father-Daughter relationship, opposed by a kind of ‘un-mother’ figure in the form of our antagonist. The first game was all about the setting. This one is more about a specific small group of people, each of whom gazed upon paradise and were consumed by it.


Q: "Player choice" and the discussion surround it -- what it means, how to implement it, whether it's even meaningfully possible -- is one of games' big topics. Within its linear flow, BioShock offered players some freedom (in upgrades, tactics, harvest/rescue) and then made a huge statement on the illusory nature of that freedom. What's your (and BioShock 2's) take on that? How are you running with /elaborating/repudiating that "Would you kindly..." philosophy?


Well, we’re taking it seriously – and it’s probably our biggest area of risk. Unlike the original protagonist, your freedom of will is precisely what distinguishes you in BioShock 2. And as you close in on your former Little Sister (the girl you were bonded to, way back in the city’s past) you continually make decisions about the fate of key characters – not just Little Sisters this time.


I can’t say much more about any intended subtext without spoiling the reward, but suffice it to say that these choices dramatically shape the story, particularly in the final act. That, too, we feel – is rare in the shooter space. So we’re proud of the power over the BioShock 2 narrative that the player has, this time around.


Q: Andrew Ryan's Objectivist Rapture verusus Dr. Lamb's Altruist Rapture... Big Brothers versus Big Sisters... a sealed place (mostly) lost to the outside versus a known (to some) place in which outside parties have an active interest... from what I know of BioShock 2 it feels very Mirror Universe. Am I feeling that right? To what degree is 2 a reflection, and how is that reflection distorted?


You’re absolutely right that because Ryan’s (following from Ayn Rand’s) philosophy of rational self interest was so extreme, his political rivals such as Dr. Sofia Lamb had to be similarly larger than life to pose any real threat to him. Lamb is indeed an altruist, based in part on John Stuart Mill and Karl Marx … but whose strategy was to couch her secular thinking in a kind of unity cult called the Rapture Family. Lamb’s organization, once suppressed, has now seized control of the city. And the player – an overwhelmingly powerful individual, no longer enslaved to the city – constitutes a very direct threat to that utopian vision.


The variable, I would say, is Eleanor Lamb – the former Little Sister who is caught between them. She adds a dimension that wasn’t really present in the conflicts between the player and the original game’s villains – someone to care about, other than yourself and your many toys. But knowing the elder Lamb, some players will ask themselves if Eleanor can be trusted.


Q: Nuts n' bolts: multiplayer. To what degree will (are) the BioShock philosophy (-ies) animate and inform the multplayer experience?


Well, the Multiplayer component takes place in a different time period than the single player story. The year between 1959 and 1960, which precedes the original game. Rapture was wracked by a civil war that was the direct result of ‘utopian’ self-interest leading to an inability to agree on a set of rules.


Corruption and addiction followed the discovery of ADAM (the precious genetic substance that allows for all the wild genetic powers the player wields). So because it’s directly integrated in the story, it is directly informed by much of the Rand-inspired philosophical exploration that the first game was based on.


And competitive MP allows you to earn ADAM and, indeed, grow your character to increase your odds of survival. Along the way you unlock unique audio diaries that describe how each of the MP playable characters fell from grace in the pursuit of their own aims.


The economy of multiplayer is about as laissez-faire as you can get. So it’s a pretty effective meditation on the fleeting, mercurial nature of satisfaction, if you take a step back and smile.


Q: On the personal (and maybe a little softball) side, what are you most proud of in BioShock 2? What was cut that you regret having to leave behind?


I’m probably the most proud of the aforementioned narrative ‘reflection’ that the game offers, I think it’s an example of taking our theme (which has to do with family) and turning it meaningfully interactive in both the broad strokes and the finer ones.


But I’m also proud of the improvements to the game as a shooter – the enemies are much more environment aware, using cover, leaping off of walls, picking up objects, etc. The Big Sister in particular is in many ways a dynamically-generated boss fight in response to your actions – she has to be able to fight anywhere you can, which distinguishes her from more scripted confrontations in other games.


Ironically, I regret having to leave behind the backtracking feature! Almost nobody actually did it in the original despite huge amounts of work to support it, and there were massive gains in trade for its removal in BioShock 2. But for a small, hardcore group of people, it’s a loss.


Q: Personal, again. What in your own professional experience most helped/informed you through the making of BioShock 2? I'm thinking here (as I often am) of Thief: Deadly Shadows, a game I loved almost beyond reason.


Well, it warms the heart to know that anyone actually played the poor thing! Certainly there’s a level I threw my heart into on Thief:DS, guided by Randy Smith, that formed the foundation of my game narrative ‘philosophy’. The same principles were applied to Fort Frolic in the original BioShock (the level I worked on), and any cogent guidance I’ve offered our design team on BioShock 2 has come from the same principles.


To sum it up quickly, I’m a big fan of embracing the subjective – that is to say, offering some compelling knowns, but holding back on a lot of the connective tissue for people to speculate and fill in with their own theories. Meaning in games is malleable – very participatory. You can guide it, but to force it is to betray its very nature.


Q: Meta time. Games like BioShock 2 -- and almost all AAA games -- are huge undertakings, and hugely expensive in consequence. The risk/reward terrifies accountants. Not to put too fine a point on it, but is the current model of development, with its attendant financial risks and its hard use of talent, viable? What do you see in the future of development at the AAA level. What would you *like* to see?


Well, with digital distribution, you’ll see a flexibility of format and price point. That is to say that games like Portal may end up being financially viable stand-alone works, even on console, only meant to provide a few solid hours of play for a lower cost – but hopefully bearing replayability in a way that is unique to games. Imagine physically participating in an episode of something like LOST, learning more each time you play through it, and seeing all the ways it can turn out? Sort of the ‘short-but-deep’ model.


Beyond that, I’d like to see us break down the barrier to entry. Learning to use a modern game controller is, for many people, like being dropped into a foreign country without a word of the local tongue. It’s just too much – passive mediums like film and TV allow them to just sit back and take it. There’s no progress gating. Look at something like the iphone, the Wii, or Natal. By and large, the interface is your body. I hope to see us evolve beyond the traditional forms of input and models of ‘challenge’ – then my Mom and I can co-op through Pride and Prejudice And Zombies, y’know?


Friday, January 29, 2010

“You don't love a woman because she is beautiful, but she is beautiful because you love her”


I wish a woman were in my bed right now.
I would love to make out, hard.

Right now I would slam this fucking computer shut and run into the bedroom, tripping over my hastily-offed clothing like a mad man, insane. I would grab her immediate waist, directly above her hips and I would grab her with both hands, one on either side and grip her like that.

I think I would love the way she would sweat, too, and could tell when she was excited.
Her back would begin to get hot and I knew her biology was delivering a severe beating to her logic.

I bought new sheets and we could be the first to fuck on them.

Breakfast is my treat, I do love to get up in the early pre-dawn.
I'll have a few Bloody Mary's while I make you an omlette.
Or peaches and cream cheese on a cinnamon bagel.
Or more sex.

After a little red wine tonight, I'll go to bed and sleep.

I wish there were a woman in my bed tonight.
I'd put down the lid on the wine, and close this computer and just put it down and even if she wanted to just spoon well man, that's just fine.

But I wish that woman slept tight with me and stayed the night and kept me cold with her feet and iced hands and man I wish she were in my bed tonight.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

"Sometimes up Sometimes down My life's so uncertain With you not around"



When I finally got out of bed, sheets following, I was worn out and felt weak and was sweating hard. My stomach and thighs were cramping and man it was painful struggling to the bathroom. I didn't need to sit down but I did need to rinse the sweat from my eyebrows, keeping the salty sting out of my eyes.

I brushed my teeth slowly as my tongue was swollen and raw. The toothpaste was irritating to taste but I spit it out fast.

More water, colder this time.

A glass of milk and a quick hit of pot put me right and I could hear them as I walked back to my room.

They were laughing and sighing and talking about scandals. They cooed and hurried me back under the covers when I walked in.

Having an orgy with The Supremes required stoic and regular stamina.

We smoked.

Saturday, January 09, 2010

"I do not concern myself with gods and spirits either good or evil nor do I serve any."


The HarperCollins Reference Library:

AMERICAN SLANG

“AMERICAN SLANG AT ITS RIP-ROARING
ZANY, ZAPPY BEST”
-Dr. Robert Burchfield.
Editor of the Oxford English Dictionary.
By Robert L. Chapman, Ph.d.

Abridged edition of the New Dictionary of American Slang


紳士。
KDDI テム。
このささやかな贈り物です。
あなたが一生懸命仕事をする。
してくださいバンクーバーでリラックス.
2010年冬季オリンピック。
日本の人々はあなたの努力のためにそれを見ることができます。
NBCのお友達
クルーティエ、ジョディ。

I left that for the KDDI guys from Japan today.
They seemed lost and really quiet, steam gone.
I spoke with the middle-manager on the sea-wall balcony while we smoked.

The second he saw that I knew a little about Japan he lit right up and almost ran; he skipped. He skipped over to the other guys who were cutting and capping cables to sat. links and servers to other shit I don’t know anything about.

We culture-flirted for the rest of the day and I am determined to get fucking drunk with them before this is all over.

For the four years of misunderstanding and stereotyping and racism and fucking unsolicited loathe Japan dished me even on my most broken and human nights and would give me the ‘gajin-gap’ on trains and busses and I could have really used a random warm touch, and have my existence acknowledged by something other than shock or invisibility, well, I got a little somethin’ for you, brothers and sisters.

A gift.

A book.

Words.

Funny ones.

-Love Sid.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Monday, December 28, 2009

“Sometimes we stare so long at a door that is closing that we see too late the one that is open.”



I had a conversation with your ghost today. You were laying, elbow up, on the couch and we were talking about the strangest things. I liked how you had just shown up and started talking, asking me things.
It was good to see you again.
You looked so light-filled and beautiful.
That winter when you had your paintings on show at the Sugarbowl, the snow was heavy and thank fucking god I lived across the street. I used to run beers to Azif, the owner. Or rather part owner. But man, his mother made the best cinnamon buns and his father gave me the Bagavad Gita and that is an interesting book.
After your show I chatted-you-up and, I must have been maybe 20, I convinced you to come and drink with me in my room across the street. You stayed that night and we dated for a while after. You lived South of Edmonton, near Nisku or somewhere, was it Bear’s Paw?
I used to drive you home in a two-tone brown 1973 Duster, stock.
That was my first car and we made out in it all the time. That time when you took milk home and we made out in the front seat and the carton of milk exploded under my back as you sat astride and insane, well the smell of milk never came out.
I met your mother a few times and she was always happy that it was early. Your parents were so easy to please. Your father even decided to meet me once. He bothered to meet me, rather.
I guess I never told you how I felt about that. But I guess I never got the chance.
It was good to tell you the truth tonight.
When I heard that your new boots were left neatly in the fresh snow on the pedestrian walk-way of the High Level bridge that night and that you had jumped and broken your neck and fucking died well then I just went home.
I never saw your mother again, you know.
You killed a few people that night.
After all this time, though, I am still a little fucked up about it.
Thanks for the chat tonight.
It was good to see you.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

B-24 Liberator.


I don’t have many favorites when it comes to airports; things, I mean.

I love the embraces, greetings and the begrudging farewells.

I love the smoking sections, for those airports that have them.

I love the barrier between loves, thrust suddenly and before everyone. Within seconds you are scouting over a sea of in-line-leavers to spot your love; and she waves one last time before moving out of frame and life.

I love it when my bag comes first and I can collect it and move the fuck out of there.

Mostly, though, I love stepping out the automatic door into the new environment.

At times that door has led me to a small boy named Miguel who would carry my bag to the taxi, 3 metres away, and demand a hefty tip.

At times that door has led me into the heart of the jungle.

At times that door has brought me home to the prairies, vast, wind-swept and cold.

At times that door has led me into the Texas summer.

At times that door has led me into cars with you and we couldn’t wait to get to the hotel on Rue de Medics, and fuck.

At times that door has led me into the rainy night, alone and heavy-hearted, friends behind and an empty apartment ahead.

At times.

That door.

At times that door has led me into deeper sleeps and rougher nights than that door is supposed to have led me into but it did and I had to figure it all out and without you and man, never, let’s never do that again.

I love driving away and into it with blurred eyes and wet cheeks, you gone.

I guess the airport scares me, too, a little.

But I want to pick you up when you land.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

An afternoon with the kids.


(Open with Neil Young’s, “Campaigner”)

It’s a soft, sunny, August day. Not a cloud in the sky, just the chirps of the city, some birds and the buzz of the odd mosquito. We see a typical suburban neighbourhood, cookie-cutter houses, and all similar cars. We begin to focus on one house as a clean pick-up truck pulls in and up to it, parking crooked and assuming.
Sid rolls up the windows, gets out of the truck and straightens his self. Sid wipes his hands on his jeans, gathers some things and locks up; walks to the front door.
He knocks.


(The conversation is inaudible under the Neil Young song.)

Sid: Hi. I made it!

They exchange a brief hug.

Lacy: Hey there. We were worried about you. C’mon in!

We follow Sid and Lacy as they walk through the tidy, beautiful house towards the back and out the patio doors. Jim is manning the BBQ,, drinking beer and smiling warmly. We see their two boys, Josh and Stephen, playing, running around the huge maple tree in the centre of the yard.

Sid sits at the gestured request of Jim and opens a bottle of beer. Sid drinks long off of it and thanks Lacy and Jim with a nod and a tip of the bottle. They sit in content, appreciative silence. Jim has the local radio news on and the 14-day weather report is for sun and warmth.
We look away from the smiling, drinking trio and focus in on Josh and Stephen.

Josh: I’m going to get some juice.

Stephen: Me, too.

They race to the patio, equal. Josh is 1 year older than Stephen but Stephen, at 12, is bigger and looks older. They both see Sid and rush to greet him.

Sid: Hey guys…

Stephen: Sid, you’re back…

Josh: Sid!!! You were in a war?

Stephen: Afganesten(sic), dad told you not to ask about it.

Sid looks and smiles at Jim. Jim shrugs without looking up from the BBQ. Sid looks back over his shoulder and Lacy smiles, nods.

Sid: Yeah I went to Afghanistan. It’s war, that’s right.

Josh: You have a gun?

Sid: I had one, yes.

Stephen: Did you kill anyone?

Josh elbows Stephen in remind and Stephen blushes and gets a plate and dishes out some salad, turning from Sid.


(Neil Young’s #10, Time Fades Away)

(In Afghanistan) Sid remembers bunkers, playing sports, cleaning his rifle, checking his field gear, the green and black patch on his Kevlar, thick with the embroidered magnet and the pile of shit. Sid Hart, the shit magnet. In some barracks we see that patch being sewn on by giggling soldiers in their t-shirts and boxers. We see Sid getting shot at in various circumstances dozens of times, from an old Afghan woman’s hut to inspecting donkeys. Lastly, we see Sid shooting into an Afghan house, a woman crying and bloody stumbles out and falls to the ground. It’s silent.

Sid: I think I did kill someone, but it was an accident and I can’t sleep because of it. Were you guys playing war over there?

Josh: Oh. Was it a bad guy you killed?

Sid: No. No, I made a mistake…

Lacy interrupts with beverages and some hastily cut cheese.

Lacy: Have a snack, everyone!

Jim: Dinner’s nearly done, guys.

Josh and Stephen look at each other, then back to Sid.


Josh: We weren’t playing war, we were playing ‘sing-tag’. It’s like tag and if you get hit you have to sing a song.

Stephen: Yeah and it has to be loud, and a popular song we know. Dad sings old stuff and it sucks.

Sid: Is that right, Jim?

Jim: Yeah, the boys don’t like Neil Young…

Lacy: Maybe they would like it if you didn’t sing it.

Sid chuckles and puts down his beer. He stands up and addresses the boys, Josh and Stephen.

Sid: Let’s play this game, guys.

Stephen: Oh. You can’t play, Sid.

Josh: Yeah, sorry.

Sid: What? Why not?

Josh: Because you have killed.

Stephen: Yes, you do not respect the fleeting beauty that is life.

Sid: What?

Josh: You see yourself apart, separate from everything. This is why you shall live this life again, repeating mistakes until you learn that the defining moment is but yours to define.

Sid stares wide-eyed and drops his beer, it breaks in silence as Josh and Stephen slowly pose and morph into Siddhartha and Govinda; their clothes remain the same. Josh is Govinda, standing with his right arm up, bent at the elbow, tucked tight and only his index and middle finger, palm forward, extending from his closed fist.
Stephen is Siddhartha and is sitting cross-legged, silent, looking at Sid and smiling. Sid keeps staring, wide-eyed and motionless but for the tears streaming down his face.
Our focus shifts to Jim and Lacy, who hug and kiss in the foreground and hold the embrace.


Lacy: Do you think that Sid would be a good father?

Jim: Yes. I think he already is.

Lacy: I think so, too.

Jim: I love you.

Lacy: Good. I love you.

We pull back and reveal the entire back-yard. Everyone is laughing.

Fade.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Grace Kelly's Lips.


Sid A. Heart
#303
Signal Fire Lane,
Crap-Town.
IaM-DuM
Covet-land


Dearest Karoline.
Right now I am smoking and drinking and listening to your flute; the recording you sent me. It is so fucking good. Really.
It’s all I can write to, with. But I think it’s the thought of your breathy lips, pursed like that, which make it so fucking good. I bet you’d be really shocked and turn red and get mad if I were to watch you play and record but instead I just leaned in and kissed you for about thirty seconds with my hand gently on the back of your neck, your hair through my fingers and down into my heart.
Anyhow, that’s what I thought about your music; I hope that helps.

Sincerely
And unabashedly,
Sid A. Heart.

Saturday, December 05, 2009

Chris Hartley Stories.




So it began, with litte more than three fingers worth of gin and blindingly, drunk ambition. Due to something simply referred to as 'liquor laws', that would have to do.

He mumbled or stammered, a difficult yet definitive difference existed between the two. As he was oft culpable of doing the mental tangent initiated by his uncertain call to arms was often followed closely by an exhubirant verbal molestation of any passerbys.

"Liquour laws. PFFFFT! A liquor law is what is made after you roll box cars!!"

"But this!!!!" Raising his arms above his head in a sweeping motion, almost taking out the glasses of a busness casually dressed man hustling by with a kiss from the bottom of the gin bottle.

"But this...." He muttered (and it was most certaintly a mutter) as the scorn of the morning crowds gaze began to bite through his wavering gin shield.

The gin bottled creeped to his mouth and the cognizent intrusion of waning self confidence washed slowly out of his stomach.

"Back to the bowels where you belong." He muttered before turning his eyes back to the crowd.

"But this!!!!" Letting a green mixture of residual gin and cigarrette tar fly at the glass window of the presently closed liquor store.

"This most assuredly should be known as an ANTI LIQUOR LAW!!! AND A SMALL SOCIALLY INEPT MANISH ONE AT THAT....or maybe a hen of old jezabels!!"

The gin bottle snapped once again to attention (conducted more for effect than purpose). A poetically misguided tingle of pride trickled down his spine and for awhile he just stood there. Feet firmly planted and hunched shoulders with what was left of the gin balanced against the lip of his belt.

"Jesus fuck..." he mumbled, while feigning an imbalanced kick at the door. He quickly recovered his footing and with what he presumed appreciable enough dignity resumed his objective. Heels squarely matched, shoulders broad, straight neck with nary a shred of his former demonstrated postural apathay apparent he spun around and purposefully met the conglomerated gaze of the crowd lingering near the transit stop.

"Fucking breakfast cereal eaters!" He chuckled, holding his taut posture.

He bellowed to the crowd "I know what you're thinking and could not be bothered one fucking bit to care!"

He spun the gin bottle like it was a gunslingers mighty iron. Whirling it round and round as he stared them down. The projection of graven focus and his unwavering, dark confidence was more than a match for the lot and an unstable wave crashed over the crowd. Eyes dropped nervously through the crowd while others were "looking at him without really looking at him".

He revelled in their pathetic cowardly retreat away from their moral high ground for but a moment, then locked his wrist halting the spinning motion of the bottle. As it began stalling upright he let the bottle slip down and in one fluid motion had secured his hand around then neck and spun the top off with his thumb. The cap shot off straight towards the transit stop. He couldn't help but allow a small grin to escape his lips.

-Fucking perfect-

He pulled his gaze back from the momentary self admiration and was pleased to see that they were indeed more uncomfortable, so he began again.

"As I was saying, I know what you're thinking and as an aside couldn't be fucked by it. You're all pretty damn pleased that you're not as bad off as I...I." He shook his head and chuckled.

"I swear swear to all the gods; false or otherwise, that the feeling is god damn-well mutual. As sure as half of you either have or are going to go pay at least 5 bucks more than you ought to for a damn cup of coffee, I would not for a minute go back to being one of you COCKSUCKING BREAKFAST CEREAL EATERS!!!!". The slouched posture had returned.

"The pay may sometimes be the shit, but the hours, I assure you are most excellent. I'm still sorting out the pros and cons of the other related benefits" He mused.

His eyes narrowed and he cast a gaze over his shoulder, while muttering
"Anit liquor laws aside, retirement has been doing me well."

With one last volley of phlegm in the stores direction he quickly sauntered into an alleyway mumbling something about "It being too sunny a day to waste debating philosophy with officer Luders or one of his blue monkeyed cronies." and with that he was gone.

With this, the assembled mass of the morning crowd regained their composure. A few crooked ball cap wearing younger men reinflated and hollered their battle cries, others began rounding the pity wagons, some began discussing who was going to fire up their cell and so on....All collectively rescaling the summit of mount superior, and many slurping on their disposable, logo-covered morning beverages.

What was compeletly missed were the eyes and the quiet demeanour of an estranged few. They merely peered at the mouth of the alley, eyes aflame like faerie creatures perched amongst a thick canopy. While it undoubtedly vairied even amongst them, there most certainly existed at least an unconcious second where the impulse to drop their cell phones and other belongings and simply follow this obviously flawed pied piper down into the gutter had taken hold. Instead, they simply maintained their compusre while exhauling the remaining vapours of a madness induced stranger's freedom.

-Chris Hartley