2002-09-24 - 12:13 a.m.

I realize I'm behind the times: in reference to Actionhero's latest rant/rave/rev-ing, I am not one of those he mentions, not one who has used the 'actionhero-ing' in my diary, cribbed his style, rubbed his rhubarb, in so many words. So of course, I'm gonna have to. My pride, and my rhubarb, are obviously at stake. So without further adieu, my comic book.

***************************************************

In the beginning, there was the world, and the world was for gold, and the world was gold. The glitterati who moved on the ground-up pavement were known, on occaision, to reflect a little hidden light here and there, small darts of light hurled into the darkness, not to illuminate the terror of the shade, but to injure and keep it at bay. They had more pressing engagements to attend. And thus the world existed, the glitterati, the shade, and the dust which sustained them. And one day the unexpected happened: water fell from the sky. Dust coalesced into mud, the shade found itself driven underground, and the glitterati dove for cover in well-appointed cafe's to complain about the weather, not that they ever did anything about it. The shade and the mud bred together, and a new people came to be: sprouted from the earth, now full of life and fear. Different, for they had eyes, and ears, and thoughts. And they were created seperate, each according to the need that was there for them. But all were of the earth.

This is their story.

*************************************************

He kept charm in his pocket, like a cigarette lighter. It was there when he needed it, it was useful for striking up a conversation, and under the right circumstances, it was very dangerous. He was accustomed to the roar of the crowd, the blinding lights of fame, and the distrust it bred. The world's usual game was to appear before him like a picture show: sound and fury, a hurricanoe. He was accustomed to staying right in the center of it. Where all is calm. He knew how to steal someone's attention, and he also knew how to hide it away again. "In a dark room, the one thing people never examine is the lamp." He was non-descript. He took another sip of coffee.

The diner was cramped and ugly, perfectly designed to match the chef's brutish face. It was also struggling, a direct result of a disastrous marketing campaign relying on that chef's mug in a series of improbable TV ads. It was perfect. Superman had his Fortress of Solitude, Batman his Bat cave. For the moment, this diner would do.

The newspaper stared up at him, presenting it's coveted information like a vassal state. It wasn't too hard to sense the knife in this diplomat's hand. He didn't worry about the mistruths on the page, though. He knew how not too. "If you look closely, and you know where to look, you'll see the truth inside the lie." He knew where to look, and how. And he saw something there that made him worry. Without looking away from the broadsheet, he swept bills from his wallet, and mercilessly overtipped his waitress. Throwing his coat around his shoulders, he squeezed past the large man at the door, the one who was paid for nothing more than to stand around and look a little threatening. Perhaps the chef was involved in more than badly scrambled eggs. A bill made its way into the large man's hand somehow as a non-descript man left the diner.

Perhaps not.

On the table, a coffee stain spread across a very ordinary picture in the local section. A nice man was accepting an award from a local civic group. He was smiling as he shook a small girl's hand. His teeth were showing. Tiny, so tiny even the photo editor would not have caught it, a mark made it's home on his incisor. This character from a language long since dead, it held its silence, as it had for a thousand years, unheard except by those that knew how to hear it. An unknown, trifling, insignificant mark that stood for death.

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