It could have been worse. It could have been a
lot worse. I consider this an exercise of my gift for understatement. Worse
doesn't really cover it. I briefly reviewed the roster of my toons on Virtue.
Jackie Marie Frost. Being inside Jackie? Well I wouldn't be the
first, or the last, and that thought is enough to bead the brow with sweat. I created Jackie - deliberately - to be the
dream realized and that realization being something of a nightmare. Unless you were Russ Meyer; and perhaps Russ
himself would have been given pause. Mostly to undo his belt.
Sue Nami? Thank you no. I will leave being inside Japanese schoolgirls to the tentacle monsters out there. Ponitus
Pirates? No. Or rather. Arrrggh
no! Bella? Big Momma S? Sen-Sen
Mew-Mew. Ack. Hairball.
It could have been worse. I was still
me.
Sort of.
Almost.
Very nearly.
Well close enough at any rate.
I glanced at my face in the mirror. My face;
perhaps a little harder and more angular, the brows slightly lower. I ignored the QWERTY pattern that chased across my left cheek; the result of having fainted onto my keyboard and remaining there for some
time. My brow furrowed and a part of my mind that had not existed before kicked in.
The indentations faded away, the skin sparkling slightly.
Part of my mind, the part not currently engaged in knocking the divots out of my skin,
raced through what this meant. There was a jingle of tags as Bolo decided that checking up on me was the right thing to
do. I might have fallen into the toilet. Shar-peis are funny that way, they
don't like water, but they are the lifeguards of the canine world. He glanced at me, I glanced at him. He whined slightly and then let out a bark.
"What is it boy?" I asked
him. "Did Timmy fall down the well again? Did you push
him?"
Bolo regarded me with the solemnity that all
Shar-peis have. It makes them look far more insightful and intelligent then they are.
Nothing breaks the illusion more than a pei giving you that look and then licking at their genitals. No one can
maintain the illusion under such circumstances. Even Winston Churchill would have lost mystique if he had been seen
cleaning his personal Isles of Wight with his own tongue; sure he would have gained a whole new mystique, but not one
that would have served him politically.
"Or do you need to take a leak?
Backyard?"
He grinned a wide doggie grin and his curled tail slapped back and forth in an
enthusiastic wag.
That was reassuring; my world had just stepped sideways, but there were some things that
were comfortably normal. As I stepped out of the bathroom, Bolo ran for the stairs, proceeding me down, stopping every
few steps to look back to ensure that I was indeed the door opening messiah of his bladder salvation.
I let him out the back door. As he scouted the
area for the best place to unleash his inner flood and perhaps drop a few doggie bombs, I surveyed the living room. We
have a primary décor. Weapons. Several swords on the wall. Several more leaning up against a bookcase. My sword case lying next to the wall where it
would not be casually kicked. My sword case is a soft, padded, travel golf bag.
One of those bags that zip entirely closed. As I tell my students, carry a sword bag, a rifle case, or a bow case, you
can be perceived as a threat. Carry a golf case and the best you can hope for is lame.
I concentrated, the newly active part of my mind responding. My hands filled. The bastard sword appearing in my right hand, the shorter blade in my
right. I frowned. The swords disappeared, replaced by a katana, the razor edge
glistening. With another thought I was holding a bastard sword in my right hand, my left holding a heater
shield. I knew the face would have my heraldic sign. Green and black with a
golden Darwin fish rampant. The shield vanished, but I kept the bastard sword.
Excalibastard was a dual blades/willpower scrapper.
But I am a hell of lot more versatile when it comes to bladed weapons.
lot worse. I consider this an exercise of my gift for understatement. Worse
doesn't really cover it. I briefly reviewed the roster of my toons on Virtue.
Jackie Marie Frost. Being inside Jackie? Well I wouldn't be the
first, or the last, and that thought is enough to bead the brow with sweat. I created Jackie - deliberately - to be the
dream realized and that realization being something of a nightmare. Unless you were Russ Meyer; and perhaps Russ
himself would have been given pause. Mostly to undo his belt.
Sue Nami? Thank you no. I will leave being inside Japanese schoolgirls to the tentacle monsters out there. Ponitus
Pirates? No. Or rather. Arrrggh
no! Bella? Big Momma S? Sen-Sen
Mew-Mew. Ack. Hairball.
It could have been worse. I was still
me.
Sort of.
Almost.
Very nearly.
Well close enough at any rate.
I glanced at my face in the mirror. My face;
perhaps a little harder and more angular, the brows slightly lower. I ignored the QWERTY pattern that chased across my left cheek; the result of having fainted onto my keyboard and remaining there for some
time. My brow furrowed and a part of my mind that had not existed before kicked in.
The indentations faded away, the skin sparkling slightly.
Part of my mind, the part not currently engaged in knocking the divots out of my skin,
raced through what this meant. There was a jingle of tags as Bolo decided that checking up on me was the right thing to
do. I might have fallen into the toilet. Shar-peis are funny that way, they
don't like water, but they are the lifeguards of the canine world. He glanced at me, I glanced at him. He whined slightly and then let out a bark.
"What is it boy?" I asked
him. "Did Timmy fall down the well again? Did you push
him?"
Bolo regarded me with the solemnity that all
Shar-peis have. It makes them look far more insightful and intelligent then they are.
Nothing breaks the illusion more than a pei giving you that look and then licking at their genitals. No one can
maintain the illusion under such circumstances. Even Winston Churchill would have lost mystique if he had been seen
cleaning his personal Isles of Wight with his own tongue; sure he would have gained a whole new mystique, but not one
that would have served him politically.
"Or do you need to take a leak?
Backyard?"
He grinned a wide doggie grin and his curled tail slapped back and forth in an
enthusiastic wag.
That was reassuring; my world had just stepped sideways, but there were some things that
were comfortably normal. As I stepped out of the bathroom, Bolo ran for the stairs, proceeding me down, stopping every
few steps to look back to ensure that I was indeed the door opening messiah of his bladder salvation.
I let him out the back door. As he scouted the
area for the best place to unleash his inner flood and perhaps drop a few doggie bombs, I surveyed the living room. We
have a primary décor. Weapons. Several swords on the wall. Several more leaning up against a bookcase. My sword case lying next to the wall where it
would not be casually kicked. My sword case is a soft, padded, travel golf bag.
One of those bags that zip entirely closed. As I tell my students, carry a sword bag, a rifle case, or a bow case, you
can be perceived as a threat. Carry a golf case and the best you can hope for is lame.
I concentrated, the newly active part of my mind responding. My hands filled. The bastard sword appearing in my right hand, the shorter blade in my
right. I frowned. The swords disappeared, replaced by a katana, the razor edge
glistening. With another thought I was holding a bastard sword in my right hand, my left holding a heater
shield. I knew the face would have my heraldic sign. Green and black with a
golden Darwin fish rampant. The shield vanished, but I kept the bastard sword.
Excalibastard was a dual blades/willpower scrapper.
But I am a hell of lot more versatile when it comes to bladed weapons.