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Topic Review (Newest First)
02-21-2016 03:03 PM
mourning after Coil is a good story, but this is too! You may find that you just need a short break to go on with coil.
And if you cant finish it , then that's ok too. I've enjoyed what you have written.
Thank you!
02-11-2016 02:58 PM
tackleberry444 Like this one!!!!!!!!
02-10-2016 07:20 PM
Raymond Strangely different. But that is a good thing. I will be watching for your continuation. Thanks
02-05-2016 11:44 PM
mmamom Like the beginning. Will be watching for more.
02-05-2016 09:37 PM
Originally Posted by RVM45 View Post
I want very badly to complete "Coil..."
Rarely have I been so totally blocked. I just can't picture what comes next...

Writing can be tedious and disappointing at times....
With the words trying to form and escape to the paper but will just not flow....

Give it time.....
And the ink will flow....

You have until the end....
Whenever that occurs....

02-05-2016 08:02 PM
lyn Enjoying this!

02-05-2016 03:46 PM
RVM45 Friends,

I want very badly to complete "Coil..."

Rarely have I been so totally blocked. I just can't picture what comes next...

This is a short chapter. I do know what comes next but my writing time today is coming to a close--

And tacking 1250 words of action and the old mega-violence onto what is basically a chapter of character and situation development...

It can be done, but why? I'll just place that in Chapter Three...

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

Chapter Two

“Can we be friends?” Gerald asked.

“That’s up to you. I try to be civil to everyone. If you’re civil in return we’ll see how things progress,” I told him.

Gerald was thirteen years old and he was both a prodigy and a genius with an IQ well above two hundred. The word was that people were trying to kidnap him. I was to be his full-time bodyguard until further notice.

“What kind of gun do you carry?”

“A .45 caliber 1911A1,” I said.

“Isn’t that a bit dated?”

“Olde Tyme? Yes. Outclassed by more contemporary designs? Emphatically not!” I told him.

There was no need to go into supplemental and backup guns with an adolescent.

Gerald was chock full of questions.

“They tell me that you’re Murim. What exactly does that mean?”

“Did you ever watch one of those badly dubbed kung fu movies from Taiwan or Hong Kong? Well you have to be selective but Murim is a secret society—no it’s more like a loose confederation of secret societies—whose members can do many of the less improbable feats you see in low budget kung fu movies,” I told him.

“There are some ninja and shaolin groups—though every bunch of ninja and ninja wannabees and every single shaolin temple aren’t necessarily Murim. The Thuggees, the original Assassins as well as the Knights Templar would all probably qualify if they were still around—and who can say for sure that they aren’t?” I said.

“ ‘Murim’ itself comes from a bunch of Korean legends about a secret society of martial artists who had their own rulers, laws and means of enforcement while living invisibly amongst the mundane. Murim as it exists today was organized two or three hundred years ago. If you go back too far there wasn’t enough wholesale travelling to make a worldwide network necessary or even terribly useful,” I said.

“A funny thing is: no one is entirely sure if there ever was a true Murim in Korea before our folk adopted the name,” I finished.

I’d given him more detail than I usually give people because he asked politely and because I sensed that he was the abrasive type of Asperger who’d bore determinedly away until he was satisfied.

“Can’t you get into trouble for telling me all this?” Gerald asked.

“Nah. The location of our facilities, member’s real names and certain advanced jutsu—techniques as it were—are secret. The mere existence of Murim isn’t classified. Two things are all that prevent me from telling the world. First is my own sense of propriety and second is the desire to avoid being thought of as a member of the aluminum foil beanie crowd,” I said.

“How do you get into Murim?” was his next question.

“Somewhere around 95% of the members are born into the organization. The others come to someone’s attention one way or another,” I said.

“Interestingly, you won’t find many ex-Olympic competitors or world champion martial artists in Murim. The more advanced techniques require long-term training of the spirit, or chi or whatever you choose to call it. The beginning chi building and controlling exercises aren’t terribly demanding or harsh but they are mind numbingly monotonous. You have to do them diligently for a long time before you see any result,” I said.

“Frustration with purely physical training is an excellent catalyst. People with exceptional physical aptitude seem to unconsciously cross a Rubicon rather early on to rely exclusively on the narrowly physical,” I finished.

“Could I learn some of the basic techniques?” Gerald asked.

“Possibly,” I said.

“Will you teach me some?”

“I’ll give you a couple mental exercises. If you persevere then I’ll set up a physical exercise program. You need to develop mind and body together or it won’t work at all well.”

“Judas, how did you get into Murim? Were you born into it?” Gerald asked.

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

I was far from being born into Murim.

Folks like the Green Berets and the Navy Seals as well as criminal groups like the Yakuza and Mafia make occasional use of Murim members but they don’t co-opt Murim.

Murim is about relentless self-cultivation. Soldiers and full-time criminals are too busy to pursue self-cultivation that exclusively.

Still that begs the question: how do you buy enough freedom cheaply enough to train? Wrestling, throwing knives and punching makiwara won’t sow the wheat, hoe the beans or harvest the potatoes.

Some of the olde tyme martial arts temples had already inherited land, buildings and weapons. They managed to exist largely by having beginners spend half-a-day training and half-a-day farming. The occasional largesse took up any remaining slack.

Be all that as it may. I’d started life training diligently. It wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that I majored in wrestling in high school. I wrestled and studied judo in college for a couple years before my grades necessitated dropping out.

I studied judo, boxing and combat pistol shooting a few years. I had a very brief and undistinguished military career. My psychiatric diagnosis was “not amendable to military discipline”, just so. I’m amendable to very little external constraint.

I never held a job long but somewhere along the line poverty and ball-busting work when I could get it broke my routine of training and self-discipline…

Unfortunately I’m one of those people who rapidly fall into morbid obesity without lots of deliberate training and dieting. It is far easier to fall into the pit of gross obesity than it is trying to climb out again.

I’d climbed back from 400+ pounds twice. I’d gotten over four hundred pounds once more and I was sixty-three years old with a body that qualified me for a disability pension but I was grimly climbing back one more time.

My main motivation was my dog. He was mostly Rat Terrier with just enough Bloodhound to make him a bit less of a runt at thirty-six pounds. I named him “Fort Arthur” for reasons that don’t bear going into.

I loved that little dog more than it is easy to convey and going walking with me was his greatest joy in life.

At any rate, I’d gotten the weight down below 360 once more though my knees and ankles resented the load a great deal.

I noticed three men in what looked like expensive three-piece suits standing on the street-corner and hobnobbing. It was just a residential neighborhood in a medium-sized town. Running into three people at one time was unusual. The expensive suits moved the encounter into the realm of boilerplate bizarre. To this day I haven’t a clue as to what the trio was up to.

My attention was almost totally engaged in keeping an eye on Fort and ignoring the complaints of my knees and feet.

Several cars and vans converged on the three men. Gunshots rang out like popcorn popping—just far louder.

A dude wearing a burgundy colored jogging suit ran by us carrying a big ole katana in his hand.

The jogger gave an off-hand flourish of his katana and cut Fort cleanly in two. He never even broke stride.

Many heavy folk have strong legs from carrying the load. Couple that with a high center of gravity and you’d be astonished at how fast they can move for a half-a-dozen steps.

In my case, my knees and ankles were shot all to Hell but I still had a partial muscular legacy in my calves, thighs and glutes from doing some very heavy-duty squats in my prime. Of course exerting that kind of force completed the ruin of my knees…

My cane was one of the heavy-duty Cold Steel sword canes.

The sword penetrated the man’s back on a course that thoroughly skewered his heart. You killed my dog knob gobbler. Was it worth your life dude?

He wheeled around and slashed at me. I had the heavy aluminum tube that served as the cane’s shaft and the sword’s sheath in my right hand. I parried purely by instinct and a bit of accident.

His chop severed my tube but he cut it on the bias leaving me a vicious pipe knife. I stepped closer and gave him three “from the O ring” a tactic that laws use to strike someone in the lower abdomen with the butt of their batons without fully removing it from its retaining ring.

He went to gouge my eye. I avoided the poke and managed to bite off a couple of his fingers into the bargain. I stepped close and butted heads with him. The idea is to butt the client’s face with your far more damage-resistant forehead or forward crown.

I ended up butting him face to face. No matter. I was in a full berserker—feeling no pain, super strong and highly resistant to shock. I lunged forward and clamped my teeth on his nose. I meant to use the unconventional hold for leverage but instead I bit off the whole cartilaginous portion of his nose at the cost of a couple broken teeth.

I picked the dog slayer up. I don’t think that he even weighed 170. I used the pile driver to ram his head into the sidewalk. It should be duly noted that all during these monkeyshines the bent blade of my sword was still sticking out of his torso fore and aft.

His head met the ground with a satisfying “Crunch!” Anything worth killing is worth killing two or three times. I lifted him up for another formal introduction to the sidewalk when I lost consciousness.

When I woke I found that I’d been medevaced to a small, secret and very advanced hospital ran by one of Murim’s member organizations.

I’d had several life threatening injuries that had totally escaped my notice during my fit.

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

“So how old are you now?” Gerald asked.

“I’m eighty-one years old,” I replied.

“How long will you live?” Gerald asked.

“Until I die.”

“No, I mean…”

“I know what you mean. Some Murim masters live into their nineties or to over one hundred years old. Some of them look that old but some of us don’t. People like me who don’t show their age can live for centuries—some of us…

“On the other hand, those of us who don’t look aged often have little or no warning that their life span is coming to an end. They just fall down and die,” I shared.

“I’d guess that you were between twenty-six or seven,” Gerald said.

“Thank you.”

01-12-2016 01:26 PM
Angel Myth: Judas in Murim


This will probably be my next story but it insists on peeking out ahead of time.

Keep in mind:

Judas lives in a completely different world than Spoil & Co and the Martial Artists there are far less powerful.

Angel Myth: Judas in Murim

Chapter One

My father named me “Judas Iscariot O’Grady.” He meant for it to be a constant reminder that anyone—even one of Jesus’ Apostles—can be led into the foulest sort of depravity without constant diligence.

I like my name well enough but it is customary to have a nom de guerre when joining Murim. The best that I could come up on short notice with was “Angel Myth.” People who talk to me generally call me “Judas.” People who talk about me generally use my pseudonym.

Call me whatever.

I’ve always said that if you don’t want to fly the Fascist Skies then Don’t Fly the fascist skies.

Today though, I had a mission and it depended upon me being on this flight.

I walked through the metal detector and I didn’t have anything metallic on me—not so much as a paperclip. Nonetheless the Transit Authorities pulled me to one side and put me in a small room and told me to strip.

I paused momentarily to decide if I wanted to go along with this humiliation. In the end I decided to humor them for the nonce.

Of course once I stripped the jackboots could see my Murim tattoos.

My father always hated tattoos. He always used the same word: they were “Hideous.” I can’t convey the full measure of the distaste that he put into that one word. Even other’s tattoos caused his skin to crawl.

I wasn’t opposed to tattoos in principle—notwithstanding my father’s vehement loathing. On the other hand I’d never seen a design that I liked enough to have it ground into my skin.

Tattoos are much like engraving. I wasn’t opposed to engraving in principal but I’d yet to see an engraving that didn’t make a pistol look like a relic of the Victorian era. Similarly tattoos brought scrimshaw, Popeye the sailor man and salty old sea dogs who’d made a career of the navy or the merchant marine to my mind.

Yakuza style tattoos come from Japan. At one time the rank and file Japanese regarded tattoos with as much fear and loathing as my father. A tattooed man couldn’t use the public baths and they wouldn’t knowingly rent a hotel room to one. Yet the yakuza tattoo was a powerful symbol of membership.

Yakuza leave a clear spot around the neck and down the middle of the torso. A man can leave his shirt collar unbuttoned or even let a gi styled robe hang fairly open without exposing the tattoos. You can roll your sleeves up to the elbow or wear knee-length short pants all without exposing your ink.

Murim had decided to follow suit over one hundred years ago—except that some of the symbols and some of the weird inks that Murim used actually focused power to a degree.

Nowadays some ordinary folks want the yakuza style coverage—probably for the same reason that the old yakuza did. Even with modern electronic tattoo guns it takes about six hundred hours of tattooing for yakuza style tattoos.

So what did I choose for my tattoos?

I had Jeff Cooper firing a 1911A1, Elmer Keith wearing a Stetson and holding a single action, Vasily Alekseyev holding a huge weight overhead along with Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime, hitting his signature single bicep pose.

Putting my father on my skin would have made a travesty of his beliefs. No one really knows what Jesus looked like and I distrust Iconography. There was an image of three crosses on a hill though.

I wanted a pair of sumos—but leave out the tortured eyebrows and odd facial expressions. I wanted a koi, an arched bridge and a 1911A1 in some detail. I wanted a good English Bulldog—not the cartoon style with the lower fangs exposed and I wanted a big red oni with a big club.

What? No, a red devil would be demonic. Oni’s are ogres—legendary creatures noted for their great strength.

I also stipulated no geisha and no kabuki figures.

“What kind of tattoos are those?” the taller law asked me contemptuously.

“They’re yakuza tattoos.”

“Are you in the yakuza?” the short fat law asked.

“Do I look Japanese you dimwit? I’ve never even met a yakuza. It is a style of coverage,” I said.

“It is time for a body cavity search—teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head,” the taller one announced gleefully.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

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

“You can bench press over nine hundred pounds now,” Sensei had told me. “Such strength is largely superfluous. You will almost never be braced enough to exert that kind of force unless someone chooses to assault you while you’re lying on a weight lifting bench. It is a more accurate gauge of your usable power that you can bench five hundred and fifty pounds for twenty or thirty repetitions,” Sensei said.

Yeah, our endurance increases out of proportion to our strength.

“You could lift that much after a couple of sleepless nights, at the end of a four day fast, with a bad case of the flu or badly hung over. Even that much strength is probably overkill.”

“So how hard can I punch?”

Sensei had me study Mike Tyson’s fights. He thought that the style largely suited me.

“Consider Tyson giving the heavy bag his hardest shots with no concern with an opponent’s evasions or the need to defend. Now increase the power of his best punches at least ten or fifteen percent. Then have him take his gloves off and put on a pair of custom fitted ergonomic brass knuckles on each hand. That’s an approximation of your striking power. Except that you could go full-speed five or six times as long as Tyson in his prime without getting winded,” Sensei said.

“Good Lord! That kind of punch would kill a mundane,” I said.

“That is true. If necessity ever forces you to strike a mundane, you must use extreme care. Even then you may still kill or permanently damage him. On the other hand there are people in Murim who would shrug off a dozen of your hardest punches the way that you’d shrug off the punches of a toddler,” Sensei said.

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

I was considering my chances of rendering these two brain dead, donning my clothes and escaping from the airport.

Just then the door opened and another law walked into the room.

“What is going on here?” he demanded.

“We were just going to give this smartass a body cavity search,” the short law said.

“Do you see this man’s tattoos? He’s Murim and you were about to get your asses handed to you,” the new law said.

“What is Murim and who are you?” the short fat one asked.

The newcomer showed them a badge that proved that he was a big wick-swinger in Homeland Security.

“Get out!” he told them.

“Hurry up and get dressed,” he said when both of them had left. “We’ll hope no one noticed your detention. It may clue them in. I’ll walk you through security.”

In the mean time he showed me his palm. That mark only shows when you consciously route chi through it. He was Murim too.

“Do you see my rosary?” I said.

“Is it important?”


“Here it is along with your billfold and your nail clippers,” he said.

“Since you’re a fellow Murim member how about turning me onto a pistol—even a snub-nosed .38 Special would be O so fine!”

“Sorry brother. How do you use a rosary as a weapon?” He asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I said.

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

We were a couple of hours into our flight when the hijackers made their move. There were four of them. They had four pistols and one coach style double-barreled shotgun—everything was exactly as I’d been told that it would be.

I was supposed to stop them or die trying. I didn’t know how they smuggled their guns on to the plane. I didn’t know who they represented or what their objective was.

The Powers That Be cannot possibly be blissfully unaware that Murim exists. I’m not playing some sort of plural pronoun game. I don’t know exactly what powers be—but they are—more of them than you can shake a kanabo at.

Mostly The Powers That Be let us coexist in the modern world but not of the modern world. I suspect that a fellow who’d climbed high enough up the scrotum pole to investigate all over the country—but not high enough to be read in—would get a kinda “X-Files” vibe if he tried too hard to discover Murim. He wouldn’t probe for long though.

They had to keep the main characters alive and investigating to keep the show going on the “X-Files.” A real life investigator would find himself dead or canned, framed for something and sent to prison or sent off to Antarctica to police penguins.

And occasionally there is a quid pro quo. It is not terribly disillusioning to realize that there are double agents both in governments and in Murim.

Suffice it to say that the word was passed down to the lowest level of Murim—meaning me—to stop the hijacking.

This was my first mission and of course I had to go into it with no weapons but the ones that God and extensive training had given me.

The training, the herbals—and in the modern world, the nanites—speeded the action of my retina and optic nerve up about 5x—never mind that I could also see more detail with far more resolution. The optic processing part of my brain worked at about 3x. The messages to my muscles to move and the feedback that assured my brain that I was indeed moving went about 2x.

Given a J-Frame .38 Special or even a .25ACP I could almost certainly put a bullet through the eye socket and into the brain of all four before they could react. I didn’t have a gun though.

I was stronger, faster and had far more endurance than any normal human. We refer to the normal as “Mudane.” I only had four or five genuine jutsu though. Two of my jutsu were mostly trash jutsu—for most applications. One of my jutsu was of more use in pursuit or evasion and only one was an out-and-out fighting jutsu.

One of my jutsu was called “Windbag”. I could expel a breath hard enough to have about the same amount of impact as a good stiff left jab delivered while wearing those huge padded “Pig Gloves” that children box in. It would move the head back a bit and it might very well cause a momentary blink. The reload time for Windbag was only four or five seconds—but once your opponent knew you had it then it would have almost zero utility.

It is never too early to start deviating from the script though.

What if I poured a handful of steel BBs into my mouth and used the huge blasts of wind to propel them? The BBs were travelling fast enough to put the proverbial eye out. I could get minute-of-eyeball accuracy across a fair sized room. I could get five shots for a single Windbag blast since it only took a very short blast of wind to expel a BB.

I’d very reluctantly decided that BBs might very well cause too many questions if I was searched.

My rosary—it had thirty caliber beads of the very heavy yellow leaded glass that they use for viewing ports in nuclear reactors. They’re about 80% lead by mass but you can see through them.

They won’t penetrate a skull—at least not at the velocities that I could currently launch them at. They will ruin an eye, break a finger or bust a forehead enough to let beaucoup blood run into the eyes.

My rosary was designed to be modular and easy to break—and five beads came loose every time I broke another segment of line.

I hadn’t told anyone about the new use I devised for a trash jutsu. No one needed to know. It was quite possible that I wasn’t intended to complete this mission or to survive. I wasn’t the most trusting of souls.

I spit one bead at the back of one gunman’s head. That ought to distract him momentarily. I spit two-beads—one at each of the shotgunner’s eyes. Thus far I was working inside their reaction times. I rose from my seat and fired one more round at one more hijacker’s eye as I tumbled out onto the aeroplane’s aisle.

They’re reactions were way too slow for them to be Murim. That was reassuring.

A couple of fast handsprings took me down the aisle toward the shotgunner. No mundane could have executed that maneuver well enough for it to be even remotely practical but I could. The unconventional movement made me hard to get a sight picture on.

As soon as I got to the shotgunner I grabbed the shotgun and rolled for cover.

Two quick shots and the man that I hadn’t struck with a glass bead at all and the fellow that I’d only hit in the back of the head were both deader than a politician’s conscience.

The shotgunner was blind and neither of the other two could see well enough to aim. A couple of bounding jumps and I’d broken the now unloaded shotgun across one of the two remaining gunman’s face. It was a shame to abuse a perfectly good shotgun that way.

The last fellow had a high capacity 9mm. He was holding his left eye with his left hand and shooting all around him one-handed. If he’d have even pointed the pistol in my general direction he might have gotten lucky. The thing is, damaging one eye very badly causes the other eye to fill with tears.

I spat my last bead at his forehead as I closed with him.

I cleared his pistol and used it as a hammer while grasping the slide and I hit his head three times. I felt the skull give way with the third blow so I let the bloodied pistol fall to the carpet.

His unaimed and unprofessional barrage had struck four or five passengers and I was not full of the milk of kindness towards him.

I grabbed up the barrels of the stock-shattered shotgun and walked over to the shotgunner still holding his eyes. I pile drove the barrels into his head hard enough to shatter the skull.

Why did I kill him when he was helpless? It was for mercy’s sake. If he’d lived he’d have almost certainly have been blind. That’s a fate worse than death.

“Hold it right there!” Someone shouted. “Air Marshal, drop the weapon!”

If he’d been one of the hijackers he’d have simply shot me in the back. I dropped the shotgun barrels and slowly turned around. I’d already placed another five glass beads in my mouth just in case.

Damned if the man wasn’t pointing an old Star 9mm at me. Of course I couldn’t tell if it was a BM or a BKM. How did I know that it wasn’t a Star PD? As I’ve said, my visual speed and acuity are off the scale. The hole in the barrel was too small to have been a .45 caliber.

I spit three beads at him. I hit right above each eye and once in the center of his forehead. I grabbed his pistol with my left hand—pushing the slide slightly out of battery as I did so. My right hand came around in a hard roundhouse slap. Then I gave him another.

“How dare you point a pistol at me you cretin? Didn’t you see that I just saved this plane from being hijacked?” I demanded as I slapped him again.

“You just executed those last two men,” he sobbed.

I poised a claw hand over his eyes.

“Do you realize how easy it would be for me to kill you or worse yet, to rip your eyes out and let you live?” I demanded.

Truth be told, I was sorely tempted.

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

I got on my cell phone and dialed the sole number in the phone’s registry.

“I’ve neutralized the hijackers. There was an Air Marshal on board. He tells me that he was placed on this flight randomly and at the last minute. What? He’s sitting here restrained with his own handcuffs. He’s stark naked for anyone that wants to gawk at him. That’s how he’s disembarking. He pointed a gun at me—that’s what he did,” I said.

“Now listen to me: I am walking off this plane armed. I won’t consent to either surrendering my weapon or to even the most momentary arrest. If you don’t want one Hell of a body count—handle it!” I told my contact.

“What are you? Some sort of kill-crazy super-elite warrior?” He asked.

“Something like that,” I told him. “Right now I’m the man who just inherited a Star BKM in mint condition from a candy-ass who was too cowardly to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“What did you just shoot me and those fellows with?” he asked.

“4mm Flobert Long,” I lied.

“I didn’t even see any sort of weapon,” he said.

“You weren’t supposed to.”

That ought to give him some serious brain cramps.

Right before the plane touched ground I cleared the Star and placed it in his handcuffed hands.

Thou shalt not covet.

“I fancy that pistol but I don’t feel good about keeping it. Take a tip from me though. A fine old pistol like that one deserves bright nickeling and stag grips,” I told him.


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