Thursday, June 2, 2011

Spanner 1.3: The Lost Cause

Part three of the expanded Chapter 1. This section adapts a scene added to the Script Frenzy 2011 TV script.

Third Revision Update: The second scene, which hardly identified Shira, is now much expanded to include her meeting with several other major protagonists, itself now connected with Shira and Jennifer’s entrances in the revised Part 1 and Part 2, the all-important events of Part 4, and the entire subsequent story. Narrative coherence is a good thing.

The big question this installment asks: whose is the lost cause?

← ...from previous

Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 1: Spanner in the Works
Part 3: The Lost Cause (Revision 3)

19 august 2014.
Newark ghetto.
To Christians, it is the year of Our Lord, 2014. But to the neofeudal Corporate aristocracy that rules the American Empire with an iron fist, it is really the year of Our Ford, 116. To prepare for Revolution Day, one of the high holy days of the American Religion, the Federal Emergency Management Administration contracted the national police corporation COPCO and the giant private military corporation Dictel to forcibly evacuate the New York area for — a business meeting? Since this is a convention of the United Corporations, the cartel of corporate titans that owns America and its empire, the people forced out of their city truly believe this is a disaster on the level of a hurricane or major earthquake, only completely unnatural. Other than the expected die-hards, some of whom were taken by force out of the city, the only ones who refuse to leave are the criminal gangs, the fringe cults, and the terrorist groups.

One terror group, the right-wing Minuteman Defense Alliance, rampages through the shantytowns built on the ruins of Newark’s slums, hoping to find poor people to kill, especially racially incorrect “mudbloods.” Believing they have the support of the ruling Conservative Revolutionary Party, they smash and burn everything they can get find. They are the dregs of the white underclass, some of them ultraviolent prison gangsters with large Satanic crosses (formerly known as swastikas) burnt onto their heads as curses; but they believe they can rise to the level of the Corporates by killing all the people the Law of Social Darwinism says should die.

Suddenly, they find themselves under fire. Militants get shredded by machine-gun rapid fire and blown up by grenades. The survivors scatter and try to run away, only to discover that they’re completely surrounded by militants of another radical faction.

A shadow forms in the smoke. The shape consolidates into that of a man with military bearing. At last, the intimidating figure of Adam Gabriel emerges. In his Colombian accent, he demands: “Surrender now, if you want to live.”

One cursed Minuteman militant raises his AK at Gabriel and screams, “Fuck y—” Gabriel quick-draws his Glock 9mm and shoots him dead.

“Next victim?”

The surviving Minutemen drop their guns and hold their hands up. Gabriel’s men take them away. His wife and comrade Talia Espinoza comes up beside him. “How come we’re mopping up lowlifes?”

“Criminal gangs like Minuteman are where the PMSCs recruit. We take down Minuteman, and COPCO and Dictel will eventually fall. Without COPCO and Dictel, the Corpos are fish in a barrel.”

“But do we have to look like we’re assisting Delta Force while we’re at it?”

“We are the Socialist Revolutionary Organization. We hunt the Blond Beast. Our crusade does not end until we free the people from his power.”

tenement. The place stinks. It smells of poor people. Inside, the Cracker hears all that goes on outside. She suppresses an annoyed sigh. To her, the SRO are little different from the MDA, just another TLA with guns. She has concluded that the SRO exists just to fight the CRP and vice versa. She decides they need to be hacked.

The terrorists outside do not notice the Cracker as she slinks away from her tenement’s window to the tablet computer that provides her room with its only light. A hoverboard leans against the desk. She sits sideways on the chair so Harumi can lean against her and hold her tight from behind. She slips on her homebrew datagloves and flicks one finger at the screen to call up the agent called AEGIS: the Advanced Electronic Global Intelligence System. The interface tiles scatter from the screen, and the steampunkish image of a brass mechanical owl with Harry Potter eyeglasses zooms to take over the screen. “How may I help you, Miss Fantoma?” it asks squeakily.

“Somebody needs to spray some WD-40 on your mandible joints,” Shira says. “Turns out the SRO’s in town to crash the big shindig.”

“Currently they are clearing out the criminal element from the periphery.”

“That’s just a distraction, of course. Their real plan couldn’t be more obvious if they tweeted their plans to every screeching chickenhawk on the lamestream news.”

“So what is your plan?”

She rolls her eyes. “I thought you were the expert system here. Anyway, we use our terrorist friends as cover. Once they suffer their latest Götterdämmerung on national TV, we slip Echelon a mickey. Then Spanner strikes.”

Someone knocks on the front door. “By the way,” says AEGIS, “your cousins are here.” Someone opens it to let them in. There is a commotion as Harumi’s sisters and Shira’s cousins greet each other ecstatically. Shira takes the tablet and Harumi to the kitchen; by the time they get there, Sparks arrives with an order of Chinese food.

Nine chopstick-wielding people sit on five chairs and one stool and hold a meeting in the kitchen, lit only by a small battery-powered lamp, while terrorists and gangsters fight outside for the right to champion their lost causes against the revolutionaries in power. All four Tachibana sisters are here: smart girl Natsumi, tough girl Akimi, girly girl Fuyumi, and weird girl Harumi. Their mother Umi named them after the four seasons and the character of her name (meaning “sea”); their father is Korean-Japanese and lives among the Korean settlers of Fort Lee to the north. Shira sits on Sparks’ lap; Jennifer sits sideways on Connor’s lap; Akimi sits on Alex’ lap facing her so she can give her a sloppy kiss. Harumi sits on the kitchen footstool, looks around the derelict house, and asks in still unsteady English, “Why we have to have meeting here?”

Alex winks at her. “This dump? Darling Haru-chan, this is the best place for a secret meeting.”

Sparks looks at her skeptically. “You mean, we can keep it a secret, even with all those terrorists going at each other outside.”

“All the terrorists are here,” Shira answers, “and they’re all preoccupied with sticking it to the man, while the gangbangers try to bag ’em for money and Tournament points. If anybody from COPCO asks what we’re doing here, we can flash ’em our cards and tell ’em we’re here to bag some terrorists. We’ve got it all covered.”

Alex says, “We’re assuming the terrorists have been planning their preemptive counterstrikes since the big shindig was first quietly announced and the foreign moles told ’em.”

“Knowing how their factions work and how predictable they are,” Jennifer adds, “I’ve got a very good idea of what their plans are.”

“Let me guess,” says Natsumi, “the SRO will take the subways, the neo-Nazis will take the freeways, the ERF will take the sewers, Al-Qaeda in America will disguise themselves as private security guards, and the anarcho-terrorist groups will just barge in throwing bombs.”

“In other words, the usual. By the way, are your girls seducing that adorable cousin of yours yet?” Jennifer winks.

Akimi huffs, “Would we not seduce our sweet Sei-chan?”

“He’s way too cute to resist,” Natsumi adds with a wink of her own. “By the way, Shira, will that sexy reporter you like be there?”

Sparks facepalms and groans. Shira replies, “Nah, this is a private party, and the news ain’t invited.”

“Neither are we.”

“But we’re crashing it anyway.” Shira gives Natsumi a mischievous wink.

“So what’s our plan?” asks Sparks.

“First we let the terrorists destroy themselves as expected. The Corps will predictably get overconfident and show us their weak points. Then we give ’em what they least expect.”

“Talia’s Colombian boyfriend was foolish enough to tell us the entire SRO plan,” Jennifer adds. She checks her wristwatch. “They should be making their move right about — now.”

COPCO field office. “A terrorist strike force is coming our way,” proclaims the Terrorism Fuhrer to his brother, United Corporations chairman Richard Becket. “We have already predicted their every move. Delta Force is in perfect position to intercept and destroy them.”

“Did your precogs envision this beforehand, brother?” asks the Chairman skeptically.

“We did not even need the precogs. I analyzed the SRO mathematically. They operate on a series of simple set patterns. We are using these patterns to bring them to us—”

“—and lure them into our trap. How clever.”

“We had no need for cleverness, either. Like I said, they operate on fixed patterns.”

“So now we know they pose little or no threat. But what about this...anomaly your precogs have been seeing? This chaos?”

“It’s the signature of someone who follows no discernable patterns at all.”

“Or random ones. Do you think, Harry, that your people can prepare themselves against a man who operates strictly by whim?“ Henry Becket stares at his brother grimly, saying nothing. “You know you must prepare, whatever the cost.”

subway. The stolen COPCO security aircars move swiftly through the PATH tunnel. Their best fighters, Rodor and Michalski, take the front; the most vigilant, Gabriel and Espinoza, take the rear. The Amazons, Mike “the Dyke” Blaney and Miho Saionji, follow behind the front; Lynch and Persson fly second from the rear. In the middle is their commander, Bram Rodchenko. Personnel carriers flank the commanders’ vehicles. Together, the SRO expeditionary force numbers forty. All of them are dressed in COPCO SWAT gear.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” says Talia.

Adam replies, “Don’t worry about it. We have the advantage of speed and deception. The COPCO forces will not realize until it’s too late that their comrades are not their comrades. We will win.”

COPCO field office. “Zoom in,” says Henry Becket. The map on the wall screen zooms in to focus on the PATH tunnel and follow a group of blips travelling at high speed through it. “This is Adam Gabriel’s technique: steal the face of your enemies until you are among them, and then launch a surprise attack. I myself used that tactic against the Communist invaders in Afghanistan. As I said, they are completely transparent.”

“They’re moving awful fast,’ Agent 6 comments.

“This does not matter. Their single route is a bottleneck. We have sent a detachment of Dictel forces to intercept them before they reach the World Trade Center station. The terrorists have already lost.”

subway. “Up ahead!” shouts Rodor.

“Incoming!” adds Michalski.

“Fire!” commands Rodchenko. Missiles fire from air vehicles and hand-held grenade launchers at the Dictel mercenaries up ahead. The militants take out their rifles and spray cover fire at the enemy.

But the missiles explode before they reach their target. The mercenaries retaliate with a solid wave of sound. High-powered sound blasters shatter glass, torture eardrums, send the militants twitching and screaming in unbearable pain; they lose control of their vehicles, which spin in mid-air and bounce off the sides until they fly out of control and crash. Five air cars and six transports slam against a solid wall of sound.

COPCO field office. Talia was injured in the crash, but still her captors tie her naked to a restraining frame. A sound cannon blasts her, torturing every nerve, making her scream and convulse for what seems to her an eternity. As suddenly as it began, the torture stops, and she can hear.

The grim, implacable face of Henry Becket stares at her through his thick dark glasses. He barks, “Now where is Spanner and what are his plans?”

Talia laughs. “I bet he just gave us to you as a Revolution Day gift, all gift-wrapped and everything.”

“Tell me — now!”

Her laugh subsides into a chuckle. “You know where Spanner is. He’s always where you least expect. And his plan’s to do what you least expect him to do. He disrupts. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be Spanner.”

Dr Becket growls and suppresses the urge to tear the woman’s head off. He turns around and commands, “A long period of solitary confinement should be sufficient time to meditate upon the error of your ways and to repent of your sins. Take her away.”

His men stare at him until he leaves through the open door. Then they turn off the sound cannon and untie the weakened woman from her restraint.

Suddenly, loud klaxons sound and the lights go red. The building AI’s female voice repeats, “Warning. Cyber defenses breached.”

“I assume this must be our Spanner,” says Agent 6.

Dr Becket punches all the way through the wall. “Damn!”

on to the next... →

Back to Chapter 1 index...
Back to Chaos Angel Spanner table of contents...

Copyright © 2011 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

[Revision 3.0, 9/8/11: Scene 2 expanded to incorporate new “kitchen meeting” scene, introduce new characters not introduced before, and continue the expanded continuity from Parts 1 and 2 into the main events of Parts 4 and 5. Corrected text errors.]
[Revision 3.1, 9/28/11: Corrected text errors.]
[Revision 3 Final, 10/5/11: Added new two-sentence opening to scene 2, edited third sentence. Final version.]

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Spanner 1.2: Mathematics of Chaos

The second part of the expanded version of Spanner Chapter 1. The first section is unchanged; the third and final section is modified to fit the new continuity. The middle section is new.

Third Revision Update: Shira’s video is now at the beginning of the chapter where it belongs. Scene two, which used to be just a largely expository dialogue, is now a real scene with a plot and serious later consequences. It now fits perfectly into the chapter’s plot, and subsequent events are now more understandable.

← ...from previous

Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 1: Spanner in the Works
Part 2: Mathematics of Chaos (Revision 3)
ESPNBC News. Amanda Currie reporting. Very attractive, some say cute; her hair bleached blond because all Conservative beauties are blond by definition. Some are Resculpted into nondescript prettiness; she is a natural beauty. You want her.

“Breaking news just in: The Honorable Senator George C. Ryder has just been martyred by terrorists. America’s heroic Special Forces are scouring the area for the devil-worshipping liberal humanist traitors who snatched him away from service to Our Nation. Several hundred terrorist organizations from all over the world have called in to gloat over the heinous atrocity. Senator Ryder is now home in Jesus America for all eternity. America Is God!

“In other news, the Church of America is sending a team of exorcists to New Jersey to bind and banish the Jersey Devil after several scary, scary encounters...”
19 august 2014.
interrogation room.
“I was only doing my sacred duty as a Patriot,” Oliver Thorwald says smugly to the tall blond man across the table. The blue-camouflaged soldier sporting a military-police armband is Thorwald’s onetime commander, Lieutenant Commander William Jay Becket. Even as tall and intimidating as he is, he looks too much the Aryan beauty to be a Navy SEAL. But Will Becket is a Hero of the Nation awarded both a Gold Star and a Congressional Medal of Honor for slaying Osama bin Laden. The Evil One had to be buried at sea because Will Becket drank his blood and ate his brains and heart.

For Will Becket is a hereditary vampire. Vampires make the ideal super soldiers.

His cold blue eyes fix his prey. He smiles ironically. His accent: Boston Brahmin, carefully cultivated. “Your insistence on extracurricular... fun under my command so compromised our last SOG op in Siberia that not only does the CIA deny your existence, but the Army was forced to discharge you... dishonorably. I believe the problem is your Corporate sense of... entitlement.”

Thorwald squirms. Becket’s odd speech mannerisms affect the rangy young killer like fingernails on a blackboard, and Becket knows it. Thorwald chuckles. “You mean those worthless lowlifes? Your aunt the Good Witch told me herself, ‘Do your duty, then do your will.’”

Becket twists the knife deeper. “I mean those... cops.”

“Those rent-a-cops shouldn’t have gotten between me and that baby-rapin’ filth.”

“And... a United States Marshal.”

“U.S. Marshal, hmm? Those government parasites shoulda had the sense to butt out of internal Party affairs and let us purge our corruption.”

“I happen to be one of those... nosy government parasites, Lieutenant.”

“As long as I remain a hero in the eyes of Jesus America, there ain’t nothing you can do to stop me.

“But are you the greater hero? Hmm?”

Thorwald’s glib mask disappears. He leans forward threateningly. “Well then, G-boy. Fuck with me, you fuckin’ leech, you fuck with Jesus America. I guess I’ll have to have my fun at the expense of your pretty little wife.”

Becket does not lose his ironic smile nor his unblinking stare. With unperturbed calm he fires back, “You forget... she’s my conscience. Take away my conscience, and I shall tear you limb from limb without the slightest shred of... remorse.” He smiles sweetly in triumph.

The killer slinks back into his seat and shudders, disturbed by the sight of this beautiful smiling monster, terrified that Will Becket will haunt him all the way to his grave.

In the next room, a grinning Johnson tells his interrogator, “I love kids. They make great snacks.”

airplane. The way too cute face of Harumi Tachibana hijacks the non-brand smartphone’s screen. She waves her hand. “Hi, Jen-chan!” she sings.

Shira hugs her from behind. The bespectacled blond beauty on the receiving end of the call lets out a massive sigh of relief. “I love me some Haru-chan, but cute as she is, she can be a bit of a nuisance.” She shoves Harumi out of the way.

“Hey!” protests Harumi.

Jennifer Blair, teenage scientist with an English accent she got growing up in Victoria, is Shira’s cousin. They have been deeply in love since the age of four. “The important thing is, she’s smart. I’m keeping her. So what’s the news, cuz?”

“No news. All officially denied. They hire a couple hitmen fresh from the Siberian front, send ’em after a compromised Party hack, say it’s over some child sex slave, proclaim the victim a martyr. The Party have perfect deniability, the slashers get off scot-free, and the Wicked Witch has clean hands. Very clever. Has the Rat Bastard’s signature all over it.”

Jennifer gives Shira one of her sudden serious looks. “It’s not about deniability.”

Shira looks at her funny. “Tell me you can’t see the obvious when it’s hitting you over the head.”

“What does the serial killer represent to the [clears throat; air quotes] ‘Real American’?”

“What’s this got to do with—”

The ideal sovereign Ego, complete in itself, perfect in will, unfeminized by any trace of mushy human sentiment. Forget deniability, Shira. This is hero worship.”

“Johnny-Johnny was trying to eat that poor little girl—”

“Precisely why Ayn Rand so adored William Hickman.” Jennifer smiles sweetly.

Stunned, Shira says nothing.

“I love you to pieces, Shira, but never forget for a microsecond what final girls think of serial-killer groupies.”

“Like the entire Conservative Revolutionary Party.”

“Exactly.” Jennifer winks. “By the way, your big sister Talia’s on our flight. In fact, she’s sitting right next to me.” She points her phone camera at the young dark-skinned beauty with stawberry-blond hair in the airliner’s next seat: Talia Espinoza, strike agent of the Socialist Revolutionary Organization.

Shira lets her eyes and mouth go wide and takes an audible deep breath. “Oh hi Tal! I just happen to be headed your way.” She flashes Talia a huge sweet smile.

The man sitting next to Talia grabs Jennifer’s phone, “We’re on a mission, Shira. Don’t interfere.” He is Adam Gabriel, Talia’s husband and comrade, a former right-wing Colombian terrorist whose love for Talia turned him left-wing.

“I have no intention of getting in your way, or letting you get in mine, so no worry.” Shira winks.

No one on the plane dares say even a word. The dead air marshals at the feet of the men hiding their faces with red bandannas and wielding AK-47s are example enough.

Jennifer says to Shira, “Tell ’em about the little thing you pulled on a certain pair of assassins back in D.C.”

“They tried to eat a little girl, so of course I beat ’em up.” Shira winks. “I love you, Jen.”

“We’ll meet at the appointed time. Make sure to bring me my Haru-chan! Love ya.” She blows Shira a kiss, Shira blows her a kiss back (Harumi winks and giggles cutely), and both switch off.

A woman slightly older than Talia with short spiked blond hair slips into the seat behind Jennifer and leans forward to put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m amazed at how you and Shira manage to keep the moral pit bulls at bay,” says Alex de Lacey, Jennifer’s half-sister fifteen years her senior, known to the underground as Alex Plus: New Rave DJ, clandestine hacker, and underground legend. She is supposed to be in San Francisco tonight. The plane speeds toward New York, now privately owned under the name TrumpCity®. She finishes off her last slice of pizza.

“We don’t. We just deflect ’em. They have a clue about us, but they can’t do a damn thing about it unless we let ’em. They don’t realize what a good thing love is.”

Gabriel growls, “You people must be into that West Coast Free Love subculture thing.”

“Our family helped create it. Our Jewish great-grandparents even brought it over from Germany with the Gestapo and Ahnenerbe hot on their tail.”

“It won’t help you in TrumpCity®.”

“And it doesn’t matter. We’re practical people. We do what’s necessary to get the job done.”

“And what job would that be?”

“If you had my pattern vision,” Jennifer explains, “you’d see the traditional Rugged Individualist as something like a cross between a porcupine and a skunk, with some packrat to taste. Add some scorpion, rabid pit bull, and great white shark, and you get the perfect egos of the slashers the Corporates squee so hysterically over. Add King Ghidrah, the Blob, and a bit of Cthulhu, and you get Jesus America. Not a pretty sight, to say the least.”

“What do giant monsters have to do with Corporate egos?” asks Talia, frustrated again by Jennifer’s strange metaphors.

Jennifer rolls her eyes. “Obviously you don’t understand the Corporate cult of Egoism. It’s not actually about one’s actual psychological ego. It’s about publicity.”

Talia sighs and crosses her arms. “You defeat me again, Jennifer. Explain.”

“You know what Shira and I learned from the Rat Bastard? The seat of the soul is not the body, but one’s public image. The bigger and stronger your public image, and the more control you have over it, the higher you can rise in the social hierarchy. Any Corporate can routinely get away with murder, and a celebrity can commit even the worst sexcrimes with few if any consequences. Own your public image, and you have legal personhood whether you’re human, corporation, robot, or alien. But if you don’t, whoever owns your image owns you. Even worse, if you’re one of the ‘little people’ with no public image, you’re not a person at all.”

“That’s why we have to take back the people’s voice. Because they’re no longer able to claim it for themselves.”

“Yes, they can. They just don’t know it yet. The victims still think they’re victims. When they find out what they really are, they’ll withdraw their victims’ sanction and stop feeding the parasites, and then the System will collapse under its own weight.”

“It’s not our job to bring it down,” Alex adds. “It’s already coming down. That’s why the Party are so desperate. All we have to do is convince the caryatids to stop holding it up. By the way, Jen, what’s the lamestream propaganda media denying this time?”

Jennifer grins mischievously. “You heard about the non-killers Shira didn’t catch, who didn’t assassinate that non-pedophile Senator about an hour or so ago?”

Alex rolls her eyes. “Who hasn’t.”

“In other non-news, did you know that FEMA did not evacuate New York, I mean TrumpCity?”

“Oh yes, I heard they didn’t.”

“Other than those allegedly non-bloody non-crackdowns on anything resembling dissent, which like homosexuality officially by definition doesn’t exist, or those doomsday devices they’re obviously not working on, they allegedly aren’t initiating a new member into the Cartel. Of course, they’re saying nothing about who they’re allegedly not initiating, so it must be so important they aren’t even denying it. The patterns so leapt out at me, I compiled them into a database in almost no time.”

The airliner hits sudden turbulence. The voice of the SRO man in the cockpit says, “We’ve encountered sudden resistance. We might not make it to Newark.”

Jennifer slides out her phone’s keyboard. “I’ll take care of that.” She starts an xterm window and runs a program from the command line. Outside the window, the drones harassing the plane start shooting each other down. The turbulence ends; the plane begins its approach to a smooth landing. She closes and pockets her phone, then gives Talia a sweet smile of triumph.

Talia asks Gabriel, “What should we do with the hostages?”

“Leave ’em,” Jennifer answers sharply. “Let ’em go.”

Gabriel waves his finger in her face. “Who made you—”

Jennifer grabs his finger. “If you don’t let these people go unharmed, the next set of passengers you hijack won’t forget. They like living, so they won’t let you live.” She smiles sweetly.

“Okay. Have it your way.” To his comrades he commands: “When we land, get off immediately and leave the passengers and crew alone. I repeat, leave them alone.”

At the airport, Gabriel orders the pilots to fly back to Philadelphia. The SRO load up a van and squeal away; Alex steals a rental Beetle and drives it toward Jersey City. “By the way, how’s our little operation going?”

“You want the Vegas spread?”

“Hit me.”

Jennifer winks. “Odds are, the bastards won’t know what hit ’em.”

Jennifer Blair
see between the lines

dreamspace. The vision starts unambiguously, almost clearly: the meeting, the assembled Corporates in the arena, the figure of United Corporations Chairman Richard Becket on the platform beneath the huge screen to the thunderous unified applause of his people, preparing to welcome one of their own into the ranks of the Chosen. This man is greater than most of the Corporate aristocrats in the arena for the ceremony of Acceptance, for all Corporates know that he is no mere man: his true body is a Corporation, the first of the tech companies to join the Cartel. He shall be called...

But then the vision dissolves into chaos. Men die and live and die again. The arena is destroyed and reassembles into bizarre expressionist antiforms. Angels and demons cut each other to ribbons overhead. A shoggoth attacks one of the dreamers, and she screams. Suddenly the shattered vision goes black—

COPCO New York field office. The alarm klaxon screams; the monitor room goes red. Doctor 56 cries out into his microphone, onto the PA: “Emergency! Precog 18C has gone mad! I repeat! Precog 18C has gone mad!” Two white-clad interns drag the screaming, writhing Precog 18C, a gaunt middle-aged woman, out of the lab and past the security monitors. The Psychic Lab erupts into chaos.

Doctor 42 slips in behind Doctor 56. Doctor 42 (civilian name: Edgar Bryce) is the head of the Psychic Detection Lab owned by COPCO’s Crime Prevention Division. Under his breath he quietly emits the un-Scientistic epithet: “Damn...” To the Doctors watching the security monitors in front of him: “Untank all the precogs! We can’t lose any more of them! Hurry!” He runs out of the monitor room into the Deputy Director’s office, making sure to close the door tight. He lets his eyes adjust to the darkness so he can avoid tripping over the chess pieces and table fragments scattered across the floor.

The Division’s founding Director himself, Dr C. Henry Becket, Incorporated, sits grimly behind the division president’s huge desk. The office is dark because a war wound he suffered in Vietnam ruined his eyesight and made him painfully light-sensitive. He is the Conservative Revolutionary Party’s Terrorism Fuhrer now, and he insists on personally commanding this specific Crime Prevention operation. He only does this if he judges it crucial. This Acceptance ceremony is too important for him to leave it to anyone else, for it promises to shift the balance of power massively toward the Cartel. Even in near total darkness, Director Becket is as huge and intimidating as the super soldier he once was. Dr Bryce trembles in the presence of a man so dangerous.

“She was hunting them,” says the Director.

“W-what?”

“She did not bother to hide herself form us. In a Tracker, that is a sign of perfect confidence — or suicidal arrogance.”

“Uh... sir?”

“In any case, my darling sister Drusilla got her desire, that mudblood changeling of hers had her will, and we have one less potential spy for the Chinese to use against us. What do you want, Doctor 42?”

“About the precogs...”

“You lost another. This is not good.”

“You are right, sir.”

“They are not public men. They are nothing to us.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Even so, they are useful tools to us, so they must be maintained in good working order.”

“Yes, sir. That is why we fear the coming of this angel of chaos.”

Dr Becket raises his gaze to stare directly at Dr Bryce. The light reflects off his thick glasses. “Terrorists, like serial killers, have a signature, a fixed set of patterns,“ says Dr Becket darkly. “We have analyzed them with such mathematical precision that our computers are now able to predict all their moves in advance. But confronted with these persistent anomalies, we are helpless to understand them even with the mathematics of chaos. You know what this means, do you not, Doctor 42?”

Bryce trembles. “Yes.” He takes a deep breath to regain his courage. “Chaos is coming.” Even his fear of the Terrorism Fuhrer cannot mask his terror of Chaos.

“He is coming.”

“Spanner?”

Dr Becket picks up his com receiver. To the security chief he hand-picked for this operation, he barks: “Double the guard! No, triple it!”

Agent 6 (civilian name: classified) cannot disguise his alarm. “You can’t be serious, Chief. He isn’t coming. Isn’t he?”

“He is,” says the Director grimly. “You have no choice but to stop him. He’ll ruin everything.”

“Yes sir!” The signal disconnects.

To Dr Bryce, the terror fuhrer warns, “Never forget, Doctor 42, that we are sacrificing our freedom to fight for the sacred freedom of Our Nation, which alone is the Light of the world. You do not want the Light snuffed out by a demon, now do you?”

“No, sir! Perish the thought.”

“You are a man of great faith. Dis-missed!”

Bryce salutes. “Yes sir!” He runs out the door and closes it.

Dr Becket sits silently at his huge desk for a seemingly endless moment, trying to assimilate the fact that the dreaded Angel of Chaos has targetted this particular event.

“Spanner,” he finally says. Then, in an un-Corporate moment of uncontrol, he slams his mighty fist down on the desk. “Damn!”

C. Henry Becket, m.d.
fight the future

on to the next... →

Back to Chapter 1 index...
Back to Chaos Angel Spanner table of contents...

Copyright © 2011 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

[Revision 2.1, 6/14/11: Text corrections.]
[Revision 3, 9/4/11: Final version. Major revisions in the middle section. Setting changed, plot added, and next section’s major players introduced. New video introduction added, introducing another major character. Original Shira video moved to the beginning of Part 1.1, as in the first draft, where it belongs. Character taglines added for Jennifer and Dr Becket (his is one of the originals from 1994, along with Shira’s and Leila’s in Part 1.1). Major continuity corrections and some text corrections.]
[Revision 3.1, 9/28/11: Publication version. Corrected dialogue and text errors.]

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Spanner Chapter 1: Spanner in the Works (Revision 4)

Chaos Angel Spanner — Book 1: Rock City Blues
Chapter 1: Spanner in the Works (Revision 4)

August 19, 2014: Revolution Day, one of the high holy days of the American Religion. Two years ago, the Conservative Revolution saved the American Empire from freedom and democracy in the name of God, the dominion of wealth, and Manifest Destiny. But the revolution is only for the chosen few. For the unchosen majority, there is only hell.

Among the ruling Conservative Revolutionary Party’s opponents, the more aware know the revolutionary élite cannot keep the masses down forever, and the more enterprising are already preparing for the post-revolutionary age to come. Two revolutionary élite themselves fear two people they believe can actually end the revolution: Shira Thomas, a interracial teenage tomboy slut whose eugenically incorrect ancestry makes her a outcast and whose temperament makes her a menace; and the mysterious rogue vigilante they call Spanner...

This is the much expanded version of the chapter first posted during NaNoWriMo 2010. The first versions of Parts 1 through 3 were added for Script Frenzy 2011; the introductions of Shira and Jennifer in Parts 1 and 2, and the kitchen scene in Part 3, were added to the final version in early September.

Third Revision Update: As strong an opening as the Second Revision was, I found I could make the final version stronger still. Chapter 1 now launches even more major story threads, and Parts 2, 3, and 5 now have extra action and drama! The opening is now complete. Update 10/5/11: Today, it turns out, Steve Jobs has died. Believe it or not, I half expected this when I started writing this chapter last year. Now consider the implications of the face on the giant screen in the context of Chapter 15.

Fourth Revision Update: The Final Revision has been expanded even more and greatly improved! Since it’s now the novelization of the hypothetical TV “pilot movie,” it now comes in eight parts instead of the original five, with a far more intricate plot and greater coherence. This, I feel deep in my heart, is publication-worthy at last.

Table of Contents:
  1. Intro: Press the Reset Button (November 1, 2010, final revision 10/13/11)
  2. The Beginning of the End (May 31, 2011 [as part of 1.1 "I Can See for Miles"; Final Revision 7/3/12)
  3. I Can See for Miles (May 31, 2011 [as 1.1], Final Revision 7/4/12)
  4. Escape to New York (June 1, 2011 [as 1.2 "Mathematics of Chaos"]; Final Revision 7/5/12)
  5. Secret Meetings (June 2, 2011 [as part of 1.3 "The Lost Cause"; Final Revision 7/6/11)
  6. The Lost Cause (June 2, 2011 [as 1.3]; Final Revision 7/7/12)
  7. Stalking the Rotten Apple (June 3, 2011 [as part of 1.4 "Enter the Monkeywrench"; Final Revision 7/8/12)
  8. Enter the Monkeywrench (June 3, 2011 [as 1.4]; Final Revision 7/9/12)
  9. The Virus Has Been Spread (June 4, 2011 [as 1.5]; Final Revision 7/10/12)
  10. Interlude 1: Rocket Ready (June 5, 2011)
The original introduction from the first draft is itself now revised:
This marks the official début of a character whose story I originally started writing back in 1992 using a different handle [for the main character] (which, interestingly enough, I’ve brought back for the same character). Back then, the storyline was completely different. I was a recently converted otaku and an aspiring cartoonist back then; I had no training in either art or storytelling. All I had was ideas. It took me nearly two decades to turn the ideas into an actual story. In the meantime, I amassed a library’s worth of books on how to write and trained myself how to write. Over the years, I wrote scripts for several scenes I intended to publish in manga form; I’m putting most of these scenes into the novel. The central scene of Chapter 1 [now Part 4 below] is one of them. [I also created a huge number of characters starting in 1992; I introduce several of them here, and you’ll be meeting the rest of them later. Certain characters, Shira foremost among them, are even older than that (I first came up with Shira in her original form back in 1986). The most important characters now come with their “taglines”, the oldest of them (those for Shira, Leila, and Dr. Becket) dating back to 1994.]

An early version of this chapter was originally posted on the JulNoWriMo forums earlier this year; the “Interlude” at the end of this chapter first appeared on the AugNoWriMo forums (now closed), without what is now its opening section, and appears here otherwise unchanged. [The original] is the official 1.0 version. [The new version linked below is Revision 3.0.]

And now, let’s meet Spanner as he makes his Spectacular Entrance!

Special Guest Star: Steve Jobs’ ego!
Not Appearing: President Sarah Palin Michelle Bachmann Rick Perry Stephen Harper Goldman Sachs & Company!
And here’s the original intro to the Intro, with the added disclaimer to the disclaimer: to the print publishers I’ll be marketing this as a political thriller, so that only fandom and the Internet (and of course sharp-eyed readers) will recognize in it the science fiction, you know, the kind of stuff, say, litfic author Margaret Atwood allegedly does not write.
Finally, after almost 20 years, Chaos Angel Spanner is ready to be unleashed onto an unsuspecting reading public. It may not be the manga I originally envisioned back in 1992, but I still intend to do that sometime in the future, depending on whether I actually succeed in learning how to draw.

Finally, after four years of participation in NaNoWriMo, one of my WriMo novels is ready to publish and is being posted. You’ll now be able to see what I’ve been doing since my first NaNo in 2006, and you can now find out just what has been obsessing me for the past two decades.

I’m actually starting in a different genre from the main story. Someday I may write a sequel as a Space Western. However, when I started planning the manga I would later name Chaos Angel Spanner back in 1992, 2014 was still far enough in the future that I could still write it as cyberpunk science fiction. Today...well, because of many long years of procrastination, it’s now 2010 [as of this writing], very close to the start of the Spanner timeline, too close to be science fiction anymore. It might as well be contemporary, so that’s exactly how I’m treating it. And so I’m saying my bittersweet farewell to science fiction — and paying homage to 20th-century retro-futurism in the main story. This is, after all, the 21st Century, the Century of Science Fiction. We’re living the future the science fiction authors and the futurists were writing about; all that’s missing is the spaceships. And that’s where we’re about to return in Chapter One. Back to our own world: the Cyberpunk Universe. I intend to stay out of the publisher-imposed Sci-Fi Ghetto. You see, I’m a genre bender, and Spanner is at its core a political thriller.

So what do you do when the future is cancelled? Start all over again in the present and make your future. This is not a spoiler: it’s the entire story.

Now it’s time at last for the main event...
The challenge: free America — therefore the world — from its self-proclaimed liberators.
The struggle begins here!

As of 10/12/11 this chapter is dedicated with some affection and much irony to Harlan Ellison, a living legend whose influence on my sector of science fiction cannot possibly be avoided no matter how unpleasant his personality gets, and who is carrying out his transmigration rather more successfully than the Corporate kingpin at the center of the action.

Chapter 2 →

Back to Chaos Angel Spanner table of contents...

Copyright © 2011, 2012 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Spanner 1.1: I Can See for Miles

The massively revised second draft of Chaos Angel Spanner Book 1 begins here, with two new scenes not included in the Script Frenzy 2011 TV script.

Third Edition Update, 9/3/11: There may not be any major changes here, but they pave the way for even greater changes to come in the wake of the new developments (as of this writing) in Chapters 14 and 15. As the new Third Edition versions post, watch especially for Leila’s arc; it’s about to get a lot more interesting, especially in the leadup to the important events of Chapters 8 and 9. One addition from the original manga idea is the “character taglines”; in fact, the earliest of them, those for Shira and Leila, date back to 1994 and sum up their characters.

← ...from previous

Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 1: Spanner in the Works
Part 1: I Can See for Miles (Revision 3)

spanner: Brit for monkeywrench

19 august 2014.
morning in america.


Posted by LocaFantoma99 to MyTube on 19 August 2014:
[The cheerful face of a beautiful dark-skinned redhead appears on screen. The green eyes, large sharp nose, and wild hair identify her clearly as Shira Thomas. Some records say she is seventeen years old and others say fourteen, yet she has the maturity of someone several years older. She speaks in a strong, deep, almost boyish voice.]

Hi again! [waves] It’s me, La Loca Fantoma, the teenage nuisance, back to bother you yet again. Some of you are wondering why I still get to shoot off my big mouth when so many other people are getting shut down and even disappeared. Well, like they say, it’s a dirty job, and somebody’s gotta do it. [winks] O my ever-faithful fans, I won’t shut up till They shut me up. But They know what I can do to them, so They’re afraid to touch me. At least for now, anyway.

I know you’re worried about me. We’ve all been living on the edge for the past two years. It’s been hard times for almost everybody since the war came home. Yeah, I’ve made a lot of enemies. But I had a lot of enemies before I started, and I inherited some of ’em from my Evil Stepmother.

Everybody knows how these things are supposed to go. Pretty girl starts a video blog on YouTube and Facebook, gets involved with secretive cult and sinister conspiracy, gets whacked in mid-vlog a year later, vlog gets outed as fiction. Well, I’m real, and I’ve been here for over five years now, and I’m still here.

I hear some people are saying I’m the last hope for the Reality-Based Community. Noooo — YOU are. What’s your pill, red or blue? If you can’t save the world, nobody can. Me, I just pass the word on.

On a parting note, I’ve just found out that the new rich old toy boy collected by my Evil Stepmother, the Great and Holy Prophet Drusilla Becket, Incorporated, is a dirty old dog. Evil Stepmother had better keep her Mr Albert J. Pernell on a tight leash if she doesn’t want yet another embarrassing scandal to blow up in her face. Oh yeah, and knight B4 to D5. Checkmate. [winks]

Hang in there, everybody. [waves] See ya!
Shira Thomas
expect the unexpected

dreamspace. The beautiful magical girl with long black hair tries and tries to dispel the darkness devouring the world. But the more she fights the darkness, the more viciously the darkness attacks the world, until it is destroyed. Helplessly she watches herself transform into a monstrous evil witch born from the darkness, a horror of pure entropy. For the darkness is her own despair, flowing from her like tears—

halfway house, Los Angeles. Leila Shelley, disgraced teenage fashion model, wakes up screaming, sitting bolt upright. She pants heavily as if she has just run a marathon’s distance from a serial killer. Her violet eyes are full of panic. Her bobbed black hair is pasted to her head by drenching sweat. She looks around her. She finds herself sitting completely naked among the blasted ruins of her bed. She takes in several deep breaths to calm herself down.

A beautiful red rose that once stood proudly on the nightstand now lies next to the shattered bed among the shards of its vase. Outside the window, thick smog from millions of commuting cars has turned the morning sky red.

Her two terrified roommates emerge from the closet. One black, one Mexican, they are heroin addicts here in hopes of kicking the habit. The Mexican girl says, “Didn’t you say those nightmares make you wanna die?”

The black girl adds, “So when you gonna kill yourself?”

Leila shoots a murderous look at them. They hide back in the closet and slam the door.

She hears clattering outside her door. Someone throws the door open, and several people rush in, led by the treatment center’s head nurse. The others gasp when they see the devastation.

“It was the drugs again, wasn’t it,” says the nurse, annoyed.

Leila gets up without bothering to dress. “No. What I used to take the drugs for,” she says in a soft Irish accent. “They didn’t work.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

“That furniture was expensive! If you cost us any more money, we’re sending you back to you’re grandfather to do to you as he wills!”

“No you won’t.” Leila and the head nurse glare at each other. The other residents, concerned for Leila, start cleaning up the mess.

Suddenly the door flies open. “Mum!” cries Leila joyfully. Three women burst into the room, two of whom look like Leila: her mother Taylor Brinkman, a tattooed gothpunk singer in black Sexy Kunoichi gear; her cool elegant aunt Ariel Shield; and her redheaded younger sister Fiona Shelley.

The head nurse tries to keep them away from Leila. “You are not authorized to be here! Leave the premises or we shall call the cops! Guards!”

Taylor shoves her sideways across the room into a wall. Ariel gets between her and Leila; she coldly commands, “Don’t interfere.” Fiona takes Leila by the hand and pulls her to her feet. Leila’s fellow residents throw clothes to her; she quickly slips on a long printed T-shirt and flip-flops. The four women rush to the door. A small army of guards find themselves confronting two scary beauties in all black.

The security chief barks, “Stop! or we’ll have you arrested for trespassing, maybe even kidnapping!”

Ariel snaps, “Get out of our way.”

“You are not supposed to be here!”

Taylor glances back at Leila, then retorts: “Neither is she. Now let us through.”

The guards look at each other, then at the women. Then they let them pass through. Taylor, Ariel, Fiona, and Leila walk away down the hall to the front door and out into the ominous rush-hour smog. Wanting to get in the last word, the security head fires an ineffectual parting shot at the unheeding women: “Don’t think you’ll get away with this!”

Leila Renata Shelley
kiss the razor’s edge

the streets, Washington, D.C. In the imperial capital of the world, two warriors in battle uniform are on a mission. Oliver Thorwald, tall and lean, a young Corporate scion turned special forces soldier, and his short clownish point man from the old Confederacy (now the Holy Christian People’s Royal Republic of the Confederate States of New Israel), Johnny-Johnny Johnson, stride confidently up the sidewalk, searching for their target. The Honorable Senator George C. Ryder, a prominent leader of the Conservative Revolutionary Party, has been caught sexually corrupting a child, yet he has used his Party connections to get away with baby rape. As soon as they came back from the oil war in Siberia, Drusilla Becket, Supreme Shepherd of the Church of America, summoned them to purge him with extreme prejudice.

From the other direction, U.S. Marshal Gloria Wright and her assigned COPCO agent, James Sparks, track the same prey. Homeland Security Secretary Karl Radisson commanded them to bring the Senator back alive to stand trial. Wright, one of the last African-American female agents remaining in the National Police, intends to prove herself once and for all by catching this predator. Sparks’ pale face, half-hidden behind bushy dark hair, has the anonymous beauty of the surgically Resculpted; he merely hopes a successful mission will get him his long-promised raise at last.

Down the street, high-volume Party sound trucks scream to a Patriot Country soundtrack that America is God and unfaith is treason, while police sirens warn any traffic in their path to get out of the way Or Else. The people on the sidewalks crowd their way to the curb to gawk. Senator Ryder’s pursuers struggle their way to the front. Sparks finds himself distracted by the excited squeals of teenage fangirls that point his attention toward a tall young woman with cinnamon skin, beautiful green eyes, a large sharp nose, and a wild shock of unmanageable red hair, sporting a midnight blue MMA Force baby tee, Sexy Catholic Schoolgirl microskirt, and cyberpunk-fashion augmented-reality goggles perched over her eyes. She adjusts her mirrorshades with the long slender index finger of her fighting-gloved left hand. Wright yanks him away by the arm. “You know her?”

He shrugs. “Who doesn’t?”

“Well, get back to work, fanboy. This mission is way too urgent.”

“Yes, sir!”

Johnson stands next to the girl and snarls in revulsion at the ugliness he perceives in her dark skin. She gets a horrible chill that tells her he’s not quite human.

Two elderly church ladies in American-flag headscarves, proudly flaunting their immunity to reason in the name of Jesus America, accost her. One screams, “Young lady, what in the holy name of Jesus America are you doing prancing around naked like a whore!”

Shira leans down intimidatingly. “Why are y’all doing throwing Sharia in my face? Ain’t burqas the Muslim thing?” The old ladies gasp in horror at her blasphemy.

The fangirls discover their idol in distress and run over to confront her tormentors. The confrontation becomes a screaming match and then a fistfight in quick order. Shira uses the distraction they provide to vanish from sight.

No one can hear their own thoughts over the deafening sound trucks as they boom past. Johnny-Johnny resists the temptation to slash the insolent bitch right now. He has God’s work to do first.

Then the police cars pass, followed by a convoy of armoured black stretch Hummers. Most of them contain Secret Service agents. Only the last carries the political VIP they guard. Prophet Drusilla assured Thorwald the Secret Service will not interfere with his mission and promised dire consequences for those who do. Secretary Radisson sternly informed Marshal Wright that Ryder is a key figure in a child sex-slave ring that threatens the integrity of the American Empire, so she must catch him for brainscan interrogation.

At last, Senator Ryder’s transport approaches. Wright gestures to give the signal. A squadron of cops appear; guns drawn, they surround the transport and order it to stop. Wright and Sparks join them, hoping to arrest him.

Suddenly, Thorwald whips out a handheld sound cannon and blasts out the stretch Hummer’s windows. Several cops go down writhing, trying to hold their ears, screaming in pain. Johnson fires a shot pistol into the terrified Ryder’s head to obliterate it mid-scream in an explosion of blood. The little blond girl behind him faints at the horror. Mission accomplished, they turn to congratulate each other, only to hear the cocking of guns. “Freeze!” yells Wright. The cops are surrounding them.

Johnson raises his shot pistol at Wright; Sparks pulls her away so that Johnson’s blast misses. Thorwald drops his sound blaster, whips out a pair of Glock 9s with thirty-shot magazines, fires wildly into the cops, dropping eight. Four pretty headshots: four cops are dead. Johnson tries to yank the unconscious girl out of the car. Thorwald pulls him away by the arm and barks, “Now’s not the time!”

As the hitmen flee the scene, Sparks shouts into his communicator, “Senator and eight officers down! Sound a Terror Alert at once! Condition Red! I repeat, this is Condition Red!”

A chorus of air-raid sirens emits a deafening scream citywide. The hitmen slip into the nearby slum. Thorwald sneers, Johnson giggles; they shoot down every bum, hippie, drug dealer, and gangster they come across. On a whim, Johnson shoots down two black bystanders. Thorwald glares down at him. Johnson grins submissively and says, “They was just niggers, bubba.” Thorwald yanks him by the arm, and they run away.

Wright, Sparks, and a small army of enraged cops follow the gunshots and the trail of dead. “Keep running, we’ll catch ’em!” yells Sparks. “When they stop for their fun, they’re ours!”

“Eat justice, parasites!” war-cries Thorwald as he sprays bullets into a group of screaming prostitutes. Johnson jumps one survivor and giggles while he stabs her to death. “Johnny, you idiot, save the fun for later!” scolds Thorwald. Johnson quickly hacks a breast off the corpse and crams it into his mouth.

“Freeze!” Wright and Sparks behind them, pointing their pistols—

Before they can get off a shot, Thorwald flips his rifle up and fires once into Wright’s chest. Open wound — armour-piercing shell—

Suddenly two sneakers slam into his face, knocking his brain haywire, sending him stumbling backwards. Johnson swallows hard, spins around, and finds himself facing the dark-skinned redhead from the street. He screams, “Bounty hunter! Shit!”

Battle fire in those pretty green eyes, cockeyed smirk on her big sensuous lips — she’s a Tracker on the warpath in battle gear exposing her taut abs and powerful legs. She bobs up and down like an impatient boxer. Lust-crazed men join their howls to the fangirl squee. Their roar energizes her. Johnson grabs her tee, brings down the knife; she twists so all his blade cuts is fabric, and she vanishes. When she pops back up, her firm hard-nippled breasts mock him. He grabs her skirt’s elastic band and slings his blade at her breasts; she falls backwards so his grip yanks her skirt down and breaks her G-string, and she rolls out of them and back up, revealing fashionably hairless pubis and large tight shapely butt. Now she wears Nikes, ankle socks, fighting gloves, AR goggles, wicked grin, and nothing else.

“Now try catching me, boy,” she mocks.

Thorwald grabs her from behind. She slams her head back to shatter his nose and slips her sweaty body out of his grip, then sends a rising back kick into his jaw. Johnson rage-rushes her, hammers the knife down; she slips between his arms, headbutts his jaw knocking back his head; he falls, twitches, moans, rubs his head where it hit pavement.

Thorwald shoots at a ghost. She reappears up against him, elbow rising into his jaw, bends his gun arm backwards, slips around him to ease the arm out of its socket. Butt him sideways, slip through his legs, stand on her arms, double kick upward into the jaw so he flies backwards and she handstands for a second before twisting back onto her feet and upright.

The cops swarm the killers. Sparks runs to Wright. Her wound coughs out blood.

“Wright! Are you — oh my God—”

“Shoot those bastards before they get away,” moans Wright. “They’re too dangerous...” The Marshal dies.

While cops shoo off all bystanders and zip up Ryder’s headless corpse, paramedics rush the little girl away on a stretcher. Sparks slowly stands up and turns away from the fallen agent, but cannot avoid the sight of four more fallen cops. Slowly he spins, almost dizzy, till suddenly he finds himself in the redhead’s arms. His body jerks from the surprise.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Me? I’m just glad the girl’s all right. But five cops died just to save one little girl from a rapist, and the pedo hunters were even worse...”

“How so?”

“That giggling psycho? He was trying to eat her.”

“Oh boy...”

Sparks pats Shira’s left buttock and touches fabric. Her skirt is back on. She doesn’t flinch; she seems to like it. He puts his hand on her back and feels her shirt. He looks at her face and sees a beautiful smile.

He narrows his eyes. “You were fighting naked, weren’t you.”

“Clothes have traction. Much harder to hold onto wet skin.” She winks.

He grins. “I like you already. What’s your name?”

“Shira.”

“That Shira?”

“Yeah. And you’re...”

“Sparks. J.T. Call me Jim if you like.”

Shira looks at him skeptically. “You changed your face.”

“Lost it with my partner and K-9 in a case two years ago. Didn’t want the bad guys to see my father staring out at ’em, so I took the Pretty City route.”

“Tell me the real reason.”

He shrugs. “Just didn’t wanna see his face staring me in the mirror every time I look.”

She smiles mischievously. “Good enough excuse.”

He slips his hand beneath her skirt to caress her soft bare buttock. Their lips come dangerously close to contact when his boss interrupts them. “Sparks! No fraternization!” He slaps Sparks on the top of his head; Sparks winces in pain.

Two uniformed COPCO agents grab Shira by the arms and pull her away to try to arrest her. “ID, you stupid oafs!” They stop and stare at her. She stares back at each of them in turn, then looks down at the ID card hanging from her “What Would Scooby Do?” neck strap, hoping they’re just smart enough to notice.

“I’ll do it,” says Sparks, bringing an ID card reader. He takes her card and laser-reads the barcode. “Well, well, well. Looks like she checks out.” He lets go of the card and shows the screen to the uniforms. “Not only that, she’s got a Exception from the dress code nazis, bought and paid for by the Trackers Guild. Let her go.”

The uniforms look dumbly at each other, then her, then Sparks. After a pause, they bark “Yes sir!” in unison, let Shira go, and grumble away. Sparks shrugs. Shira winks.

James Tiberius Sparks
love is stronger than justice

apartment, Seattle. Keenan Sasser, once-trendy litfic auteur turned low-paid pulp hack, replays the vision in his mind. He thinks: how come the Civet timeline keeps terminating this way? There’s got to be some anomaly. He gets out of bed, stumbles to his desk, and opens up his laptop. Ada Paulette Wintergreen, his artist wife, brings the coffee into the room. The first one up gets coffee duty; this time it’s Ada’s turn.

“The world blew up on you yet again?” says Ada.

“Still trying to figure out what the anomaly is.”

“Who turned left at Albuquerque?”

“Might as well be.” Keenan scans the scene lists for his five cancelled Civet novels on the screen. “So where could it be?”

“I think it was back in Book 5, when Dr Forster got whacked and his nanites got stolen. Then everything unravelled for eighteen volumes after that.”

“Then the publisher stole our copyrights and told the hacks to ruin everything.“

“Keenan, they cancelled your series because no one reads science fiction anymore.”

“More like the future’s politically incorrect, like we’re trapped in a pocket universe permanently set to 1955. Now let’s see, where is that scene?” A notification appears on screen to inform Keenan that James T. Sparks is calling. “Excuse me.” He clicks the popup, and a dark-haired young man in dark sunglasses appears in a new window. Shira, her arms around him, smiles at them from over his shoulder.

“Heya, Keenan. The world blow up on you again?”

Keenan chuckles. “How’d ya guess.”

“I checked that timeline you sent me.”

“Yeah?”

“Turns out Dorinda got lucky. Back in our reality, the schedule just got sped up.”

“Make way for bad ending number two,” Shira adds.

Ada gasps. “How could that even be possible, Jim?”

“Yeah, J.T.,” adds Keenan, “tell us.”

“I’ll take this one,” says Shira. “Word is, terror fuhrer Doc Becket had the CIA snatch some nanotech from Japan, and he wants a replicating doomsday device in just two years. Not 2112, but 2016.”

Keenan and Ada suddenly feel cold. “You’re kidding,” says Keenan, “aren’t you.”

“You know,” adds Ada, “like the Doctor’s supposed to be slaughtering dissidents?”

Sparks does not smile. “Do I look like I’m kidding? It even gets worse.”

Keenan sighs. “How much worse?”

“Just got leaked intel about a secret project out in the asteroid belt. Big defense bucks on that one. They got crews from GE, Boeing, Yoyodyne, and Dictel out there. Turns out they’re building a nuke-powered sun gun.”

“What would they want a ‘sun gun’ for? Sounds like science fiction to me.”

Shira shoots a You’re so clueless look at them. “Why else? To blow up the sun, of course!”

Keenan looks back at Ada; her eyes and mouth are wide open. She says weakly, “Bad ending number three...”

He looks back at the screen in wide-eyed horror. “Oh. shit—”

on to the next... →

Back to Chapter 1 index...
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Copyright © 2011 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

[Revision 2.1, 6/14/11: Fixed text, added one line of dialogue, and added a few Corporations to Sparks’ bad news.]
[Revision 2.2, 7/30/11: New first paragraph (Leila’s dream) added along with a new final paragraph in 9.6 as bookends for a major arc.]
[Revision 2.3 part 1, 8/5/11: added new introduction of Shira in the second half of a new middle section, a fight scene. Shira’s now in section 3, and the “bad endings” theme, derived from videogames and Scott Pilgrim, begins here.]
[Revision 2.3 part 2, 8/7/11: added new second half of first scene, introducing Leila’s mother, aunt, and sister on a rescue mission; and first half of middle section, a shootout that raises two villains to major status and introduces a new hero alongside Sparks.]
[Revision 2.4, 8/8/11: revised Shira’s first appearance to introduce her “detect evil” power.]
[Revision 3.0, 9/3/11: Added Shira’s fangirls (you’ll be hearing more from them later) and character taglines (added to the original comics idea in 1994). Made Shira’s blog post the opening, as in the first draft. Developed certain passages, tweaked events to maximize “WHAM!”, improved foreshadowing, and corrected many text and continuity errors.]
[Revision 3.1, 9/28/11: Publication version. Made text improvements and added one missing detail (Shira’s neck strap from Chapter 3).]
[Revision 3 Final, 10/5/11: Added to Shira’s introduction the description “wild shock of unmanageable red hair” first given to her in the early Project Notebooks from the mid-1990s. Final version.]

Monday, May 30, 2011

Spanner: The Second Draft Starts Tonight!

Starting in March, I've been writing a whole lot of revision notes. Of course, March was NaNoEdMo, and Script Frenzy came right afterward. But since then, I've done very little editing and a whole lot of note writing. I say it's about time I stop writing notes and start actually editing.

This time, I'm giving myself a reason to finish the second draft of Spanner. Today I'll get rid of the links to the first draft of Book 1, and then post the revised chapters in parts, one new section each day. These sections, at least in the early chapters, are based mainly on the TV script from this year's Script Frenzy, since the script for a television episode is generally in four to six parts. I'll start today by revising the Intro and reposting it right after I post this.

The link to the now revised Intro is here:
Chaos Angel Spanner Intro: Press the Reset Button

Tomorrow: the first part of a massively revised Chapter One!

Friday, May 13, 2011

Spanner: The Second Draft Revisions, Part 2

Since last entry, I've been writing a lot of notes longhand on scratch paper in a frenzy of inspiration, and I came up with a lot of ideas I'd either neglected entirely or never came up with in the first place. And some of these are not just very interesting, they fit so well that I'll have to find a place to put them in the second draft of Spanner.

First of all, there's the idea of an AI as the mind of the city, called an "urban intelligence". Sure, this may have been a cyberpunk cliché for a while, way back in the 1980s. In the revision I'm planning for Chapters 15 and 16, Shira and JT find themselves talking with the mind of the city of Seattle when she switches the TV to channel 12 (the local community TV station on cable systems) on a sleepless night after the Great Police Robot Riot of 2014. Since one of Seattle's nicknames is "Emerald City", I'm seriously tempted to play around with Wizard of Oz references. While researching The Wizard of Oz on TV Tropes and the Gutenberg Project, I realized that my beautiful teenage witch character Polly Parker's true identity in dream reality is none other than Princess Ozma. Is Mimi Scott her Dorothy? I already have a "Wicked Witch of the West" in the cult-guru villainess Drusilla Becket, a character whom I developed most intensively during the years I worked on my 2007 NaNoWriMo novel now on hiatus, Bad Company.

Another old cyberpunk cliché I'm going to exploit is the private police agency. Considering how those TEA Party corporatists are determined to privatize government while trying to turn America into a new Soviet Union for giant corporations, this may actually happen. The name of the police corporation is, of course, COPCO. It and the Seattle "urban intelligence" will be going at it big time, with the big showdown occurring in the last few chapters of Book 1.

Before that, I decided to reevaluate the "sexcrime" theme. I'm dropping a lot of the "lolicon" stuff because it now strikes me as too "otaky". For this, I'm mostly substituting the idea of pedophilia as the reference crime. Fornication and adultery? Thoughtcrime? They're not just treasonous, they rape children! From what I've seen, it seems like the most rabid corporatists are also the most fanatical prudes. And so Shira, jailbait superslut (if you believe she's not lying about her age), uses the combination of her body and her age as a dangerous and possibly deadly weapon. Ephebophilia (sexual desire for adolescents) replaces homosexuality as the unforgivable sin conflated with pedophilia (as homosexuality itself once was, and to some people still is). Problem is, teenagers have a horrible tendency to be damn sexy.

As for the "lolis", pedophilia turns out to be the crime that marks a Corporate or a mobster as above the law. If a megacorp boss or gang lord has a loli or catamite, it tells you he's got nothing but contempt for a legal system he believes is beneath him. This is why Shira ends up rescuing 10-year-old Ayla from the Yakuza in book 1 and 7-year-old Lucie from the Russian mob in book 2. Oh, and Rebel Styles is still there, destroying men on video.

And before that, I started working out the "Psycho Schoolgirl Lesbian Yandere Love Dodecahedron" story arc in book 2. Basically, Shira's got a bunch of girls after her who are just about completely nuts, and they go to war against each other for the right to be Shira's One And Only. It's not going to be pretty, but it'll sure be entertaining.

Oh, and the actor who plays Damon on The Vampire Diaries? My muse is currently crushing on him. She wants to cast him as J.T. Sparks. Uh, I love you, dear muse, but considering how extreme this story is, I think you should keep it in fantasy. Of course, that won't stop me from wanting to cast Rutger Hauer and Malcolm McDowell as the villains Henry and Richard Becket...

I haven't really fully recovered from Script Frenzy yet. But I'll resume work on the Spanner second draft as soon as I do.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Spanner: After Winning Script Frenzy, What Next?


1. I Won!
Script Frenzy 2011 is over, and I managed to win in the last week. Since I can write scripts a whole lot faster than I can write prose, Panic Time can end up a whole lot more productive, proportionately speaking, for Script Frenzy than for NaNoWriMo. To summarize: at the beginning of the final week, I had written only 33 pages, and some of those were blank placeholders. At the end of the week, I had 100 pages, none of them placeholders, and just enough to win. Okay, that's out of the way at last.

2. Now What?
Now comes the burning question: what do I do next with the story? Do I start editing the TV series script? Do I go back and finish editing the second draft of the novelization? Or do I go back to the original comics script and update it to fit the story as it now stands three Script Frenzies later?

The answer, of course, is: Yes.

3. Changes to the Second Draft
Now Screnzy's been over for four whole days, and my traditional post-WriMo rest period is done. However, this morning I woke up to find that large portions of Spanner's premise have changed in my half-sleep. Now I have to change the second draft to accomodate these. Fortunately, the new changes explain some otherwise seemingly gratuitous plot elements. The changes also reflect certain current events that I never dreamed of in the 1992-2010 period from the time I started Spanner to the (near) end of the first draft.

The new events that require the new changes are:
  1. In its last gasp of power, Operation Permanent Republican Administration is fighting to replace American democracy with Corporatist dictatorship. Meanwhile, it has finally acquired Canada.
  2. Osama bin Laden is dead.
The new changes are:

The Corporate States of America
In the novelization's first draft, I parlayed the Republican Party's infatuation with the Old Confederacy into a New Confederacy. This turned out to be unwieldy. I decided to simplify things by turning the antidemocratic coup into a strictly Corporatist one. In other words, the giant corporations own the government, and the people are screwed (for the reason, see below).

And so Chapter 1 begins with this narration:
In the year of Our Lord, two thousand fourteen—or, rather, in the year of Our Ford, one hundred fifteen—the Corporate States of America is in its second year of war against the Corporate Republic of China over control of the oilfields of Siberia.
That little bit of narration—a voiceover in the TV series, a caption in the comics—establishes the entire cyberpunk universe in just one rambling sentence.

Fordism: The Only True Religion
The religion of the Corporate States of America, and of the Corporate Republic of China as well, is Fordism, the cult of the Holy Prophet Henry Ford. Other than jumpstarting, so to speak, the automotive industry in America, Ford is most famous for inventing, with Frederick Winslow Taylor, the assembly line. Taylor's "scientific management" and "time and motion studies" were designed to treat workers as if they were machines. But "Taylorism" is only part of Fordism. Ford was a leading champion of suburbanism, and he designed the German Autobahn for Hitler and helped design its successor, the Interstate Highway System, for President Dwight Eisenhower, who as General rode the Autobahns to victory over Hitler. Most important, however, is how he ran his company: as a police state. This is the heart and soul of Fordism: the corporatist ideology of Ford, and of J. D. Rockefeller before him. Naturally, being the Robber Barons they were, they were Social Darwinists who believed that the poor were unworthy of life and who therefore believed that only giant corporations could properly run a government. The government most faithful to this Fordist precept is not America or even China but Singapore, the model government of the twenty-first century.

Ford was also a completely irrational anti-Semite, which led naturally to his hero-worship of Hitler. Modern Fordists dispense with this anachronistic personality quirk of Ford the man because, at least in America, the cult's leading theologian, Ayn Rand, and most of its economic gurus are Jewish. Just as Rand is probably generating electricity spinning in her grave at the reality that her most fanatical followers are the ones most like the corporatist villains of Atlas Shrugged, Ford has no doubt gone turbine at the fact that so many of his leading disciples come from the ranks of the villains of The International Jew. Chinese Corporatism evades this by replacing Rand with the ancient Chinese philosophy most compatible with Social Darwinism, the cruel Legalism, against which Confucius spent his career arguing.

Does the conflict between Corporatist America and China strongly resemble that between Communist China and Russia? Well, guess what: Soviet Communism, better known as Stalinism, was not actually communistic at all, if communism means collective ownership and management. The leading Bolsheviks, not just Stalin but Lenin and Trotsky as well, were huge admirers of Henry Ford who bought huge numbers of Fordson tractors from his Ford Motor Company. Stalin, of course, modelled the entire political system of the Russian Empire after Ford's totalitarian management style. National Socialism is really Fordism plus institutional racism far worse than Ford's own; Fascism, particularly the dominant (and notoriously brutal) Spanish variety, is Fordism taken straight. It was ridiculously easy for China to switch from Mao's imitation-Marxist Stalinism to straight Fordism (called "market socialism" according to the Chinese government's official spin). America, however, is a bit more troublesome, to say the least, because here Fordism is the religion of the elite. And the American elite may be the most predatory elite in history.

Ladenism: The Religion of Evil
At the opposite extreme from the Overclass, you of course have the Underclass. By now everybody knows that the American Navy SEALs have given Bin Laden the martyrdom he craved. (In Spanner, the SEAL who actually killed him is Will Becket, and, being the hereditary vampire he is, he killed him by drinking his blood. The controversial disposal of Bin Laden's corpse at sea was intended to hide this.) Naturally, this spawned a cult. Here's the surprise: the most fanatical of Bin Laden's cultists are not Arabs or Afghans, but American, Mexican, and Salvadoran gangsters in American prisons. There, the warrior cult plaguing Afghanistan and Pakistan fused with the neo-Aztec Saint Death cult and neo-Nazi Black Odinism to form the cult opposite to official Fordism.

That means that the "baka bombers" Shira kills in Chapter 3 are not the foreign "holy warriors" of the original scenario, but American or Latin American gangsters trying to blood-sacrifice as many innocents as they can in order to secure their place in Heaven beside their Holy Prophets, Osama bin Laden and Adolf Hitler. In other words, Bin Laden's deification by bullet is bound to spawn a new religion that considers even the most violent fundamentalist Islamisms to be weak.

Conclusion
These are the major changes I'm making to Spanner's background scenario. Sure, they're inspired by the latest current events (in Pakistan, the Middle East, and the Midwest), but they solve a number of problems in the first draft.

Now to start writing the second draft...

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Spanner: Willa Explains Class Conflict, the Objectivist Way

As I continue to struggle with the Spanner TV series for Script Frenzy, I've been procrastinating on TV Tropes again and found this "useful notes" page on Objectivism. Ayn Rand famously opposed altruism in its strong form (as defined by the philosopher who coined the term, Auguste Comte) in the name of her form of classical egoism. The strong definition of "altruism", of course, is "live for others [vivre pour autrui] at the expense of oneself." In short: love others, hate self. Comte believed altruism justified an ideal dictatorship; his description of it became the political ideal of a very influential later disciple, right-wing occultist Alexandre Saint-Yves d'Alveydre, and his disciples, the Synarchists and their successors the Fascists and Stalinists. You can find an informative discussion of the issue here.

My last post, once you get past the indignation, is about how the more dubious parts of Rand's personal history were reflected in parts of her ethical system that were interpreted to justify the extreme forms of "rugged individualism" behind the current manifestation of American corporatism and leading up to the corporate dictatorship in Spanner. Here, my character Willa Richter-Thomas explains (not necessarily in these exact words) that the classical egoist ethics of Rand and her hero Aristotle turn out to have completely different implications according to social class:
For the Corporate oligarch, concern for others can only be at the expense of concern for oneself. The world of business is a non-stop battle royal, you see, and all the other dogs are out to eat you. Our Corporate frenemies call this "rugged individualism." But for the ordinary working people, concern for others is concern for oneself. Their predicament was elegantly summed up by Ben Franklin: "We must all hang together, or we shall all hang separately."

My guess is that any worker with a sufficient knowledge of both Rand and Marx can correct the most unpleasant parts of Rand by using her philosophy, including her ethics, to bolster Marx. But if you're Corporate, Rand means Stirnerism and Social Darwinism. The same thing can have completely different meaning depending on where you are in the hierarchy.
Rand put great emphasis on the importance of context. In the case of her egoistic ethics, context changes everything when the context is social class. The Corporate oligarch takes egoism to the extremes of militant egotism; that is, after all, required to succeed in business, in which all your competitors are eternally out to destroy you. But in the lower reaches of the social hierarchy, among the working people Rand so disdained, egoism and the fact (which Aristotle famously pointed out) that man is a social animal have equal emphasis, reinforced by necessity: one worker is insignificant, but masses of workers united are very powerful indeed. This is the principle behind trade unionism; combined with the phenomenon known as "the wisdom of crowds", it is also the foundation of democracy itself (which, of course, Rand also disdained).

The political consequences are likewise opposite. The upper-class interpretation Rand preferred ultimately leads, as we are finding out here in America, to authoritarian plutocratic oligarchism in politics and monopoly corporatism in economics. Never mind that Rand was attacking just that in the character of Nietzschean media lord Gail Wynand in The Fountainhead and the "looter" corporatists in Atlas Shrugged, even going so far as to call the latter altruists. The working-class interpretation, by contrast, justifies democracy and the corresponding democratic form of socialism (as opposed to conventional state socialism, which is little more than state corporatism and frequently overlaps with the plutocratic variety as in China).

What's missing, of course, is the free market Rand championed. That's strictly a middle-class ideal. Libertarianism is the radical politics native to the independent petite bourgeoisie which is the "threat from below" that the oligarchs are most determined to destroy. Willa (a professional, either as outcast psychologist or outlaw musician) does not see much evidence of this class' survival in the reactionary plutocratic dictatorship of Spanner's Imperial Confederacy. And it isn't the independent businesspeople who are protesting the TEA Party corporatists' jihad to either enslave or starve them in the name of the Free Market.

Even if you start from the identical premises, class context produces opposite perspectives and thus opposite politics. Context matters indeed.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Ayn Rand, the Psychology of Fangirlism, and How America Lost Its Freedom

The article: this one on Ayn Rand as serial killer groupie.

I've been upset enough about the Republican Party's jihad against the poor and the middle class on behalf of the ultra-rich to write Spanner. Turns out their overclass supremacism, Social Darwinism, hatred of democracy, and lust for corporatist tyranny come ultimately from Ayn Rand. And then I read the above linked article, which claims that her entire philosophy of Objectivism stems from her hero worship of a serial killer. That's right: not long after she fled Stalin's Russia for America in 1926, Ayn Rand became a serial killer groupie. Turns out she was so busy fangirling the sadistic murderer William Hickman that she blanked out the fact that his moral retardation made him too dumb to live.

I myself didn't realize the truth till early afternoon today, when I was drinking my second cup of coffee. There's a pattern here. 9-year-old Alissa Rosenbaum became a huge fangirl of the arrogant British-imperialist hero (named Cyrus, no less) of a serial adventure novel called The Mysterious Valley. Her earliest essays in Russian? On Hollywood stars. When she left for America to become Ayn Rand, where did she go? Right straight to Hollywood, where she became a scriptwriter. In her late essay "On a Woman President", she denounces the idea of female leadership because, she claims, the function of woman is to hero-worship a man. In other words, she defines fangirlism as the essence of female nature. In her manifesto "The Goal of My Writing", she says the purpose of fiction, or at least her fiction, is the creation of an Ideal Man—capitalized, of course—in order to hero-worship him with her fiction. In her lectures and essays, she constantly quotes not other philosophers, but her own heroes: Howard Roark, John Galt, Hank Rearden, Francisco d'Anconia—they, not all those "lesser" philosophers she despised (meaning all the rest), were the authorities to turn to in philosophy.

Is the picture becoming clear to you already? If not, I'll tell you. I realized with a shock: who is Ayn Rand? The most famous and influential Ascended Psycho Fangirl in history. Her entire philosophy is geared toward fangirling the oligarchs of Big Business. Sure enough, she was quickly surrounded by a worshipful cult of psycho fanboys and fangirls, which eventually expanded to include the oligarchs themselves. After all, she made them (along with herself) the object of worship of the entire American civil religion. Is it any wonder that she became far more influential than her fellow/rival Angry Atheist Battleaxe, Madalyn Murray O'Hair?

It all came together in this line spoken by my character Willa, talking about her early rock 'n' roll days in Spanner:
I remember narrowly escaping being murdered by psycho fangirls repeatedly. About the same time, I became intrigued by this Ayn Rand. Then I read her essay on why she thought a woman president would be a bad idea. Turns out she hated the idea of female leadership because she believed women were supposed to worship male heroes. In other words, if you're not a fangirl, you're not a woman, period, by definition, so saith Ayn Rand. She lost me there. I wasn't the least bit surprised to find out later that she was once a serial killer groupie.
And so I find that when I write a character to resemble an Ayn Rand hero, he turns out to be a villain. Conversely, though some of my heroes (including not just Shira but Willa as well) share some of the Rand hero's ruthlessness, I can't write them like Rand heroes because they're not antisocial enough. The most important Spanner characters "born without the ability to consider others" are vampires, whose disease has eaten away the moral centers of their brains.

I also find myself witnessing (and, in Spanner, writing) an unfortunate parallel between the ideal Randian political system the Republicans are trying to impose (by brute force if necessary, as in the 2012 coup in Spanner's backstory) and the Stalinist dictatorship Rand fled. In fact, the political structure turns out to be identical to her hated Soviet Russia, with corporations replacing soviets, Republican neocons replacing Communists, and big businessmen becoming the new nomenklatura—which, it turns out, is exactly what happened in Russia after the fall of Communism. The GOP's trying to turn America from the flawed democracy we've got now into a corporatist dictatorship modelled after authoritarian Russia and China. In the name of Ayn Rand, mortal enemy of Communism, America is turning into the right-wing version of the Soviet Union, with the Corporate oligarchs as the new master race (see her "Big Business: A Persecuted Minority").

And if you suspect there's a strong element here of what literary theorist Harold Bloom calls "the anxiety of influence"—that is, the artist's war against his strongest influences (John Milton, in the case of the English Romantic poets)—you hit it on the nose. It's supposed to be unconscious according to Bloom's theory, but my case is so bad I'm fully conscious of it. My villains all think they're Rand heroes because their real-life counterparts in the New Right believe they are. The Rand hero takes the American frontier ideal of "rugged individualism" to the sociopathic extreme; this explains why the Corporate elite are hellbent on not just stealing all the money in the world but seizing absolute power as well. They don't care if they make enemies out of the entire American middle class; after all, they can always follow the example of John Galt and kill off all of humanity except for the chosen ones in Galt's Gulch.

Fandom can go psycho. Science fiction author Harlan Ellison once wrote a famous but now rare essay on the phenomenon. But now America's ruled by an ideology based entirely on psycho fannism, created by the Ascended Psycho Fangirl named Ayn Rand. So why am I writing this in my project blog rather than my opinion blog? Because I happen to be something of an "ascending fanboy" myself, and I riff off various fanfics and doujinshi. You think psycho Twilight fangirls are bad enough? Now think of America turning into a dictatorship ruled by psycho Ayn Rand fanboys. You get the picture...

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Script Frenzy 2011: Chaos Angel Spanner, The TV Series?!

I originally envisioned Chaos Angel Spanner as an ongoing comics series inspired by my favorite manga and anime. I attempted to write the comic's script for Script Frenzy 2008. It turned out to be my only Screnzy winner. Yet after a few good scenes, I ended up winging it. Then I started novelizing the script for JulNoWriMo and ended up changing just about everything, including the scene order. Certain scenes and storylines, I dropped altogether.

Now I'm coming full circle. I'm adapting the half-edited novel for Script Frenzy, this time as a TV series. I kind of gave up on comics, actually. For one thing, it's actually extremely difficult to create a comic, and I failed to learn how to draw. However, scriptwriting has always come easy to me. So why not write a script for another medium?

Actually, the reason I chose comics in the first place was because I always knew whatever I wrote would be unfilmable for strictly political reasons. Then I chose to write it as a novel for the same reason: there's things you can get away with in words that no one could ever get away with in pictures. And yet I'm adapting the novelization into a TV series? What's gotten into me?

Well, there's this series running on MTV called Skins. It's about teenagers on the bad side of town who get into sex and drugs. It pushes a lot of boundaries, including even limits on what's actually legal to show on TV. Since Spanner is in effect Max Headroom meets Skins by way of Reds or similar stories about revolution, my muse figured, "Why not?" and got me thinking about actually putting this five-volume controversy magnet on TV. In fact, she had me actually write the novel as a 23-episode TV series in prose...

And so I'm entering Spanner into Script Frenzy for the second time, this time as a TV series, or at least a pilot episode. And then I'll novelize the first season back, maybe even for the novel's second draft. Who knows, I might adapt the whole thing right back into a webcomic...