Everyone knows that the market for products can be very competitive, and that the competition can often take on a distinctly shady character. What seems to be less appreciated is that the marketplace of ideas can be just as competitive, and often just as shady. The battles for mind share between one project and another, or even between one approach and another, can be fierce. At the more obviously commercial end of this spectrum are debates like NAS vs. SAN, 10GbE vs. IB, iSCSI vs. FCOE, end-to-end vs. embedded functionality. Often the commercial interests and biases of the participants are obvious, but other times less so. When Joe Random Blogger weighs in on one of these debates, finding out that Joe spent months and thousands of dollars to become a CCIE might shed some light on their vested interest. Other times, there's no such obvious marker but the vested interest is just as real. This is why Stephen Foskett and others have called for explicit disclosure of such interests by bloggers. Full disclosure: I've met Stephen, I like Stephen, we've done an Infosmack podcast together and he invited me to drop by at a Tech Field Day where I got to enjoy some free food at EMC's expense. See how easy that was?

Where things get a little murkier is where there's not an obvious product involved, or where some of the projects are non-commercial. Some of the participants in the fierce SQL vs. NoSQL debates have a commercial stake, some have a personal stake, and some really have no stake at all beyond a desire to see open discussion advance the state of the art. Quick: which category do I fit into? I'm not even sure myself. I like to think I fit into the last category, but this stuff is not entirely unrelated to the job that puts food on my family's table so arguments that I belong in one of the other categories have plenty of merit. It's funny that in my day job I rarely get exposed to such conflicts of interest but as a blogger I do. I've been asked to write objectively about certain products or projects, or sometimes to refrain from writing about them. I've tried to ignore those requests as much as possible, and just write about what interests me . . . but I digress. What are we to make of sniping e.g. between Cassandra and HBase advocates, for example, when both are open source? At an even more abstract level, what about centralized metadata vs. floating master vs. peer-to-peer distribution, or using the same vs. separate algorithms for wide-area and local replication? What about public cloud vs. private cloud and the people who claim one or another is beneath contempt? The resolutions of such debates have clear implications for certain projects, and the participants are hardly unaware of that, but the debates are not directly about the projects.

All of this creates an environment ripe for manipulation by the less ethical. Here on this blog I've often posted about apparent instances of FUD and astroturf, which are two forms of such manipulation. Bloggers or Twitterers with undisclosed interests in one side of the debate are everywhere. I've seen one fellow with a vested interest in certain NoSQL projects repeatedly bash other projects quite savagely, more than once, for faults that his own pet projects still have or had until only a week before, without disclosing his direct involvement in the alternatives that remain after the bashing is done. One of the dark sides of open source is the practice of mining competitors' code for flaws not so they can be fixed but so that they can be used as ammunition in the war of ideas. Perhaps the most effective technique I'm aware of in this area, though, is the wooing of converts. As much as we all like to pride ourselves on being completely rational and empirical, technology is still a social enterprise and nothing can help one side of a debate more than winning over a prominent member of the other team. I used to believe in SAN/embedded/centralized but I've seen the error of my ways can be very powerful. It strongly implies that the evolution from novice to expert and that from one position to the other are somehow linked. Novices are fooled into believing X, but experts have figured out Y. Sometimes I'm sure the change in heart is legitimate and sincere, driven by increased knowledge just as it seems or perhaps by the ever-changing tradeoffs we all have to make. (I've done this myself, with regard to storage vs. processing networks and the balance of traffic between the two in a distributed filesystem.) Other times, I'm just as sure that someone's change of heart is the result of deliberate persuasion. Contact might have been deliberately made, perhaps through a mutual friend. The strongest features, situations, and (perhaps non-obvious) future plans/directions for one alternative might have been shared, all deliberately planned but presented as innocent exchange of ideas between colleagues. Sometimes a convert can be won this way, and since nobody is ever as zealous as a new convert the result can often be advocacy of the new preference even in situations where the old preference remains objectively better. Yes, you can buy publicity like that. What you can also do is create moles who gain some level of notoriety within a community it's really not that hard with emerging technologies and then very noisily defect to an opposing camp.

I don't know for sure how prevalent this sort of manipulation is. I've certainly seen plenty of astroturf and FUD, I've seen some of the attempts to persuade thought leaders one way or another, but I don't know for sure if I've ever actually seen a mole. What I do know is that I don't see everything, and I'd be a fool to believe these things don't happen. The means, motive, and opportunity are all there. There are social media experts who are paid and paid quite well to do almost exactly what I've described; I'm sure not all of them have 100% clean hands. I've yet to meet a VP of marketing at a startup who would have any qualms, who would hesitate one second, over paying someone to do these things if they thought that person had the capability. I'm not saying we should all start jumping at shadows, but if you see a prominent advocate of low-cost open-source scale-out solutions suddenly start singing the praises of a vendor who is notoriously opposed to all three features, maybe you should at least consider the possibility that their change of position is something other than a total accident.

It's been seven years since original episodes of Firefly last aired on television and half a decade since the feature film Serenity premiered. Yet fans of the space western show, known as Browncoats, are still thick on the ground and ready for any new tidbits about the show.

The new scrapbook/anthology Firefly: Still Flying will be sure to please the hardcore fan simply because hardcore fans are fairly easy to please. (Complaining about the "Worst. Episode. EVER." is just as much part of the fun as anything else, after all!)

For more casual viewers of the show, Still Flying is worth a skim for the original fiction, but not for much else.

The basic function of wall hooks is to keep coats neat and tidy when you are not wearing them. It helps to keep office and work places neat and clean. Today after we were researching for lots and lots of wall hooks we decided to publish this awesome collection, where you can see 25 of the most creative wall hooks.

1. Julian Appelius has created a coat hanger perfect for those that painted their homes on their own. The Drop XL paint drop coat hangers is a hanger that looks like dripping paint, so if you have some of that on your walls, you can pretend it's a theme. The Drop XL coat hanger by Julian Appelius comes in 6 colors and two different sizes, depending on how many coats you need to hang from your paint. It's a fun switch from standard coat hangers. Via

2. The 8-Bit pixelated pointy finger coat hangers is a great solution if you want to have something different to hang your stuff. These cute little hooks are the perfect retro-styled hanger for pretty much any part of the house, from bags of onions in the kitchen to towels in the bathroom. The MDF and acrylic hangers come equipped with a permanently attached screw and measure 3 x 2.8 x 0.6-inches. They are available from for $20 each from here.

3. Surface Tension's new hangUP arcade coat hooks use real joystick balls and buttons to hang up all of your coats, umbrellas, man purses and any other hangy stuff you have hanging around. The hangUP coat hooks are available in 3UP and 4UP versions and come with customizable ball-top colors. You can also request the board to be made of a different material, though the standard is black Walnut.

4. The Knife Hooks are designed by TC Studio, a studio owned by industrial designer Tianyi Chang. The Knife Hooks are easy to install, simply screw the hooks into the wall and you'll have a very funny way to hang your clothes.

5. With its dual purpose form, this ceramic wall mounted coat/towel hook makes for an excellent storage unit for your bathroom essentials. Or it would work equally well in an entry, a useful storage unit for coats and a place to drop keys and loose change into upon arriving home. I love these ceramic hook boxes by designer Luca Nichetto. Such a clever way to deal with entryway storage and organization.

6. This crisp white coat rack by Erich Ginder was inspired by the shape of a deer's antlers. The cast white resin Ghost Antler Coat Rack is handmade. H approx. 11.75 x W approx 11.75 x D approx 8.

7. The Alone light hangers come from Daniele Trebbi for Palluco. Available in black, white and red, the circular hangers emit a soft wall light that is casted on the clothes. It is possible for you to combine the colors and create an interesting light pattern or just use the hangers on their own. The materials used for this design were opal and polycarbonate. The diameter is 118 mm and the distance to the wall is 69 mm.

8. I'll be the first to admit that most hangers you put on the wall are pretty dull. Despite that this axe or Regnah Hanger is different, you might want to stop and think through actually purchasing it. First you should think about whether or not your friends are easily skiddish, then if they are you have to decide whether or not you care. Via

9. When a ninja comes home after a long hard day full of assassinations and other super stealth killing action, they need to hang their dark masks up on something appropriate like these cool new Ninja Star Coat Hooks. These lethal death stars look authentic and are made super strong, nickel-plated zinc alloy, but have one star tip replaced with a screw so they can be mounted on the wall. Via

10. Design house Seletti brings new meaning to the phrase HANG time with these individual letters that double as a wall hook. This set comes with four over sized and durable stainless steel letter-shaped hooks that spell H-A-N-G. Each letter measures 4.75 W x 8 High.

11. Ok , so it look`s like a piece of wood that a hungry bear attacked and ended up with this shape. Well it`s a coat hook that shapes like a mountain with snow on top. Ingenious? Maybe. One thing I know for sure, it`s practical , you can hang it anywhere and hang anything on it. Via

12. The Cubby coat hook is designed by materious and challenges traditional formrather than a coat hook being a fairly linear element. The center space offers storage for keys, wallets, gloves, sunglasses, or other small items. The outer surface allows purses and scarves to be hung and offers a wider, more collar-friendly support for coats. Many Cubbyies can be attached to the wall linearly or randomly, in different colors, and each family member can have their own coat space.

13. Hookaboo is a discreet wall hanger that you can have in the hallway, bathroom, bedroom or anywhere you wish. This wall hanger has 4 pieces of metal hanger that fold up when are not used. Designed by Matt Carr, this wall hook is made from bamboo and is 34 cm wide, 8,5 cm height and about 2 cm deep. For those of you interested in this product, you can purchase it from Bluebox ( Sweedish shop ).

14. The Mushroom wall hook is an exercise in minimalism. Simple in design, and easily mountable. The Mushroom wall hook looks great even when it's not holding your things. Meant to resemble a mushroom growing out of a tree or forest floor. Each box comes with 3 hooks that are pre-drilled and pre-screwed as well as 3 wall anchors. Made from reclaimed rosewood, with white/creme accent color. Since these are all made from reclaimed wood, each set of hooks will look slightly different than what you see here. Found on Workeman.

15. This clever coat hook points out the obvious location for your outerwear, and does it with a smile. Once you try it, you'll be hooked. Ivory, red, or charcoal, hardware included. This hook measures approximately 6 from tip to tail. When hung, it will extend 4 from the wall. Via

16. They say that a picture is worth more than a thousand words. But did you ever think there are times when it may be the other way around?- sometimes a great, memorable, focused and inclusive sentence can really be worth more than a thousand images. It is the case of great historic sayings, that crossed the barriers of time and became quotes. Jody Mattiol thought about combining this idea with design, and turned an Oscar Wild saying into an interesting decorative item. The Genius Lasts Longer than Beauty clothes hanger is really cool : a statement mixed with something practical, a thing to reflect about on your way to work. The hangers are produced in a variety of colors, they have an appealing font and they can be purchased online here for the sum of 80 Euros.

17. OFF, the light switch hook, provides a hanging function when in the OFF position. It is a fully functional light switch. It was designed to persuade people to use less energy by providing a power saving incentive. You can either hang something on it or turn a light ON you can't do both. Via

18. If you spend enough time in an office you'll see paper clips and other office supplies being used for all kinds off things you wouldn't expect. But imagine if paperclips were 10 times bigger and stronger than usual? Apparently they'd make a great place to hang your coat. Not only does the Office Clip Hook make a great coat rack, but a fantastic conversation piece for visitors. - Via

19. We know you're tired when you get home. We are too. And only recently have we stopped throwing our coat on the floor (if it misses a chair) and our keys on the table in exchange for one of these Harry Allen coat racks/anything holders. It's quite handy wouldn't you say? - Via

20. For a coat hook with a difference- these stainless steel dart coat hooks from Anthony Chrisp. Finished in stainless steel and measuring 17 x 3.8 cm, they can just screw them into your wall compete with rawl plugs to screw them into plaster. Via

21. The Mr P hanger proves that size really does matter with this Excited Man Hanger. This handy wall hook/hanger can hold your keys, towel, coat, jacket, handbag or cat lead with ease! This silly hilarious coat hanger is simple and a little naughty, so Mr P entertains our office desks and accessorizes our homes in a unique, fun and memorable way! Via

22. The ribbon coat rack is a very simple (probably a lot harder than it looks) design that makes the rack look very natural. Inspired by a Ribbon blowing in the wind, Ribbon is a wall-mounted coat rack. Aimed to merge function and art, when in use Ribbon holds up to 5 coats and scarves, but by itself is wall art. Via

23. Cute enough to hang in a hallway, bathroom, pantry, garage, or anywhere you need a hook, these polyresin hooks are mounted on wood and will add a humorous touch to your home. Perfect for all the pet lovers in your life. Via

24. Hook Anemone designed by Anders Ljungberg is an organic shaped multi hanger for clothes and jewelry that was inspired by the underwater life. The design is really unusual but I have to admit that it looks cool. For now this hook is just a prototype and we hope that it will be in production soon.

25. Cups are useful everyday objects, so why not use them in a totally different way? The cups themselves are wide enough to hang your coat or clothes on without them falling off. The cup handles are place in the upright position, presumably to help keep hanging clothes on. These fun hangers are by Icelandic designer, Ragnheidur Ingunn Agustsdottir and marketed through Birkiland.

Titled Epic Thriller, this amazing phenakistiscope (old optical toy) will show the evolution of the King of Pop through various stages in his life when spin. Designed by Kelly Coats. More photos after the jump!

It's not as good as a new season of Firefly on television, but it's still cause for celebration a new anthology will feature original tales from TV series writers Jane Espenson, Jose Molina, Brett Matthews and Ben Edlund.

We mentioned the anthology a while back, but new details have emerged. According to Whedonesque, here are the original Firefly tales by the show's writers:

Fun With Dick And Jayne by Ben Edlund
What Holds Us Down by Jane Espenson
Crystal by Brett Matthews
Take The Sky by Jose Molina

And apparently "Fun With Dick And Jayne" will be an illustrated story. And according to Bleeding Cool, the book will also feature:

memories from the cast and crew, a tribute to the Browncoats, and even a feature on Nathan Fillion's legendary practical jokes, Still Flying is illustrated throughout with a wealth of rare and previously unpublished images, including storyboards, production design art and candid behind-the-scenes photos including an on-set shot of the last ever scene filmed for Firefly.

They can't take this show from us.

Happy Dogs Wearing Coats, Nuff Said on Dogatar

Thanks to Jock Coats of Oxford, we now have 3 new audiobooks available in Mises Media and iTunes U:

Mises.org | iTunes U

Mises.org | iTunes U

Mises.org | iTunes U

Haha.. Kanye is at it again. Hit the jump for his latest rant.

WHEN IT'S ALL SAID AND DONE, REMEMBER THE FEARLESS, REMEMBER THE DREAMERS, REMEMBER THOSE WHO REPRESENT THE GHETTOTHE FAIRY TALE OF NOTHING TO SOMETHING. I'M BRIEFLY SADDENED BY NEGATIVE COMMENTS, BUT I HAVE TO REMEMBER THOSE PEOPLE ARE SCARED, INCAPABLE OR JUST PLAIN IDIOTS. WE ARE THE FUCKING ROCK STARS BABY. NO COCAINE, JUST LIFE MY NIGGAS!! NO COCAINE, JUST LIFE! IT'S FUNNY TO ME WHEN FASHION BLOGGERS DOWN OUR OUFITS AND THEN SUPER JOCK OUTLANDISH SHIT ON THE RUNWAY BUT THEN THEY DRESS MAD PRUDE AND DON'T LIVE FASHION. WE LIVE IT MAN. FUCK THAT, WE LIVE IT!!! WE LIVE IT SO HARD PEOPLE LIVE THROUGH US! WE REPRESENT YOUR INNER SPIRIT!! THE CHILD IN US ALL, THE BRUTAL HONESTY, THE NAIVETY, THE BRAVE WARRIOR, THE ADRENALINE THAT ALLOWS A MOTHER TO LIFT A CAR IF HER CHILD WAS TRAPPED UNDER IT! REMEMBER, THERE WAS A TIME WHEN EVERYBODY DISSED MICHAEL JACKSON EVERY CHANCE THEY COULD. IMAGINE THE PRESSURE OF BEING A TRUE ICON. VERY FEW HUMAN BEINGS ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO TAKE CONSTANT HATE!!! IF WE DON'T DO WHAT YOU FEEL IS THE SHIT, YOU BEAT US UP VERBALLY AND MENTALLY, LIKE A CATHOLIC SCHOOL TEACHER BEATING A CREATIVE STUDENT INTO SUBMISSION. I CAN HEAR YOU SCREAMING COLOR INSIDE THE LINES!!!' WELL FUCK YOUR COLORING BOOK, COLOR BY NUMBERS APPROACH TO LIFE. AT THE END OF THE DAY WHO ARE WE HURTING??? OH THE NEW BLACK??? SINCE BARACK IS PRESIDENT BLACKS DON'T LIKE FUR COATS, RED LEATHER, AND FRIED CHICKEN ANY MORE?! WHEN YOU TRULY UNDERSTAND CULTURAL SETTINGS, BOUNDARIES, AND OUR MODERN DAY CASTE SYSTEMS, THEN YOU CAN FEEL THE GLORY AND PAIN FROM THE DAYS OF KINGS IN AFRICA TO THE NEW KINGS OF THE MEDIA. LET THE BALL PLAYERS DANCE AFTER THEY SCORE! IT'S LIFE MY NIGGAS, IT'S LIFE! REMEMBER CLOTHING IS A CHOICE. WE WERE BORN NAKED!!! FRESH IS AN OPINION, LOVE IS OBJECTIVE, TASTE IS SELECTIVE, AND EXPRESSION IS MY FAVORITE ELECTIVE. NO MORE POLITICS OR APOLOGIES!!!

Bravo dude, bravo.

Shared by phillip
Interesting.

Kirsten Luce for The New York Times SWITCHED Children playing before lunch at Sharon Elementary School in Robbinsville, N.J. Kids are calmer after they've had recess first, the school's principal said.

Can something as simple as the timing of recess make a difference in a child's health and behavior?

Some experts think it can, and now some schools are rescheduling recess sending students out to play before they sit down for lunch. The switch appears to have led to some surprising changes in both cafeteria and classroom.

Schools that have tried it report that when children play before lunch, there is less food waste and higher consumption of milk, fruit and vegetables. And some teachers say there are fewer behavior problems.

Kids are calmer after they've had recess first, said Janet Sinkewicz, principal of Sharon Elementary School in Robbinsville, N.J., which made the change last fall. They feel like they have more time to eat and they don't have to rush.

One recent weekday at Sharon, I watched as gaggles of second graders chased one another around the playground and climbed on monkey bars. When the whistle blew, the bustling playground emptied almost instantly, and the children lined up to drop off their coats and mittens and file quietly into the cafeteria for lunch.

All the wiggles are out, Ms. Sinkewicz said.

One of the earliest schools to adopt the idea was North Ranch Elementary in Scottsdale, Ariz. About nine years ago, the school nurse suggested the change, and the school conducted a pilot study, tracking food waste and visits to the nurse along with anecdotal reports on student behavior.

By the end of the year, nurse visits had dropped 40 percent, with fewer headaches and stomachaches. One child told school workers that he was happy he didn't throw up anymore at recess.

Other children had been rushing through lunch to get to the playground sooner, leaving much uneaten. After the switch, food waste declined and children were less likely to become hungry or feel sick later in the day. And to the surprise of school officials, moving recess before lunch ended up adding about 15 minutes of classroom instruction.

In the Arizona heat, kids needed a cool-down period before they could start academic work, said the principal, Sarah Hartley.

We saved 15 minutes every day, Dr. Hartley continued, because kids could play, then go into the cafeteria and eat and cool down, and come back to the classroom and start academic work immediately.

Since that pilot program, 18 of the district's 31 schools have adopted recess before lunch.

The switch did pose some challenges. Because children were coming straight from the playground, the school had to install hand sanitizers in the lunchroom. And until the lunch system was computerized, the school had to distribute children's lunch cards as they returned from recess.

In Montana, state school officials were looking for ways to improve children's eating habits and physical activity, and conducted a four-school pilot study of recess before lunch in 2002. According to a report from the Montana Team Nutrition program, children who played before lunch wasted less food, drank more milk and asked for more water. And as in Arizona, students were calmer when they returned to classrooms, resulting in about 10 minutes of extra teaching time.

One challenge of the program was teaching children to eat slower. In the past, children often finished lunch in five minutes so they could get to recess. With the scheduling change, cafeteria workers had to encourage them to slow down, chew their food and use all the available time to finish their lunch.

Today, about one-third of Montana schools have adopted recess before lunch, and state officials say more schools are being encouraged. The pilot projects that are going on have been demonstrating that students are wasting less food, they have a more relaxed eating environment and improved behavior because they're not rushing to get outside, said Denise Juneau, superintendent of the Office of Public Instruction. It's something our office will promote to schools across the state as a best practice.

Children's health experts note that such a switch might not work in many urban school districts, where lower-income children may start the day hungry.

It's a great idea, but first we've got to give them a decent breakfast, said Dr. David Ludwig, director of the obesity program at Children's Hospital Boston. A lot of kids skip breakfast and arrive at lunch ravenous.

And for a seemingly simple scheduling change, it can create some daunting logistical problems. Children often have to return to hallways and classrooms after recess for bathroom breaks and hand washing and to pick up lunch bags. The North Ranch Elementary School regularly fields calls from schools in colder climates with questions on how to deal with coats, hats, galoshes and mittens. In Arizona, we don't have to deal with that, said Dr. Hartley, the principal.

Many school districts say such problems make them reluctant to switch. A 2006 study in The Journal of Childhood Nutrition & Management reported that fewer than 5 percent of the nation's elementary schools were scheduling recess before lunch.

But at the Sharon Elementary School, the principal, Ms. Sinkewicz, says the challenges have been worth it. In the past, children took coats, hats and mittens with them to the lunchroom, then headed outside. Now they have time to return coats to lockers so they don't have to carry them to the lunchroom.

For some reason, kids aren't losing things outside, Ms. Sinkewicz said. The lost-and-found mound has gone down.

Firefly

Firefly

Mega Man 9

"I'm a huge fan of the Mega Man series. I own almost every Mega Man game that was released in the west on the original format they were released on. But for some reason the inclusion of Easy Mode in Mega Man 10 seriously rubs me the wrong way. . . .

Easy Mode takes the challenge factor out of the game. 'But Steve (that's my name) they just included it to attract a larger audience.' So what!? Look, the people that would have wanted to play this twenty-three year old franchise would have played it by now and those who you might attract play this installment will probably be turned away from the lack of dumbed down levels and mentally challenges enemies in the previous incarnations. Also, the inclusion of an Easy Mode might also tempt those who would be willing to overcome the challenge of the game to be swayed to a much more wussified experience."
Steve Napierski, Mega Man 10 - Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy

Mirror's Edge

"This self-proclaimed game design expert personifies the attitude that's ruining the business nowadays. Not every game needs to be catering to the casuals, those of us who have been around for a while and who still enjoy a challenge would like some nice new games to play as well. I loved Mirror's Edge, in very large part BECAUSE it was challenging.

In a few years time I fear we will be stuck with only shallow, dumbed down titles, designed with only the casual non-gamer crowd in mind, much like nintendo has already started doing.

And that makes me sad."
Comment by _jhn

"Old-timers and mountaineering purists bemoan the commercialisation of Everest, claiming commercial operators are destroying its mystique by dragging any Tom, Dick or fat-walleted American Harry up the hill.

'You get hardcore mountaineers who see what is happening on Everest as awful,' said Bierling. 'For (those) who 30 years ago climbed Everest on their own, it must be very sad to see what's been happening.'

What's been happening is every year the big commercial operators 'fix' the mountain, running ropes that climbers can clip onto from the deadly Khumbu ice falls below, 6000 metres to the summit."
Connie Levett, The deadly business of climbing Everest

Mirror's Edge

"Um hello? its called a learning curve! maybe you should stick to: (insert failing nintendo character here)'s super fun cook shop"
Comment by Sic

"All I'm saying is that there's other Mega Man spinoffs: The Battle Networks, the Star Forces, the ZXs Let one of them be the Mega Man for the weak, but leave the numbereds (and the Xs) to the purists."
Steve Napierski, Mega Man 10 - Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy

Firefly

"In the mid-1980s, the comic book industry was in the midst of one of its largest periods of growth, wealth, and cultural influence. . . . It was also a period of creative flexing as publishers realized the generation of loyal readers who had come on board after the industry's 1960s rise from the ashes were now reaching adulthood and would welcome and reward more challenging, more mature-themed material. . . .

By the 90s, it seemed like every hero was breaking thumbs and every villain had become a serial psycho or a mass murderer, rather than a master crook or a world conqueror. . . . 'Grim and gritty' 90s content wound up being a big part and parcel of an eventual downturn. . . .

The industry grew fat and happy on the money of the older fans. . . and hardly anyone was noticing that they were leaving the next generation in the dust. . . .

In catering only to an inevitably shrinking number of older fans without seeking out new ones, the industry had [pushed itself] into an oblivion it has yet to fully recover from. . . .

Gamers, hear me loud and clear: THIS CAN HAPPEN TO US!"
Bob Chipman, The GAME OVERTHINKER: EPISODE ELEVEN: "Can It Happen To Us?"

"Pinball skill is transferrable. If you can pass, stall, nudge, and aim on one machine you can do it on any machine. This is both a blessing and a curse for pinball developers. The blessing is that pinball players were a captive market. The curse was that to keep the pinball players interested the games had to get more and more intricate and challenging.

Pinball developers struggled with this problem as pinball was slowly losing to video games. Video games competed by adding levels of play with increasing difficulty. Any new player could quickly get chops on a new game because the low levels were easy. This ensured that new players were drawn in easily, but still they were continually challenged because the higher levels got harder and harder. By contrast, the physical nature of pinball, its main attraction to hardcore players, meant that there was no way to have it both ways.

Eventually, to keep the pinballers playing, the games became so advanced that entry-level players faced an impossible barrier. High-schoolers in 1986 were either dropouts or professionals in 1992 and without inflow of new players that year essentially marked the end of pinball."
Jeff Ely, The Economics of Pinball

Firefly

Eric Forcade, a tea party candidate challenging Rep. Bill Young (R-FL)

Beck's 9/12 project and its closely related tea parties have inspired a number of other challengers to Republican lawmakers deemed insufficiently pure:

Phil Troyer, an attorney and former staffer to Republican Sens. Dan Coats (R-IN) and Richard Lugar (R-IN), is challenged incumbent Rep. Mark Souder (R-IN). An avid tea party supporter, Troyer has attacked Souder as a big spending liberal. Rachel Grubb, who is involved with Beck's 9/12 project, is also challenging Souder.

Matt Sakalosky, a businessman who is a member of Beck's 9/12 project, is challenging Rep. Lee Terry (R-NE).

Earlier this year, Rep. Bob Inglis (R-SC) had the audacity to criticize Beck. Beck has marshaled his supporters into a crowded primary to take out Inglis. One of the challengers, college professor Christina Jeffrey, directly cites Inglis' criticism of Beck as part of the reason she is running.

Liz Lauber, a former aide to tea party leader and corporate lobbyist Dick Armey, is challenging Rep. Todd Akin (R-MO).

Rep. Ginny Brown-Waite (R-FL) is being challenged by Jason Sager, who said he is running because of Brown-Waite's support for moderate Republican Dede Scozzafava, the opponent of Beck mentee Doug Hoffman.

Even NRCC Chairman Rep. Pete Sessions (R-TX), charged with recruiting Republicans to challenge House Democrats in 2010, is facing a contested primary. Conservative activist David Smith says he will rely on the tea party movement to bring down Sessions.

The effort to oust imperfect conservative Republicans is buoyed by an internal Republican National Committee struggle to create an ideological litmus test for judging candidates. Elsewhere in the Beck-inspired movement, conservative activists are eagerly sending rubber chickens to Senators who voted for cloture to begin debate on health reform.

When dozens of publishing houses rejected 7th Son in 2005, J.C. reckoned the book would never be published. But convinced the story he'd told was worth sharing, he took to the "podwaves" in 2006 and released 7th Son: Descent as a free serialized podcast novel.

The story -- a modern-day tale about human cloning, memory recording, government conspiracies and a villain bent on global chaos -- captured the imagination of tens of thousands of listeners. Thanks to the quality of the story and the evangelism of these fans, an editor at St. Martin's Press took notice of 7th Son: Descent. The company offered to publish it. Hutchins is one of a few "podnovelists" who have landed such a deal with a major publisher.

To celebrate the Oct. 27 release of the book, J.C. is releasing the "print edition" of 7th Son: Descent in several serialized formats: PDF, blog text, and audio. We think J.C.'s personal story -- and the 7th Son novel -- is worthy of support, and are helping distribute the text version of the novel at Boing Boing for the next ten weeks.

What's the book about? Here's the jacket copy: As America reels from the bizarre presidential assassination committed by a child, seven men are abducted from their normal lives and delivered to a secret government facility. Each man has his own career, his own specialty. All are identical in appearance. The seven strangers were grown -- unwitting human clones -- as part of a project called 7th Son.

Intrigued? Check out the first serialized installment of 7th Son at the link below. You can support the book by purchasing a copy at Amazon, Barnes & Noble or Borders, or printing this PDF order form and presenting it at your favorite bookstore. You can learn more about the book at J.C.'s site.

Prologue

The president of the United States is dead. He was murdered in the morning sunlight by a four-year-old boy.

It was a simple stumping rally in Kentucky, no more than a pit stop on Tobacco Road. The Bluegrass State would vote Republican in next year's election, just as it had in the past two. At least that's what President Hank "Gator" Griffin said on this crisp October morning at Bowling Green College.

His speech was a barn-raiser, a helluva thing, roiling with Bible Belt-friendly sound bites. Keep the country strong. Reelect morality. Reelect character and faith. Next November, reelect Griffin and Hale.

God bless America. Waving now, working the crowd. Pump-pump handshake. Wink. Thank you. Kiss the lady. Hold the baby. Listen to the cheers.

Listen, as they turn to screams.

It happened so quickly: a smile and nod from the four-year-old's parents, a kiss on little Jesse Fowler's cheek for the photographers, a glint of silver in the boy's hand, the president's carotid artery open at the jaw, the scarlet wound arcing across his throat like a comet. The child's face spattered in red mist, the president's mouth forming a question, the boy's tiny teeth glittering white in the camera flashbulbs, a cry from a Secret Service agent.

The president did not stagger, did not sway; he crumpled at the knees, face white as bone. His forehead split open as it struck the sidewalk. There were many screams, many arms around him. A Secret Service agent grabbed the murderous boy as he dashed between a photographer's legs. The agent lifted Jesse Fowler high, by the ankle. The boy was furious, screaming obscenities no four-year-old should know. He swung his switchblade at the agent, knocking off the man's sunglasses. He swung again. And again.

More hands around the president. More screams from the crowd. Fowler's parents rushing the agent in shock, trying to protect their son. Secret Service agents covering Griffin's body with their own, his blood seeping into their suits. A scream rising from the child as he swung upside down by his ankle.

A chopper soon descended onto the campus's common field, its downdraft ripping the griffin/hale signs from shocked spectators' hands. The president and an army of Secret Service and medical agents arrived at the Bowling Green hospital three minutes later. But Hank "Gator" Griffin was already dead by then.

During the chaos at the college, little Jesse Fowler had been disarmed and tossed into the backseat of a police cruiser. His parents were also apprehended.

Just before the vehicle carrying the world's youngest political assassin peeled away from the scene, a photojournalist snapped a picture of the child. It would have been worthy of the Pulitzer Prize, had it been published. In the photo, Jesse Fowler's tiny bloodstained hands were pressed against the car's rear window. He gazed at a spattered griffin/hale sign, which was reflected in the cruiser's window in one of those remarkable moments of photojournalism.

The child's bloodshot eyes were wide. He was laughing.

By noon that day, Vice President Vincent Hale had been sworn in as the leader of the world's last superpower. Secretary of State Charles Caine was appointed VP.

The child's parents, Jennifer and Jackson Fowler, were arraigned on charges of conspiring to murder the president of the United States. The small Bowling Green restaurant they owned would never open again.

Their son was placed under maximum security in an undisclosed government facility for evaluation and interrogation. A week later, a nurse and an armed guard discovered Jesse Fowler's body. The four-year-old was lying in bed, his mouth and eyes open, dead. There were no signs of self-asphyxiation. There was no overdose, no theatrical cyanide capsule, no reasonable cause of death. Just the dried remains of a nosebleed, and eyes so bloodshot the whites had gone completely red.

Jesse Fowler had said only one thing during that week of confinement and examination. A balding, bearded doctor had asked the boy if he knew what he'd done to the president.

Jesse Fowler had looked at the doctor and giggled.

"Go fuck your mother," he'd said.

One

Saturday sex with Sarah was the best, John Smith decided. The very best. It was long, sweaty, dirty; nipple nibbles, fingernails raking the back and chest, obscene whispers, incomplete sentences. Headboard practically banging into the neighboring apartment's living room. Open windows to let the November Miami breeze cool themand to let the rest of the world shift uncomfortably with envy. That sort of sex.

John marveled at this as he pulled himself off her body, panting, staring up at the ceiling with an expression that was half self-satisfaction, half awe. Sarah grabbed a sheet from the floor, laughed long and loud, and rolled sideways to face him. The sheet stuck to her sweaty breasts and hips. She brushed a red curl from her face.

"Unbelievable," she said.

John gazed at the ceiling and shook his head. "I know."

"It's getting better."

He shook his head again and blinked. "I know."

Sarah smiled. "You should write a song about it."

"Uh, how about 'Christ Almighty, Do Me All Nighty.' "

"You could've done better than that," she snorted, and climbed out of bed. John watched Sarah's hips as she gracefully stepped through his cramped bedroom, traversing the thirtysomething's version of hopscotch: a pile of books on the floor, last night's clothes, several ratty folders filled with sheet music, an empty box of Trojans, his Gibson guitar. She was nimble and beautiful, and John wondered, not for the first time, what she saw in him.

She opened the bedroom door. John's fat, fuzzy cat scrambled past her legs and leaped onto the bed. He stomped onto John's chest and meowed, malcontent.

"Buzz off, Cat," John said.

"You need to buy him food," Sarah said, stepping into the living room on her way to the bathroom. "You said it yourself last night. And, Jesus . . . you should really clean up this place."

"Right," he called. "Wanna help?"

Sarah laughed. "Your house. Your mess. You clean it up."

"Maana."

John reached over and plucked a lighter and crumpled pack of cigarettes from the far end of the bedside table. He shook the pack, and two bentbut, thank God, not brokenCamel Lights rattled out and into his palm. He lit one, inhaled, and gazed at the ceiling.

Cat meowed again, sounding more surly this time. John absently scratched the critter's head, regarding him with a mixture of disdain and fondness. As Sarah showered, John watched the palm trees sway outside the window, stroked Cat, and finished his smoke.

He'd already put on a T-shirt and pulled his hair into a ponytail when Sarah came back into the room.

"Where ya going, stud?"

"Nowhere. Just to the Castle," he replied, slipping on a pair of jeans. "Gotta get the cat his food, and get me some more smokes."

Sarah looked at the unlit Camel by the ashtray. "I'm out, too."

"Have that one," John said, and kissed her. "Try to live through the nasty nonmenthol flavor. I'll take the bike. Won't be long."

Outside, as he pedaled his ten-speed into the apartment complex parking lot, Sarah called down to him from the balcony. She told him to hurry. She made a joke about how red-haired maidens reward bicycle-riding knights with breakfast and "muchly" hot sex . . . particularly if they come bearing cancer sticks.

John laughed, imagining her in bed, his head between her thighs, and said he'd pedal as fast as he could.

Alleyshonest-to-goodness damp, dark, well-worn shortcut alleyswere one of the things John missed most while living in Miami. Cycling always reminded him of his childhood in the Midwest, and of bike races with neighborhood kids, up and down the alleys. Miami was a driver's city, a twentieth-century city, a pink place that had no love for kick-the-can or cobblestones. This was the land of the planned community, where "historic home" meant that the paint on a house's shutters had just dried.

As he pedaled to the Castle convenience storeZero Hassle at the Castle!John pined for alleys and shortcuts, redbrick roads that led to scrappy basketball rims and tree houses. But there was no sense begrudging it. Miami was different. Neither better nor worse, just different. And since Miami had been around a lot longer than John had, he thought it best to adapt.

Besides, Miami had palm trees. And November weather like this.

He was making a quick turn onto Flamingo, a scenic residential road that would add a few minutes to his ridebut what the hey, it was Saturdaywhen he spotted the white van barreling toward him.

I don't think it sees me, he thought. If it did, it wouldn't be going so fa

John yanked the bike to the left, gripped both brakes, and nearly flew over the handlebars. The van's tires screeched. John's bike swerved between two parked cars, a Lexus and a very old, very cherry Beetle, and isn't it the damnedest things you notice at moments like this? The bike's front wheel struck the curb. John spilled onto the sidewalk, felt the flesh tear on his palm and chin.

He heard the van's front doors open, the rear slide-door whoosh along its rail, and the click-click of expensive dress shoes. John tried to slip out from under the ten-speed, but his foot was stuck on the chain. He looked up. Three men sporting sharp suits and crew cuts surrounded him.

"You know, a little help here would"

"Grab him," the biggest suit said, and the other two pounced. Their gloved hands locked on to John's upper arms like talons, yanking him from under the bike in one fluid motion, as if he were in some street-fighter ballet.

One of the men twisted John's left arm behind his backsay uncle, isn't it the damnedest things you notice?and John howled. The other suit held John's right arm out straight, like a wing. John couldn't move. He couldn't speak. They were going to break his arm; John could feel the muscles pulling apart.

The third man, the big suit, stepped before him. The stranger had gray eyes, a flat nose, a cleft in his chin, cheekbones carved from marble. No emotion was on that face. The men stood there on the sidewalk for what felt like an excruciating eternity.

Finally, the man raised his eyebrows. "You want it to stop?"

John nodded his head furiously.

The big man inhaled and exhaled slowly. "Good. Now. You're going to take a little ride with us."

The pain in John's left arm eased a little, and he used the moment to heave his body from side to side. His outstretched arm tore away from its captor and swung outward. He screamed for help. The talon on the throbbing wrist behind his back slipped slightly. He was going to do it, going to do it, going to run, going to break

No air. No air.

The leader, the one with the Superman chin, punched John in the stomach a second time. Then a third. John fell to the sidewalk, clutching his midsection, cradling it like a squirming baby. Through the haze, he saw one of the men toss the ten-speed into the back of the van. He spotted the other with a syringe, felt the bee sting of the needle, then things became pleasant, sweet, dark, darker.

He heard one last thing before he lost consciousness, the leader's voice.

"Should've come quietly, Johnny-boy."

* * *

Michael had been only nine at the time, but he had noticed the transformation of the horizon during that drive: the mortar and steel of city giving way to the bland homes of the suburbs. Then, with the abruptness of a beachhead, the land of station wagons and culs-de-sac relinquished control to the flat expanse of Indiana's heart. The corn. It was a sea, Michael thought back then. Bright green combines occasionally slipped through its waves like barges. And like the sea, the corn could barely be contained; it ebbed just feet from the road.

There, at a family picnic by the roadside, Michael's mother had told him that places were like people; they had personalities. More important, she said, they had emotions. Souls. Sometimes you could feel the soul of a place. Michael had munched on a peanut butter sandwich and asked her what she meant.

"Close your eyes," she said. "Listen. Just breathe and listen. Listen with your ears. What do you hear?"

Quiet, he'd said. Grasshoppers. Corn leaves slapping against each other. A bird. The wind.

"Now what do you feel?" she asked.

Nice. Peaceful. Love, maybe.

"Maybe that's what this place is like," his mother said. "Maybe this place is peaceful, loving. Gentle. Maybe that is this place's soul. It's important to listen to a place sometimes, to hear what it thinks. Understand?"

Michael said he did, a little. Maybe. His mother laughed and kissed him on the cheek and said that maybe he would understand when he was older. He'd finished his sandwich, took a sip of cherry Hi-C from his thermos, and went to play Frisbee with his father.

Michael had never forgotten that conversation. And while he understood its mysteries now about as much as he had then, he always made time to close his eyes and listen to a new place. It had come in handy years later when he went to Parris Island, and then to Kosovo and Afghanistan and other countries with alien names and landscapes. Those places held power over their inhabitants. That faraway day's lesson had dovetailed with what he learned in boot, and later in Force Recon training. Know the land, and you'll know the people.

Michael knew Gitmo. He'd been here for only a week, and he knew it. Gitmo was angry. Gitmo was confused. Under the Kevlar and pride and posturing, Gitmo was crying for blood. Its inhabitants were restless. It wanted to put a hurt on whoever was behind the death of the president two weeks ago.

Michael ran to appease the lion inside. He ran to clear his head of the irrational, the emotions, the confusion and endless discussions that were unfolding at Guantnamo and, presumably, in America. He'd learned about the president's assassination a week after the rest of the civilized world. He had been on assignment, assisting CIA types in a nation where the scorpions were the size of ashtrays and the politics as volatile as nitroglycerin. Now he was back in the fold, catching up, getting informed.

Michael was into his sixth mile when a Humvee approached from behind. It pulled ahead by a few hundred yards and stopped. A full bird stepped out and waited for Michael to catch up.

Michael stopped, stood erect, and saluted. His breathing was even, but the sweat poured from his arms and face. His thirty-year-old body was a study in sculpture, loyalty, and endurance. Scars were on his arms and back. A USMC tattoo on his right biceps. Women remarked at his physique and his blue eyes, not that it mattered much to him. Men remarked at his ability to do seventy pull-ups in two minutes.

The colonel returned the salute and stepped forward.

"It's Saturday, son," the older man said. "Even God Himself rested one day of the week."

Michael half-smiled. "I expect to go to heaven, sir, and I'd like to represent our Corps in a mano a mano boxing match against the Lord God when I get there. This is prep."

"Blasphemous." The colonel laughed, then clapped Michael on the shoulder. They stepped over to the Humvee. The driver passed the colonel a clipboard. The old man scanned the sheet of paper.

"Says here you're to report to the airstrip in three hours. Heading to Virginia."

"Sir? I just returned from an op," Michael said. "I'm supposed to head back home to Denver. Two weeks' leave."

"I don't know anything about that." The colonel nodded at the clipboard. "This came to my office. Classified. I'm supposed to round you up personally and get you on that plane. Now I don't take a shine to running errands, Smith, particularly when they're so hush-hush I can't have one of my staff get their nails dirty for me. You're not going to give me any trouble on this, are you?"

Michael stiffened. "Of course not, sir."

"Then be there at eleven hundred, as ordered."

"Yes, sir."

As the Humvee sped away, Michael stood in the sun, still sweating. He gritted his teeth. He breathed and listened.

Gitmo was angry. Gitmo was confused. For the first time this week, Michael was glad for that. He was glad he wasn't the only one. He began to run again, this time back toward the base.

The lion inside him had many questions.

* * *

the president is alive!! this is another attempt to create pandemonium!! an elaborate hoax is being staged against the american people. as you know my source inside insists this is nothing more than an excuse to get griffin out of the public eye. blackjack and Special(k) say there is no threat to america but the president had to be removed so he can conduct talks with the true entities behind this conspiracy.

the world had to believe assassination was true so no one could suspect the real reason why griffin is gone. the grays are finally reestablishing communications and wish to discuss total social and technological integration with us!! after two years of silence they are retransmitting their signals! there is proof, the photograph below was sent from blackjack and confirmed by another source as authentic. it is an image taken from hubble of the phobosian base where the grays have been stationed for the past decade. the time is at hand! the next great age of humanity has begun!!!! kilroy2.0 was here kilroy2.0 is everywhere

>ATTACH graybase.jpg
>LOAD TRACKSCRAMBLER
>EXECUTE
>UPLOAD

Kilroy2.0 leaned back from the computer screen in satisfaction. This new message had just been posted to his Web site TheTruthExcavated.com. It was one of six sites he updated daily.

He rocked back and forth in the wooden chair, his round, bearded face ebbing in and out of the light flickering from the five computer monitors. The rest of the apartment was soaked in shadow; the afternoon sunshine warming the rest of Washington, D.C., was blocked by the sheets of aluminum foil taped to the window frames.

Sunlight was not welcome here. This was a timeless place. A temple. Kilroy2.0 was beyond time, beyond day, beyond daylight. There were no Fridays or Saturdays or Mondays. Only Nondays.

Once, long ago during his life as a civilian, Kilroy2.0 had been known by another name, a man's name, a Pedestrian's name, forgettable. It was the name of an unenlightened tourist of the world, one familiar to worker bees who did not hear the whispers in the walls. But that name, that life, that was Before. Before he had seen the Truth that was seeping through the Media's Lies. Before he had his pulpits.

Before he was here. Before he was everywhere.

Kilroy2.0 smiled in the silence, rocking, cataloging and prioritizing the next series of Web-site updates in his mind. Beneath the desk, the small fans inside his five computers whirred softly. The wooden chair creaked as he rocked. The walls did not speak, for which he was grateful. Silence was like a sand castle to him: fragile, fleeting, golden.

The pounding at the front door shattered it all.

Kilroy2.0 started, glanced across the living room. The chain locks rattled at the impact. His eyes flashed back to Monitor Three, at the miniature video screen in the corner.

The feed from the wireless webcam he'd installed in the outside hall was dead.

The pounding, again.

Kilroy2.0 stood straight up, the chair hitting the floor like a pistol shot. Hands shaking, he dashed to the windows. This was it. They'd finally found him and they'd make him vanish, take away the Word and transform him into a Pedestrian just like Before and

can't let that happen, have to get out of here

He ripped at the aluminum foil on the windows, gasping and squinting through the furious sunlight.

A man was out there, waiting for him on the fire escape.

Kilroy2.0 shrieked. The pounding behind him stopped . . . then the door exploded inward, nearly flying off its hinges. Kilroy2.0 whirled toward the door. The window behind him shattered. Arms reached out to him from inside, now from outside.

The voltage from the Taser stun gun surged through Kilroy2.0's body before he knew he was hit. He crashed face-first onto the hardwood floor, taking all of his 320 pounds with him. His dirty spectacles skittered across the hardwood.

One man was barking orders. Take everything with a motherboard. Monitors, too. Look for laptops, BlackBerries, cell phones. Clean it out. Cuff him up.

Kilroy2.0 heard it all, terrified, exhilarated. They dragged his limp body out of his home and down the apartment building's stairs. As they stepped out of the building and into the sunlight, a rogue thought flashed through Kilroy's mind.

He couldn't smile at the irony, but he wanted to.

kilroy2.0 was here

* * *

Hallway mazes, clanging doors, floors and walls colored in muted browns and blues. Hospitals are collages of impassive colors that do not offend, that make no promises.

Father Thomas walked through the halls of St. Mary's, passing door after door, trying not to focus on the smell of sterilizer and Salisbury steak that seemed to sweat from its walls. When a place deals in illness and death, those things are in the air, the walls, the beds, of that place. In his six years as a priest, Thomas had strode through many hospitals like this one. They all smelled the same to him.

He wondered, fleetingly, if doctors smelled a sameness in churches.

The call to the rectory this morning had come as neither shock nor revelation to Thomas. It was Mark McGee. Mark's father, Gavin, had requested his last rites. Thomas knew the man, liked him, admired his humor and courageparticularly during the past three years. Gavin McGee was an optimistic man. But cancer eats everything, especially optimism.

For three years, Thomas had watched his parishioner being devoured by his own mutating flesh. The cancer in Gavin McGee's lungs took great pleasure in tearing out of remission, feasting upon the good cells of a good man. Thomas believed almost everything he'd been taught in seminary about suffering, about God's mysterious role in death and diseases. Yet he silently believed that God had no role in creating a few things on this earth. Cancer was one of them. It was as if Lucifer had left a splinter of himself in the world when he had fallen long ago, a thing whose purpose was to uncreate, to unwind man's Providence and dine on its goodness. Cancer was not a bad thing that happened to good people. It was an arrow fired from something old and unholy.

Father Thomas found Room 511 and knocked. Mark McGee answered, shook Thomas's hand, and motioned him inside. The priest hugged Ellen, Gavin's daughter, and said hello to her husband. He nodded quietly at their thank-yous, told them it was his duty and his honor; Gavin McGee was his friend, a pillar, a proud parent, a little slice of legend at St. Barnabas. They all smiled at that, and Thomas was glad for it.

Even through the fog of painkillers, Gavin McGee recognized Thomas almost instantly and smiled. The patient's thick silver-red hair was nearly gone now. His once-wide shoulders sagged downward, toward Tinkertoy arms. Gavin McGee winked at Thomas, saying it all: I'm throwing the fight, but I'm fine with it.

"Hello, Gavin," Thomas said.

"I know the secret now, Father," McGee said. "Realized the place I'm heading is a helluva lot better than where I'm at."

Thomas smiled. "That's about as true as it gets."

McGee nodded toward his grown children. Nearly forty years ago, Gavin McGee had been the topic of dinnertime conversation here in sleepy-eyed Stanton, Oklahoma. He had taken his ex-wife to court to claim full custody of Ellen and Mark. As a mother, Shellie just wasn't up to snuff, he'd told the judge. Boozing, carrying on with barflies, she was no role model he wanted his children to follow. The judge ruled in his favor, marking Gavin McGee as the first man in Stanton ever to win such a case.

"Not a bad life, eh, Father?" McGee said.

"No, Gavin. Not a bad life. The best life."

Thomas administered the last rites. Gavin McGee renounced his sins, asked for forgiveness, said he believed in Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and the one Holy and Apostolic Church. McGee held his children's hands through the sacrament, accepted the body and blood of Christ, and smiled when it was over.

In his years performing this role in dozens of rooms just like this one, Thomas often saw such dignity so close to the end. He wondered if his own parents had felt this kind of peace. Their deaths had been sudden, but surely in the divine infinite expanse of a second, they would have felt the same calm and courage as Gavin McGee. Surely we all will, he thought.

In St. Mary's parking lot, on the way back to his Cavalier, Father Thomas Smith was stopped by an armed man who politely asked him to join him for a ride. The green-eyed man, who sported a crew cutclearly militarysaid he didn't want any trouble; he simply wanted the priest to get in the car. As a Crown Vic with tinted windows pulled up beside them, Thomas insisted he had no money, and that he was a shodana first-degree karate black beltand could protect himself if it came to that.

Two other men stepped out of the car. They were also armed.

The leader said he didn't think it would come to that.

* * *

Two strangers were in his East Village apartment, walking through his living room, scanning the myriad spines on the bookshelves, daintily picking up and examining the trinkets from faraway lands. Their white latex gloves provided a disconcerting contrast against the many dark-hued, primitive items.

A third man stood before him, above him. This man pulled a white handkerchief from his suit's breast pocket. He reached down and gently wiped the sweat from Jay's face.

Jay did not speak. He had been told not to speak unless spoken to. He abided by this rule in silent terror, watching these three puzzle over his life. One of them gazed at a photograph of Mikhail Gorbachev with interest. The man glanced at a photo of Jay standing beside Kofi Annan and harrumphed.

A half hour ago, Jay had been enjoying a sweet tea and an intense game of Tetrishis two Saturday vices, if one could call them thatwhen Patricia called to tell him she was running late. The subway had inexplicably stopped service for a few minutes, she'd said. This gave Jay a few more minutes of Tetris's spinning bricks before he had to run to the market on Eighth to snag the chicken breasts. Eventually, he left. He'd been gone for no more than twenty-five minutes. In that time, these three men had broken into his home and waited.

They'd descended on him like midnight predators. A chop to his shoulder. A quick shove across the room, where he fell onto the sofa. A display of gun barrels to convince him they meant business. Impassive glares from dangerous faces.

Jay Smith had quickly learned in New York that when a man with a gun asks you for your wallet, you give it to him. If he tells you to recite the Pledge of Allegiance in Swahili, you do that, too. Say nothing threatening, do nothing threatening. Find another way to burn the adrenaline, just give him the wallet and go for a long walk afterward. Process it in the to-be, not the now.

Jay glanced over the couch now, searching for the cordless phone. A wordless 911 call, a traced line, a dispatched cruiser . . . but the receiver wasn't there. They had removed it.

One of the searching men plucked a picture frame from a bookshelf and handed it to the man standing before Jay. It was a black-and-white photograph of Patricia: black hair cropped short, eyebrows arched in surprise and joy. The leader held up the photo and looked down at Jay.

"Your wife. She's about the cutest thing I've ever seen. I bet you'd do anything for her, wouldn't you?"

Jay licked the sweat from his lips and shuddered. "Yes."

"I bet the last thing she'd want to see when she came home is her husband with a bullet where his brain used to be, hmmm?"

"Yes."

"And I bet the last thing you'd want is your little Peppermint coming home and meeting us. Meeting us, Jay. That could be very troublesomedownright dangerousfor such a pretty lady. Isn't that right? Why, we might have to do something to those photo-taking peepers of hers, should she see us."

"How did you know"

The man raised his 9 mm and pointed it at Jay's head. "Answer the question."

Jay shuddered again. "Right."

"I'm sorry for the theatrics, but this way is best," the man said. "It's also the most effective."

His brown eyes bored into Jay's. "So. Are you going to continue being a good boy?"

Jay nodded. One of the men lifted him off the couch and shoved him toward the front door.

* * *

This is my night, he thought. The beginning of the explosion. Ten minutes on CNN. Ten minutes on Larry King. Larry fucking King. The book'll shoot up the lists like a Titan rocket. The networks will call. Ten minutes with King. Then twenty with Oprah. ABC will pull Barbara Wahwah out of retirement for an exclusive. And then, nirvana itself, the speaking engagements. Oh, the speaking engagements, the huddled masses, all gathered to hear the World According to Me.

He was going to give Rochelle the biggest, wettest, sloppiest kiss for pulling this off. Shit. He was going to give Larry King the biggest, wettest, sloppiest kiss when this was all over with, just as Marlon Brando had. This was it. The beginning of the explosion.

There was a knock at the door. That cute production assistant with the ponytail and a pen behind her ear peeked into the men's room and smiled. It was probably supposed to look like a comforting smile for Mike's benefit, but the corners of her mouth telegraphed years of experience: I know you're nervous, that's why I gave you some time in the head. But navel gazing's over, bub.

"Mike? It's me again, Terry. We're gonna have to get you over to makeup in the next two minutes."

"Right on." Confident. Cool.

Terry was unimpressed. "Dr. Smith, I'm going to remind you that you're the first up tonight. And since this is Larry King Live, you'll want to be on time."

Mike nodded and gulped. He suddenly had to pee.

"Right, right. Just give me another minute, okay?"

Terry's eyes tensed for a second. "One minute."

Mike dashed over to a urinal, frantically unzipped his fly, and barely managed to aim at the basin before the piss came. He was washing his hands when the door opened again.

It was another PA, apparently. Young man, jeans, T-shirt. A security pass dangled from a band around his neck like a flimsy convention name tag. He smiled nervouslynow that is a bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool, can't-hide-shit-from-a-psychologist genuine smile, Mike thoughtand walked over to the sink. The kid was holding a copy of Hunting the Hunters.

"Dr. Mike?"

"I'm ready," Mike said, glancing in the mirror.

"That's great. But I was hoping that before you went, you could sign my copy of your book. I loved it, especially the chapters about the Three Ring Circus killer. I have a pen."

Mike brightened. "Of course. I'm glad you liked it."

The kid placed the book on the counter. As Mike's hand reached for the hardback, he asked, "And to whom am I signing this fine piece of"

He opened it and blinked. The pages had been cut, hollowed out. A pistol was resting inside.

In one heartbeat, the kid grabbed the gun, pressed it to the base of Mike's ear, and said, "To your biggest fan."

* * *

Daddy, that's who.

Tonight, the four-year-olds had been relatively peaceful in Blockbuster's family section, particularly after Daddy slyly recommended D.A.R.Y.L., a "megacool" movie he'd seen when he was a boy.

Blessedly, they took the bait. They made a pit stop in the mystery section for "Mommy and Daddy's movie" and made it home with little fuss. Jack chalked it up to James Brown's "I Got You (I Feel Good)." The twins gleefully sang along. All six times.

Lisa had already called the pizza place by the time they came home. Jack got the plates ready; Lisa and the girls grabbed the juice boxes and the napkins. Lisa was asking them which flavor they wanted"Grape!" the kids cried in unisonas Jack turned on the TV and popped in the girls' movie.

The doorbell rang. Jack grabbed a twenty from his wallet and opened the door for the pizza guy. The men exchanged the typical heys and how's it goin's. This pizza guy . . . like all pizza guys these days, it seemed . . . peered over his shoulder, curiously eyeing the living room. Minimum-wage voyeurs, Jack thought. But then again, there had to be some perk for such a thankless job.

"How much do I owe you?" Jack asked.

The stranger dropped his box, covered Jack's mouth with one hand, and yanked him outside with the other. It was quick and silent.

The girls did not watch D.A.R.Y.L. with Daddy that night.

Two

John lifted his T-shirt and gazed at the reflection of his stomach in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. His midsection hurt like hell, but there were no bruises; no proof of the assault. Even his hand and chin had been had been cleaned and bandaged. His left arm still throbbed from when those suits had pulled it behind his back and nearly broken it, that game of Say Uncle on steroids.

He lowered his shirt and looked at his reflection. Shoulder-length, sandy blond hair. High cheekbones. Five feet eleven inches. Lanky. Aside from the small Band-Aids on his chin and palm, John looked the same as he did when he had kissed Sarah good-bye this morning.

John didn't know what time it was or where he was; he'd never worn a watch, and this so-called waiting room had no clocks. Just a conference table, ten posh office chairs, several plastic cups, a single drinking straw, some cans of sodaand one large, cracked mirror. The mirror, that was his work.

About an hour and a half ago, John had abruptly been pulled from unconsciousness. He was strapped to a gurney, looking up at fluorescent lights, white ceiling tiles, and bespectacled faces. Through the haze, those faces had looked like moons. They gently commanded John to stay calm. He did, for a few seconds. Then he remembered the bicycle ride, the van . . . the man with the marble cheekbones . . . and began screaming for answers. He screamed about constitutional rights, probable cause, and arrest warrants. He pleaded and proclaimed his innocence again and again. The restraints didn't budge. Neither did these strangers.

As the moonmen pushed his gurney down a hallway, John asked questions. He pressed his body against the restraints. He craned his neck and spotted men in military fatigues with M16s trailing beside the folks with the white coats. The ceiling tiles streaked by above him. The gurney made a right, a left, a right. He wanted to know what he'd done. He wanted to know where he was. There had been a terrible mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. After a while, the true terror took hold and he'd stopped screaming.

When the gurney finally stopped, one of the moonmena middle-aged doctor, presumablybent down to whisper in John's ear. John could feel the man's beard, his mouth was so close.

"John, I want you listen to me," the man said, his voice calm. He had an under bite, which made him sound vaguely like Sean Connery. It was annoying. "My name is James DeFalco. I'm an assistant here. I'm not the man who can answer your questions; I'm not authorized to give you any information yet. But your questions will be answered soon. Soon, John. Do you understand?"

John stared at the ceiling and blinked. He said he understood.

"Good," DeFalco said. "Now, we're going to lower this gurney, remove your restraints, and help you up. We're going to walk you through this door. We're then going to close the door. There you'll wait for the answers to your questions."

Fuck this, John thought.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you, John?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to cooperate, John?"

"Yes."

The white coats lowered the gurney. Then the soldiers loosened the restraints across his chest, wrists, and legs. John didn't move until two of the grunts had slung their rifles behind their backs and grabbed his armpits to help him up.

John swiftly swung his elbow upward and connected with the nose of one of the soldiers. Blood peppered John's shirt. The soldier fell backward across the gurney. The other grunt grabbed John and slammed him, front-first, into the wall. As the white coats screamed not to hurt him, for God's sake don't hurt him, the door was yanked open and John was thrown into the waiting room. As he scrambled to get up, the dead bolt clicked home.

John had pounded on the metal door, paced the room, and finally thrown one of the office chairs into that mirror wall, praying it would shatter to reveal a roomful of clipboard-toting eggheadsand a way out. It did not shatter. The chair cracked the glass and nearly hit John as it bounced back from the impact. It was a seven-foot-tall exclamation point for his screams.

That had been an hour ago. He'd sung to himself, to keep the terror away and the questions from eating up his brain. He sang the trusty standbys: Dylan, Baez, McLachlan. He even sang some of his own songs"Do This for Me," "Rockefeller Center," "Winter Love," "Unscrew You."

Now John was staring at himself in a splintered mirror, wondering why men in suits had beaten and sedated him, why moonmen with rifles had thrown him into a conference room, why in God's name this had happened to him.

John heard the dead bolt unlock. He turned to see a fat man with tangled hair, pop-bottle glasses, and a wild man's beard enter the room. No, not fat. Obese. Well over three hundred pounds, a boulder with legs. The newcomer immediately waddled over to one of the chairs and plopped into it. The door closed and locked. The stranger stared and smiled at the table.

John walked over and stood across from the newcomer. The man did not look up. He rocked in his chair.

"Are you the man I'm supposed to talk to?" John asked.

Silence. Rocking.

"Listen. I've got questions," John said.

The man scratched his head. He didn't look up.

John looked closely at the man. The dude was probably his age. He slouched over a great belly. He smelled. He had dandruff. A Pollock painting of food stains covered his grimy yellow T-shirt. John watched the man reach over, grab a can of Dr Pepper from the table's center, and pour the soda into a plastic cup. He snatched the drinking straw, plunked it into the liquid.

John sat down across from him. "Hey. You the guy I'm supposed to talk to, or not?"

"No." The man's voice had a disconcerting tremble; high-pitched, almost feminine.

"Did they bring you here, too?"

"Yeah." Giggle.

"Do you know why we're here?"

The stranger looked up, grinning. Behind his pop-bottle spectacles, the man's blue eyes widened until they looked as if they'd pop out of his skull.

"I know everything," he whispered.

John jumped back in his chair and nearly screamed.

He knew those eyes.

* * *

It was an exercise in contrasts. The marine was wearing BDUs. Flattop. Broad-shouldered. Chisel-chinned. The priest was slightly pudgy; his cheeks were full and shiny, his stomach pressed against his belt. His hair was combed in a style of humility or fashion cluelessness; John didn't know which.

John did know, however, thatdespite the physical differencesthese men were brothers. Identical twins. They were the same height. Their blue eyes worked over each other with the same expression of suspicion. Their faces were pursed in the same look of silent fear and amazement.

John also knew that despite the physical differences, the lunatic across from him was also a dead ringer for these two.

And all three of them looked like John.

The lunatic slurped the last of the Dr Pepper in his cup and smacked out a soda-commercial ahhhh.

The priest reached into his breast pocket with a shaking hand and pulled out a rosary. He sat down at the end of the table, in the chair closest to the cracked mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair and gawked at John in disbelief. John was certain he was returning the expression.

The feeling was unreal, like the unsettling sensation of watching yourself on video, only magnified. Do I really look like that? Only worse. Only this time, the video You is sitting six feet away from the real You, wearing a priest's collar, breathing the same air, probably feeling the same slippery, sick sensation in his gut.

The marine still stood near the door. His eyes flicked over the lunatic, then sized up John and the priest. Cracking his knuckles, the marine strode back to a corner of the room and leaned against the wall, watching them, saying nothing.

The priest dropped his rosary on the table. He looked at John, his hands still shaking. "Are we brothers?" His voice had a slightly nasal quality. Had his nose been broken years ago?

"I don't know." John felt sick. "I thought I was an only child."

The priest nodded. "So did I."

"Quadruplets," the fat lunatic said.

The door opened again. This time, two more men. One of them was yelling out into the hall as the door was closing, something about who he was and whom they'd have to answer to if they didn't explain everything right fucking now. He pounded on the door as it locked.

The other newcomer was almost as thin as John. He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans; his hairline was beginning to thin. He looked very much like the priest sitting at the tablesame hair, same tightly wound shoulders, probably a dozen pounds lighter than Father Whoever. The man's eyes jumped nervously from the screaming man to the rest of the room. They widened when they spotted John's face. The wide-eyed man opened his mouth to say something. John just shook his head: Don't know what to tell you, man.

The man who'd been pounding on the door whirled around. This one looked like a politician. Blow-dried hair, Brooks Brothers suit, starched collar, and shiny, expensive tie. Brooks Brothers looked at his fellow captives. His face went white.

"Shit the bed," he said.

And then the wide-eyed man beside himthe one who looked like the priest at the tablefainted. The politician looked down at the body, then up at John. He shrieked, whirled around, and began pounding on the door again.

Let me out let me out let me out.

The lunatic began to laugh.

John's eyes went to the priest again. Father Whoever was clutching his head in his hands. John looked past the priest, into the splintered mirror wall. This is just like that, he thought. Only the reflection screams because you're the video You not the real You and you're the cracked mirror, seven years of bad luck and welcome to Wonderland, you should've come quietly, Johnny-Boy, I really need a cigarette, and this can't be happening. . . .

By the time the seventh "twin" came through the door, the group had calmed down, clammed up. No one had spoken since the unhinging twenty minutes ago. Call it sensory overload. Call it shock. Call it brains filled with too many questions to make nice-nice pleasantries like What's your name and What do you do and Jeez you look familiar did I know you in high school.

John gazed up at the newly arrived bearded, bespectacled, bewildered man, but didn't look closely. It didn't matter. The newcomer looked like the priest. He looked like the lunatic, the politician, the fainting man, the marine.

He looks like me. Just like me.

We asked and you certainly answered.

We've received a lot of great feedback about our recent release, which isn't too surprising, considering it was chock-full of fantastic feature enhancements. We did things like make Wetpaint even more social, added a What's New site activity dashboard, revamped the page layout to give members more room to do their thing, removed some ads, rolled out some cool tools to help creators get more traffic, (*whew*) and more. Most of the response has been overwhelmingly positive however, a few tears were shed for one feature that was removed.

Our out with the old, in with the new spirit motivated a decision to fold the home page Recent Site Activity module (formerly located in the right-hand column) into the brand-new What's New site area. While the What's New dashboard provides approximately 1,726 times the awesome, many among the Wetpaint faithful liked the at a glance nature of the Recent Site Activity module.

So what's a company to do? Duh listen up and do something about it! So in answer to your feedback, we're restoring the Site Activity Module to the home page, though in a new location. Look for it in the next few days in the left-hand column, where you presently see the To-Dos access point (which will move up into the horizontal navigation menu bar).

So Wetpainters, keep giving us suggestions we're listening.