Mars

Every now and then I like remindin' folks that I am a writer. I don't just write about my beliefs or ramble on about nuthin' sometimes I tell stories I made up all on my own.

This one's 'bout a character in my book. His name is Vincent Maroni and he's a big, burly, bastard and generally viewed as a one dimensional character. People think he's just a bruiser but he's a bit deeper than all that. Hopefully this shows a touch of that and why he's viewed as a bruiser. Enjoy.



Mars: God of War

The crowd roars around the cage. They’re ready for another blood bath. The mat has that familiar metallic smell. Mars knows it well.

Vincent Maroni is the man known as Mars, a shortened form of Maroni as well as the name of the Roman god of war. He is named so because the man is a fighter. He fought his mother’s drinking to be born and his father’s abuse to live. He fought the boys in school that picked on him. Now he fights punks at a club to make money. He’s fighting tonight because he has nothing better to do. Vincent enjoys what he does. His home is the battlefield.

He is bigger than most men, let alone those born premature like he was. His physique is chiseled perfection. The only imperfections visible are the scars he wears like badges of honor engraved on his face and body. They are marks earned in the school yard and not in the classroom. Mars was never much for the classroom. He doesn’t know much about photosynthesis or algebra but he knows weapons and he knows tactics in battle. He is no genius but he is no one’s fool.

People have tried using him like a fool. They ask him difficult questions to reveal he doesn’t know the answer. They only ask him to beat up people. No one asks his opinion on political matters. No one cares what he thinks about art. Only in battle do his opinions matter. In battle, all his insecurities disappear and he becomes whole. No more hurt from feeling stupid. No more feeling hurt because another woman rejected him. No hurt feelings because the ones that accepted him will never be the one he wants.

“I am not the ox.” He chants in his mind before every fight. Reminding himself to be smart. Reminding himself that people expect only so much from him. And that he will invariably prove them wrong.

The god of war waits patiently in the cage built to contain his fury. He waits for his next victim to be presented to him. He sits in a throne built for him. In the ring he is king, he is ruler. Here his word is law. There is no one capable of defeating him. He knows these things down to his bones. He knows them with every cell in his body.

The air around him seems to carry his intimidating scent to his opponents. One combatant didn’t realize how mismatched he was until he caught that smell. He pissed himself immediately after. Mars let him walk away from the fight. The man’s manager wouldn’t though. Mars showed the little man mercy and ended his suffering with a single attack. It hurt. A lot. But he lived. For a while.

The crowd cheers as the opponent enters. Mars stays seated and says nothing. He waits patiently seated in his throne knowing his subjects only cheer for the soul about to separate from its body. The warrior about to face a god is tall, thin, and fast. Against Mars he may be challenging. Short and fast is nice for the audience, creates a David and Goliath atmosphere. Here the challenger, Kaz of Zimbabwe, stands six inches taller than Mars and is dressed in a loin cloth and painted like some kind of demonic skeleton. He holds two short spears in his hands which add extra danger.

Mars stands and begins to stretch for the fight. He is attacked from behind by the giant from Zimbabwe, or so he claims anyway, a dirty tactic even in this underground world of battle. The giant tries sliding his other spear into Mars’ side but is caught in the act. The other blade is slowly being forced deeper into Maroni’s back by the weight of the giant. Maroni needs both arms to twist the giant’s hand, but he manages to with a little effort and pulls his enemy down in a modified hip toss.

Mars wastes no time as he drops his knees on his opponent’s mid-section, forcing the air from his lungs. They both know it’s all but over after that. In the karate movies, they’d have you think fights were supposed to last hours or that the person with the fanciest moves is going to win. That’s not the truth.

Kaz slashes with the one spear still in his possession and Mars is forced off of him. Kaz coughs and gasps. Mars grabs the spear on the floor and lunges for Kaz’s belly. His attack lands and so do Kaz’s guts.

Kaz is determined to win, he throws his spear and strikes Mars’ shoulder. Mars pulls it out with a grunt. He shoves one of the spears through the arm of the giant and kicks him on to his back.

Kaz of Zimbabwe, bleeds uncontrollably, and gasps frantically for air. Still the giant tries to shove Mars away as the god of war grabs the giant’s skull in both hands. Kaz roars like a lion to warn away Mars. The god only smiles as he forces his hands together. It’s not an easy task, not even for Mars but he hears the first subtle crack and knows it’ll all be over soon. The audience watches in the horror what their pagan god does.

Mars stands up and flings brain matter from his hands. He walks to his throne and sits, waiting patiently for his next victim. The crowd cheers.

Choice

In my life I've never really examined all that I believe in to figure out exactly where I stand compared to others. I've always just left everybody alone about their beliefs and figured whatever I believed was common sense.


Apparently, it's either not or not as many people as I figured have common sense.


I like:


Obama. He's not perfect by any means but I like him better than anybody else we had to choose from in the last election.


Personal freedoms. I like free speech. I like that I have the choice of carryin' a gun if wanna. I like bein' able to practice my religion or lack of one rather.


The idea that all men regardless of what they look, smell, act, or taste like are created equal.


I believe women are the same as men in that they deserve the same rights and respect. Though it's in my own ways to hold doors open, pay for dinner, and in general be nicer to women. Not 'cause they're weak and fragile creatures, but 'cause a woman gave birth to me and odds are any other woman will give birth to someone else so it's my opinion that a lifetime of niceties is a small price to pay for the continuation of the species. Women deserve consideration for what they do that we men can't do.

Now I got to observe a debate the other day, pro-choice v. pro-life. I'm pro-choice. I don't like the idea of abortion, it's not sumthin' I think I could do but to say it's not even an option for a woman isn't right.

I normally keep quiet about it. I don't want to push my beliefs on anyone. Lotta people don't like havin' other peoples ideals shoved down their throats. I don't intend to do that 'cause I believe in choice. I believe in lettin' people decide what's right from themselves. If you look on my facebook page you're more likely to find the kinds of comics, books, movies, or T.V. shows I like not my political views. I never bothered with 'em 'cause to me they aren't that important. Anybody we vote for never does all they promise anyway. So, they all wind up bein' assholes to somebody, not their fault just the way it goes.

But, as I saw this debate and saw what the two participants believed in I saw myself leanin' further to the left than I ever thought I was capable of. Kris Kristofferson has said that his political views were "Left of liberal." I guess mine must be out there too. I knew I was left but I always figured more towards the middle. Only after readin' what these two had been arguin' did I figure out if I go anymore left I'm gonna be in the Pacific headin' for China.

The pro-life's side may not have been great at debate but all he could really argue was that it was morally wrong according to The Bible and his own ethics to kill an unborn child which he regarded as a whole person with a right to live.

The pro-choice side argued that a woman should have the right to preserve her body, life, finances, and freedoms if she was pregnant with a child she did not want.

Okay, so it is morally wrong to kill a person? The Bible says so. The law says so. The world is overall a better place if we aren't allowed to kill anyone. But there are exceptions to this rule. If you kill someone in self defense, it's ok. If you kill a man sentenced to death, it's ok.

But is a fetus a person? Some say yes. Some say no. Yes-a fetus is a person because so long as the mother keeps supplying the necessary nutrients, care, and space for it to grow a fetus will become a child. No-a fetus is not a person because it has no intelligable thoughts and is an incomplete person kinda like a miscarriage or stillborn at any given point in time. During the pregnancy it could go either way. Either the kid is born healthy and alive or two months after conception there's a miscarriage for no apparant reason at all.

Havin' a kid is not an easy thing. The thing they teach you in health class is that takin care of a baby is hard work. Thing they don't tell you is that the birth alone is gonna run you more than ten grand. Plus the cost of all the doctor visits durin' the pregnancy and all the furniture and the space a kid is gonna need. Then you gotta take a baby to get his shots and check-ups. Clothes, daycare, food, and toys. You know there's ,last I heard anyway, an 80% chance of a woman's vagina tearin' durin' the birth. Plus it's hours of the most difficult labor a body can endure. I heard about a woman that gave birth to twins born more than twenty-four hours apart.

Imagine that guys, your body with a gapin' hole in it for more than a day, not to mention you got doctors and nurses starin' at your body, which you're already self concious about 'cause you put on fifty pounds easy 'cause of the kid, and to top it all off your likely to piss and shit yourself while everybody's lookin'. People still die while givin' birth you know? That's not 1880's givin' birth by candle light type stuff it happened yesterday.

Everybody, call your momma hug her and kiss her if you can. Tell her you're sorry for wreckin' her body. Tell her you love her. Tell her you're sorry for all the back talkin' you've ever done. Then you can come back and finish readin' this.

Now, you tell an anemic fifteen year old girl that has never even been on a real date and has terrible parents, that would never in a million years help her, that if she's knocked up by a rapist she has to endure child birth and takin' care of that baby by herself if she even lives to see it born. I suppose she could give the kid up for adoption, if she survives, but the toll is still taken on her body and she's already got the better part of a year that she's spent worryin', gettin' hemorrhoids, and gainin' weight.

To me it seems really messed up to force somebody to give birth just because their bodies are capable of it.

Sci-fi quiz hot shot: The year is 2110 somebody just figured out how to make guys have babies through a simple procedure, like a shot, nuthin' changes really except now there's a 50/50 shot of who's gonna carry the baby. After a night of passion with a stranger you discover that you as a man are pregnant and because it's illegal to have an abortion, you my time travelin' y-chromosome bearer are gonna have to give birth to the kid. What do you do? (I might write a short story on that one. It was just a random thought in my head as I write this. But you on the other hand better get your feet in them stirrups, boy, and spread 'em wide.)

You can still say it's unethical to kill someone and that it would be wrong to give someone the option of takin' another persons life. But we already have that option. Guns are everywhere, man. People have the option of blowin' your brains out as you read this right now. If you're so interested in savin' lives then you must be opposed to all killing. No more wars, no more murder, no more guns, no more bombs. Take away everything anyone could possibly kill someone with and you'd have nuthin' left.


The option to kill is always there. We have to let people decide for themselves what is right and wrong for their situation. "He came at me in my sleep with a knife so I shot him." Justified. "He looked at me while holding a stick so I bombed his country." Not so justified. You don't have to spank your kids everyday but at some point it has to stop bein' "boys will be boys."


The option has to be there. Not so that every pregnant woman can abort every baby but so that those extreme cases have an option.

Feel free to disagree with me all you want. I think I'm right but considerin' it'll never be my decision to make who really cares what I think?

Legacy

Post number 55. 130 fans. Not doin' too badly I suppose.

Thank you to all the fans and followers and those that read this by way of those fans or that have stumbled upon my writin' through some chance of fate.

Not in a chipper mood today. I'm in need of a vacation. I been workin' seven days a week since October with the exception of a few sick days. I haven't had a real vacation in about two years. I been fortunate enough to take a weekend here and there in the last two years. I'm takin one this weekend, gonna be headin' to Austin. I love Austin. Damn fine town.

I'm tired beyond tired. I was sick the other weekend for Easter. I kept sayin' I was fine but I felt pretty terrible for almost a full week. Food poisonin' I think. My June was worried. She worries about me. She thought I might need to go see a doc. I got no insurance. Got no money. Can't see the doc without those. So, I tell her I'm fine. But the thought crosses my mind, what if it ain't food poisonin'? What if I picked up some bug my system can't kick out?

Dad'll be sixty in July. God damned sixty. That's gettin' up there, boy. I know what happens if he picks up sumthin' his system can't shake. I've thought it out in my head a few times after my grandmother passed. I know where to bury him. I know what to bury him in. I know what life'll be like after. I know it'll be hell on me and my mom. I'll prolly get pretty drunk. And after a bit of sadness and self-loathin' I'll get up and handle my business like a man does.

I'll take care of all the technical stuff along with my siblings. I'll help my mom as best I can with anything she needs. I show her I'm here and so are her grandbabies and that there's still lots left to do. I'll give her every ray of hope I can afford to give. I'll carry every sad soul that way if I got to.

I know I'll most likely have to speak at the funeral. I know that it'll damn near kill me but I'm best suited for it. I dunno exactly what I'll say. I'll say sumthin' bout the year he was born, growin' up in Iowa, runnin' a successful business, his kids and grand kids, all the stuff everybody expects to hear. But that ain't all there is to any man. That ain't all there is to him.

He's a gruff man. Hard edged and mostly meaner than a lotta folks would like him to be. Once he made a grown woman cry 'cause he was fussin' 'bout sumthin' someone else did. He also beat up a man half his age for bein' disrespectful. When that man pulled a knife on him, he took the knife from him and put it to the young man's throat, just to show him he could.

But he's got one helluva sense of humor. Told my sister once the dark pellets the rabbit left behind were chocolate Easter eggs, it was really rabbit poop, he smushed her fingers together when she picked up the treats.

He's confident about what he can do. He still out works his employees half his age. He motivates them without bendin' to their demands. Still manages to be fair to 'em that way too. He never has let anyone make him feel like less than what he knows himself to be.

Even with all that confidence he's still insecure. I remember him talkin' to a twelve year old me about how he felt his mother didn't love him. How else do you explain her throwin him out as a teenager? How she looked after his lil brother much more than him? Always, "Where's Joe? Is he eating okay? Does he need money?" He has often told me he could've done better if he'd had a real education. He second guesses himself all the time and jokes about bein' a dumb farm boy.

But I know he's a smart man. Maybe he can't get online or program a VCR (Does anybody still know what the hell that is?) but he's always been as smart as I needed him to be. He has always said things in a way that make sense in such a way that they could only come from the mouth of a prophet. He is the wisest man I've ever known.

He's made a lot of mistakes and still does but he's one helluva man. I will always support him in all he does. He's my father. His legacy is evident in all the lives he's touched and all the things he's done and all the stories we have to tell about him. The man is the stuff of legends.

And me? I'm his son. What will they say about me when I'm dead and gone? If I died today what would people say?
He was a talented writer. Maybe. I guess at least those 130 people would agree with that. He was a hard worker. I suppose. I could always do more. Got a two-year degree and did nuthin' with it. Most definately. Enjoyed life. Hell no. Was far too hard on himself and couldn't enjoy much of anything.

In truth, I ain't done much of nuthin'. I write. So, I got a pile of half finished stories and poems. An unpublished book.

What's that mean for me? I'm hardly a legend like my father. I haven't done a quarter of what he's done.

Guess I better not die any time soon. Can't be any bugs that my system can't get rid of. Can't be any injury I can't recover from. I got too much work to do.

Brother

So I was watchin' Tombstone the other day. ( Great western. Val Kilmer is a genius as Doc Holliday. Prolly his finest performance. "I'm your huckleberry.") It's about the shootin' behind the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona. It was the Earps with Doc Holiday against the Clantons and other ne'er-do-wells.





The Clantons called out the Earps. The Earps are deputized and Doc tags along with his friends. Things are tense as only an alley way stockpiled with six-shooters, shotguns, and ill-tempered men can be. The firing starts and with gunmen like these it doesn't last very long.



Men died. So it goes.



The bad guys want revenge as everyone does sooner or later in westerns. They shoot at the women. They cost Virgil Earp an arm. Poor Morgan Earp looses his life.



That was an intense scene for me. Poor Morgan. I have three older brothers you know. The oldest a big fella, often accused of not bein' the brightest, but the man does damn well for himself and is freer than most. The second is highly intelligent and talented, but in my opinion could use some self-discipline and an honest look at himself. The third is troubled by lots but creeps along anyway. He's a talented writer as well but suffers from terminal laziness. Their younger brother is a bastard among bastards though. A talented writer in his own opinion, but lazy and self-loathing in a class unseen by mortal men. Just the same he piddles around hopin' maybe one day he'll look in the mirror and believe he's really not such a bastard. Just a son of a bitch.



They all have their problems and their talents. The parts that make 'em shine and parts they try to hide. My brothers. I love 'em all. Every one of the bastards.



That's why Poor Morgan got to me. Poor Morgan was alone playin' pool. A loud crash of thunder and his arms go up in the air as he collapses. Wyatt, his big brother, comes in. Wyatt gets a doctor. Morgan is held down by his big brother as he writhes in pain on the pool table. The doc tries to fish out the lead with oversized tweezers. No dice. Blood pours outta Poor Morgan onto his brother's sleeves as well as his own and all over the pool table.



There's no savin' Morgan. He speaks his last words to Wyatt. "Remember what I said about seein' a light when you're dyin'? It ain't true. I can't see a damned thing." Gone forever is Morgan Earp. Never to dance, or love, or fight, or drink again.



Wyatt walks out into the rain covered in the blood of his baby brother and howls for his poor brother's lost soul.



And I'm watchin' this in the same room as my big brother. All I could think of was the number of times he'd done somethin' stupid where he could've come home with a bullet in his back or not at all.



He was involved with gangs when he was in high school. A means of survival in a city that at the time was overrun with cholo-style machismo bullshit. Every young latino tryin' to prove all the statistics right. I'm not gonna live til I'm 18. I'm not gonna graduate. I'm gonna have kids before I'm ready. I'm gonna carry guns and knives to protect me. I'm gonna go to jail more times than I go to class this year.



He says it was a necessary lifestyle. Either join one side or fight both. He picked a side. He started carryin' a gun. Started stealin' car stereos. Got into fights. Got into car accidents. Got kicked out of a town. Joined the army to keep him outta trouble. Tried to kill a man and was convicted of it. Locked away.



While he was doin' this I was still young. Still caught up in my own world of cartoons, toys, video games, and school. All I knew was that my brother was the epitome of cool. He wrestled with me and was really smart. He was tough and had a lot of friends. Girls liked him. He was stronger and braver than me. There's no reason anyone would have to want to take his life.



But the reason a fella would was simple enough. Wrong colors. Wrong side of town.



And just like that. A crash of thunder and at any point in time it coulda been over for him. One bullet is all it ever takes. One lucky shot and any fighter can can get knocked out. One misspoken word and a politician is shunned. One stray bullet and anyone can die.



I was lucky, as much trouble as my brothers have been in, I never lost one and they're all still healthy. But still that scene reminded me that they're mortal and one day, hopefully far from now, I will lose them. I will loose a piece of myself on those days.



Sooner or later we all lose enough of ourselves and everyone else that we just get tired of hangin' around waitin' for the rest to leave so we head out first. I'm stubborn. Odds are I'll be a gray, old man when I go and I'll go fightin', on my own terms. But I will go one day.



'Til then, my brothers and I can enjoy our strengths and weaknesses and each other.