Welcome to Gaia! ::

(Before growth solos) If You're Going to Propose to Chocolate, Do it in Your Room.

Met Quinn! He is crazy, hyper, and good alliance material.

Another world

A blackout, and so we go to Persy's. Then she cracks my ribs. Great job me.

Lonely Piano Music

Feeling lonely, telling Fish my story, shower.

I'm Raising Money for the Guacamoleturtleorangejuice Fund.

Seen Quinn again. Conning grown women out of their money. Where does he live?

New dog, old trick

(WiP)

So, rough night?

Fish isn't my friend anymore. Goodbyes. I'm not going to have any remains- I'm playing with fire.

The one we've all been waiting for

Two years of tension finally snap. Ciro confronts me. I crack a few jokes and get my a** handed to me. Anubis steps in because apparently we're not supposed to do this kind of s**t in public.

(Pre-Fourth of July)

Beat Degenerate

Writ was cross legged on his box spring bed staring into a popcorn ceiling, mouth wide open, blowing out a trail of peyote smoke into the stale air of his tiny apartment. He got what he paid for, a one bedroom apartment with one bathroom and one kitchen. Complete with broken fridge, greasy oven, and leaking sink- Downers living at it's finest. There was a rotting counter in the center that tried to keep the two spaces separate, trying to cover up the fact that the kitchen shouldn't be coexisting with the bedroom furniture. All of it was set upon a vomit-colored linoleum, with strips wallpaper hanging sadly in the background. The rusty shower and the cracking toilet had it's own room at least. Though “Room” was a bit of a stretch. Closets were bigger than the cracking porcelain shed in the corner of his apartment. On the bright side, he had free cable, though he had to make an effort to watch it-- a neighbor had apparently rented a high-def TV on his welfare checks, giving the godling a good view of the news, the comedy channel and the occasional porno provided that he glanced out his window at a certain angle.

The beer had gone flat, his eyes had gone glazed and the world around him was at a foggy, but peaceful, standstill. Everything was fine, to him anyway. Kids were killing each other, gods were messing all of them up, and the Blacksuits were after everybody, and despite all that, Writ felt alright. There should have been some twinge of concern, some thought to act-- but all he cared about right now was the fact that he was alive, spewing smoke out like a chimney. It was a brand of comforting apathy that Writ never felt before, and he didn't know what to think of it. Maybe it was the peyote, but even in his hazy state of mind, He suspected that Coyote's magic had something to do with it.

This wasn't the type of man Writ imagined himself growing up to be.

He felt like his soul was trailing behind him as lived on stolen wallets and seduced drunks by day, and blatantly vandalizing the streets by night. It's not that he didn't like what was happening, he just wished he was actually... there. He was a stranger to himself, standing in between who he was and something that just seemed bigger than that.

His eyes were as red as they were gold. Writ was surprised that his neighbors didn't notice the smoke billowing out the bottom crack of his door yet, but judging from the mad poetry readings next door, they were as high as he was. The smoke detectors should have at least went off by now. If there were any in the building, anyway. He was thinking of inviting himself in and turn the frantic poetry readings into a window breaking housewarming party with the liberal use of his own drugs.

There was a knock at the door.

It took a minute and a couple more knocks until Writ realized what was going on. Tired eyes looked at the alarm clock. Who the hell would be knocking at his door at three in the morning? He slid off his bed and peeked through the peephole to find no one there. He dismissed it as nothing serious, his sharp hearing probably caught something on the floor above him.

Writ was about go go back when he heard the sharp crack of splintering wood. The godling looked back. A bright-red fire ax seemed to have found it's way through his door. A few hacks later, and a familiar, child version of himself walked through the splinters of what was left of the door. It would have been an accurate depiction of Writ's younger days if he didn't look so much like a an adorable ax murderer.

“You've been trying to conjure up visions.” The younger Writ said, in a deep, all-knowing voice that made Writ jump, “From the way you look, you didn't expect me.”

Writ was used to all matters of ********, but this was just plain creepy.
How much did he smoke, exactly?

He slid off the bed, opening up the window and taking deep breaths of fresh air before glancing back at the ghost of himself, standing right beside him.

“Still here, huh?”

He turned around in time to get himself clubbed in the ribs by the the intruder. Writ felt a bone crack dangerously close to his stomach. He doubled over with pain, realizing that this little hallucination was very real.

“I believe I got your attention.”

Little Writ smiled, and everything about him began to change. He grew taller and more weathered, the rough and tumble t-shirt and jeans darkened and thickened into a pair of straight slacks and a smart business suit. Even the ax in his hands began change shape, shrinking and rounding into a fancy-looking fountain pen.

“Pity Coyote never trained you to fight properly.” The grown Indian looked like a CEO straight out of the office. He shook his head and sighed, fiddling around with the pen in his hands, “Even when his godhood is on the line, he insists on hoarding everything to himself. ”

Writ grabbed the windowsill and struggled to pull himself up. As he wiped the blood trickling down from the corner of his lip, his nails grew into claws. Writ was about to take a swipe when the man lifted up his leg and pushed Writ down with his foot.

“Down child, I'm not here to hurt you.”

Writ picked himself up again, but only got up to leaning against the wall before his legs decided to give out on him.

“I am the Great Spirit. The Creator and Great Maker, and I wish to speak to you.”

“So you chop down my door and break my ribs.” Writ barked out, “You definitely know how to make a good first impression pal!”

“Tricksters get distracted by their own little things.” The Great Spirit picked up Writ's pipe, “It takes more than a tap on the shoulder to get their attention.”

“And the ax?”

“You didn't answer the door.”

“I didn't see you in the peephole.” Writ's head slumped to the floor. He was too exhausted to argue. “Whatever, if you wanna talk, talk! I'm not going anywhere.”

The Great spirit went down to Writ's level and offered him a hand. At first, Writ was skeptical, but he figured if this guy wanted to kill him, he would've already done so. So reluctantly, he took the god's hand, and a gentle tingling swept through his body. The energy that flowed through the Great Spirit's hands gave him the strength to stand up again. He felt his ribs started mending themselves back into place. His vision began clearing up, the mist in his head was lifting.

“Better?” The Great Spirit asked.

“Much, thanks.” Writ still didn't trust this god. He could be setting Writ up just to beat him down again. Writ would if he had awesome healing powers like that.

“It's been some time since I've dealt with mortals. I forgot they were a little more fragile than the gods I usually talk to.” The great spirit stared upward, there was a calm, nostalgic look in his eyes. He looked back at Writ, “You should be honored, you're the first mortal I've talked to since the tribes scattered.”

“Yeah, real honor to get beaten up by such a great god like you.” Writ stood up and brushed himself off, “You came here for something, right? Because you probably would've killed me three times over by now if you didn't.”

The Great Spirit sat on Writ's bed, “I've come to help you.”

Writ was comfortable sitting on his windowsill.“Yeah? What kind of help?”

“Do you know why Coyote wanted to kill you?”

Writ didn't quite remember the exact reason. That whole night was still fuzzy in his mind. “Something about his hand turning black or something.”

The Great Spirit arched an eyebrow, “You were taking his power.”

“Yeah, he did mention that.”

“And you haven't heard from him after that incident?”

“Not really.”

The Great Spirit looked annoyed. Writ leaned back, all of existence was frowning at him, and it made him squirm. “I wouldn't expect less of Coyote.” The Great Spirit took out a pack of playing cards in his pocket and started shuffling them idly.

“If you don't mind me asking, what's with the getup? I figure a god like you would look, you know, traditional.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, loincloth, body paint, stuff like that.”

The Great Spirit stared at the godling. What had Coyote been teaching this child? He answered with the question,

“Does Coyote wear his headdress and ritual clothes?”

Writ looked surprised, “He has a headdress?” He snorted, “I've never seen it, he insists on looking like a mix of cowboy and biker gang.”

“Gods adapt.” The Great spirit said, riffling the cards on his lap, “To the people that worship them. I don't think Coyote would have lasted any longer if he didn't change his image when he did.”

“So when those followers of yours pray really hard, or get ******** up enough to be seeing things, they get a guy in a suit? I want a refund.”

The Great spirit kept his focus on his playing cards. The apparent ignorance was grinding on his patience. He supposed that Coyote had taught him that.

“I chose a different approach when my followers did.” The god walked over to the kitchen counter, he drew a card slowly, and threw a face-up Jack on the table. “Back then, they survived off the land, they lived harmoniously with nature.” Another Jack. “Respect their gods” Another Jack. “And they thrived.” He hesitated before putting the last Jack down. The cards were stacked in a neat solitaire pile, each card precisely covering half of the other.

“But then the White god's followers came to the land.”

“That still doesn't explain the suit.”

“I'm getting to that.” The Great Spirit glared, this mortal had a lot of nerve. “Soon the lands around them were taken by the followers of the White god.” The next card he drew was a King “The old ways were dying in those days, we sacrificed our land to the invaders in order to stay on it. And we began to live in their world.”

He growled, flicking three more Kings onto the pile “We were forced to prey off their people, take advantage of their systems. In order for us to survive, we had to take from everyone else.” He slid the next card on the table- An ace of spades.

”We built temples of lights and gold and tricked the followers of the White god out of what they treasured most. We began taking from them what they took from us centuries ago. We've been living off of tricked offerings ever since.”

Writ looked down at the cards that the Great Spirit dealt, “So you gods were in the casino business. I guess taking people's money is a way of getting revenge, seems kinda weak though.” Writ didn't know how he got to that conclusion, but he had a hunch he was right.

"Spoken like a true apprentice of Coyote, though you're more shrewd then you seem.” The Great Spirit stared at the pile before him, “I wanted revenge, we all wanted it, but the tribes had become few in number and far apart from one another. We made do with what we had.”


“Explains the suit. And the cards.” Writ glanced behind him to see his neighbor turn his TV on to the news. ”That sounds like something that Coyote would do.”

“Ah yes.” The Great Spirit drew a Joker out from the deck, “ But Coyote didn't like it. It was boring. He didn't like boring.” He flicked the card into the stack, and the joker scattered the solitaire pile all over the counter, “His form of trickery is less subtle than mine.”

He looked up from his cards, “Have you heard of Woodstock?”

Of course he had. Writ wasn't raised by hippies for eleven years without learning a little bit about their ancient history.“69 or 99?”

“69. That was Coyote's doing.”

“s**t, really?”

The Great Spirit nodded, “Really. I see people still tell stories of it.”

He gathered many followers that day. It was because of that that he's stayed with us until now.”
“What does this have to do with you helping me?”

“If I remember, you were the one that asked about my suit.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting your life story.” Writ crossed his arms, “You gods are way too long winded, you know that? If you got nothing to lie about, just spit it out.”

The Great Spirit snapped his fingers and the cards flew back into the deck. “I want to be on your side.”

“For what?”

“Your rebirth.”

There was a pause for thought, “Okay, you lost me.”

The Great Spirit sighed and drew from his deck of cards again. This time he dealt two jokers on the counter, each one had a different picture of a coyote on it-- a small, spry pup and an old-looking giant. “Have you ever thought about why Coyote hasn't talked to you? Ever wonder about why he hasn't given you any more of his other powers?”

Writ's ears twinged, “I'm listening.”

With another draw and a quick flick, the Great Spirit dealt Writ another card. The ace of diamonds laid sideways between the two jokers. “Coyote forged a link with you, he gave you his powers to play the game, he realized how he could make you more powerful so he made you grow.” The image of the small coyote began to grow bigger on the card, “Coyote gave you many of his gifts, but What he didn't realize was” The giant coyote's card began to burn, “That all that power had to come from somewhere, and he didn't have enough of it to go around.”

“So what? He'll be fine.” Writ frowned at the burn marks that were forming on the counter.

“Coyote thought so too. He wanted to get rid of you and take back as many of his gifts as he could, but you know how that ended.”

“Obviously.”

“But how did you become a man?”

“That's easy, I used some of his power.” Writ snorted.

“But could you have taken it so easily before? Wasn't all your power until then, gifts from Coyote?”

“Well...”

“Maybe your fight with Bear triggered something that he didn't expect.” The Great spirit grinned. The large joker was nothing but smoldering ashes. While the small one was a fully grown coyote.

“Okay, so other than burning a hole in my counter, what's your point?”

“I think you may already know. Your body's starting to react to Coyote's power.” The Great Spirit reached into his Suit and pulled out an old newspaper. The battered, weatherworn pages had an old article on Writ's fight in Middling.

“You want more power, don't you?” The Great Spirit stood up, a hint of enthusiasm in his voice, “Coyote gave you your first taste, and whether you know it or not, you want more. You're already sucking Coyote dry.”

“What, fighting Ciro makes me a power hungry fiend or something now?”

The god slapped the paper onto the counter, “That is just the first step.” There was a glint in his old eyes, “Have you wondered how Coyote became a god?”

“Not really...”

“People, child.” The Great Spirit held a finger up, “People told stories of how he rearranged the stars into constellations and how he became the moon, about how he tricked the Fire beings, or the Bull people, or even his own family. There's more stories about him then there is sand in the desert. But having them told isn't enough, the most important part is, people believed them.”

This god was rambling again.“So...?”

“You gave the people something they can believe in, and they gave you the means to spread your story across the entire city. Haven't you felt anything the last couple of weeks? Full? Complete?”

Writ's interest was officially piqued. “Okay, so let's say you're right, what can you do to help me?”

From the expression on The Great Spirit's face he thought it was obvious, “I'm going to give you a few powers that I've taken from Coyote to help you.”

“That's it? No strings attached?” Writ's eyes narrowed, there was always a catch with these gods.

“I do it for the good of my people and my pantheon, and right now, you're what's good for our pantheon.”

Writ didn't catch what that meant, but hey, he couldn't pass up a deal like this. He beckoned the Great Spirit closer, “Why didn't you say so in the first place? Come over here and lay it on me.”

If it were any other god, Writ would've already been dead. But then, Tricksters weren't exactly known for their common sense.

The Great Spirit walked around the counter and snatched up Writ's right hand, “This will hurt a little.”

“Hey wait a sec-”

For a second, it felt like a thousand volts of electricity exploded in Writ's chest, then everything went black.

* * *

Writ woke up on a sore shoulder and a hazy recollection of dreams in his head. His pipe was in one hand and his throat was raw from the smoke. He slid into his typical Monday afternoon, pulling himself off of his bed; Breathing deep as his senses started to wake up. The damp scent of the rain outside went through the thin walls of the apartment. Outside the window, lightning streaked across the gray sky. He stretched out his arms, and a sudden twinge of pain shot through his shoulder- Writ grabbed his shoulder and felt something wooden sticking out of him.

He walked over to his bathroom mirror and turned around. There was a wicked-looking obsidian blade sticking out from his shoulder blade. Writ's eyes widened. Judging from the dried blood caked around the knife, he had been sleeping on the damned thing all morning.

He grabbed the knife with his left hand and tugged at it. Writ grit his teeth as his muscles spasmed with each pull.

“Alright, count of three.” He said to himself. The godling wrapped his hand tightly around the knife's handle, and closed his eyes.

“One, two, THREE!” Writ let out a yelp as he pulled out the knife. The blade was forgotten on the floor and Writ was staring at a deep red gash in the mirror- it didn't seem too bad. He was already healing. Writ watched as his skin stitched itself back together again. Sinews of muscle got reacquainted with one another, and the nerve endings that were cut exploded back to life, leaving behind a tingling sensation as his body repaired itself.

Writ raised an eyebrow, “I gotta say, that's a new one.”

He walked out of the bathroom and spotted a small assortment of goodies that his vision left behind. Lying on the kitchen counter was a traditional-looking wooden bow, along with a quiver with what looked to be carbon fiber arrows. Below was a tomahawk. It wasn't Writ's usual soapstone on wood affair, it was military grade steel. Writ weighed his old weapon and the new one in both of his hands. There was some kind of theme to this, he knew it.

On top of it all, there was a business card.


Happy Hunting Ground
Hotel and Casino
Owner- Citlali Antiman


The address was in Uppers. Writ flipped the card over. There was writing on the back.

You can still die.

-G.S.

Writ turned to see the savaged splinters of what used to be his door.

“Well.” He took a deep breath, “There goes my deposit.”

Why hello there

((D'AWWWWWWWWWWWWW.))

No Quarter

It was a scene out of an action movie. Leroy slipped the secret government documents and the tip jar into his coat and ran out of the cafe. The spring-loaded monster slammed behind him. His heart was hammering, he hadn't felt this anxious since the monsters and the ghosts attacked last year. He hadn't worried too much about the MIB making residence in their cafe, that was, until he read what they were hiding from them. From what he read so far, Allison and him were in deep s**t right now. Not just any s**t either, they were dealing with some foul smelling, conspiracy-grade government s**t, and if they weren't careful, they were going to end up as an initial and a last name on the MIB newsletter. Leroy grit his teeth so he wouldn't lose his nerve, and ran down the block to the copy shop.

He was out of breath when the copy shop door jingled behind him. Leroy put his hands on his knees and took a few heavy breaths before he stumbled to the copier. The counter help looked up at him before her eyes went back on an old copy of People. Leroy straightened out the papers on the machine, and pulled out the tip jar. After some digging around, he scrounged up enough quarters for four copies. Thank god. He thought to himself, the copier machine didn't take the usual tip jar coinage of pennies, nickels and dimes. Leroy put the page in the copier and pressed the start button. The machine hummed to life and spat out a copy-



Leroy pulled out the first page and fed the other page into the copier.



He wasn't sure what to do with the last two pages, partly because for all he could see, one of the pages was ripped right out of a book, and the other- well, he still had a hard time believing the other one...





Leroy made two copies of each page, this wasn't the kind of thing he wanted to lose.

He froze up when he felt someone grip his shoulder.

“Boo.”

Leroy would've jumped out of his skin if he wasn't held down. He looked behind him to see Writ. At least, that's what the paper in his hand said.

Writ chuckled, “You scare just as bad as the kids around here.” he let go and pulled out a zip lock bag full of quarters from underneath his poncho, “While you're there, you mind if I have a copy?”

Leroy held the copies and the originals to his chest, “Why?”

“If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even be here, copying them.”

“Yeah, but I wasn't expecting to give them to you.” One of Leroy's hands searched behind him for some sort of thing he can use in case this man attacked. He landed on a stapler.

“Fair enough.” Writ tilted his head, “I've played this game before.” He looked up in thought, “How about... you give me a set of copies, and you can ask me four questions that I'll answer truthfully. One page per question, sounds like a fair deal to me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you want to know what you're dealing with, and believe me, I've dealt with those suits before.”

Leroy swallowed, if the MIB thought Writ was dangerous, then it was probably in his best interests to play along with his game. It was better than a violent alternative. He let go of the stapler.

Writ held out a hand, “Deal?”

“Ah, what the hell.” Leroy handed him a set of copies, “Fine”

Writ leafed through the papers then said, “Ask away.”

Leroy blurted the first question that came to mind, “What are you?”

“I'll tell you what I'm not- a werewolf. There's a big difference between coyotes and wolves.” Writ rolled his eyes, “Getting kinda tired of people getting those two confused.”

“But what are you?”

“Well, you and mom are human, so that makes me human too.”

“I saw you-”

“So a guy gets a hold of some powers and the whole town thinks he's a different species, I'm as human as you can get. By the way, that's two questions.”

Leroy frowned, “But-”

“You asked what I was twice, gotta be careful what you say.”

“That's not fair.”

“Yeah, well, some kid got killed getting tangled up in this mess, just be glad that just cost a question.”

Leroy looked down at his feet before he thought of another question.

“Are you really our son, or are you just ******** with us?”

Writ bit his lip.

“Yeah, I'm your son.”

“Then how come you're so big? And old? It's only been two years!”

Writ flipped through the Blacksuit papers and landed on his little profile, “Well, you know how these guys are talking about deities and stuff? Well, they're real. And they're all playing this game for the fate of the world. I'm just a playing piece one of them's moving. That's the gist of it.”

“So you're just crazy.”

"So's the MIB when you put it that way, and I don't think the government hires crazy people."

"Okay, fine, say I believe you, that all these gods are real, what does that make you?"

"Coyote's player, but you've already read about that. Apparently the suits have been doing their homework."

Leroy didn't point out that he had used more than two questions, but it seemed that Writ had overlooked it. He tried his luck once more.

“So why'd you run away? And why come back now?”

Writ's ears twitched up, “Well, I was young back then, kinda panicked when I grew six feet tall. I didn't want you guys to get involved.” He sighed, “Now those Blacksuits are all over the cafe. I had to come back.”

“So what are you going to do about those guys anyway?”

“You'll see.” Writ smiled, “You should get back, or those MIB guys are going to notice you're gone.”

Leroy looked at his watch, his conversation with Writ was a lot longer than he thought. He ran out of the copy shop without another word.

Writ looked at the top secret information in his hands. The four pages felt heavy in his hands. He pulled out a ziploc bag full of quarters and dropped them on top of the the copier.

It was time to blow this wide open.