Dodge Challenger R/T

5.7 liter V-8 HEMI VVT Engine

6-speed manual transmission

376 horsepower

City MPG: 15!!!

We’re doing out part!

Someone buy this series, please.

Be nice to America — or we’ll bring democracy to YOUR country.

Great to see the family (of a portion of the family) over the weekend!  Per our discussion about the census:

http://www.ronpaul.com/2010-03-08/ron-paul-on-the-census-2010/

Last week Obama gave a speech in which he pronounces corpsman, as in “Navy corpsman” as “corpseman”

He did it twice so it wasn’t just a slip of the tongue.  I wouldn’t really care, except for years I’ve heard what a total moron President Bush was because he pronounced “nuclear” like “nucular”.  This was especially distressing because that’s the way I usually pronounce it myself!

Both W and I can now both walk with our head high once more–  We’re at least not that bad.  I wonder if he knows how the Marine Corps is spelled?

Well, we’re having a wonderful time here in DC.  Things of course are totally shut down.

Here’s the backyard…

Yesterday Afternoon:

Today around 1200 noon:

And at 1500:

out front:

Front porch:

And in the driveway:

It’s slowed down considerably but is still coming down.  It’s supposed to stop soon.

The TV cable and internet went off last night, followed by the power, so WEF5 and I went to bed early.  It came back on about 100 this morning.

I started working as a janitor two weeks ago. I clean bathrooms, hallways, and classrooms - from top to bottom. On a daily average, I take on 25 toilets, 10 urinals, 15 sinks, 10 floors, 2 carpets, 4 classrooms, 10 trashcans, 10 mirrors, and 2 glass doors. Most of this work is simple manual labor - brooms, mops, dusters, spray, paper towels, and so forth. And I love it. There is a very nice feeling that comes with making something clean, and having done it with my own two hands.

About a year ago, three separate things triggered a long reflection upon human work, particularly in the use of machines. I read Pope Benedict’s encyclical Spe Salvi, I stumbled across some readings in my wife’s course (Dominion and Techne, by Dr. Schindler of the JP II Institute), and I took a course on the Theology of the Body. Put together, I started to question whether machines really made life better, or more precisely - whether it was possible to do genuinly human work through the operation of machines. In short, I found my answer to be ‘no’ - human work ought to be manual and skilled, using non-automated tools.

So the second I come to this conclusion, God sends me a job that fits the bill. And though I only have two weeks on the job, I thought I’d do some reflection on it, because parts of the job do require machinery - elevators, vacuums, chemical dispensers, electronic timekeeping, and of course, electric lights and heating.

The best part of the job is when I’m either mopping or sweeping. The swish-swish of the mop, to the left, to the right, gives me an immense satisfaction, especially as I feel the gritty-sluggishness of the initial dirt make way to a smooth-polish feeling. I can feel the resistance give way through the handle of the mop. I have also learned how to turn the mop at exactly the right time and exactly the right angle, so as to brush up against the walls perfectly - like an olympic swimmer kick-turning at the end of the lane in a race. I can also flip the mop to the other side with one nifty little flick of the wrist. If I’m doing a good length of floor, my thoughts eventually cease, and I become totally absorbed with the swish-swish of the mop. Othertimes, I might daydream a little, or pray a little, but the thoughts usually settle down after some time into a sort of zen-nothingness. Before I know it, the work is done. The same process repeats with the broom and dustpan - sweep, sweep, in goes the dirt, walk a few steps (”there’s a speck of dirt!”), sweep, sweep, in it goes, and repeat. I find that my eyes are becoming sharper at finding the little pieces of dust - none is safe from my roving dustpan and broom.

This stands in sharp contrast to my vacuuming. I use the vacuum when I’m told - otherwise I use the broom and dustpan. I noticed today, that although the vacuum cleans fast, it doesn’t clean very well. It misses corners that my broom easily fits into. It misses the little pieces of dirt that need that extra two or three swaps. It misses the little metal staples that are stuck in the floor (which I can now spot and pluck between my fingers in about 1/2 a second). It is also very loud. I cannot take a vaccum into the office areas, but I can take my broom. Moreover, the cord always gets in the way. And I’m always searching for places to plug it in. And then, as it happened last week, a light goes on, it stops sucking, and you open it up and realize that the person put in the bag wrong - ruining the vacuum. In short, the broom wins hands down over the vacuum - but only if you have the time to do the job manually. If you have to clean ten classrooms, and there’s only one of you, the vacuum gets the job done.

But that leads me to the most distressing part of this reflection - not that the manual labor is inherently skill-building, and worthy of human effort, but that if I truly look deeply at my job, I realize that it should not exist. I exist to clean things that should probably be cleaned by those using the bathrooms, the classrooms, the hallways, the offices. My job only exists because no one has figured out how to make a machine that can climb stairs, fill mop buckets, and mop floors, while picking up trash and throwing it in dumpsters. These are tasks that have been deemed unworthy of human work. And yet someone has to do it, right? So who does it?

I am the only white male working there that I’ve met, out of at least thirty workers. Almost all of them are African-American, about half men, half women. My employer gives good benefits, and the wages are decent - about $10 and a half an hour. Yet it surely isn’t enough money to raise a family and save money, let alone buy a house. Why is it that only minorities work this sort of job? Self-segregation? A matter of it being an inner-city sort of position? To get back to my original thought - this is a sort of job that isn’t deemed as intrinsically valuable, but only valuable in a utilitarian sense. If machines could be created to do the job, humanity would buy the machines and be glad that no human ever had to do such tedious work again. And yet, because such machines do not exist, we have the working classes. In this case, the working class is almost completely made up of minorities.

There is something deeply ironic to me about this - that the upper class spend their time in front of computers, papers, books, and presentations, while the lower classes spend their time doing manual labor. The upper class think they are getting the good deal - more pay, less manual labor, and more ‘meaningful’ work. And yet, having just come off years of such work, I can honestly say that I find more meaning in the manual labor than in all that intellectual ‘work’, mostly done through computer interfaces.

I have to say that I enjoyed mopping the floors today more than I enjoyed writing this little reflection, and I think it may have made more of a difference - not only in other people’s lives, but my own.

Someone asked me how long I was going to work at this job. I don’t know. It doesn’t pay enough to raise a family, I’ll say that. My wife would have to get a job, and then we wouldn’t be raising our family - someone else would. But I think I’m being taught some valuable lessons, and being given some very intriguing opportunities through the benefits my employer gives. One thing is for sure - tomorrow, I hope to avoid vacuums at all cost.

The ability to see the absurdity of others is an easy ability to master. The ability to see your own absurdity requires a companion with great insight, tact, and love.

I broke up with Kelly. Mayhem has ensued as he informed me that the only reason he isn’t committing suicide is because his parents couldn’t afford a funeral. Needless to say, the likelihood of our relationship being even somewhat civil next year is pretty low. With Kelly out of the picture, my circle of friends is a small, small affair.

Katie and I are close but her family lives in town, so, even though we’ll be roommates, I won’t necessarily see her that often. I’ve already begun, through facebook, to send out probing friendship tendrils. I have an acquaintence from freshmen year picking me up from the airport and I have another acquaintence from last year who has invited me to meet some of his townie friends, based on the theory that no one sane can survive only Johnny friendships. So, there’s hope there.

But I find my thoughts returning to Annapolis. At this point I have a group of four people I would know over there and I like them all quite well. Further, I’ve always sort of wanted to transfer to Annapolis and the ties holding me to Santa Fe at this moment are pretty soft. But transferring would mean that I would have a new set of tutors and students to deal with, which would affect me academically. Further, since we have to write our senior essays next year, it would be difficult for me to find a tutor to be my advisor. And at our senior paper orals there is a panel of four tutors; in Santa Fe I have a good chance of knowing them…in Annapolis, not so much.

Any advice? I can’t seem to see this picture clearly enough to make an intelligent decision. Of course, even if I decided Annapolis, it would take quite some finangling to transfer so late…thoughts?

I was reading an article today about the lost art of conversation. From my own experience, I know that I find it very difficult to have a productive conversation with a stranger. On the one hand, I want to ‘bond’ and ask them general and specific questions about everything and anything. On the other hand, I don’t want to be bored with simply mundane details, so I often will ask them why they acted/felt a particular way. This, or so I’ve been told by WEF7, makes them feel put on the spot and uncomfortable. So either there is silence, because no one else is particularly good at conversing with strangers either, or I make them uncomfortable in my attempts to learn about them without dying of boredom. I saw no clear solution to this problem, and then I read this article about the lost art of conversing.

I promptly googled something along the lines of ‘the art of conversation’. The pointers I have picked up are as follows.

1) Everyone have a family, occupation, educational history, and recreational activities they participate in. Thus these are all solid chit-chat or opening themes of conversation.

2) Questions starting with ‘are’ or ‘do’ are closed questions, generating yes or no answers. These are bad. Questions starting with ‘what’, ‘where’, ‘which’, ‘who’ and ‘when’, are open questions, which need fuller answers. These are good. If you want to end the chit-chat and actually have an interesting conversation you can ask questions starting with words like ‘how’, ‘why’ and ‘in what way’. But, as I mentioned earlier, everytime I’ve attempted to do this it ends with people being uncomfortable. I’ve also noticed honesty seems to make other uncomfortable, particularly if that honesty is in anyway at odds with their own opinions. It’s all very odd.

Thoughts? Have we truly lost the art of conversation? Was it ever an art (think Jane Austen)? If so, is it worth attempting to regain?

Ok now. Take this how you will, but I have been spending an inordinate amount of time contemplating time travel these last couple of days, and I have come to the conclusion that a “TIME MACHINE” (ie: a machine that sends an object through time, and nothing else) Would be among the most useless inventions ever created. As an intellectual exercise, what would be gained by sending an object though time (and time only?) What could be proved?

I have a couple already,  but what can you think of?

WEF7 made us pasta with a sauce that looked suspiciously meaty. Halfway through my meal I asked her if I was eating legitimate meat or some strange substitute. I was promptly informed that I was in fact eating corn, which is pronounced CoRn (I couldn’t tell the difference). I was rather surprised, but went back to my meal happily enough, every so often poking my meat-like sauce. After finishing my rather tasty meal (it would have been better with real meat, but it was surprisingly good considering its origins), I went off on a little rant about the miracles of a technology that could make corn taste and look more like meat than any kind of vegetable.

WEF7 was initially confused but soon pin-pointed my error. The meat-substitue wasn’t corn, but quorn. Quorn is a type of vegan/vegetarian meat-substitute created from a type of fungus. Yes, that’s right–a fungus. I still can’t decide if it’s more shocking for my ‘meat’ to be corn or to be a fungus, seeing as both are quite a few degrees away from animal flesh.

Perhaps more surprising than quorn’s origins is the fact that it took me so long to even question whether it was meat or not; if it wasn’t for the fact that WEF7 is a vegetarian and supposedly doesn’t eat meat, there’s a high probablity I never would have guessed it wasn’t meat! Either quorn is a truly awesome meat-substitute, my taste buds are fatally flawed, or hunger addled my brain. Either way, I can’t help but be reminded of the unfortunate horse eating experience, which is never particularly pleasant (Sorry WEF2!).

Dear Family, I am considering changing colleges. A St. John’s education always had questionable value, but its value has become more questionable as the years have progressed. I did not particularly care for freshmen year, I hated sophomore year, and I enjoyed junior year. Yet, ironically, I feel that freshmen and sophomore year were worthwhile, while the value of junior year is hard for me to quantify or even ‘feel’. More and more it seems as if I am participating in classes which are simply, forgive the expression, intellectual masturbation.

I want to learn to write well. I want to learn about foreign affairs and economics. I want to become fluent in french, spoken as well as written. None of these things are taught particularly well at SJC. So I’m investigating other options.

I don’t want to spend more than a year at another school. I just want the whole ’schooling’ process over and done with, hopefully with me having learnt something tangible and without me loaded down with another 20k in loans. This may not be possible, in which case I shall continue with the course I chose three years ago. Or, perhaps, tomorrow I shall feel differently about the entire matter. Or perhaps next week or next month. But today…today I feel done.

I arrived here in Scotland about three days ago. There were massive delays with Delta and at every stop along the way (I had two layovers) I was greeted by huge lines of disgruntled people who had missed their flights; thankfully, all my flights were prompt, except my last one into Edinburgh. I got in an hour late which threw off my train schedule, but WEF7, being the lovely individual she is, stayed at the train station until I showed up.

WEF7’s housemates are lovely and I’ve been quite comfortable. I think I’ve been spending a reasonable amount of money and not overdoing it, but only WEF2 can confirm that notion. I’m currently living on Pb&J, tuna, milk, and bagels + cream cheese. Oh, and these lovely little cookies. I’m going to buy cheese soon to add to my tuna toast creations, which I think will be a wise addition to my nutritional intake. All in all, I’m doing very well and am quite pleased with how this has all worked out.

WEF6 Out

OK wexforcers, WEX2 has vacation for the last three weeks of December, but cannot be in the US for tax reasons.  We are trying to locate the same castle/keep that the Cullens (including Nathan and 3 month old Erin) stayed in 22 years ago. (eeks)  We assume we will be there for Christmas week (your Dad and I are doing something alone for the first two weeks), when Jess and Morg can join us during their December breaks.  When I fly back to Amman on the  29th, you all will fly to the US and then back to school when your breaks are over.     I think everyone else is footloose and fancy free, so . . .  (We know Nate, Angela and JP will need to be in St Louis and understand).  So, it’s early, but if St Andrews and St Johns have calendars out for next year (they should) I need your break dates now  to make this work.  This will be very fun.

I retract every single positive statement I made about this experience. It hurts and I’m dying.

The stupid medication makes me tired and overly emotional, which results in me waking up, like now for example, at 4 in the morning in pain with a mouth full of spit-blood. Since the meds make me emotional this results in crying. Which hurts more. Which results in more crying.

It’s been three days…or is it two? And this is the first time I’ve cried. Isn’t it supposed to be getting better?

I’m dying.

 As per WEF4’s request, below was/is my death note.

To my family:

On the off chance that I die while having my wisdom teeth removed, an admittedly unlikely turn of events, I would like to say that I love you all, I have faith in God, and I am confident that I am in a pleasant place. So, don’t feel bad, don’t mourn for me (though, hopefully, you’ll miss me, so you’ll mourn at least a little bit for yourselves), and keep me in your prayers. I shall endeavor to make some sort of post-death contact with someone in the family, so look for me in your dreams (apparition style would be preferable, but who knows?).

An odd request is going to follow. I value my genes, as we all know, and would like if someone in the family would make sure my eggs were harvested. If one of my dear sisters, at some point, would be willing to carry my child, I would appreciate it greatly. I know right now isn’t the best time for either of them, so my request doesn’t really have a time limit. I’d just like a wee bit of me out there somewhere. A surrogate would also be fine to carry the wee one, but make sure the sperm donor is top-notch intelligent and handsome to boot. If no one wants to pick this duty up, I totally understand and there’s no hard feelings. But it would mean a lot to me.

Most likely no one will ever read this note, because I’m not going to die, but, just in case, here it is. I assume someone would take this awesome computer and rummage a bit around, so the title is sure to catch your attention (the title was ifIamDEAD.wps)—assuming I’m dead, of course.

I’m sure I miss you all; I definitely love you all.

Morgan

I am injured. I just paid quite a bit of money, or, to be more precise, Mom and Dad just paid quite a bit of money, to have myself sliced, diced, bled, and stitched. I hate the taste of blood in my mouth. The pain I could deal with, it’s much less/easier than my monthly cramps, and I get pain medication of a higher order, but the blood in my mouth is just downright nasty. The swelling has almost completely gone down because I spent the first 10 hours in bed, asleep, with ice packs on each side of my mouth. My dreams were awesome, at least.

You know the worst part is that I’m a mouth fidgeter. I tend to bite my cheeks, rub my lips, run my tongue around my teeth (particularly on my blooming wisdom teeth), and now all of these activities, the majority of which I do unconsciously reveal pain and the acid, iron taste of blood.

I guess the doctor also said there was a slight infection (thank God we got it down now, I hadn’t even felt the infection yet!), so he gave me penicillan (sp?).

I was so worried last night over this procedure I wrote a note to the family in case I died…how thoughtful was that?

I am also currently completely hopped up on some sort of pain medication.

OK WEFers.  I need the arrival date and time from all of you, including those who tickets I booked.  Please recall that when I booked, I gave them your email  addresses for confirmation.  I have nothing to reference your tickets.  I cannot pick you up if I do not know when.  Also, since all tickets are electronic (except JPs), tell me the date and time of departure as well.  I am not going to drive to the interent cafe because you do not know when you are leaving and need to check.

I do not want to badger anyone, so please give this to me no later than Tuesday night — or I cannot and will not commit to picking you up.

WEF2 is a bit annoyed that WEF2 has emailed severl WEFers with this request and others related to Turkey and has received no response.

This si the vacation for WEF1 and2 and you are all tag alongs — very welcome tag alongs indeed, but not the princpals on this trip.  I will be meailing instructions to the house in the event you might need to get their under your own steam.  Oh, you cannot use credit cards, the trip by bus/taxi is $100, and rooms in Bodrum start at $180 unless you can get into the hostel.

It’s going to be a great trip!

The four men and three women opened their eyes.  They sat in metal chairs built into a circular wall, facing one another.  Above them was a low dome with a small circular window in the center.  Through the window, fire burned.  Lining the circular wall, above their heads, were more small circular windows.  In each window, fire burned - bright yellows, deep oranges, and blasts of reds - a furnace of flame-filled wind, extending to infinity.  But the small room was silent.  The seven looked at one another, blinking, not saying anything, not moving.  One section of the wall lacked a chair, and instead held a door frame with a wheel attached to the middle.

A tall young man, somewhat skinny but attractive, jerked to his feet and stared at the others.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

He looked out a window, then rapped his knuckles on it, then held his palm on it.

“It’s cold,” he said.

An middle-aged woman sitting next to him got up and felt the window, letting her slender fingers linger on the glass..  She nodded, looking back toward the others, beaming with a beautiful face.

“I can’t remember anything,” an old man said softly from across the room, smiling, his large body rolling with fat as he crossed his legs.  “I don’t know who you are.  I don’t know who I am.  But there is one thing I do know.”

“What’s that?” a low and dull voice asked, coming from a large man who sat scowling next to him.

“We’re in trouble,” the man replied, his old voice cracking with a half-chuckle.

The large man nodded, his scowl softening into a smile.  “I know who you are,” he said.

The old man’s thick eyebrows rose.

The large man stood up, looking out the window.  “You’re an idiot.”

The old man blew air out his lips in a half-laugh and got up to look out the same window.  They stared as the wind blew flame up and down, bright red and oranges and yellows swirling and fighting against one another.

The one man and two women who remained sitting stared at one another.  They hadn’t moved a muscle, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even blinked.

The man who sat next to the door was well built, middle-aged, with a mature face and deep-set eyes.  His eyes took in the entire room, slowly but thoroughly examining everybody and everything.

The plain looking young woman sitting across from him sat straight in her chair.  She was atheletic and muscled with short hair.  She looked at the woman sitting next to her, a heavy-set woman with large eyes that were half-closed in thought.  The plain woman looked back at the quiet man sitting next to the door.

“What do you think?” she asked.

The man blinked.  His eyes narrowed imperctibly.  “I think,” he said, his voice certain, “that the old man is right.”

“We’re in trouble,” she agreed.

The big-eyed woman sitting said something too soft to hear.

“What?” the other woman asked.

The big-eyed woman cocked her head and furrowed her brows.  “Yes”, she pronounced clearly and loudly.  The others at the windows looked back at the big woman, who quickly looked away.

The thin young man stepped back from the window and looked up at the dome’s opening.  He tried jumping to touch the top, but missed.  The others turned to look at him, and all but the large man sat down as he continued to jump.  The attractive woman stared at the young man with a smile, while the large man’s scowl deepened.

The young man shook his head, smiling as he noticed the others staring at him.

“Someone want to give me a hand?” he asked.

The large man rolled his eyes, and sat down in a heap.  “Sit down, kid,” he said.  “Before you break yourself.”

The young man’s attractive face tried to frown, but failed.  He sat down.

The large man sat forward, putting his hands on his knees.  His hands seemed too big for his arms, and his legs seemed too big for his body.  His face itself seemed out of proportion - large nose, small eyes, ears that didn’t match, and a small mouth full of big teeth.  His thick eyebrows not only met in the middle, but traveled somewhat down his lumpy nose. His voice came out loud and grating. “Does anybody know where the hell we are?”

The man sitting next to the door sat forward, looking from one face to another.  “No,” he said, his voice low but penetrating.

“Does anybody know who the hell we are?” the large man continued.

“Do you always ask stupid questions?” the plain woman asked, crossing her toned arms.

The large man opened his small mouth to say something, but the woman interrupted in a long stream of words.  “None of us knows anything, not who we are, not where we are, not why we got here or how we’re going to get out.  That answer your question?”

The large man’s open mouth closed with a snap, and his head nodded slightly as he looked at the floor, folding his hands and sitting back, his eyes narrowing.

The attractive woman who sat next to the door spoke up with a gentle voice, a tone of lightnesss combined with cheerfulness.  “It’s not that bad.  We’re alive, aren’t we?  And we’re protected from the fire, which as it turns out . . . ”

“Hold on,” the older man said, his hand going to his fat smiling face.  “What makes you think we’re protected from the fire?  For all we know it’s burning through that door right now.”

The others noticed the door for what seemed like the first time, surprise crossing most of their faces.

“We should open it,” the skinny man said.

“We shouldn’t open it,” the old man replied.

“Why not?” the large man next to him asked.

“Because we don’t know anything yet,” the old man explained slowly.

“We know that there’s fire outside,” the attractive woman offered.

“Okay, yes,” the old man agreed, “We do know that, but . . . ”

“All of our eyes are the same color,” the big-eyed woman interrupted, her soft voice barely audible.

The others stared at one another in silence.  They all had bright golden eyes.

“Our clothes are made out of the same material,” the big-eyed woman continued.  They all wore plain white shirts and pants that lacked pockets and seams, but seemed sturdy and soft.

“And we are all gray,” the woman concluded.

The others looked at their hands, looked at one another’s faces and hair.  The light from the fire had bathed them in colored light, but in fact, their skin and hair were all gray.

“We’re not supposed to be gray, are we?” the beautiful woman asked.  The young man sitting next to her shook his head.

The man sitting next to the door looked at her.  He opened his mouth to say something when a large boom reverberated from above them, shaking the room and their seats.  Something above them slid and scratched across the roof, and fell down and flashed past the window next to the plain woman.  She jump up, looking out.  Just as quickly the window darkened.  She took a sudden step back, bringing her hands up into fists.  The others stood, their voices filling the small room.  A shriek pulsed through the window.

A face on fire burned and screamed at the window, battering at it with metallic stumps of hands.  Pieces of face were burning off, revealing a web of metal wires and pusling colors underneath.  Just as fast as skin burned off, more skin grew back in its place.  Out of the half-mouth came a sound half-human half-machine, and all fury.

-

The message seemed to come from a distant galaxy, old, repetitive, mathematical, containing schemata for synthetic bodies and minds.  We made the gray mech-flesh, and they uploaded themselves, animating the mech-flesh.  They were the Gray Eyes, and they loved us.  They were universal liberators, living from civilization to civilization, galaxy to galaxy, saving all from all.  The last of us discarded our human flesh for mech-flesh over one thousand years ago, joining them in building new worlds underneath our dying cities and dead world.  We would create a new Eden, living forever with the Gray Eyes, who loved us to the end.

Giant gray monuments floating in lakes of fire with golden eyed saviors riding up into darkness of a world desolate with blue thunder mists pointing to way back to the last human makers if they exist at all, and they must.

Hell on Earth

(Episode 1 - Family First)

The figure disappeared and began scraping itself against the wall as it moved toward the other end of the room, toward the door.  They backed away from the windows as it flashed by each one.

The quiet man grabbed the wheel on the door and set his feet into a solid stance.  “Help me.”

“What are you doing?” the large man said, lumbering to his side.

A blast of flame and wind exploded behind the door for a moment, then silenced.  The noise of heavy gasps came through the metal.  The wheel started to turn.  The large man grabbed it, stopping it with the quiet man.

“Got it?” the athletic woman asked, putting an arm on the quiet man’s shoulder.

“Yeah.  He’s not trying hard anymore.”

“He’s not a he,” she said.  “It just looks like a man but is nothing but wires and metal and some strange kind of skin that grows just as fast as it burns.”

“Listen,” the heavy woman interrupted, still sitting.

From behind the door, a single word was being repeated over and over.

“What’s he saying?” the middle-aged woman asked, drawing close to the door.

“It,” the old man corrected.

“He’s saying ‘it’?” she asked.

The young man pushed toward the door and put his ear to it.  He closed his eyes.

“He’s saying,” the man said, pulling himself back just as suddenly.  He looked at the two men holding the wheel.  “He’s saying ‘help’.”

“No,” the large man replied.  “Hell no.”

“Let’s do it,” the young man said.

“No,” the large man repeated.  “I’m not letting go.”

“Why not?”

The large man shook his head and looked away, getting a better grip on the wheel.  Sounds of fire and wind exploded behind the door again, then silence.  Scrapes were heard again, and then nothing.

The slender woman went to the window, and pointed.  “He’s fallen,” she said.

The quiet man walked over to the window, taking his time, his eyes staring at the others.  He looked at the woman, then looked out.  Chunks of flesh were being blown and burned off the figure as skin grew and regrew.  The metal and wires underneath the flesh didn’t seem to be affected, but pulsed with lights and colors.

“What is he?” the woman asked.

The quiet man shook his head.  He took a step back.  “What are we?”

Silence.

“I’m going,” he said, moving to the door.  The large man looked at him and stepped away.

“I’m going with you,” the young man said.

The quiet man turned the wheel, which rotated easily.  Something clicked from behind the door, and it swung open, revealing a small chamber that had another door with a wheel on it.  They stepped in.

“Are you crazy?” the athletic woman asked.

The old man hushed her.  “Think it through,” he said as they closed the door.  “You’ll get it.”

She glared at him, then went to the window.  The outer chamber opened, sending shocks through the room, then closed and went silent again.  The quiet man and the young man entered into her view, bending low to the ground, almost crawling.  Their clothes had burned off, and their skin had charred black and bubbled.  A gust of fire hit them, and threw them to the ground.

The attractive woman gasped and stepped back, looking at her own hands, and sat down.

“What?” the large man asked, straining to see through his window.

The two men had gotten to their knees, but parts of their body had been burned away.  Underneath something shone bright silver.  Their skin regrew quickly, covering the silver.  The gust had died down, and they stumbled to the figure, and began dragging him back to the chamber.

The athletic woman looked at the large man.  “Are you grinding your teeth?” she asked.  He grinned and went to the door.  When the men outside had arrived, he flung the wheel spinning and opened the door.  They nearly ran into the room smoking and smelling, coughing and wheezing.  The young man was cursing as he dragged the body into the room, and collapsed into a chair.  The quiet man put his hand to the wall next to him, and took forced breaths.  Both of them had gaps in their body that revealed silver metal underneath.  The gaps were quickly closing with new skin and new clothes.

The others circled the body on the ground.  Its skin and clothes were regrowing too, but slowly, and underneath was not silver metal, but intricate lights and wires and structures, some moving in what appeared to be gears and pistons - a vast and minituare machine, covered with skin.  His clothes were not white, but black, and his skin was colored dark tan.  His eyes were closed.  They stood staring at him in silence as his body reformed.