King Solomon's Mines

     Who says classics have to be boring?  I'm currently reading "King Solomon's Mines" by H. Rider Haggard, a book brimming with action, adventure, and narrow escapes!  Basically, it's the original version of Indiana Jones, about an elephant hunter in Africa in the 1800's searching for a friend's brother who got lost while seeking the legendary mines of King Solomon!
     At the time this story was told, many hailed it as "the greatest book ever written!"  I recommend this short novel; just be prepared for some slight racism reflecting the views of the era, though this is largely mitigated by Haggard's creation of noble, self-sacrificing African characters.
     Alright, I'm done ranting.  As you can tell, I'm on a one-man quest to rejuvenate reading among our generation.  Think I'm succeeding, or is reading a dead art?
     Seriously, though.  Will leisure-reading have a place in society's future?  I'd love to hear some views on this in the comments, though it will likely be a biased survey considering that all of you have taken the time to read this blog, and thus are likely people who enjoy reading.

Support the Mistake!

For my Foundations of Professional Writing class this semester, we've been working on a publishing project.  The class separated into two groups, both of which are tasked with "publishing" a novel.  Each group consists of a writer (myself), editor, graphic design artist, and a person in charge of acquisitions.  Ideally, by the end of this project, we should have a product and promotional campaign worthy of real-world marketing.  Our projects will be presented before a board of upperclassmen, who will judge the worthiness of this endeavor.

Our presentation is on Wednesday the 30th! (gulp)  The due-date came out of nowhere, but I think my group is basically ready!  If you care to offer support, like Destiny's Mistake on facebook, follow it on twitter, or keep current with the official blog!

http://destinysmistake.wordpress.com/

Defending Spiderman

     There's no doubt about it: The Amazing Spiderman is a superior movie to the original webslinger trilogy. The graphics are better, the acting is better, the humor is funnier, and the script is less cheesy; all around, it's just a higher-class act.  Yet something in me wants to defend the originals.  After careful thought, I think I have a handle on why I feel that way.
     Peter Parker's story, at its most quintessential, is the story of a kid growing into a man.  People mock the Tobey Maguire portrayal because he spends so much time crying and feeling sorry for himself.  In a culture obsessed with charismatic personalities who seem to have it all together, Peter definitely breaks the mold of Hollywood action-heroes.  There isn't an ounce of "cool" in him.  It's a far cry from Andrew Garfield's portrayal, with his skateboard and perfect hair.  Sure, he makes the occasional awkward remark, but I have a very hard time seeing anyone that attractive being ostracized at any public school.  At the very least, he would have hordes of adoring fangirls.
     But here's the thing: personally, it's easier to identify with an awkward Peter than with a Peter who's always ready with an unrealistically witty comment.  True, Spiderman is supposed to have classic snark, which is why I think the newer version captures the heroics better.  But it seems that the original captured the spirit of seeking manhood through life's difficulties.
     The best heroes, in my opinion, are the ones who teach us lessons.  Christopher Nolan's Batman teaches us to stand for decency and hope in an indecent, hopeless world.  Mathew Vaughn's Charles Xavier teaches us to defend even those who hate us, to become the better men.  And Spiderman teaches us that if we have the ability to help someone, to right a wrong, then we have the responsibility to do so.  "With great power comes great responsibility" is thrown around so often that it's become trite and cliched.  But unlike the "morals" found in many popular stories, this is more than a catchphrase.  Maybe we could better say, "With any power comes some responsibility."  Befriend someone lonely or do a mundane task to the best of your ability.  Exercise responsibility in the little things.  Later, when you face greater decisions, you'll possess a character that drives you to make right choices.  Along with Spiderman's story, this concept can be found another place: Luke 16:10.  "With great power comes great responsibility" possesses meaning that we can apply to our own lives, whether uttered by Tobey Maguire or Andrew Garfield.
     For myself, I simply find it easier to connect with that lesson when it comes from someone identifiable, with realistic struggles and emotions, rather than someone whose level of Hollywood perfection I can never hope to attain.

Switchfoot's Reaction to Protesting

     Earlier this evening (I guess it was technically yesterday), I had the pleasure of attending a Switchfoot concert at Indiana Wesleyan University.  For a long time, this band has been important to me.  I can honestly say that their lyrics have had profound influence in shaping who I am as a person, including my views of the world, myself, and my faith.  Switchfoot's music, with its messages of hope and non-conformity, helped me outlast a dark year of depression.  It taught me not to worry if I can't understand the social games that friends and classmates seem to glide through so easily, and not to consider the label of "weird, socially-awkward kid always imagining things" as bad.  This said, seeing Switchfoot perform in concert was almost like a victory.

     During the concert, Switchfoot's lead singer, Jon Foreman, mentioned some protesting that occurred a few concerts prior, describing it as a humbling experience even as he expressed respect for anyone who forms their own opinions about a subject, particularly subjects of faith.  That category included the protesters.

     I assumed that it was a secular group protesting the religious nature of Switchfoot's lyrics.  I was correct about what was being protested.  However, I completely missed the mark regarding the identity of the protesters.

    After returning from the concert, curiosity drove me to do some research.  It turns out that members of a conservative church, "Consuming Fire Fellowship," camped outside the concert venue with signs, megaphones, and an arsenal of KJV references.  And the event wasn't isolated: apparently Switchfoot has been protested by various "Christian" groups at numerous venues recently.  My instinct was indignation: I couldn't think of anything more likely to drive people away from Christ.  But Jon Foreman had a very different response.

     He encouraged his audience to somehow show love to the protesters as they left that evening.  And in one of the videos I watched, he actually approached the screaming preacher with a case of bottled waters; a gesture meant to convey his love for them and his appreciation for their expression of opinion.

     For Jon and the band, the situation must be incredibly stressful.  They've spent their lifetimes attempting to convey messages of love and hope, and now they're being condemned as Satan-worshipers by people claiming to serve the very God for whom they're singing.  But Jon's reaction was touchingly Christlike.  Hopefully, the result of this incident will be more people glimpsing Jon's faith, a faith motivating him to love his enemies, rather than people seeing and being disgusted by the legalism that motivates "Christians" to chant "Sin! Sin! Sin!" into megaphones pointed at other Christians.

     For an article and interesting video-clips about the protesting, visit:
 http://www.faithit.com/switchfoot-church-protest-jon-foreman-loving-response/

     I highly recommend watching the clips.  Both of them are more than worth the short time they will take, particularly as you observe Jon's attitude towards the protesters.  And they're a little entertaining, in the way that something fascinatingly horrifying is entertaining.

The Syndicate

The Man in the Black Suit

The Syndicate

In the city of Dresden, a man in a black suit made a phone call.

Anthony Benedict was fumbling with his car keys when his cell buzzed.  Making the worst mistake of his life, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Based on your attempt to have me killed, I assume you don’t intend to accept my contract.”

A gasp scraped against Benedict’s side of the phone.  “You . . . are dead . . . .”

“Have you been drinking again?  In a sober state, I assume you would be somewhat more astute.”

“How . . . .”

“Please.  Any civilian watching movies could tell you never to trust death.  Not till you see a corpse."

"I was going to contact you, I swear.  For the contract.  But I couldn't get through, and when I had my sources track you down, they said there'd been an accident . . . ."

"Stop.  Let's talk about the syndicate."

The silence was dead.

"Don't deny your affiliation.  Here's what my research has revealed: the syndicate is a collection of corrupt businessmen, of which you were a member.  All associates have a heavy interest in petroleum – whether they drill for it, refine it, export it, or sell it – and none are interested in jumping the necessary legal loops of the industry.  Individually, it would be impossible to grease the system enough to create a significant financial benefit.  Collectively, however, your combined resources were utilized to leverage the necessary officials, creating a smooth channel within the petroleum industry that allowed you to operate for a fraction of typical expenses.  Ingeniously simple: a collective business system allowing you to bribe, blackmail and kill . . . wholesale.  Everyone saved millions."

In his suite, the man in the black suit paused to blow on his tea and settle more comfortably into the sofa.  He was legitimately enjoying the conversation: the professionalism of the business concept pleased him.  In another life, he might've done very well on Wall Street.

As for Anthony Benedict, his mouth was dry.

"There were reasons for the laws you broke.  You stripped protected environments, stole from local economies, refused to pay workers, and belched pollution from your factories.  Ships dumped gallons into the ocean.  Distributors – such as yourself – brokered illegal deals.  Not that I'm condemning: the whole process was highly efficient and provided an immense edge over your law-abiding competitors, many of whom went out of business.  I appreciate irony, and it was an especially nice touch holding a meeting with several key syndicate members during an environmental charity masquerade in Dresden."

"It's impossible for you to prove any of this."

"Proof is a luxury I can forgo.  The money wasn't enough for you, was it?"

Instead of answering, Benedict slumped against his car.  He was short of breath.

"You broker deals,” the man continued, “it's your livelihood.  You dropped hints to some of the desperate companies going out of business because of your syndicate.  Butchering the golden goose: you'd milked all you wanted from the system, and now you were going to sell its secrets.  But others became suspicious.  To put them at rest, you arranged an assassination.  Your own."

"Who told you all of this?"

The man in the black suit chuckled.  "Unprofessional to the last."

"I never tried to hurt you!  I wanted to hire you!  You were supposed to fake an assassination attempt!  I couldn't use my regular man, because I think he's the one who told someone in the syndicate what I was doing.  But you killed my people before they could deliver the message."

"A shame.  I likely would've accepted the job if they'd approached professionally.  But maybe it's just as well, because that wouldn't have done anything for my resume.  I couldn't have relayed any details to future employers."

Benedict had backed away from his car.  He'd seen enough movies to know that turning a key in the ignition was a bad idea.  His heart was racing.

"I swear I was going to leave you alone after you killed my people!  But then you showed up and stopped the assassination too early, which was a big problem since it was supposed to look like another syndicate member was behind the attempt and the leaked information.  That would've taken suspicion away from me.  There was nothing I could do!"

"So you paid to have me killed."

Anthony Benedict was breathless.  In fact, he was sucking in air with greedy gulps.

"You understand," the voice on the phone said carefully, "I will not be taking revenge. That would be unprofessional."

Benedict's mind couldn't even register the simultaneous shock and immense relief that flooded him.  He was stunned.

"Besides," the voice continued, "The situation worked out very well for me.  You've catapulted my career forward.  The syndicate was grateful for the information I provided about your activities.  They have hired me to neutralize the problem, and I look forward to more contracts from them in the future.  They were impressed by my professionalism."

Benedict swore, though even such an instinctive act required a massive expenditure of waning energy.  "How the hell is it professional to tell a man you're going to kill him before you do it?"

"I was asked to substantiate the information I pieced together for the syndicate.  This phone call has been recorded in its entirety.  Now I am free to terminate you."

"Good luck," Benedict spat into the phone.  His breathless voice had the ferocity of desperation.  "Don't think I won't be ready.  You might think you're a professional, but you haven’t seen anything.  You aren’t ready for this.  I have hundreds of connections, and I'm going to use every single one of them to hunt you down and put you in a body bag.  You can't kill me!"

The man in the black suit checked his watch.  "I killed you seven minutes ago,” he said calmly.  “Your drink was poisoned.  You’re already gasping for breath.  In a few more minutes, your heart will stop.”

The traitor known as Anthony Benedict was frozen.  The phone slipped from his fingers.  He stood that way, numb, for exactly three seconds.  Then the chest pains started.

The man in the black suit relaxed into the sofa.  He sipped tea and set the cup down on a coaster.  Then he picked up the novel he’d bought at the hotel bookstore.

That’s how professionalism is: you work hard so that you can relax with nothing hanging over you.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

The man named Jack enjoyed his book.

The Identity

The Man in the Black Suit

The Identity

The phone buzzed.  Benedict waited impatiently, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger.

“Greetings!” a lively voice trilled.

“Rook?”

“I arranged it, friend.  It’s done.”

“. . . and?”

“I left a false trail; the syndicate will blame your bodyguard’s death on the same group who targeted you.  There are no loose ends.  I lost two of my three men, but the target was terminated.”

Benedict gave a low whistle.  “Really knew what he was doing, didn’t he?”

“He was a professional.”

“Too bad we had to kill him.  I could’ve used someone like that.”

When Rook spoke next, his voice was flat.

“We have a contract, you and I.  I will continue to be your only contractor.  I work for you, and you are chained to me.  Are we clear?”

Benedict’s blood froze.  “Yes.  Very.”

Rook’s pleasantness often made it easy to overlook what he did for a living.  It was even easier to forget that he was good at it.  Benedict, however, didn’t think he’d need another reminder.

“Well, I’m very glad we’re on the same page.”  Rook’s voice was all smiles again.  “Your plan of pointing his death at the fake assassin was well-constructed.  Would you like to hear what I unearthed about the man himself?”

“Yes, of course.”  Benedict tapped his glass nervously.

“It seems he was a hit-man based out of Toronto.  Finding info wasn’t easy, but some of my contacts knew things; I presume he allowed information to be circulated for advertising purposes.  Mostly through closed channels.  He wasn’t the type you can hire without some connections.  Not a terribly impressive résumé: most of his jobs were performed for smalltime organizations.  But he was making a name for cleanness and efficiency.  Just the right touch of imagination to avoid predictability.”  Rook’s voice became animated as he pontificated the finer points of his profession.

“So he wasn’t some street-thug for hire.”

“Far from it!  You know, there really aren’t that many contractors left who understand the meanings of professionalism and subtly.  Anyway, this man’s star was rising.  He’d apparently decided the time was right to break into a higher, more lucrative, level.”

“So he was telling me the truth?”

“About his motivations for helping you, he was.  Like you said he told you, he likely considered your situation his big chance to get his name floating.”

“Well,” Benedict decided, “at least it’s finished.  Expect payment through the regular channel.  I don’t suppose . . . did you happen to learn his name?”

Rook’s laughter was genuine.  “You can’t name a man like that, Anthony!  He is defined by professionalism.  He becomes whatever identity he needs to portray.  You might as well label him by the caliber of bullet he uses, or . . . or the color of the suit that he wears!”

The Evasion

The Man in the Black Suit

The Evasion

A figure dashed from the alleyway, unaware of the crosshairs marking him for death.  Across the street, there was the stealthy spit of a suppressed rifle shot, and a shell casing tinkled on the bed of a truck parked parallel to the river.

The bullet slapped into the man’s forehead, dropping him instantly.

But there was an error: a second man followed the first from the alley.

In the truck bed, Aakil cursed profanely as he realized what had just occurred.  It was too late.

A hotwired SUV slammed into Aakil’s vehicle at one hundred kilometers per hour.  Glass shattered and metal buckled with protesting screeches.  In one car, airbags expanded with a whoosh.  In the other, a man died.

Both vehicles slid and tumbled into the water.  They sank instantly.

The body of the gunman known as Aakil floated up, but in the SUV, a man in a black suit was restrained by his seatbelt.

Even though he’d intended to take down both vehicles, the impact still stunned him into immobility for several precious moments as the metal coffin plummeted silently.  Water gushed past the gaping mouth of the missing windshield.  Fumbling with his seatbelt buckle, the man freed himself and took a last gulp from the dwindling air-pocket in the top of the SUV.  Then he swam free of the vehicle, slipping away as it sank into the murk.

The Elbe’s freezing waters gripped him as he shed his jacket and pawed off his shoes.  Taking a moment to orient himself, he began swimming.

The man who’d killed Aakil breast-stroked a hundred yards downriver and clambered unnoticed to the shore.  At the spot where the cars had gone off, a crowd was gathering.

The man surveyed faces.  Only one of his pursuers still lived, and that man was located standing on the edge of the congregation, talking animatedly into a cell.  Apparently, he assumed his target was dead.

Dripping wet and bereft of jacket or shoes, the man who was not dead hailed a cab and ordered it to an expensive hotel, creating a story for the driver’s questions.  He couldn’t risk going back for his possessions, and since his last residence had been downscale, it was best to procure accommodations on the opposite side of the spectrum.  He had enough money on him to cover contingencies of this nature.

He took a hot shower in his new room, rented under the prepared alias of Abel Falke.  After his shower, the man named Falke sipped a drink from the minibar while waiting for laundering services to take care of his clothes.  He’d need to purchase new ones.

Then he sat for a while in thought.  At last he decided: it was time for some research.