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<  Supreme Genesis  ~  Who is Seabolt Entries & Voting

Which Seabolt story should be official?
Poll ended at Tue Jul 14, 2009 10:40 am

Entry 1
[ 1 ] 3%
Entry 2
[ 13 ] 42%
Entry 3
[ 4 ] 13%
Entry 4
[ 1 ] 3%
Entry 5
[ 3 ] 10%
Entry 6
[ 9 ] 29%

Total votes : 31
PostPosted: Mon Jul 06, 2009 10:40 am
User avatarMinister of PulpPosts: 2027Location: Street FightingJoined: Thu Aug 02, 2007 5:13 pm
The entries are in and it is your decision that will make Seabolt's story official. The entries are anonimous, I'll reveal the winner and other contestants after we are done with the voting.

The voting will go for 7 Days. In case of a tie, my proof reader and I will cast the decisive vote. Let the best story win!
WARNING: Entries may contain strong language ;)

For the conveniece of printing/reading, I've put all entries in one PDF

Entry 1 wrote:
David Davis was a boring three button suit paper pusher for his local chemical plant in Reno. He longed to see the ocean for real ever crummy work day. While being bored restless at work one day a costumed super hero/villain comes crashing through the window of his office building. Without thought or reason he tried to help the super hero wrestle the villain to the ground.
The hero, not noticing a civilian in the way, smashed the villain hard enough to blast him through several layers of floor into an industrial vat of chemical solvent. Sadly this took poor little David with him down into what should have been his death.

The unknown villain's power somehow saved the two from that grisly fate of death. It did not save them, but they did not die. Instead they were changed into a water like substance. David soon learned that while for the most part he was still himself in this fluid state he was not alone in his own "body". The unknown villain didn't survive, but his spirit and evil is still fused into the being now known as Seabolt. With the control over his semi-liquid form, David is out to have the good time that he never quite got while being a normal human. If that means surfing in down town Austin with a load of cash and cops chasing him all the better.

Entry 2 wrote:
According to ancient Hawaiian beliefs, the sea, death, darkness, and the underworld are all ruled by an evil god known as Kanaloa, who holds great magical power.

Larry Seabolt, a thief and reckless thrillseeker from Australia, travels the surfing hotspots of the world to challenge the next biggest wave. His next destination was the islands of Hawaii, where he happened upon a mysterious looking surf shop at the end of town. His eyes were mesmorized by a particular board marked by a mystical-looking symbol. Then suddenly, an old local native appeared from the back room.

Seabolt: ?Tell me, old man, where can I find the biggest wave??

Old Man: ?There is a forbidden area, unknown to tourists and many locals as well. However, only descendants of ancient Hawaiian blood can safely surf those waters.?

Seabolt grabbed hold of the old man by the neck and demanded that he direct him to this secret location. The old man hesitantly pointed in the direction of some caves out in the distance. As the old man turned his back, Seabolt stole the surfboard from the shop. As Seabolt strutted off, the old man looked at him with disgust.

Old Man: ?May the Eye of Kanaloa take him.?

Seabolt travelled through a labyrinth of caves until he found what he believed he was looking for. He impetuously ran across the hot sands of the desolated beach and paddled out his newly acquired surf board.

A monstrous wave soon approached. As Seabolt caught the wave, a giant squid emerged and knocked him off the surfboard. The monstrous wave then engulfed him. As Seabolt was spinning with the sea, he could hear a deep

Kanaloa: ?I shall spare your life, for your board has the markings of the
Eye of Kanaloa. You now belong to the sea.?

From then on, Seabolt is able to manipulate his molecular structure of his body makeup to that of water. As Seabolt was given his power by an evil god, he currently chooses the path of evil.


Entry 3 wrote:
Simon Humboldt was born and raised on the Eastern beaches of Australia where he learned at a young age to be an extremely talented surfer. He and his childhood friend, Rex Campton, challenged each other all through their teenage years to be the best surfers in all of Australia. By the time they both reached their early 20s, they each were renowned throughout their home country for their great performances at the various surfing competitions gaining the adoring nicknames, "Surfersaurus Rex" and "Seabolt". By then they'd decided they'd both make a career out of their surfing skills by taking on sponsors and competing around the world in international surfing events. From the coasts of Japan to the Beaches of Hawaii, Rex and Simon showed off their talents and became legends to surfing fans in just a short few years.

As time went by, Rex's popularity began to skyrocket as he began to outshine his childhood friend and gain more and more prestige for his flashy surfing style. Simon, on the day before a competition off Pulp City's Pacific coastline, was drifting in a quiet bay considering the change his relationship with Rex had undergone. What used to be kindred friendship had turned into bitter envy and competitiveness, and secretly Simon considered Rex his personal nemesis. Simon always seemed to get one-upped by his former friend, and a lengthy string of second place finishes to the amazing "Surfersaurus Rex" was just too much for Simon to keep calm about. He shouted to whoever would listen swearing he'd overcome his rival whatever the cost, and as he turned back to the beach it seemed that someone had been listening.

On the coastline, a strange man clearly out of his element stood nonchalantly with a mysterious hood pulled down over his eyes. He peered enigmatically at Simon holding what looked like a shark tooth necklace in his hand. "I know what you want," Simon heard the stranger call out as he trudged out of the water. Slowly, he walked over to the man who spoke again, "I came to let you know that I can help. This can make it happen." The man extended his hand holding the necklace offering it with a suspicious smile to Simon who stared at the stranger without a word, distrust and confusion obvious on his face. After a moment of hesitation and internal debate, Simon decided to cautiously take the item from the man's outstretched hand. "Think about it," the stranger replied turning his back on Simon and walking away. As Simon turned to leave the unusual encounter, he heard the man utter one final phrase, "Good luck against Rex tomorrow." When Simon turned back around to ask the stranger about his curious insight, he was gone; only the necklace in Simon's hand remained as evidence of the exchange.

On the day of the competition, Rex arrived confident as ever, and fans of "Surfersaurus" shouted cheers as they saw him approaching. Simon, again recalled his envy and contempt toward the surfer who used to be his best friend, and made a last-minute decision to don the mysterious necklace hoping it could grant his wish to outdo Rex. Simon performed his best surf ever, easily outdoing anything he or Rex had ever done. As he rode the waves, Simon experienced an ecstatic sensation as if he could predict the water's motions or even that he could control of the water's movements himself. The confusion and euphoria were quickly pushed to the back of his mind as he returned to the crowd preparing to bask in the crowds cheers of praise. Simon was appalled to instead hear the crowd, among them his own former friend Rex, jeering and booing at him. Anger flooded Simon's emotions and he reached up to almost instinctively grip the necklace around his neck as his mind reeled. Reaching out with his rage, Simon discovered his ability to tap the ocean's own power and turned it against the raucus crowd. A massive wave crashed into the spectators devastating the beach as far as the distant cabins, watchtowers, and shops at the far edge of the beach. Yet, Simon threw wave after wave against the beach making sure that no spectator was left except one. An eddy formed of the ocean's currents sucked Rex from the beach to float a few feet away from Simon's board atop the waves. As Rex looked on toward his former friend, he uttered one word among coughs and sputters, "Simon". Simon stared into the distance and replied with a cold, callous tone, "Call me Seabolt."

Since then, sightings of Simon "Seabolt" Humboldt have been rare. Sightings have often been little more than a lone individual claiming to have seen the figure of a mysterious surfer drifting off the coast of Pulp City Beach in the midst of strong oceanic storms. Some surmise that his confusion and rage infected his personality that day and turned him into a psychopathic destructive force struggling to retain his humanity. Others think he still holds a grudge against mankind for those spectators who rejected him even at his pinnacle. Regardless of the theories, Pulp City officials have recently noted this reclusive supreme present among the local villains who have likely recruited Seabolt to give some muscle to their repeated attacks on the innocent citizens of Pulp City.

Entry 4 wrote:
Once a bank robber, he escaped capture for one more surfride in the largest storm that man had ever seen. He disappeared and was presumed dead.

He reappeared in pulpcity but he had changed, he had become a man of water. He had been infused with the manifestation of the most aggressive aspect of the spirit of the sea.

Over the years civilisation has harnessed the coast with dykes and storm barriers and people have lost their respect for the sea and its might. It is seabolt?s aim to put that respect and that fear back in the human mind.

Seabolt raises the waves and storm to assault the coast. But the coast his not his main focus. Seabolt has other plans on a much greater scale. To him global warming is a blessing, with the raise of the water levels his elements wins.
But that his slow, his immediate goal is to find a way to generate a large earthquake at the sea bed, sending a tsumami at the assault of pulp-city.

Entry 5 wrote:
The man known as Seabolt didn?t have the easiest of upbringings. His family lived in dirt poor circumstances in the worst part of town. He was the only brother to four younger sisters, which brought a responsibility he seemed incapable of embracing. His father (never ?dad? ? that would have too much like fondness towards the old guy) was an alcoholic petty criminal who would lash out at his wife and children. His son was frequently in trouble at school and with the cops, which gave his father many excuses to beat him. The young man who would become Seabolt did not shed any tears on the day his father drowned at home in the bath. An investigation followed but it was concluded that after drinking he may have simply fallen asleep.

The young man left his home town of Pulp City shortly afterwards. He drifted for months across the United States. Wherever he went difficulties seemed to find him. In his more insightful moments he wondered privately whether he simply went looking for trouble. He avoided jail just about, but not numerous fights and run-ins with low-lives in all kinds of places. He seemed to be locked into a self -destructive pattern.

In time he found himself on the West Coast. He had fallen in with big-time criminals and was working his way up the local organisation. The boss took a shine to him, grooming him to be a future lieutenant, perhaps. In this he earned some respect from other foot-soldiers in the organisation, but also enmity and envy. He didn?t care what they thought, and he knew he didn?t want a surrogate father. He realised that this kind of life wasn?t what he wanted. His life was empty and he felt soulless. He didn?t feel guilt for the pain and destruction that he inflicted, but he wanted to be his own man on his own terms.

Down at the beach at the creeping emergence of dawn on a fine and clear morning, he clutched a bottle of beer in his hand. The irony of his life came to him. He was truly becoming his father?s son in many ways. He watched the early wave-riders out in the bay and he felt a sensation of ease embracing him. He had a sense of something he wanted for himself that wasn?t about damage or self-destruction.

Within weeks, and wholly unbeknownst to the guys he worked alongside he started making time to learn to surf. He enjoyed it. He found a sense of inner peace. He realised that he was beginning to change. It was no Road to Damascus type of conversion, but it was a change nonetheless, as he started to see himself as his own man. He became familiar with surf culture: he had no time for the extremists ? the Zen-surfers or the surf-Nazis - and so he followed his own path.

He soon made plans to get out of the city, to get away from the position he was being prepared for. He left in the dead of night, after riding waves under moonlight, taking only his car, the clothes he wore and his board. He drove at break-neck pace across country until he arrived back in Pulp City. He wasn?t quite sure why he ended up back in his home town, but it felt right. Unfortunately he knew too much about his old mentor?s organisation. His boss had been suspicious about his change of behaviour and character and had a trusted man watching him. The surfing had made little sense but the subsequent moonlight flit was anticipated. The boss dispatched two trusted men to take care of this problem.

The hoods caught up with him as he entered the city limits. He was passing an old mysterious site that local legend called the Weird Well. He didn?t know what it was, but he imagined that with the history of Pulp City little good could come from it. His car was suddenly run off the road. The two hoods dragged him out of the car. He tried to fight them off as they punched and kicked him to the ground sneering at the surf gear he was wearing. One beat him with his own surf board, breaking it in two as he did so. Bloodied and near-broken they dragged him to the dark pit nearby. It looked deep. Too deep to survive if someone fell in. The hoodlums threw his damaged body in, throwing his beloved board after him for good measure. They were disappointed there was no scream.

Seconds later light flickered from within the dark pit.
They heard a terrible sound like the rushing of water. They heard it coming closer from within the pit. Scared ? for they had heard about the strange things that happen in Pulp City ? the backed away. They broke into a run as a torrent of water rose as a column out of the pit. In the moonlight they could see the silhouette of what looked like a man at the head of the column of water. Seabolt had been born and he rained down with furious vengeance upon the two criminals, washing their lifeless bodies into the pit from whence he had emerged.

Seabolt had purpose. This is what he had been born for, and soon he went into action when his path took him there. Destruction was still with him, but purely of his choosing not according to the control of others. He would serve or not serve as his choice, not bound to any man.

Entry 6 wrote:
He looked at me intently, and for the first time, I thought I could see some clarity in those piercing Caribbean blue eyes. This was the second time I?d seen him look this serious. His lanky, tanned arms found their favorite position looped around the top of the booth we were sitting at. The faded, torn, foam bench seats suited the beach bum image he cultivated so well. His messy, but intensely styled, hair fell across his brow like whitecaps across a sunny SoCal coast. He leaned forward and plucked the polka dot umbrella from his rum and coke.

?You look like shit man. Nipped, mal, all kinds of bad,? Seabolt rambled while keeping his eyes fixed on his drink. I had gotten used to the slang by now, for the most part. The brah?s, aloha?s, the trashed, gnarly, akamai, an den, dirty lickin?s, and all the others. Most of the time he kept it in plain, god-given English; mostly for my sake I assume. Me, look like shit? I suppose I did. My jacket was tossed casually around my shoulders. Beneath the coat, only the faintest brown smudge appeared on the bandages wrapped around my shoulder. The white suit was a bad idea after all. When all is said and done in a single night of debauchery, a white suit is usually no more than a collection of spilled drinks, vomit, and hopefully a few frivolously scrawled phone numbers. As usual, I looked like shit and he was the textbook definition of cool. The impression of frivolity was key. Everyone must think: yes, he has just gotten out of bed. Yes, he must live on the beach. Yes, he eats drinks and shits surf. Once those thoughts permeate the viewer, the illusion is set. However, should any hint of the meticulous grooming that went into the surfer bum look escape, the illusion is burst, and all is lost.

?He shot me,? I barked while bemoaning his appearance for a few more seconds before pushing it out of my mind. An agent should always feel more important than the celebrity. Of course, to call him a celebrity was a little gracious. Though, to call me anything other than a hired geek would probably be the same. He barely seemed to be listening anymore. Rather, he waved his hand dismissively over his drink. On cue, the condensation dripping down the side paused, and then reversed. Hundreds of tiny droplets, given life by the wonderful cohabitation of cold drinks and warm climates, danced through the air like tiny ballerinas.

?You know,? Seabolt said, ?You never really get used to this.? The crystal droplets spun through the air and hung in front of my face.

?He shot me!? I barked again, while downing my drink. He raised his arms apologetically, though the water drops still hung between us like a condensation confessional.

?Look,? he said with determination, ?I made it very clear when you met me, this was gonna be haad rub man, you knew shit like this might happen.? He assumed the familiar half smirk. Be careful, I thought, your ego is showing.

?You knew someone would get agro, you knew some lolo sonofabitch would come around and make trouble. Shit brah, I?m some kind of supreme right? That?s the whole point!? He bleated. That half smirk cut its way across his face again as he leaned back into the ugly foam bench seat.

?I told you it would get dangerous day one brah, didn?t you listen??


?So could I ever like?get hurt?? I inquired.

?Absolutely not, you?ll totally be safe brah. No danger, just action!? my compatriot replied from across the dingy driftwood table. We were both drinking, and both at least six lines of cocaine into the evening. It was going to be a good night. The little shanty bar on the far end of the island was barely lit by candles placed in a handful of broken beer bottles. The ambient and colorful light played a drunken kaleidoscope across the whole scene. The man across from me was the textbook definition of surfer bum. Here on the island, though, this was cool, hip, trendy, and utterly desirable. I never did understand the pacific. Come to think of it, I didn?t even know what island I was on. I know I officially went broke on Maui, started a frenzy of drinking and drug use on Lanai which ultimately spit me out on Kauai. Yes, Kauai must be where I am. Not that it mattered.

?So,? I burped, ?What exactly is it you want?? As I asked the question, I gestured in confusion which sent my drink clattering across the floor. I suppose there was no denying it anymore. I was drunk.

?You?re a writer right?? He asked. I nodded approval and he said, ?That?s exactly what I?m looking for.?

Before either of us even dipped our feet into this new found partnership, there was business to take care of. It was his turn to ante up the line. I ducked close to the table and gave a quick sniff. My nose burnt as I pinched it close. If you?re prone to nosebleeds, I would not recommend insufflating your drug of choice.

?Look man, I?m a hero. You know that from earlier, when I scooped your ass out of that prickly situation with the locals. I need someone like you, a publicist, an agent. Whatever you want to tell the beach bunnies.? He quickly downed his drink and ordered another round. I wasn?t quite sure I was following, but knowing he was willing to pick up our colossal bar tab made me confident this beach bum had himself some buried treasure. Had he saved me? Natives, of any country, can spot a traveler, a vacationer from a mile away. This only becomes dangerous when you?re raving drunk in the middle of the night, and the locals have had quite enough of your uncouth mouth. He had bailed me out, I suppose, but I wouldn?t use the word save.

?I?ll explain most of it later. Put it this way, I know you?re outta work, and I need someone to call the news agencies when I?m busting up some thug. An active biographer. Think of yourself as the camera on the dash of the cop car, brah.?
I said nothing. The line was in the sand, so to speak. He was right. I was broke; my work had dried up here just like everywhere else. I needed the money. Yet, this ominous assignment I feared entailed way more than I was willing to bet. I could get killed in any number of horrible fashions. Kidnapped, beat up, knifed, shot, or he could just be liquoring me up so he could take me out back, beat me savagely, and steal my credit cards.

?I?ll do it, provided I?m paid, and I always drink for free,? I announced.
?Now what is it that makes you so special?? I growled. Aside from being ridiculously tanned, I?m not sure what exactly this character thought he could do. As I eyed him, he placed his hand over the top of my drink. The skin on his hand seemed to swirl, as if made of thick paste. The hazelnut color of his flesh started to fade. A pale, ethereal blue swirled with his natural toffee tone. He lifted his hand off my cup and held it a few inches above. Between his hand, which was now entirely translucent, and the lip of my glass, my warm rum and ice cubes hovered and danced like on the strings of a master puppeteer. He rolled his hand toward him, and like magic, the mostly melted ice cubes and contents of my drink swirled in unison. For a moment, I was no longer in his world. His eyes were utterly focused on the display at hand. He played the liquid into a double helix, then a heart, then a spade, then a face, before finally returning the contents to my glass.

?Wait until you see what I can do in the water,? He said with a sharp, half smirk.
What could I say, I?m one for instant gratification, and besides, I don?t have any credit cards. Fuck it, I thought. These islands are killing me. If some coke-head hydro man wants me to write his memoirs; I figured, why not? Besides, I drink for free.


?So if we?re going to do this thing, I need to know a little bit about yourself,? I demanded between cigarette puffs.
The slick ocean bungalow was not ours. It was probably some hot-shot money-flinging entrepreneur who?s balls-out confidence in the innate fear most people had of people as rich as he probably had got the best of him, and as a consequence, had left the door to this wonderful little house open.
?No,? He remarked.
No? No god dammit? This man wants me to pitch the world his life and he won?t even give me a little to start with.
?Jesus Christ man, you gotta give me something. Shit, I don?t even know your name. I?ve been calling you friend, sir, or man ever since I met you. God Damn man, who the hell are you?? I berated wildly.
He looked nervous, shifting in the comfortable padded leather stool of this multi-million dollar bungalow.
?How soon ?till this guy gets home?? He asked.
?Don?t change the subject on me!? I screamed, ?You want me to do this fuckin? job, give me something to work??
?Alright!? He yelled, cutting my tirade off. ?Alright.?
?You wanna know who I am? Shit, man, I don?t even know who I am,? He spat with venom.
?They call me Mark in Australia, the just called me boet off of Cape Town, and I got a different name on every goddamn island man,? He said, and then poured himself another drink.
?Shit,? I remarked, a little dumbstruck.
?Yeah. I grew up poor, I think, I don?t have a lot of childhood memories,? He continued.
?I spent most of my time growing up in South Africa, I think, those are my earliest memories. For a long time, they thought I was a khaki??
?A what?? I asked, stopping his story.
?It?s slang for a Brit, a limey over there. You see, I wasn?t always this tanned. Though I?m pretty sure I?m not an Englishman.?
Could?ve fooled me. Given how pasty white I was, anything looked tan to me. However, this guy was down right burnt.
?Any way, I spent most of my life surfing. I don?t remember shit, so I did what I had to, to get by.?
Fair enough I thought. This man might be a bit of a head case, forgotten childhood and all, but I could work with a crazy person. Hell, I have to be a little insane for accepting this kind of work from this kind of person anyway.
?I spend most of my time, now, moving between the various surf spots. Here, in Hawaii, Australia, and I drift back to Africa ever once in a while, whenever the tides take me there.?
?When did you?uh?figure out you had these powers?? I requested.
?Again, it?s not like I just woke up one day and had these powers, I remember feeling a connection with the ocean, like?like the water was where I really belonged, but nothing really manifested until I was a teenager,? He began.
?Then, one sunny day in July, I caught a tube for the first time. I was in heaven. Water was rolling around me in every direction, but it was utterly silent. I stretched out my hands and let them touch that magnificent ocean.?
?I closed my eyes, breathed it all in, yanno, but when I opened them I noticed I had become completely translucent,? He finished.
I didn?t even have a clever remark for that. There is coming of age, and the awkward adolescence I experienced, and then there is realizing you can turn into water.
?Alright,? I said before slurping my drink down. ?This is good, this is excellent, we can start from the ground up!?
?What do you mean?? He inquired, donning that familiar half smirk he always seemed to have.
?No family, nobody holding you back, no next of kin man! Hell, no name! We can build a whole new identity for you. We can create you from the ground up!?
This was going to be easier than I thought. No dirty secrets save for a rather large cocaine addiction. No family beyond acquaintances. This man was a blank canvas with which I could paint a new world hero.
?So?let?s start with a name!? I exclaimed, clapping my hands together.


?My Job is, as a whole, pretty straight forward. I photograph and document every ass kicking Seabolt puts on the local gang, crook, thug etcetera. I also put in calls to major news medias whenever a big one is going down. A big fight that is. I write numerous articles on him for a dozen local newspapers. I keep a journal as well. We are even working on a book series.?
The woman holding the mic just stared dumbfounded at my answer. She had no idea what she had gotten herself into by asking me what I do, of course, only in reference to Seabolt. That was his official hero name, by the way, Seabolt. I had turned him into a mass media messiah. A Californian captain awesome who spends most of his time where most Californians belong: Hawaii. Come to think of it though, I?m not really sure where he is from, nor is he. Whatever, everyone wants to be from California. Behind me, Seabolt had just turned himself into a vaporous cloud as a group of bank robbers opened fire on him. His nebulous form quickly coalesced, and in a raging crescendo, the sewer system exploded upwards, catapulting the two gun man into the bank?s fa├žade. They definitely looked dead.
?Why though,? The anchorwoman managed to ask, finally breaking her attention from the ass kicking taking place behind me. ?Why does he need a?whatever it is you do.?
?This is America baby,? I said with a big grin. ?Everybody needs an agent.?

The news crews snapped their final photos and packed up their vans. What I hadn?t told that anchorwoman was my real job. Don?t get me wrong, I really did do all those things I said. What I failed to mention was simply my real job. The real reason I was hired. The lynchpin to this whole career. I wish I could say it sometimes. Just announce it and ruin the image he had so masterfully cultivated. The image I so masterfully cultivated. Yes, I could see it now, a confused miss-news-at-eight holding that mic and burping some inane question about honor, what makes Seabolt tick, or some other bullshit. And I, looking America in the eye, would tell them that everything I?ve told them is a lie. Yes, there it is! That is why he hired me. That is why I am paid so well. I spin the truth, I tell them all what they want to hear. Seabolt is a hero, a clean, sober, voting, all American, fucking hero! Yes, I think, these two John Doe criminals are unconscious and shall wake to find themselves in the big house, where hopefully they will turn their lives around. Seeing their bent necks, and cracked skulls, I thought, yes, these men are unconscious. Even as I rolled their bodies down the embankment into the hungry surf, I thought, yes, these men are now in prison, off the streets. This is my job America. The thankless job you never see. I?d like to introduce the one, the only, the man who cleans up behind these fucking supremes.
?How did the interview go?? He mused, smoking one of those clove cigarettes he loved so much.
?Excellent,? I remarked quickly, ?No mention of bodies, plugged our upcoming book, the whole deal.? He nodded in approval.
The bodies of the two bank robbers languidly lapped in the surf. The ocean rocked them like a mother in denial over the death of her children. Seabolt dipped his fingers in the lapping tide.
?Why did we agree on Seabolt again,? I inquired. A huge, catastrophic, wave rose out from his finger tips, and with vigor I?ve never seen in the ocean, flung itself out to sea. With it went our two friends, hopefully never to be seen again, or else I?ll have to do another part of my job, my least favorite part.
?Because, it sounds powerful. It?s like thunder bolt?but?,? he began
?For water?things. What are you anyway, elemental? Experiment gone wrong? Some sort of primordial island god??
?I don?t know. Whichever you want.?
Then, right then, it hit me. His dismissive attitude towards his origin of birth had always permeated our business partnership. He mentioned he didn?t remember his childhood, typical I had assumed. I never really knew what the hell he was, and right then, I realized he didn?t either. He doesn?t even if he know if he is human! I decided to let the sound of the surf fill the silence. His half buttoned Acapulco shirt billowed in the wind as he watched that massive wave carry the two bodies into sweet oblivion.
?You know, I love this part,? He laughed as he quickly exited the beach. ?Common,? he bellowed at me.
?Drinks and lines on me.?
As I caught up with him, he looked me square in the eye. ?My favorite part. Mahalo to sweet mother ocean. I love to watch my secrets get buried.?


For once, it was cold. The constant, palpable heat of Hawaii had burnt off, and left nothing but a damp, and hollow climate in its wake. A thin haze of rain blanketed the street and pattered off my umbrella. A single street light hummed above my head, casting fat, mustard yellow shadows across the street. I was supposed to meet him here. From here, we were going to meet with one of his benefactors. He had been bizarrely discreet with information. Normally I couldn?t get him to shut up. Three months of his hodge-podge island-African-Australian slang had grated on me. Yet, tonight he had held his tongue. Tonight he had said little. I have a natural sense of doom in me. An inherent tingle of my spine every time something is out of the ordinary, something I felt tonight. Perhaps it was this light, and its ominous glow. I felt as if a bag was over my head. Just as I started getting antsy, he appeared. Suspended at least half a dozen feet off the ground, Seabolt stood on his surf board like some kind of angel of death. The rain rolled in transparent waves, giving his board a slight rock, as if he was actually in the ocean.
?Common,? He said, then lifted me off the ground and planted me on the board.
I wasn?t about to test my balance, so I sat on the thing as we glided soundless down the streets.
?Look, I can?t pay you for a while. We?re tight on cash alright brah,? Seabolt muttered without looking back.
This was news to me. I thought this guy bled money.
?That?s why we?re meetin? this guy. He can pay us, like a sponsorship or something,? He continued.
We zigzagged between lamp posts and over buildings. Suddenly, we dropped. Before us loomed a massive super-structure of some kind. Half-built sky scrapers always had the look of some sort of leviathan. Like some massive horn of a subterranean behemoth, the building jutted from the earth. Its ribcage of support beams hung barren in the soft rain. Like a gaping eye socket, the front lay open and unprotected beyond a few orange cones. What kind of benefactor could we possibly be meeting here?
We were inside the bowels of the beast. The wind and rain produced a sound like soft, phlegmy breath. Yes, the building was breathing, or rasping. Then it gave a loud cough, and I was thrown off my feet.
?Oh Jesus Christ!? I exclaimed.
Blood was pouring out of my shoulder. Rain drizzled down from the roof by the bucket load. All the pools around me ran red. More bullets clattered off the floor as somebody opened fire on us. Seabolt was a cloud, a fine mist moving through the rain. All I could do was scramble into a corner, and jam my thumb in my shoulder. That is the very worst part about getting shot, that is, to feel your own pulse. You can feel your own blood, fighting against your thumb, trying to pour out of you. Dammit, I thought, my own blood pressure is trying to kill me! A gentleman in a very fine Italian suit leapt off one of the rafters and landed, deftly, right by me. The gun nozzle was to my head before I could surrender.
?Come now, You wouldn?t want me to kill him,? The gentleman said to the rain.
Yes Seabolt, we wouldn?t want him to kill me. I flinched as he pressed the gun against my head with vigor.
?Seabolt is it? I don?t ask twice.? Slowly, his outline appeared in the myriad of rain drops falling from the rooftops.
?Good. Now, onto business,? The man said, keeping the gun firmly against my head.
?You owe someone quite a large sum, and I was hired to ensure he collected. Your friend here will bleed out, I suggest we get this over with as soon as possible.? This man was a professional, I could tell. But what I didn?t understand was the debt he spoke of.
?I need more time,? Seabolt stated, keeping a quiver out of his voice.
?No, there is no more time,? the gentleman said, matter-of-factly, ?Pay now, or this man dies.?
?Tomorrow, I can have it tomorrow. Tell him I can get it to him soon!? Seabolt begged. Oh Jesus I thought, he?s going to be the death of me.
?How very unfortunate,? The man remarked before looking at me. ?You should keep better company. Company that pays their debts.? Before I could respond, before I could even finish sucking in the air for that last, final thought, he fired. Before I could spit out my final fuck you to this bizarre man, the bullet was rocketing at my head. Then, a wave crashed into the both of us. Every rain drop leaking through that building surged at me in that same moment. Time seemed to slow as a concentrated wave of water battered into the gentleman?s body and my own. I could see the bullet burrowing through the torrential blast, hungry for my head. Time quickened again and the bullet burned a deep trench in the side of my cheek. It had missed me. More bullets kicked sparks in the ground near me. Suddenly, I was lifted off my feet and thrown on the back of that chewed-up yellow board. A whirlpool of water swirled around us as we rose through the air like a protective hand. Bullets, seemingly as numerous as rain drops, bounced and ricocheted as we flew towards the gaping hole where the roof would be. Bullets whizzed around us as we hurtled out of the top and through the throbbing storm


seemingly distant memories of just a single night ago lazily permeated the air between us in that dingy little breakfast hole-in-the-wall. The worn, foam bench seats were a physical reminder of just how low we had fallen. I stared across the sticky table at Seabolt. The white suit really had been a bad idea. Yes, the up and coming super star was going to have trouble with this one, and as an extension, so would I. The three months I had spent with him had all crumbled in a single night. I utterly failed to truly comprehend how much time, and copious amounts of preparation went into his image. Indeed, I was fooled. Yet, now the illusion was forfeit and all that was left was yellowing foam seats and stale, runny eggs. My shoulder ached. Seabolt left little time for the doctors at the emergency to do any serious repair work before he whisked me out there, of course before we had paid the bill. They would surely be looking for us as well.
?Were you ever going to tell me,? I finally asked, breaking the extended silence.
He was still playing with his drink, but he heaved a massive sigh and stared me right in the face. I had his full intention.
? I dunno, the lie seemed to be working out for both of us,? He laughed as he crossed his arms.
?Where did the money come from?? I demanded. He made a grunt as if dismissing the question he knew he?d ultimately have to answer.
?Where did it come from goddammit!? I hollered while pounding my first on the table.
?Look at me dammit! Where did you get this cash, man, the money, where is it coming from?!?
?I stole it! Shit brah, you happy now? That?s where I?ve been getting money from,? Seabolt snapped.
?I?ve been going inland, the states mainly, hitting a few banks, robbing a few people, yanno, wherever I can get the money,? Seabolt remarked, letting the drops of condensation splatter on the table. I eyed him intently before deciding what to do.
?Look man, the way I see it, you owe me an explanation at the very least. So get with it, we don?t have all day. Shit man, I might be bleeding out as we speak!? I demanded, with little of the rancor from before.
?I told you, I never got used to this shit,? He began, ?What the hell would you do? One day all of a sudden you have some kind of freak supreme power??
?What the hell do you expect brah, some homeless street urchin living in the ocean to all of a sudden stumble onto land and make the world a better place?? He spat.
?So I did what I always did. I needed money, so I took it. I needed drugs, so when I didn?t have money, I took that too.? I eyed him nervously. Disturbing revelations on an ominous morning made me very nervous.
?So what was the point of all this, huh, dammit, man, why?!? I rasped. He smirked at me, a smirk that made me feel very uneasy.
?All of you?you people think that just because some of us have these bizarre powers means we are answerable to some unwritten code of conduct. Like we have a goddamn responsibility to the world to make it a better place.?
?The world never did me any goddamn favors, what the hell do I owe??
?But what you all fail to realize is?we are all just freaks and junkies like you,? He finished.
We stared at each other for a moment, before he finally answered my question.
?Eventually people would catch on. That?s why I did it. I couldn?t keep hitting banks. Believe it or not, it did bother me. I may be a crook, but I?m no villain, and I?m smarter than most assume. Most of the crooks and thieves we fought were crack heads and dope fiends I bribed. Once they were sent to prison?or you know?their cash and drugs were mine,? He said with a smile.
?Jesus Christ,? I breathed, incapable of believing what I had heard.
?Please, like you wouldn?t do this if you were me! Like any of you goddamn regular people wouldn?t rape and murder the world if you found yourself with a bit of power. You put us all on such a high pedestal of ethical conduct because it gives you a witch to burn when your world doesn?t get any better!? He screamed.
?Fuck you man! I didn?t murder all those people!? I retorted.
?You helped burry them. Shit brah, those were ice heads and dope fiends, I WAS cleaning up the streets!?
Indeed, it was all about appearances. Seabolt had lied to the whole goddamn world, even me. Yet, once any hint of the work that goes into the appearance is discovered, the illusion is forfeit.
?So you took it the other direction,? I said, taking it all in.
?That?s right,? He confirmed.
Instead of robbing banks, Seabolt got paid. Instead of taking from the world, he had someone market him to the world, and they paid him graciously.
?Why the hell are we in debt then!? I bellowed. By then we had the entire restaurant?s attention.
?Jesus brah! I thought you would at least get that one. I?m a coke addict, a part time gambler, and a full time drinker! I squandered every penny we made to every crime lord in this town. Anything I wanted. Anything and everything!?
?You played me,? I spat
?Like a deck of cards, but I?m still not sure why you?re angry, you got what you wanted to. You aren?t so different from me,? Seabolt retorted.
Silence, thick and heavy, descended on the little hole-in-the-wall. My eggs, long cold, looked like the devil?s milky, sulfuric eyes staring up at us, hungrily, from the abyss. Where to go from here? What do I do? He was right. We weren?t that different. We were junkies, crooks, gamblers, and all around all American degenerates. Seabolt just had an edge is all. However, I still couldn?t help but feel cheated. I had been played, and played very well.
?So what do we do now?? I asked.
Seabolt broke eye contact. He was thinking I could tell. The little bell on the restaurant door chimed as I finished my drink.
?We don?t do anything,? He answered.
Before I could say anything, someone slid into the seat with me. I snapped my neck around and found myself looking at the gentleman from the night before. He was in a different suit, but just as expensive. His closely trimmed goatee framed a sharp, confident smile. His long hair was slicked black, giving his sunglasses full reign over his face.
?What is collateral by any other name?? He asked.
He leaned close to me and breathed in heavily. The sent of his thick cologne invaded my nostrils.
?Would it smell as sweet??
?You bastard!? I screamed, ?You sold me out!?
Seabolt stood up, and unraveled a few loose bills from his pocket before scattering a handful of change to cover our tab.
?I?m guilty of nothing,? He said looking at me with those piercing carribean blue eyes.
?You pig! You bastard! Liar! Fucking Pig!? I rampaged as the Gentleman forcefully, but secretly, restrained me.
?I?m guilty of nothing, other than being selfish,? He said, ?And that?s the only thing that makes me feel human anymore.?
We all rose. Somehow, the gentleman had managed to slip a plastic wrist cuff around me, and pretended to escort me out like an old friend. The storm from the night before had yet to leave. A hollow mist hung in the air like the world holding its breath.
?Two days?? Seabolt asked.
The Gentleman nodded in approval before stuffing me into his car. They shook hands and he quickly entered from the other side. As he slid in, he gestured for the driver and the car took off at a steady pace. He pulled a finely crafted pistol out from his coat. The shine caught my eye and I winced.
?Let?s hope your friend can come up with the cash,? He said with a smile.

?For your sake, friend.?

Entry 2 wrote:

Morf's activity log:
Painting: Khan, the Reaver Lord Watching: True Blood Listening to: Arcade Fire
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PostPosted: Mon Jul 06, 2009 3:08 pm
User avatarMortalPosts: 44Joined: Mon Jun 08, 2009 8:55 pm
While I voted for another entry, I just have to say *WOW* to the author of entry 6! Very VERY well-written!

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PostPosted: Tue Jul 07, 2009 4:15 am
User avatarSidekickPosts: 58Joined: Sun Aug 17, 2008 2:24 am
Doh, I thought I had till the twelfth to turn my entry in. Oh well, maybe next time. These are some great entries. Well done, everyone!

Offline Profile YIM
PostPosted: Tue Jul 07, 2009 5:04 am
User avatarGuardian of PulpPosts: 2139Location: Maine U.S.A.Joined: Mon Sep 17, 2007 6:52 am
Wow some fantastic stuff in there. I think it's once again going to be a very close contest.

Pulp City Lead Troubleshooter
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PostPosted: Wed Jul 08, 2009 8:01 am
User avatarMortalPosts: 32Location: Melbourne, AustraliaJoined: Thu Jul 24, 2008 4:59 am
I liked some of the others but, the story and personality infused in and given off by the epic story which was entry #6 just blew me away!

and say the magic words "Simsalabim-bam-baa Saladu Saladim"

The real Ty!, No, really!
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PostPosted: Wed Jul 08, 2009 2:36 pm
MortalPosts: 35Location: Melbourne, AustraliaJoined: Mon Jul 06, 2009 11:45 am
Dude .... or should i say 'brah', that last entry was frickin sweet! Given no indication of how seabolt 'became' Seabolt, or atleast none as to how he got his 'powers', the story was magnificently written! I could read a novel based on that stuff ... very, very nice work!

I've been missing the last novel in the series I am reading, and that last one just filled the spot for tonight nicely!

Congrats to all the entries, looking forward to the outcome.

I don't understand why you do these things!

Knee deep in glue, plaster, cardboard and paint!
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PostPosted: Wed Jul 08, 2009 6:27 pm
User avatarGuardian of PulpPosts: 1536Location: SE KansasJoined: Mon Aug 06, 2007 9:14 am
Battle Bunker wrote:
got his 'powers', the story was magnificently written! I could read a novel based on that stuff ... very, very nice work!

Yup, I want to know where Seabolt got his powers, his origins, etc. However, the writing was superb and a good read. First person is always hard to do unless you're practiced.

Bob Nolan

Now Accepting Commissions!

My Blog: Pen and Lead
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PostPosted: Mon Jul 13, 2009 10:57 pm
User avatarHeraldPosts: 725Joined: Tue Jun 24, 2008 8:25 pm
SOrry, I won't vote, as I have no time to read the entries, and I don't feel like giving away a vote...

John S.'painting completion:
Dr Red 26%
Dr Mercury 100%
Seabolt 12%
Dr Tenebrous 100%
C.O.R.E. 100%

Pulp City collection (84,21% painted):
32* Supremes out of 38**
*incl. alt. Gentleman
**incl. Herald
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