randomrattle

plagiarized

2009-10-31T00:41:44Z

Bad language ahead.

I've discovered someone plagiarizing my stories, gang, and it's
made me EXTREMELY angry in a very not-pleasant kind of way.

It's here on this board: http://www.l2guru.com/forum/showthread.php?t=126227&page=2

About a 1/3 of the way down, posted by someone with the handle of TenMohican (Frintessa)
Now, granted, this looks like a dead thread and it's filled with pretty sicko
looking people, but that changes NOTHING about what this person did.

*boils*

Let's see ... according to my jotted notes about my LoTR's books, I wrote them from
Jan 31, 2004 to Nov 6, 2007, with "The Book of The Wizard" finishing up May 24, 2008.
That is nearly FOUR YEARS of work in writing; after work, days off, nights when the
muses wouldn't leave me alone, early morning hours, during vacation...

"Days" 369 pages
"Redemption" 423 pages
"Wings" 129 pages
"Wizard" 69 pages

For a total of 990 pages written. By me. ONLY me.

And then someone lifts ENTIRE CHAPTERS and posts them somewhere else, even hotlinking
my photos, as if She/He/It has written this themselves? I am so pissed, I could axe
someone.

Someone planning to take my 50-some stories in In Plain Sight, next? Pass
them off like your own? It's enough to make me want to gank my entire archive
off the fucking net. (Which I won't do--haven't done.)

Fuckity, fuck, fuck.

If you value my work and value me, you don't DO this bullshit behavior.

If you value my work and you value me, you scream at anyone out there who tries
to steal my stuff--and you scream loud and long and complain to everyone/everywhere
about ANYONE who steals/plagiarizes someone else's stuff.

*is extremely furious*

Geocities

2009-10-11T03:08:04Z

Did y'all know they were closing?

I've known that Geo is closing for nearly 2 months, but
I've seen a few people saying "OMG, what?" stuff in their LJs.

October 26th is Dead Day according to Geo, so people with
Geocities as a host need to 1) save your stuff on your computer, 2)
pay $5 or so a month to have Geo host it as a paid member.

Fans: Quick--run to all your favorite stories, archives, fan sites hosted by
Geo and save them to your computer unless the archivist has *stated* that
they're planning to reupload them somewhere else.

I think that many fanfic writers are not planning to move their site.
Fandom love comes and goes, and if your fave author has not been active
for awhile, they might not even realize Geo is about to pull the plug.

I am not hosted on Geo. No worries about my archive.

On a side note (you know I usually have one) here's a fun tidbit
about David Caruso that is worth reading. It's short and kicks the shins
of all the rumors that he's a A-hole.

Caruso and the Kid

Interestingly enough, I read on another fandom board that interviewers, and
visitors, and People Who Know are rather amused by the rumor/accusations that
Caruso is an A-hole on the set and prone to temper tantrums ... because
they have witnessed that it ISN'T Caruso that is the troublemaker on
the CSI: Miami set. It's someone else on that set.

Just goes to show that once you get a reputation for something----it follows
you everywhere.

/blather.

Sorry I don't chat much in here. You *know* I gab in everyone else's journals
and on the boards I hang out. I'm well, my health is well. Life is GOOD!
(And Christmas is coming!)

By request of my IPS friends

2009-08-30T21:49:34Z

(not dial-up friendly)

This pond is aprox 20 feet long, 10 feet wide, 2 feet deep at the center.
It holds a little over 3000 gallons. The pump for the waterfall can turn
over the entire pond every hour, but I think I would suck up all the waterlilies!
I have it turned down to 1/2 speed.

It took a little over 4 months for the plants and water to find their balance and
then the pond turned clear. The length of black ABS pipe is to keep the water
hyacinths out of the skimmer box and to cut down on the waves from the waterfall:
the lilies don't like turbulant water on their lily pads.

Some of my toys. (Not that kind, you zanies!) Notice the lion and tiger have hearts for noses? Completely fuckdorable!

Viggo Leaving Acting?

2009-04-05T14:49:36Z

I see Viggo is contemplating leaving the profession.

I can't say I didn't see this coming years ago...

Read about it here:
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/film/article6016813.ece

The 'industry' has been chipping away at Viggo for years and it
was only a matter of time before he woke up and realized he
needed to save himself from it.

I'm glad I'm not such a rabid fan for Viggo anymore, because this
would have depressed me a bit. As it is, I just want him to be healthy
and happy--and that's certainly not happening now with them flogging
him halfway around the world by airplane in the space of a single week.

I know I've been extraordinarily quiet. I'm playing in another fandom,
In Plain Sight.

My health is good. Part Time job is good.

My mom had 2 heart attacks in the span of 48 hours about 2 weeks ago, but she's stable
and home and has gotten her paperwork for Medical stuff organized. That's
important to do when you're 76 and don't want to be "pounced upon" by the
medical system if you're body is trying to die. We had a great family
discussion with all the kids so that everyone knew exactly what her wishes
are for end of life care kinds of things.

Hard stuff, but good stuff.

randomrattle @ 2008-12-24T18:28:00

2008-12-25T02:31:02Z

Merry Christmas to everyone.

I've been quiet because I've been busy. Work. Play.
A different fandom than my lj friends are intersted in.
Didn't want to bore you with trivia on my latest obsession.

Life is good. My back is good. Snow is hell.

Naked Santa, anyone?

Happy Birthday, Viggo

2008-10-20T16:21:57Z

I posted a frelling wheelbarrowload on Viggo_Daily.

Daddys

2008-10-17T03:05:17Z

Because these just make my heart fuzzy...

David is, what?, 53 years old now? He has
a twenty-something daughter from a previous marriage,
but the photos with his little boy are just made of win.

Shiny, shiny win.

Baby is fecking adorable and David looks every inch a
doting daddy out playing.

His son pinching his neck a bit cracks me up! Isn't that
just like all little kids?

Bitty boy looks unhappy to be leaving the pumpkin patch. These are recent, btw.

I appreciate dads out with kids. Not a lot of them take the time; esp. with
little squirts like this. I bet David missed a lot of his daughter growing up
and he's making a POINT to not miss his little boy growing up. Age and time
has a way of teaching people that lesson.

How about Horatio Caine with a baby? *sweeeeet*

(from http://talk.csifiles.com)

randomrattle @ 2008-10-06T10:10:00

2008-10-06T17:16:47Z

Feeling better today

Now I'm in that post-cold cranky phase.
Cranky because I'm still coughing garbage and
gook out of my sinuses and chest ... and
also because a cold completely ROBS you of
several days. I had the whole weekend off
and didn't do a damn thing.

:(

I hate that. Feeling like four days just
got away.

And the holidays are coming up, which turns
everyone's life into double-duty just to cope.
I *love* the holidays as a rule, but am feeling
rather cranky about them right now.

Maybe because I'm still puckish.

randomrattle @ 2008-10-02T13:05:00

2008-10-02T20:21:27Z

Today

You forget how awful colds are until you get the
next one. blargh~!

*slumps*

There's a casabamelon in my head.

I am currently addicted to Blue Man Group's Audio CD.
They have a number of songs on here with the name 'mandelbrot' in
it ... so I just had to look it up.

My brain did not need this, but....

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mandelbrot_set

A mathematical/geometric problem/answer with visual properties (too lengthy
for me to explain, let alone understand) and no matter how they zoom
in on it, the equation (and it's rendering) remains just as complex. Fractal geometry. It's very pretteh. And the Math Geeks (long may they rule)
just render these things with every program capable of crunching the numbers
and converting it into pictures.

Shares the pretteh:

This one is wayy cool:

Different look at a different portion:

A 'related' fractal called a 'julia set':

Icon worthy, I'm sure.
And that's about enough of that...

*goes back to couch*

randomrattle @ 2008-09-29T12:47:00

2008-09-29T19:54:48Z

Stumbling upon an episode of Law&Order: Criminal Intent
and CSI: Miami that you haven't seen before.

~bliss~
~bliss~
~bliss~

Slashfairy? I got those episodes, but can't get my silly Microsoft program to open the avi file. Still working on it.... Any tips?

moving along now...

randomrattle @ 2008-09-22T21:18:00

2008-09-23T04:27:15Z

Season premire!

(how'd I survive the days?)

Oh, wait. I traded obsessions around amongst
various men and took on a new fandom.

erk.

But, it's back to The Redhead tonight!

w00t!

*inflicts him on you*

Mmmmph. I just want to drag him into the car....

This one? It's the white shirt. That Emily Procter is a dish, herself!

Fingerp0rn! Did I mention I love his hard-work looking hands?

Whatchoo doing under that bridge, Horatio?

Emily, just for the hell of it, as Calleigh Dunquense (spelling?)

The REAL star of CSI: Miami ... Horatio's sunglasses!

Okay. I'm done.

:)

Wings to Taniquetil

2008-09-22T00:06:07Z

At the risk of overdosing you...

I posted all the rest of this story tonight:

http://randomrattle27.freeservers.com/Wings%20to%20Taniquetil.html

Thus ends my foray into the LoTRs universe. Fandoms come and
go, as you know. I might come back around to see what the muses
are doing after The Hobbit takes place, but currently
I am writing in the In Plain Sight universe. (As evidenced
by the twelve stories in my fanfic archive written since June 22nd.)

Thank you, thank you, everyone that applauded and cheered me on
during the writing of these three books. They remain an astonishing
project; the largest piece of fiction I've ever attempted. They,
and you, will always have a fond place in my heart.

Wings to Taniquetil

2008-09-15T15:14:41Z

http://randomrattle27.freeservers.com/Wings%20to%20Taniquetil.html

Lovely chapter, this one. I enjoyed doing it.

randomrattle @ 2008-09-11T08:42:00

2008-09-11T15:42:49Z

As always on this date:

God Bless everyone today....

Wings to Taniquetil

2008-09-03T21:59:06Z

Long, drama-riddled chapter. Ye been warned!

http://randomrattle27.freeservers.com/main%20index.html

In other news, I have a nasty virus on my computer that keeps
replicating itself like a mutant. Norton can't pull it out and
I've done all the registry fixes I can.

Guess it's time to Wipe The Harddrive! (which I do every year
regardless.) So I've backed up everything and will be offline
for about ... hmmmm ... a few days, maybe less, while I dance
with Da Machine.

Wings to Taniquetil

2008-08-27T13:43:17Z

Readers might want to boot into "Redemption of the Noldor and read
the very final chapter, so you know where this one takes off.

Feedback is of the Gods. Fankyoo, fankyoo varry much.

Direct link:

http://randomrattle27.freeservers.com/Wings%20to%20Taniquetil.html

randomrattle @ 2008-08-24T20:19:00

2008-08-25T03:21:58Z

In between writing “Days of the King” and
“Redemption of the Noldor” I took a month and a half
to write a third (short) story that continues past
“Redemption.” The reason? The wizard had it in his head and
I was afraid as I started “Redemption” (with 4 muses in operation
at the same time) that the intensity of
the Gandalf-muse would wane and I would lose his
verve/perspective/passion for it. And I really LIKED his vision
of things up ahead and didn’t want to lose it!

So I had to write this seven-chapter story while the muse was hot and,
man, was he hot. For being an incredibly complex seven
chapters, the perspective of the muse was very clear.

So, without further ado, I will be tossing this story into my lj. It is
called “Wings to Taniquetil” and is the tale of what happened
after “Redemption” and of future events in Tolkien’s universe.

Strangely enough (and somewhat hair-raising to me) the concept
of a final cataclysmic battle between good and evil was tinkering
around in Gandalf-muse’s head before I had any clue that JRR
Tolkien actually planned such a thing. ????!!!!! So
discovering info about it online when I was halfway through the
darned thing was quite startling. (Read: OMG!!—back away from screen s-l-o-w-l-y)

For those of you who don’t have much/any working knowledge of
the Valar in Tolkien’s writings, I’m going to give you a crash course
and some photos so you won’t be completely lost when some of these
cats get on deck in this short story. I won’t talk about them all, because
it’s too confuzzling for most people---just the major players.

Eru is the Big Guy in Tolkien’s world and is basically God. He is the Be All,
End All, the One, yada-yada-yada. Lots of photos have him old and greybearded, like all
the traditional photos of God. I seldom “see” him in my head that way.
::shrugs:: Who ever said God was an old greybeard in the first place?
He created the Valar (the Gods/the Powers) and a bunch of them created
Arda (The world) with music.

Eru also created some lesser beings, the Maiar, to help
the Valar. Think of them as angels and that’s about right. Not as
powerful as the Valar, but still potent.

So in the beginning, Gandalf was a Maia named Olórin and considered the wisest
of all the Maiar. He learned from lots of different Vala, but he rightfully belonged
to Manwë Súlimo and Varda Elentári and served them.

Manwë Súlimo is the Elder King of Arda and is
chieftain of all the Vala. He is also called the "Blessed One, One (closest) in
accord with Eru". I see Manwë as more the photo below, a picture by Stephen
Sawyer. http://www.lordsart.com/stephenssawyer.html

The second picture is how someone else depicted him: blonde. This photo is
found in many searches. This is NOT how I see Manwë:

Varda is his Queen and the most powerful of the female Vala.
She set all the stars in the sky, is extraordinarily beautiful, and the Elves revere her.
Lots of pictures of her running loose on the web; sources credited when found.

http://www.mikeljanin.net/losvalar.html

www.councilofelrond.com/

www.warofthering.net

http://www.autonomatrix.org/guild/aetheria/godmonth/god_elbereth.html

Ulmo, Lord of Waters, King of the Sea, is considered second in power behind
Manwë Súlimo.

John Howe’s Ulmo: http://www.john-howe.com/

Compilation of Ulmo from TheOneRing.net

Oromë is the Huntsman of the Valar and wields a bow. He discovered the Elves
awake in Arda and encouraged them to leave the land where evil Melkor dwelled
and come to Aman where they would be safe.

http://www.mikeljanin.net/imagepages/Orome.html

Aulë, The Smith, is the maker/designer of all kinds of things and is the ‘father’ of the
race of Dwaves because he made them. Yavanna Kementári, Queen of Earth
and all growing things, is married to Aulë and she made the Two Trees of the Valar.

http://www.tednasmith.com/silmarillion/TN-Aule_the_Destroyer.html

No worthy photos of these next Valar, so I gave up searching.

A trio of siblings: Mandos (also called Námo), his sister Nienna, and brother Lórien. Mandos keeps track of the dead, hence the term
“Doomsman of the Valar.” He lives in the Hall of Mandos.

Nienna, “She Who Weeps” is spiritually in touch with all the suffering and sorrow of
Arda and its peoples. She guides Men to the afterlife that Eru has designed for them and
her Hall is not far from her brother Mandos’. Nienna is credited with teaching Olórin
(Gandalf) pity and patience. Her tears were potent enough to create the sun and moon
from the dying flower and seed of the Two Trees after Melkor killed them.

The only other one mentioned quite a bit in this next story is Tulkas Astaldo, the
formidable warrior of the Valar. He is fierce and very strong and
hunts for Melkor ruthlessly. He is also kind of a ‘party’ on legs and is friendlily
competitive over everything.

http://www.goldseven.de/inhalt/galleries/tolkien/015.html

This one isn’t of any particular Valar, but in my head, this is them!

More photos of the Valar:
http://users.bestweb.net/~jfgm/valaquenta/Discussion%20index.htm

Resources used in no particular order (Not a complete list yet)
http://uci.net/~kburkhol/nonfic/valar.html (every Valar listed here)
http://www.councilofelrond.com/index.php
http://valarguild.org/varda/Tolkien/encyc/encycindex.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vala_%28Middle-earth%29
http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Valar
http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/v/valar.html
http://www.tuckborough.net/abcindex.html

Wildly confused?
Good.
The party begins soon and I hope you’re along for the ride!

randomrattle @ 2008-08-10T17:53:00

2008-08-11T00:57:52Z

I bet

What's become of me, right?

I'm just ... busy. Busy with work. Busy with
family. Busy with end-of-summer stuff. Busy
with out of town guests who kind of sprung themselves
on me next week. (argh!)

I'm okay, just busy.

My back is good, yay.
My health is good, yay.
Personal life good, yay.

I'm writing in another fandom and REALLY enjoying
myself, yay.

Hopefully, when the weather starts turning and there is
less outside stuff going on, I'll be in here more. Right
now I'm just scattered everywhere.

randomrattle @ 2008-07-18T17:22:00

2008-07-19T00:31:04Z

Yeah, I know. I know....

New job adrenalin.
New fandom adrenalin.

Settling into new job just dandy, feeling
appreciated and lovin' being PAID! w00t!

Am currently on a rabid jag for "In Plain Sight",
which is a delightfully comedic twist on the average
cop-n-bad-guys shows on TV. I think I've written
about 200 pages of fanfiction sprawling over six
stories since June 23rd. I finish one, only to open
up a new document to start the next one.

I love new fandom vibes/adrenalin. I love new muses.
These are the first I've ever had that have HUMOR.
Didjah hear me? Funny. Comedy. Slap the sides fun.

Dunno how long it will last, though, you know how I am.

Speaking of how I am, I have more LoTRs to share with y'all....
once I get down off the high with "In Plain Sight."

Off to (you guessed it) write some more!

randomrattle @ 2008-07-03T20:04:00

2008-07-04T03:04:43Z

Last one!

Randomrattle’s Fiction

This is the final story in this collection of (mostly) short stories.
Gandalf in Spring

randomrattle @ 2008-07-02T05:32:00

2008-07-02T12:38:02Z

I'm back!

Back from a little vacation and feeling refreshed and
happy. (It might have something to do with writing
50 some pages of sMut/pOrn with the "In Plain Sight"
characters.

I love new fandom adrenalin. Gives my brain that nice...
squidgy feeling. I must get organised-ambitious enough to
put it on my fanfic page.

Randomrattle: Not too ambitious after vacation.

*brightens*

Work, however, is going well. A bit stressful as I
learn a bunch of new stuff, but the actual contact with clients
is same-old-same-old and, Holy Hannah I missed it!

Paycheck is nice, too, and I haven't even put in a full week
yet without some day off, vacation, etc.

Bad new is, some iDIoT hit-n-run my car and bashed in the whole
side panel. $3000 to fix it bill. I have to go do the whole
police report today so insurance will get on it.

Need a cowboy to straighten up someone....

No, no, NO, not the silly one!

Attay boy! Sic 'em!

...off to work....

randomrattle @ 2008-06-22T15:28:00

2008-06-22T22:28:27Z

I'm running away for a week, y'all.
See you on the flip side!

randomrattle @ 2008-06-16T13:41:00

2008-06-16T21:12:48Z

Now, for something different...

I wrote this after seeing (counts on fingers) only a handful of episodes
and before I had a ‘handle’ on Goren’s backstory. Just messing around
with ‘what if’s’ and how that would play out between Goren and Eames.
This is not your Bobby. Read: srlys, dude, fruity as a nutcake.

Did I mention that this was not your Bobby? Er. Well, it’s not your Bobby.
This one is … broken. *perks* I had fun, though, and Eames rocks as always.

Madman

That way led to madness, they said.

Just stay in Patrol, where it was about being able to take orders, shoot straight, and keep the car maintained. That way led to madness. Don’t go there.

He wanted to tell them he was already half mad, but said nothing.

He had been fascinated with the mental workings of killers since he was a teen. In the military, he studied the regimes of dictators and the men who blindly followed them. He attended every seminar detailing the psychological make up of murderers and lingered afterwards to trade concepts with the lecturers. It wasn’t long before the finest criminalist in the world discovered his obsession: Declan Gage. Despite of, or perhaps because of, his atypical mind, Dr. Gage took him as his personal apprentice.

Groveling about in the psyche of a sociopath could undermine the most stable mind … and he was already half mad. By the time he had been turned into a criminal profiler, he had been destabilized enough that everyone else knew he was half mad. He was gifted and brilliant … and damaged.

His mother was schizophrenic and several other relatives had various mental illnesses. He feared her fate would eventually be his, shut away in an institution for his own safety and chemically restrained by psychotics. His long family history related to madness dogged the corners of his mind.

But madness or sanity, whatever it was that allowed Robert Goren to crawl into the mind of a sociopath and flush them out, it was a characteristic he'd learned to accept, even embrace.

On the job, his sensitivity and perception into the psychology of criminals enabled him to have a markedly high solve rate, a testament to his skill and intuition.

Off the job, he discovered prying open the thoughts of heinous criminals exacted its own price. It was a special kind of hell to be able to slip into the thinking of a killer and travel the underbelly of humanity. And when the case was over, Goren had to find his way back to his own thoughts and his own mind, alone.

On those nights, his mind would breathe life into the pictorial images, forcing him into a perspective not his own. The murderers and their victims lingered upon his skin, behind his eyes, in his skull. Sometimes it took hours to remember his own voice in his head, but thus far … he had always come back to himself.

It was common knowledge amongst his earliest assigned squad that he was the ‘psycho’ of the department. His strangeness and quirks, the touching and the smelling of things, his odd physical mannerisms. Bobby ran a monologue beneath his breath when under pressure, full of cryptic words and punctuated by half executed gestures. Most people talked to themselves … but Detective Goren talked to several people at the same time and sometimes they quarreled. All of it evidence of a man short three bullets from a full clip.

His size was useful despite doubts as to his rational state. Special Ops Trainer Jeb Shaw simply smiled whenever Goren was in the mix, for the detective was a man who could meet the sheer physicality of the exercise owing to his years in the Army. Goren’s ability to detach made him a formidable fighter on the floor and he excelled past his peers.

Jeb wasn’t sure they were friends, but it was enough to say they never killed each other. That had to be something.

The Carnival Killer in ’98 shot down three officers before encountering Bobby Goren beneath the neon sign of Little Shanghai’s Bowl. The big detective, having discovered their perpetrator was wearing Kevlar body armor, went after Jonas bare handed when he paused to reload the 9 mm. It was bloody and brawling and spilled into the alleyway on the North before Goren fought him into a corner behind the garbage bins.

Subduing Jonas took another three minutes … three minutes of drug-fueled struggle and rage that wound up with Goren ultimately strangling his opponent into unconsciousness to end it. But it didn’t end there … the arresting officers had to talk down their own detective before they could approach and it was two minutes before Bobby responded to his name.

The NYPD appreciated seeing the end of the case, but none forgot the look in Goren’s eyes while he stood over the suspect. The EMT’s couldn’t lay a hand on him to check for injuries. The best that could be done was to make a chart note regarding Goren’s limping and that he did not appear to be bleeding profusely from any singular site.

The Captain of the precinct bawled him out for gambling with his life, not to mention leaving his partner watching a warehouse door as they had previously agreed.

“You never leave your partner behind—ever. A rookie knows that and you’ve been at this, what, four years?”

“He wouldn’t have backed my play even if I told him,” retorted Goren.

“Did you just piss in here?” demanded the Captain. “Last time I checked, I was your superior officer—you had better not be flicking any insubordinate crap my direction.” He pointed a gnarled finger at the agitated detective. “If your partner doesn’t back your play, then it’s a bad play and should have been abandoned.” He let a moment’s silence lay heavy in his office before adding; “Your strength saved you today, Goren, but use your head next time. You’ve poured knowledge into it for the last eleven years—don’t lose your grip.”

A letter went in his jacket over that incident.

A few weeks later, coarse words ended with the imprint of a body on a locker door and Goren’s files were shuffled while he was out at a scene. The resulting uproar ended in a shoving match involving five officers in the station. The rest of the shift balked at having to work with Detective Goren after that. A transfer out of the 56th was the only answer, though one cop suggested that hazing for months and that last serial killer had finally shoved Goren off the edge into physical violence.

“Get him out of the regular precincts,” said Captain Johnson in a meeting with his superiors. “He belongs in Major Case as soon as a slot opens up.”

“He doesn’t have the seniority for Major Case Squad yet,” replied one.

“You’ve read his jacket—he’s too mentally unstable for the pressure cooker,” added another.

“He’s unstable from working with these gumshoe detectives he’s paired with,” replied Johnson. “Goren’s a supernova compared to these mooks. He needs a stubborn partner with enough mental energy to keep up.” He waved his cigar to emphasis his words. “Kick him up the ladder with the sharks.”

“You sure he can swim with the best of the best?” inquired the Chief of Detectives. “Major Case has a way of eating their young.”

Johnson grinned around his cigar. “Worry more when he gets his feet back under him. He’s liable to gut them in the pool.”

After a thoughtful pause, “When a slot opens, we’ll send him upstairs to Deakins. Until then, stick him in the One Five and piss off the natives.”

The 15th precinct juggled Goren’s partners until, inevitably, his solve rate suffered. The stress aggravated his mental stability to the point his affect was blunted and he started having sensory perception problems. He refused psychological counseling beyond his one mandatory evaluation and worked cases alone. The monologues grew more heated beneath his breath and the disquiet grew when he was in the squad room. He was a kettle on a stovetop with pressure building beneath the lid for a month before being dumped into the Major Case Squad on a snowy Tuesday morning. His paperwork came with him, every line completed.

Captain Deakins noted that no officer had ever come into Major Case with his papers completely filled out finalizing the transfer. This detective had been relocated in a hurry and every ‘i’ had been dotted and the ‘t’s crossed twice.

He left the file unopened on his desk and went to see what hellraiser had been thrown into his squad room, found Goren taking the shift clock off the wall because the sweep hand whined and the sound set his teeth. It took thirty minutes before he could focus on his new Captain. The clock was now silent in the squad room.

“You’re a little bit crazy, aren’t you, Detective Goren,” said Deakins mildly. It wasn’t really a question.

“More than a little bit.” Bobby did not lie willingly.

“Good. I’ll work on finding you a suitable partner.”

Goren said nothing.

There was value in having a detective who was slightly mentally unstable in order to ferret out those that had crossed completely over the line. Captain Deakins was one who understood such things, though it was not an easy time in the beginning, running offense between his stable men and Goren. The 6’4” detective was as unpredictable as any wildfire and had the muscle to back it. His size and erratic behavior provoked wariness even before his personal history arrived through the grapevine.

It was difficult to connect with him when he loathed idle squad room chatter. His demeanor was off-putting and he often simply walked away from casual conversations directed his way. The best mind of the unit could not find the key to his mental calisthenics and no officer relished needing to work with him; he had a history of going his own way and abandoning partners in the heat of things.

They didn’t trust him and he didn’t trust any of them.

Then petite Alex Eames was transferred into the squad and set them just as off kilter as did their unstable Major Case Detective. Only 5’2”, she was forceful and tough and the men caught the brunt of her temper when they tried to shield their diminutive new comrade from the brutality of the work or underestimated her ability as a cop.

Captain Deakins watched the days plow by while his newest arrival figured out her place in the station, fully aware that Goren had yet to find his own footing.

Deakins had his hands full. He was quite used to it.

Three weeks into her new position at the precinct, Eames brought down a felon with a snap turn over her shoulder that laid him out on 45th Street in the rain. He had 6 inches on her and nearly 60 pounds.

“Good collar,” said Goren. He held his gun, but had not intercepted her play.

She blinked up at him amidst the downpour, blonde hair plastered flat. “I do my job.”

“So do I,” replied he.

She worked the remainder of the case with Bobby and discovered that Detective Goren expected her to be able to take down a suspect just as capably as he did. He was unsurprised at her collar record, her spread pattern on the firing range, her quick discernment of facts as they presented. There was nothing she needed to prove to the quirky, unsettling detective that towered a foot taller than she.

She decided that shift that Detective Goren did not need to prove anything to her, either. She swung her head in the doorway of the Captain’s office and told him she’d found her partner. Deakins didn’t even blink.

That did not automatically mean the going was easy. Robert Goren was a confusing mix of impulses, mannerisms, and lightning leaps of thought—some not logically followed. A less tenacious person would have given up, but not Eames. She was as stubborn as she was sharp and he was a puzzle sprawled in a suit not three feet from her desk.

She outranked him, but he did not look to her for any guidance. He was on his own trajectory and if she was going to make this partnership work, she had to follow the same flight path. It didn’t rankle her like it did the more ego-driven men … she was content to be carried along with his turbulent river as long as their solve rate climbed. She didn’t give a rat’s ass which of them took the reins—she just wanted the perps off the streets.

Thus, beneath each primary case, unlocking the mystery of her partner became Eames’ second case study. How Goren sifted clues and worked witnesses was just as fascinating as deciphering his quirky body language. He spoke physically every bit as much as he spoke verbally; gestures and pauses in his speech, erratic movement, the way he leaned as if by looking at the subject sideways a clue would be forthcoming, the often capricious manner he confronted suspects. It was like having a gorilla with a badge in the interrogation room and just as wildly unpredictable.

Eames watched. And watched, and watched, and watched until patterns gradually emerged and she could anticipate what angle he was coming in on. The first time she stepped into the middle of Goren’s volley of words as he pressured a suspect and kicked the ball back herself, Bobby paused a fraction of a second longer than usual. She watched the intensity of his eyes alter—recognition. It was the first time he actually saw her as something more than just the person he was assigned to work with.

From there it became slightly easier, as if Goren revised his estimate of their ability to operate together and let her in beneath his guard. She discovered the subtle signs of tension that he had trained himself to cover. She looked him directly in the eye to follow the flit of his thinking and never accepted the moments he withdrew when talking to himself—she repeated his last few sentences and coaxed him onward in his audible ramblings.

She listened to the monologue beneath his breath and learned the cadence and tone that was normal for Bobby. She also learned the cadence that wasn’t normal and took him to the roof, where he paced and swung his arms, agitated as a bird flung from a nest, battling demons only he could hear or see.

When he obsessed about a photo, a fiber, a misplaced shoe at the scene, she dozed on the desktop while he puzzled it out, unable to let it go. Eventually there would be a startling moment in the dead of night, his voice awakening her with something that revealed the answer. He was as excited as a child, glimmering with enthusiasm at 1:20 am.

“That’s my obsessive-compulsive boy,” she would laugh and he would laugh wildly back.

He never thought to thank her for staying when he fixated on some seemingly trivial thing, but it was always ‘what we discovered’ and ‘Eames and I found’ when Goren approached Captain Deakins and DA Carver. He always wrote her name first on the final case summary when it was over.

“You solved it, Bobby,” she remarked once. “You should at least put your name first.”

“Alphabetical order. Eames comes before Goren.” He said it as if it should be perfectly obvious.

Respect came to Eames because she could handle the slightly unstable Goren with self-confidence. She disregarded his eccentric behavior and focused on his grasp of criminal psychology in order to identify a murderer. Her model taught everyone else in the department the same. Those who didn’t copy her method of ignoring Goren’s oddities ended up under the lash of her tongue for interfering with her investigations by stressing her partner.

“Major in the majors—not in the minors. How the hell he gets to the killer isn’t important,” she snapped at a clandestine meeting of sorts near the break room. “The important thing is that he gets there. Preferably before the next victim dies.” She glared at them. “Enough with the stupid already.”

“Alexandra Eames. Little dog, lots of teeth,” observed Captain Deakins.

“Damn straight,” she replied.

Goren gradually and haltingly adjusted to this single tenacious companion. His mental energy calmed. Without the chaos of shifting partners, his monologues evened out and a sly eccentric humor showed up. He remained erratic, capable of maniac behavior during interviews with equally maniac suspects and scrambling up on the back of church pews to look at a body from a new angle … but he ceased over-controlling his environment as his stress dropped. His unpredictable behavior became just another department undercurrent.

He took her pencils and drank sips from her coffee. He touched everything, smelled of everything. He picked at threads that hung loose on his suit coat or hers, punctuated every conversation with gestures as elaborate as his words. His desk opposite hers was a heap, but he knew exactly where every piece of paper lay and was alarmed when something was moved. He had a black notebook full of scribbles that never left his side. He let her drive because she liked to … plus he couldn’t keep New York City’s vertical landscape deciphered and process mentally at the same time.

Before three months had passed between this unlikely pair, the astute mind of Bobby Goran had resurfaced and his uncanny skill as a profiler was on full display. He was a hound after the next killer … but he never left his partner behind.

Goren and Eames became the team that raised the Major Case Squad’s closure numbers and, predictably, the department settled their differences of opinion and were supportive. Deakins knew they would eventually. They were good men.

Alex trusted Bobby first.
Bobby took longer to trust, but eventually it came.

He told her about his violent father and his subsequent abandonment of the family. He stumbled through a monologue about his mother and his drug addled brother. About his fear of eventually sliding into schizophrenic madness. The terror of the chemical restraints that Francis Goren was held in. Hospitals. Behavioral therapy. The absence of clarity of thought. Hallucinations so real that his mother alternately cowered or raged for days on end. Bars on the windows and doors. His future was uncertain, but for now, he could work and would.

He had a love-hate relationship with being touched—hungering for it, but too often reminded of his father’s physical abuse and his mother’s absent affection. He spoke nothing of lovers and she did not inquire.

He admitted that he often heard voices, but knew to not listen to them.

Alex wondered how easy it was to hear and yet not listen. She did not ask that question either.

She told him of her various cohorts in the force, the death of her husband, her assorted lovers, and her climb up the ladder to Detective. She drank and swore when pressured, none of it pretty. She had a tendency to be ball buster first, make nice later. She had to be twice as tough as any other cop to be respected, which left her somewhat embattled and wary. Goren knew exactly what she meant without explanation.

She got used to his breath along her neck when he leaned over her desk, the way he often stood too close even in an open room. The fact that he crowded her personal space so frequently spoke volumes as to his trust. Antisocial and indifferent to everyone else, Goren was quick to intercept any threat to her.

She recalled the first time he touched her, his strength hauling her up and out of the alleyway to the low rooftop. He seized her out of a line of fire in total darkness, detecting her by the way she took a gathering breath before stepping out to confront four members of a gang.

She remembered the first time he lost himself in the workings of a criminal mind and watched her with such desperation as she talked him back to reality. The voices in his head were insistent, but she was patiently relentless. It was the first time she had seen him cry. It was the first time she realized how much he depended on her to anchor him, to hold the end of the line while he went out into mental darkness to reel in something evil. It set her grip on that rope more securely than any psychologist could ever have convinced her.

“You looked for me.” He said it at 4 am with exhausted bewilderment.

“I’m your partner, Bobby.” She said it as if it should be self evident, levering his bulk to his feet. “Partners stay to light the way back out of hell and then shut the door behind you.”

She put him on the cot in the break room when it was over and he hiccupped until he fell asleep, fingers tracing the edge of the rough blanket over and over.

She supposed she loved him, eccentricities and all, and suspected she was the first. No woman had spent years studying him, figuring out all the subtle nuances of his body language beneath the overt ones as she had. Who would have the patience? Who would tolerate his off-kilter behavior long enough to see the treasure of him? Brilliant, intelligent, implacable, manipulative, broken Bobby Goren.

There was no future in this, she knew. Departmental policy would break their partnership if they formed any intimate relationship and she wasn’t willing to see him destabilized after years of steadiness. She held him together at work at the price of not holding him in private.

He was a madman, but he was her madman.

But sometimes on those late night drives home alone, she pondered all that she was missing. She wanted to see what made his fingers tremble. She wanted him to say her name. Did he have freckles on his back and did he snore and where was he ticklish? Without pens and notebooks, diagrams and case numbers, what did Bobby fall back on? She wanted to know if stripping him out of his suit would make him turn inward, embarrassed and hesitant as a child, or if nudity was his natural element and liberated him. Did he investigate his own passion with the same detailed thought as he investigated a crime scene, or did it escape from him without finesse or plan, as adrenaline fueled as any noteworthy discovery. She wanted to trace every hidden scar and listen to the story it told. She wanted to hear the sound he made in pleasure. She wanted to set free all the wild and gentle dogs running in him.

Bobby wasn’t sure he had ever loved anyone … but Alex was close to what he imagined love was. His slight partner had more power over him than anything in his life.

He wasn’t good with words to explain himself, even worse with expected behavior. Expectations had a way of betraying him and, besides, the rule of every squad was stated clearly. If he said aloud what he felt inside, she would be at a new desk within a week. That thought ran terror down corridors of his soul that had slept for years.

He didn’t need intimate contact to feel intimate with Eames anyway. She spent most of her day with him, gave a pittance to her family and even less to the area of dating. He enjoyed the bulk of her time and attention and even if it didn’t include sex, having her companionship for ninety percent of the day was an equitable trade. He could get sex if he wanted sex, but he wouldn’t trade anything for this single relentless partner, the anchor in the storm that was his life.

Bobby wasn’t immune to the longing, however. He dreamed how her cheekbones felt framed within his hands, all the flavors her body offered, the map his fingers would make exploring her. He wanted to cradle her breasts in his hands, to lay his face in the crease beneath them where her scent gathered the strongest. Would just that simple womanly aroma calm the part of him that never calmed, was never consoled, was never without want? He imagined how she fit beneath his chin. Knew that if he held her, she could speak directly to his heart and he would hear even if she said nothing. He wanted to smooth away the lines of old hurt around her eyes and hide his face in her hair and listen to her stomach growl in the morning. He wanted to savor her smell mixed with his own after lovemaking, a palette he would never know and a thought that haunted him somewhat.

In his damaged little world, she was the center of the universe.

They both knew how each other felt.
Neither said a word.

randomrattle @ 2008-06-15T17:16:00

2008-06-16T00:19:19Z

Something you won’t see anywhere else

This short (31 minutes) film is not available to
rent or buy. From the 2004 Venice Film Festival, here is
Vincent D’Onofrio’s “Five Minutes Mr. Wells” which (apparently)
was written and done as his objection to Tim Burton disliking his
voice rendering of Orson Wells in “Ed Wood.”

Many of VDO's fans believe that Vincent himself put this up
on YouTube just because he knows it's not available to them.

In Wikki, there is a photo of Orson Wells when he was
older and Vincent bears a startling resemblance to
him—they are even the same height. It’s a short clip,
very mesmerizing—well worth the 31 minutes to watch.

randomrattle @ 2008-06-14T14:36:00

2008-06-14T21:43:10Z

*tap*tap*tap*

Anyone out there?

Randomrattle’s Fiction

An intersting, rambling, train-of-consciousness piece is up in
The Book of The Wizard called "Gandalf in Summer." Guaranteed
to make you giggle, smirk and think.