A Wolf in Gotham

The insanity that is NaNoWriMo is nearly upon us. In a just over a week I will start for the third time. I’m nervously excited about it. I won last year, but the previous year I started on November 14; I lost. However, I consider it a win since I wrote 25,000 words. At that time it was the most I’ve written in years.

I’m a plotter and a panster. I can knock out a short story with little effort, but not for a larger type story, the plotter comes out. I missed a few days last year with TN pain caused by cold fronts; need the plot so I can feverishly type away with my nimble fingers while I can.

I originally started writing A Wolf in Gotham project back in 2007 and 2008. It never really flowed until I changed one of the female characters. I thought it was a decent first attempt, but rereading it… I wondered why it didn’t stand out from my other stories. The more I read it the more, I hated it. But it was a good launching point for my main character, Lieutenant Ryan Wolf, F-14 pilot upgraded to a classified hypersonic stealth fighter.

I gutted most of the story and throwing in my Trigeminal Neuralgia. I wrote lots of short stories with Ryan battling headaches, undiagnosed TN pain. My plan is to raise awareness of this rare excruciating condition. I plan on two follow up books, Teal Beast Rising (April 2017) and The Teal Warrior (NaNoWriMo 2017)

Teal Beast Rising will feature my short stories of 2009-2012, before I was officially diagnosed with TN. It will show how long it takes for most of us TN suffers to get diagnosed with our condition. It will end with my short story ‘Going Down’

Teal Warrior will be based on 2012-present day short stories and my experiences with prescription pain killers and battling TN with natural supplements, eating anti-inflammatory foods, and chiropractic care.

Maybe one day I’ll turn the background for A Wolf in Gotham teal. Write on!

Excerpt of The Great Rutabaga Insurrection

Inside an armored hangar of Gotham NAS sat a sleeping F/A-39 Crusader II. Old Glory was proudly displayed behind her as the hypersonic bird rested. Her pilot, Lieutenant Commander Ryan Wolf, had his hand on her fuselage as he admired the new nose art that read, “Brooklyn.” It was in honor of his bodacious wife, Brooke. Her middle name is Lynn, thus her nickname was Brooklyn.

“A penny for your thoughts lieutenant,” CAG said, snapping Wolf from his musing.

“It feels wonderful to be back,” the smiling pilot replied.

“We’re grateful to have you back,” the Vietnam era pilot stated.

“This time of the year I would be getting geared up to escort Santa Claus.”

“Miss it?”

“Yes and no. It was fun, Santa’s sleigh could bend the space-time continuum to make the flight only last a few hours. However, to the body it was a near day, sometimes I was dragging my leg behind me as I limped to my front door.”

“Yes and you probably had someone waiting on you to massage it, didn’t you lieutenant?” CAG smirked.

“Ruby a couple of years, Jessica one year…,”

“Whoa! Forget I asked lieutenant. Too much information, save it for the paparazzi,” Quinn said as he waved his hands. The phone rang, “Hold that thought.” He answered it, “Commander Quinn speaking.”

He patiently listened and the replied, “What’s that ensign? Pike, slow down, I can barely understand you.” He listened and flashed a funny look “What do you mean we’re missing a tank? What’s going on ensign?!?!” he asked. Seconds later he spoke again, “You’re on I-995.” What? Call the main gate.” CAG put the phone down and looked at Ryan, “Your pumpkin frenemy stole a M60A3 MBT (Main Battle Tank) its heading west on Interstate 995. Intercept and engage if need be.”

Bittersweet for Ryan, he was ecstatic to get back into the air, but PK was driving a tank. He was legendary for his shenanigans, but this one topped them all. Wolf dressed and scrambled up his birds ladder. He sat down in the cockpit and strapped himself in as the hangar doors opened. He put his helmet on and awakened his bird with the push of a button.

He strapped his oxygen mask on and taxied out to the tarmac. Butterflies filled his stomach as he reached the launching point. “Wolf 1, this is Eagle Control. You are cleared to launch.” His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and engaged the VTOL (Vertical Takeoff Landing). The butterflies vanished as the Crusader effortlessly lifted off the ground.

It was wonderful to be back in the air. It felt like Pike’s Peak had been lifted off his shoulders, he felt like a kid in a candy store; even if that stupid pumpkin had stolen the nearly mothballed tank.

PK’s large head was sticking out the top as he drove the USMC (United States Marine Corps) tank. He had somehow placed a helmet atop his rotund orange head. He didn’t bother to snap it on; the chin strap was flapping in the wind as the tank lumbered down the interstate. Accidents were transpiring but that didn’t concern the king of the pumpkins. He had to get this tank to the pumpkin patch and stop those nasty armored rutabagas from turning the entire continent into a rutabaga field!

The Crusader shrieked overhead, PK lifted up his head and smiled, “Welcome back my boy!”

“Foxtrot, PK. What the hell is going on?” Wolf demanded.

“Whoa! You kiss Brooke with that mouth? I’m going to call your mother and tell her you forgot all about those manners she taught you. Perhaps she’ll drive up and wash your mouth out with soap so the next time you kiss Brooke your mouth will be clean!”

Wolf snapped, “I’ve been authorized to stop…”

“Stand down lieutenant! We have a national security issue here,” Colonel Rogers’s voice popped in on the radio. “PK was given permission to take the tank, but the Pentagon failed to notify Gotham NAS. You are ordered to assist him.”

“Join me Ryan, together we can rule New Jersey as Pumpkin and Wolf!”

“PK, would you stop playing Star Warp! One little mishap and you’re going to take out innocent civilians!”

“I’m hardly playing my boy. Lord Magenta Khan is about to detonate the Genesis Apparatus! North America will be turned into a rutabaga patch,” the pumpkin said as he put goggles over his fiery triangular eyes.

“Now he’s playing Star Wreck,” Wolf groaned.

“Ryan, we have to stop them! We can’t have rutabagas ruling North America! When knaves think their nobility, well, it’s time to take action!”

Several seconds of radio silence took place before Ryan asked, “Who’s Lord Magenta Khan?”

“He’s the leader of the rutabagas! They’re in cahoots with the old bucket of rusty bolts, Mega-Troff!”

“WHAT?!?!”

“That’s right lieutenant. Mega-Troff’s been playing with us. He’s been testing us with the hit and run tactics,” America’s favorite son said.

“That’s why the industrial sized bags of Rid a Rutabaga didn’t work. They’re armored now!” PK added as he took the exit ramp. Cars scampered out of his way as he barreled through the intersection. “Excuse me, make room for the pumpkin. We got a national security issue to deal with!” he exclaimed as he looked at the dumbfounded onlookers.

PK lost his attention and steered the tank towards parked cars. The sound of crunching metal filled the air. “Oops…,” the embarrassed tank commander uttered and steered the tank back on course to the pumpkin patch. “Sorry, just contact the Pentagon; they’ll have the few hard working US tax payers pay for the damages. Ciao!”

Ryan watched the carnage from above, he face palmed, “PK…”

“Sorry my boy, but this tank wasn’t designed for a pumpkin to drive,” PK said as the Marine tank thundered past Cobalt’s Corner. The deadly blue haired ninja, Miss Cobalt joined dozens of half drunken patrons were outside cheering and clapping him on. She held up and waved a sign that read, “Do it for us PK!” He gave them a thumb’s up and continued on his quest of saving North America from becoming a rutabaga patch.

The incident was being broadcast live all over America courtesy of Flynn Beck’s Ablaze Network. “As you can see there’s a tank from Gotham NAS barreling down a side street,” he paused momentarily as he put his head back, “Is that PK?”

“Affirmative!” Pat, Flynn’s producer answered.

“What’s he doing with a Marine Corps tank and why are the Marines still using a M60 tank?”

“He’s going to fight the Martians in his pumpkin patch according to Alex Stone,” Skinny Stu said as he ran into the studio and sat down next to Flynn. “According to the sources from the Pentagon, it’s a reserve tank, used only in training exercises.”

“Martians? Really, Martians? NASA’s Martian Rovers proved that there’s no little green men wandering on the planet,” Beck replied and continued, “In an unprecedented move, the Defense Department is allowing us to follow the audio, albeit a seven second delay because Lieutenant Commander Wolf is cursing like a sailor right now.”

“And we don’t want to get fined by the FCC, or excommunicated by the LDS (Latter Day Saints) Church, or get protested for being a ‘fake’ Christian by the Westboro Baptist Cult.”

They watched as PK’s adoring fans staggered from Cobalt’s Corner to the edge of the pumpkin patch. Beck shook his head, “What a shame. I’ve been there, blitzed out of my mind trying to run away from the pain that I created. I was a mess, I feel terrible for these people. Yes, I do, there not going to remember a single thing from this epic incident!”

The Great Rutabaga Insurrection Cast of Characters!

I've finally started the editing process of the Great Rutabaga Insurrection! Here are the cast of characters for the story, not listed in any particular order.

PK, the mischievous tyrannical pumpkin and wannabe leader of the world. He’s a sucker for shapely redheads; it’s all Rita Hayworth’s fault. One look at her in 1942 and his head exploded.

Fishy, PK’s trusted lieutenant. The fish crow is loyal to a point, but he doesn’t subscribe to PK’s tyrannical ways. He loves Ruby and Taylor Swift.

Colonel America, a 99 pound soaking wet weakling who was rejected by the US Army in 1942. He was accepted for a top secret project and transformed into America’s Favorite Son. He led the fight against the Nazi war machine. He mysteriously disappeared in May of 1945, only to reappear just as mysteriously in May of 2005.

The Wondrous Amazon, immortal princess of the ‘peace loving’ Amazons that reside inside the Bermuda Triangle; she fought alongside of Colonel America during World War II. She looked for him, but never found him until May of 2005.

Lieutenant Commander Ryan T. Wolf, hotshot naval ace and superheroine sidekick extraordinaire, fine pumpkin aficionado. He has 17 kills to his credit, his first coming over the Adriatic Sea in 1999.

Tara le Fay, she’s the spooky one, not my words, but the words of Flynn Beck. Tara claims to be from another galaxy. A fact that Lieutenant Commander Ryan Wolf confirms, he intercepted her plunging space craft high above the Sierra-Nevada Mountain range. She’s also Ruby’s bestie.

Flynn Beck, reporter turned conspiracy theorist. He quit his job at the Vox News Network to form his own, the Blade Network. He is now one of the leading internet reporters around.

Brooke Wolf, wife of LTC Ryan Wolf. She is the granddaughter of Admiral Doolittle, she’s a trained superheroine. Commander Terry Quinn, CAG (Charge, Air Guard), a holdover from the Vietnam War; Quinn saw limited duty in 1972 before returning to the states.

Amazin’ Amy is Miami’s favorite daughter. The redhead wasn’t born in Miami, but the city claims her nonetheless.

Ruby, she’s Tara’s bestie. The beautiful witch hails from Massachusetts; it’s her job to maintain the balance of power between man’s world and the magical one.

Alex Stone, the kookiest conspiracy theorist around. He hates Flynn Beck, claims he’s part of the New World Order. Stone also has his own radio, Penitentiary Planet.

Admiral Doolittle, the Old Man as he is affectionately called at Gotham Naval Air station. He’s the grandfather of Brooke Wolf. He constantly badgers Ryan and Brooke when they’re going to give him his first great granddaughter.

The Chartreuse Avenger, Charlotte Knight, is a founding member of the Drama City Defenders. She lost her arm during a battle with her former protégé, Darth Ned. She blames her failure on LTC Wolf and Brooke as well.

The Russian Widow (Red Widow) a drop dead gorgeous trained KGB assassin, she too was involved in World War II. She was involved in a similar project as Colonel America, her aging came to a crawl thanks to the project.

Lady Cobalt, a blue haired ninja, is the owner of Cobalt’s Corner. She’s a living breathing magical spell that tragically suffers from ADHD.

Lady Snow, Lady Cobalt’s protégé, is infamous for her shy nature, but don’t let it fool you. Tick her off and she’s worse than her master. You have been warned.

Star Spangled Avenger, stronger than the Wondrous Amazon, but lacks the training.

Super Dan, don’t ask. Just don’t ask.

Pigeon Man, reread Super Dan’s entry.

Trigeminal Neuralgia: The Pain Awakens

Brooke and I purposely waited weeks to see The Force Awakens, letting the ravenous crowds to die down. I wasn’t about to walk out of the movie theatre like a walking zombie like I did after Transformers 3. I hatched a plan that was similar to what I attempted with Iron Man 3 and Star Trek into Darkness.

I took a migraine pill and wore earplugs, even wore sunglasses. Theoretically the plan was good, but it was a near failure. I jumped every time there was an explosion or obnoxious boom. I was nauseous towards the end of the movie, I survived, but barely. Thank God we ate right afterwards, it soothed my simmering trigeminal nerve.

Learning from my near epic failure, I tweaked things. I took an Excedrin Migraine pill two hours before the movie started. I took a second after we walked into the movie theatre lobby. I put ear plugs into my tender ears after I took my seat. I put a pair of sunglasses on to get me safely past the overstimulating previews.

I survived Star Wars, I did jump once, but so did everyone else in attendance. I liked it, it wasn’t perfect. I don’t understand why or how the generals were so young or other stuff that transpired. However, the movie was superior to the disappointing prequels.

Being that I survived the movie, Brooke and I went shopping afterwards despite the oncoming cold front. I donned my ski cap, covering my mutinous trigeminal nerve and smiled. I was feeling great, the memories of the abysmal Episodes I and II were repressed; I was ready to take on the world!

We were inside the local supermarket, in the frozen food section. We were getting some frozen blueberries to help control my TN pain when a gnarly looking guy walked in on the scene. We didn’t pay much attention as we looked at the frozen fruit. We heard a dull thud and looked over at him. “I dropped my pudding!” he exclaimed as he knelt down and picked up the item he dropped. The man looked puzzled as he stood; he looked around, “Hey, where did they go?” Brooke and I paid no more attention as we put the blueberries into the cart.

Seconds later he walked past us and suddenly let out a 64,000 decibel whistle of pure agony. My hazel eyes exploded, my knees buckled, I tilted my head and I closed my eyes as I held the shopping cart for support. I leaned on it before he let out another ear splitting whistle. I involuntarily jerked my pulsating head as he did so; I kept my eyes closed and held my aching ear as I rested my abdomen against the shopping cart.

The boisterous man yelled someone’s name and fiercely whistled one last time. It felt like Darth Vader’s troubled grandson was having one of his notorious temper tantrums, plunging his light sabre into my ear canal. I stood motionless as I vainly visualized the pain leaving my aching ear.

Brooke placed her soft hand on my shoulder and gently squeezed, “Are you alright luv?”

“I’m fine,” I opened my eyes and told the lie that most of us tell.

My fiery wife would have nothing of it. She knew I was lying. “Rubbish.”

“I’m fine,” I continued telling the lie.

“Rubbish luv.”

“Seriously, I’m fine,” I answered, closing my glassy eyes.

“Ryan Tiberius Wolf…”

Middle name, that’s all I need to hear. I was in big trouble if I continued to my current course of exaggerating the truth. I nodded my head and replied, “I got a front row seat to the latest Hollywood Blockbuster that I’m starring in.”

“Blockbuster? Luv, what are you talking about?” she asked incredulously.

“Trigeminal Neuralgia: The Pain Awakens.”

Goals for 2016

1. No matter how painful or dark the year may get, remember God's promises:

Jeremiah 29:11 For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.

Revelation 21:4 ...There shall be no more pain...

2. Edit The Great Rutabaga Insurrection my victorious 2015 NaNoWriMo project

3. Edit Zombie Shark and send it to others for feed back; nuke the ending of Ryan's Mighty New Year or edit for a Trigeminal Neuralgia story.

4. Get some short stories published.

5. Find more anti-inflammatory foods to naturally combat Trigeminal Neuralgia.

6. Walk 2-3X a week to create the release of pain klling endorphins.

Ghost of Christmas Moose Excerpt

Little scene from a 7 page short story, one of these days I'll get to the much needed edit/rewrite.

***

"Mmm, babe. You know it!" Tan purred as she wrapped her arm around me as the snow continued to fall. We turned around, looked back over our shoulders and gave the vanishing crazed rabid ninja one last look.

Lady Blue wildly swung her balled fist into the air as she continued to follow the crazy jerky moose. The angry kunoichi snarled, “I killed you before, I’ll kill you again!” as she raced into an opening. The skillful ninja lost track of the moose as the snow fell harder; Blue looked around and saw a snowman standing in the middle of nowhere.

She blinked her violet eyes as she saw the snowman smile at her; she shook her pretty little blue head that was quickly piling up with white puffs of gentle snow. He continued to smile as his stick arm motioned for her to come over.

Behind the snowman a stood an old fashion drive thru movie wall; it turned to black as Blue neared. An HD movie with state-of-the-art surround sound began to play; Blue saw a tiny sleigh with nine reindeer flying through the dark skies, a US Navy fighter with forward swept wings was escorting the sleigh as The Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s Sarajevo 24/7 began to ominously play. Suddenly she heard my desperate voice over a menacing tone, “Santa! Can you get Rudolph to turn off his nose?”

“Sorry lad, he can’t,” Santa replied just before my HUD (Heads Up Display) turned a deep crimson red.

“Missile warning, Missile warning,” a soft voice repeated over in my helmet as the words blinked on my HUD.

“Incoming!” I thundered and pulled my F/A-39 Crusader II into a sharp turn away from Santa; the nimble fighter belched flares and a chaff cloud as it raced away from Saint Nick. The QSAM (Quick-maneuvering Surface-to-Air Missile) locked onto my nimble fighter and streaked away from the Jolly Ol’ Elf and his reindeer.

“Doom must really be peeved at me,” I thought as I experienced chest crushing G-forces. I huffed and grunted as the deadly missile neared; my bird shrieked as she continued to turn tighter than her engineers designed her to. Cold air vortexes formed on her wings as she continued her conga dance with Doom’s bucket of coal.

The naughty missile started to sputter; it slowed down and drifted off course. It belched a couple puffs of smoke, seconds later it burped once more before plunging towards the Earth. I didn’t have time to celebrate; another one took its place.

My Crusader came around in front of Santa and the boys; a pleasant ringing tone was intermingled with the “Missile Warning,” that echoed in my helmet. It was so intermingled that I didn’t hear it at first, but when he heard it, it was sweet: My bird had locked onto the Eastern European defense site.

A sleeping AGM-88 Harm missile dropped from my weapon’s carousel; it awoke and blazed a fiery smoky path down to the earth. It gave the defense installation the kiss of death; it disappeared into a fiery fireball that could be seen for hundreds of miles in the cold air.

“ALL CLEAR SANTA!” I jubilantly shouted.

“Thank you Ryan,” a relieved Santa smiled, “By the way, you’ve never told me what you wanted for Christmas.”

A Gift Card Christmas Excerpt

This is "Part 2" of 1126 Tomcat Way

It was Christmas Eve’s Eve. I slept nice, but I awoke exhausted. The coughing and the codeine played tag team with me. My stomach growled loudly, “Okay, okay, I get the picture,” I groaned as I staggered out of bed. The phone rang as I walked into the kitchen. Brooke answered it. Her voice jumped several octaves, “HE’S WHAT?”

“Why wasn’t I notified?”

“Why is he being released so soon?!??”

“He demanded it?

“How long ago?”

“He’s waiting for me?” Brooke face palmed as she finished, “Oh…,I’ll be right there.” She put the phone down and took a deep calming breath. “They released my grandfather-” she stopped and shook her, “No. He released himself.”

I took a sip of Gatorade as she looked at me sternly, “No computer luv. I want you off of it. You’re supposed to be getting your rest. I’m serious luv. I’m going to call Ernie before I leave to go to the hospital and ask have him watch you while I’m away.” She paused for dramatic effect and finished, “I’ll have him put Susie Snowflake on the repeat cycle if you do.”

Pure unadulterated horror gripped my donut pumping heart. I had heard that song countless of times when I worked at a toy during my senior year of high school; worse, they played it on continuous rotation. That song would induce the most nauseating Yule Tide feeling. “You wouldn’t…”

“Susie Snowflake, Santa Baby, Paul McCartney’s rubbish song, The Italian Donkey, Sinatra’s J-I-N-G-L-E Bells, Christmas Shoes, Natalie Cole butchering her daddy’s Christmas song, Rod Stewart and Dolly Parton nauseating version of Baby it’s Cold, and lastly Bonnie Raitt’s Christmas ‘song’ all in nonstop rotation if you should go onto the computer.” “With such a generous offer, how can I refuse?”

My victorious wife haughtily smiled. Total silence ensued until I weakly attempted to change the subject in a sly way, “Don’t forget to pick up the turkey.”

She narrowed her eyes and pointed her slender index finger at me, “You’re changing the subject luv, it’s not going to work…, Ernie!”

“Reporting for duty Mrs. Wolf!” the elite elf appeared magically in an explosion of everything good about Christmas, including fruitcake. He snapped a rigid salute. This time the elf was dressed in typical North Pole attire, “Lieutenant Commander Wolf is under my watch!”

“Make sure he doesn’t log onto the computer or else…”

“Or else…” Ernie begrudgingly echoed as he held up a CD holding my worst Christmas nightmare. I could see the pain in his eyes as he continued, “Please Ryan…, don’t make me play this…, please. It’s bad enough to hear Arnie singing ‘We are Santa’s elves’ off key.”

My poor ears wouldn’t be able to withstand the earsplitting onslaught of that abominable collection of songs without triggering a Trigeminal Attack. I picked up a white hanky and waved it. “Good boy,” Brooke stated and left to pick up the Old Man. Multiple candy cane explosions happened, speakers and an ipod appeared. Ernie clicked a button and the Christmas list I made for my yearly flights with Santa played. I reclined in my chair and smiled.

We chatted about our little adventures we’ve had. I grabbed a digital photo album and turned it on; I showed the curious elf various photos taken from my multiple misadventures. Nothing happened until I brought up the photo from my first mission with Brooke.

Ernie’s little red hat with fluffy white trim suddenly stood straight up as he gazed at the photo. The fluffy snowball at the tip of his hat jingled out a melodious Christmas tune. “That’s Mrs. Wolf!?!”

“Yes, our first assignment together.”

“Oh wow, Ryan. She reminds me of this cute little commando elf,” Ernie’s professionalism began to slip as he started to stammer…, funny how love does that. “She’s, she’s, she was the blonde at the. I mean. Uh, yeah, she was.” The flustered elf stopped and shook his head. He took a deep calming breath, “She was the only blonde elf at the Pave Low.”

“I saw her. What’s her name?” I asked.

“Myrrh,” he replied, “It’s a nice Christmas name.”

“Yes, it is,” I said and then told a white lie that I hoped Santa would forgive me for. “She was looking at you too.”

“She was!” the blushing elf exclaimed and fumbled for words again. “Um, what do I do? I-I-I-I-I’ve never ever dated before.”

“It took me a while to learn this, but be you. Be genuine. Start off slow you know, like a cup of hot cocoa after work. The next time include cookies with that hot cocoa, make sure they’re chocolate or some sort of chocolate icing or stripes. It has to be chocolate.” Ernie shook his head and quickly scribbled notes as I continued, “Chocolate is one of the main weaknesses of women, that and roses too. If that all works, then try dinner and a movie and take it from there.”

During our conversation of the fairer sex, I put my head back on the recliner and promptly fell fast asleep. I didn’t awake until there arose such a clatter!

NaNoWriMo 2015

This is an except from The Great Rutabaga Insurrection, my NaNoWriMo project. This is the first draft, very rough.

***

Inside an armored hangar of Gotham NAS sat a sleeping F/A-39 Crusader II. Old Glory was proudly displayed behind her as the hypersonic bird rested. Her pilot, Lieutenant Commander Ryan Wolf, had his hand on her fuselage as he admired the new nose art that read, “Brooklyn.” It was in honor of his bodacious wife, Brooke. Her middle name is Lynn, thus her nickname was Brooklyn.

“A penny for your thoughts lieutenant,” CAG said, snapping Wolf from his musing.

“It feels wonderful to be back,” the smiling pilot replied.

“We’re grateful to have you back,” the Vietnam era pilot stated.

“This time of the year I would be getting geared up to escort Santa Claus.”

“Miss it?”

“Yes and no. It was fun, Santa’s sleigh could bend the space-time continuum to make the flight only last a few hours. However, to the body it was a near day, sometimes I was dragging my leg behind me as I limped to my front door.”

“Yes and you probably had someone waiting on you to massage it, didn’t you lieutenant?” CAG smirked.

“Ruby a couple of years, Jessica one year…,”

“Forget I asked lieutenant,” Quinn said as he waved his hands. The phone rang, “Hold that thought.” He answered it, “Commander Quinn speaking.”

He patiently listened and the replied, “What’s that ensign? Pike, slow down, I can barely understand you.” He listened and flashed a funny look “What do you mean we’re missing a tank? What’s going on ensign?!?!” he asked. Seconds later he spoke again, “You’re on I-995.” What? Call the main gate.” CAG put the phone down and looked at Ryan, “Your pumpkin frenemy stole a M60A3 MBT (Main Battle Tank) its heading west on Interstate 995. Intercept and engage if need be.”

Bittersweet for Ryan, he was ecstatic to get back into the air, but PK was driving a tank. He was legendary for his shenanigans, but this one topped them all. He dressed and scrambled up his birds ladder. He sat down in the cockpit and strapped himself in as the hangar doors opened. He put his helmet on and awakened his bird with the push of a button.

He strapped his oxygen mask on and taxied out to the tarmac. Butterflies filled his stomach as he reached the launching point. “Wolf 1, this is Eagle Control. You are cleared to launch.” His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and engaged the VTOL (Vertical Takeoff Landing). The butterflies vanished as the Crusader effortlessly lifted off the ground.

It was wonderful to be back in the air. It felt like Pike’s Peak had been lifted off his shoulders, he felt like a kid in a candy store; even if that stupid pumpkin had stolen the nearly mothballed tank.

PK’s large head was sticking out the top as he drove the USMC (United States Marine Corps) tank. He had somehow placed a helmet atop his rotund orange head. He didn’t bother to snap it on; the chin strap was flapping in the wind as the tank lumbered down the interstate. Accidents were transpiring but that didn’t concern the king of the pumpkins. He had to get this tank to the pumpkin patch and stopped those nasty armored rutabagas turned the entire continent into a rutabaga field!

The Crusader shrieked overhead, PK lifted up his head and smiled, “Welcome back my boy!”

“Foxtrot, PK. What the hell is going on?” Wolf demanded.

“Whoa! You kiss Brooke with that mouth? I’m going to call your mother and tell her you forgot all about those manners she taught you. Perhaps she’ll drive up and wash your mouth out with soap so the next time you kiss Brooke your mouth will be clean!”

Wolf snapped, “I’ve been authorized to stop…”

“Stand down lieutenant! We have a national security issue here,” Colonel Rogers’s voice popped in on the radio. “PK was given permission to take the tank, but the Pentagon failed to notify Gotham NAS. You are ordered to assist him.”

“Join me Ryan, together we can rule New Jersey as Pumpkin and Wolf!”

“PK, would you stop playing Star Warp! One little mishap and you’re going to take out innocent civilians!”

“I’m hardly playing my boy. Lord Magenta Khan is about to detonate the Genesis Apparatus! North America will be turned into a rutabaga patch,” the pumpkin said as he put goggles over his fiery triangular eyes.

“Now he’s playing Star Wreck,” Wolf groaned.

NaNoWriMo Comes to an End

I finally entered NaNoWriMo, albeit two weeks late, but I still joined! It was all courtesy of a swift kick in the behind by a good friend. I knew I wasn’t going to win by writing a 50,000 word story, my goal was 25,000 and I succeeded! I had a grand total of 26,048 words, that’s 26,048 more words than I’ve written in all of 2014.

My muse has returned! The past few years it had hid on me, I couldn’t write in the morning like I used to and my writing suffered immensely. I have been able to write consistently in the past few weeks. I finished a story I started last Christmas, nearly finished a Halloween story I started in August 2013 and resuscitated many stagnant projects.

1126 Tomcat Way (E) rough draft is ready to be edited for Christmas 2014. I’ll add another story to it for future use. Tomcat Way is 14 pages and 5,670 words long.

Mighty Melinda Meets PK (R) flowed like water. It was the first story in years that I didn’t have to slave over. It, too, is ready for editing; its 23 pages and 10,352 words long.

Zombie Shark (PG/PG-13) was going to be my 2013 Halloween story before it hit the proverbial brick wall. Once I finished MMMPK I went back to it. I figured out how to fill in the missing pieces leading up to the climatic ending. Zombie Shark is currently 14 pages and 5,980 words long.

Ryan’s Mighty New Year (R) continues after the events of Ryan’s Mighty Christmas. Mighty Melinda and Ryan team up once again to solve an unearthly mystery. It is currently seven pages long and 3,312 words long.

I started Donut Bandito in 2007; it was nice, but not near ready for Prime Time. I renamed it NCIS: Miami, but kept the plot nearly the same. However, I still may jettison most of the story and only keep the first few pages and start afresh.

This past Saturday I went to the Vero Beach NaNoWriMo meeting. I learned a lot about writing, the publishing process, and writing programs. I did learn that I have enough short stories to put them all together for a novel or I could split them up and form a series. They were amazed how I’m taking my Trigeminal Neuralgia pain and using it for good with a few of my short stories.

The skies the limit, I look forward to the future or writing and spreading Trigeminal Neuralgia awareness.

Gabapentin

Gabapentin was the last drug I took to battle my trigeminal neuralgia pain. The other two were complete duds that did little to stop the agonizing pain. As the proverbial cliché states, “Third time’s the charm!”

Once again I started ballooning like the BF Goodrich blimp. I gained ten pounds in a week, like before I did not change my diet, the weight gain just happened. The dreaded gain was the least of my worries, I had dreams that I would like to forget.

I think it was the fourth day, the first day of taking the full dosage of Gabapentin that the world of Donald Bellisario, Rod Serling, and Ray Bradbury invaded my sleeping mind. I dreamt a series of interconnecting dreams, one would end and it would continue in the next dream until I awoke. I can only think of one other time when this has happened.

The dreamt I was my dashing heroic fighter pilot, instead of blasting the evil from the friendly skies, he was investigating a murder that coincided with a missing shipment of missiles. The whole set of connecting dreams was dull until the end. Ryan was walking down a desolate beach trying to clear his mind. He heard something to his left and looked over a row of saw palmetto. He could see the missing missiles sitting in the back of a van, then a body bag being disposed of.

Wolf pulled out his 9MM and checked it, one round in the magazine. He grimaced and pulled out magazine, one round. He pulled out another…again only one round. It seemed like time was in a bottle during this particular scene as he searched for the missing rounds. The dream went blank but I do remember him firing a round.

I was behind a two way mirror, watching my wingman, Lieutenant Kara Pike and NCIS Agent Gibbs grilling a man. He caved and confessed, “I killed Lieutenant Commander Ryan Wolf.” I was too shocked at the startling revelation to do anything. I stood there stoically, watching as he sang.

Seconds later I had enough and walked away as I muttered something about it being time for a Cold Case type ending. Pike did a double take, she saw me walking out. My former wingman quickly excused herself and vainly rushed outside, for I was long gone unlike the ending of the TV show.

As of writing this, I will not discuss this dream any further detail. I won’t investigate or attempt to delve deeper into it. Nor will I attempt to search for any meaning other than it was a figment of a stupid pill I was taking. The next night I again found myself as my hotshot character. He was sent back in time to stop a murder from taking place…Do you see a pattern forming?

This dream was different than the previous one. It was interconnecting but cloudy. I didn’t see things completely, almost like looking through murky water. The ‘veil’ lifted towards then end. Ryan was struggling with the- would-be murderer. Wolf was stabbed in the left arm, but managed to save the day when the culprit turned himself in.

Ryan’s arm was in a sling as he stood outside the police station. His fiery wife Brooke took his hand and a mysterious truck pulled up a second later. “Come on,” he calmly stated and led her away. Another truck pulled up, they quickly picked up the pace of their walking. The couple ducked down alleyway, finding another truck pulling into it. They retreated back, finding a curving walkway between two stone buildings. I was looking down with the sense of that we would find something waiting for us at the next intersection, then my alarm clock blared.

“No more,” I muttered as I got up to do my early morning routines. I called my pharmacist and he told me to wean myself off like I started the pills. I did just that, but did it ever knock me on my furry fanny! Aches and pains in the back were about as bad my TN pain. However, the TN pain was the worst I ever felt. I took four Aleves to kill the excruciating ache in my left cheek. The hellish thoughts of ‘Why won’t God take me,’ made the pain all the worse. Thankfully He allowed the naproxen to work and things settled down.

I took three prescriptions, none of them successfully neutralized my atypical trigeminal pain, but they conspired to wreak havoc on my body. No more, I will battle the unspeakable pain through diet, supplements, and other means when it becomes legally available.

Going Down

I promise if and when this gets published I will edit to where the girl gets kissed. I still can't believe this thing took nearly four years to finish. Now for those of you who have Trigeminal Neuralgia, brace yourself for a potentially painful ride. I wanted to explain what we feel, the intensity, the sheer desperation to get a few hours of being pain free.

http://www.tnnme.com/author-brian-whitaker-going-down-short-story.html

A Crabby PSA

The day was Thursday, the day I clean Admiral Doolittle’s pool. The Old Man, as we affectionately call him at Gotham NAS, is also my bodacious wife’s grandfather. I dreaded the entire ride over to his house. I felt another excruciating Trigeminal Neuralgia attack bubbling underneath my left cheek as I thought of him asking me once again when Brooke and I were going to give him his first great granddaughter. I feel like telling him, “You can’t rush greatness.”

Apprehensively I opened the pool gate. I braced myself for the cantankerous cigar chomping man to verbally assault my tender left ear with his nonstop asking about his future great granddaughter. I could literally feel the TN attack tapping underneath my left cheek as I silently began checking the pool’s vital chemical supply.

I nervously peered around the corner to see if he was sitting at a table reading the front page of the Gotham Guardian, the number one rag in town. I breathed a sigh of relief seeing an empty table and continued to stealthily perform my duty. I bravely tipped toed to the edge of the silent pool.

One timid look over my shoulder and I went to work. I collected the water sample, pulled out the phenol red, and dropped five red drops into the sample. I vigorously shook it and smiled, the water sample was perfect. Then I saw an eight legged crustacean in the water. “Foxtrot,” I muttered, for if the old man saw it, he would be more crotchety than ever.

I fished the small blue crab and set it down on a concrete tile. The tiny crab made no attempt to scurry away as it stood next to my large shoe. I gently tapped it with my shoe, it slightly moved to the right, stopped, and sat down. “Whatcha got there?!?!?”

I nearly jumped out of my epidermis. I placed a quivering hand on my heaving chest as I turned around to face the voice that addressed me. “CAG! What are you doing here?” I breathlessly gasped as I felt the inevitable TN attack simmering under my left cheek.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Commander Quinn stated.

“I fished out a little crab,” I answered lightly kicking the sea creature in question. The tiny thing momentarily stood up and sat back down. “I think the pool’s acid and chlorine have the poor thing is on his way to Davy Jones’ Locker.”

“Hot diggity dog lieutenant! You did it again!” an excited Quinn exclaimed and slapped my shoulder.

“I what?” I replied full of incredulous joy.

“Just like you privatized international relations with Australia and Russia, now you’ve given life to Gotham NAS’ new drug Public Service Announcement,” the old A-4 Skyhawk pilot grinned.

“New PSA?” I was too busy trying to ignore the oozing pain in my left cheek to fathom an answer.

“Yes, my boy, taking bad acid will leave you a little crabby…”

I really hope Commander Quinn doesn’t quit his day job.

Safety Second

The following is a short story was entered into a writing contest. It didn't win, but it got positive reviews. Here's my short story for July 4, 2013.

I used to love the Fourth of July. Hotdogs, hamburgers, apple pies, baseball and everything all American that would make Uncle Sam’s chest swell with pride. But July 4th aint fun when one has been diagnosed with trigeminal neuralgia. One single innocent concussion firework detonating can trigger an excruciating three day attack, even if one has earplugs in their tender ears. One of my favorite holidays turned into a night of cowering in the corner.

My bodacious wife, Brooke, maybe a rough snooty Brit at times, but she was assimilating into American culture quite well. She had her Aunt Sam patriotic top hat on. My fiery redhead added streaks of white and blue to accent her natural silky red locks. Lady Blue, my only ex that my wife will talk to, was also in the Fourth mood as she prepared her pub for the holiday. She wore a camouflaged wide brim hat. She wore a grey t-shirt that had USA across her chest. She hummed a butchered version of the Star Spangled Banner as she readied some firework mortars.

I cringed as I saw Brooke assisting Lady Blue as she set up the evening fireworks outside Lady Blue’s Tavern. The voluptuous blue haired ninja loved explosions, the bigger the better; part of her ADHD. Never ever say, “Explosion,” near her. She’s known for tilting her blue head while sporting a blank demented look on her face. Her crazy violet eyes grew to spaghetti plate size as she asked, “Nukes?” Bluey’s track record of getting into festive holiday trouble was a great as USAF Major Nelson with Jeannie around.

I nervously walked up. I watched them for a few moments, noticing that several safety protocols were being ignored on purpose. Bluey manically laughed as she put the explosions in their tubes. I cleared my throat and addressed them, “Blue-chan, why don’t you two let others do that this year?”

The ninja huffed, “I forgot how much of a party pooper you can be at times Ryan-kun.” My wife chimed in, defending her, bruising my ego, “Luv, relax. Don’t get your knickers in a wad. It’s not like we’re arming your classified fighter. It’s a little fireworks display. Have a little faith in the Company? (CIA)

Blue enthusiastically shook her head, “Yes! Yes! Now shoo Ryan-kun. Brooke and I have important work to do!”

I had unnerving visions of another multimillion dollar F/A-18 Super Hornet exploding over the pumpkin patch like it did five Halloweens ago. I nervously laughed and chugged a cola that made Atlanta famous. I turned around and marched away with fake bravado as I sang, “Glory Glory Hallelu-jah!”

I was at a safe distance so I stopped, put my feet together, and performed a flawless about face. I pulled an over the counter migraine pill bottle out of my pocket and down two of them with my soda. Ear plugs were safely secured in my ear and I was ready for the inevitable explosive miscue that was dancing in the summer wind.

Something disastrous was about to happen and I was told to mind my Ps and Qs. So I did. Loyal patrons slowly gathered outside for the grand festivities to begin as the hot sun slowly began to set in the horizon. Thankfully my sizzling wife ran to my side. However, I still had that look of impending doom.

“Ryan, it’s going to be aright luv,” she smiled wrapping a soft arm around me.

“I got a bad feeling,” I replied as the boisterous crowd began the countdown.

“6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…,” they shouted. I stepped in front of my wife, being the chivalric husband that I am.

The customers cheered as the curvy ninja threw the switch, a millisecond later the tavern detonated, exploding into a bazillion pieces; knocking the red, white, and blue partiers flat on their bums as my wife would later say. A fiery patriotic mushroom cloud shot into the air, taking Blue-chan’s new insurance rates with it.

It started to rain, but the rain tasted like a mixture of adult beverages. My stunned wife rested her chin on my shoulder as the rain continued to fall. She looked at the smoldering black crater that used to be the tavern, “Luv…how? How did you know?”

“With Bluey it’s safety second, third, fourth, or last.”

© Copyright 2013 LtRyanWolf (UN: ryanwolf at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.

Happy Birthday Ryan! Part 1

I have been working on this for over a year, didn't finish it like I wanted. Ryan's writer either misplaced his notes for the story or never wrote it down. I couldn't figure out where I wanted to take it. Sooooooo enjoy part 1, maybe I'll have part 2 ready by 2015 or Ryan's birthday, November 26.

I used to hate my birthday, well, not exactly; I did love the delicious cake, scrumptious ice cream and ice cold Coca-Cola as well as the presents. However, my birthday always coincided with the beginning of the dreaded Atlantic basin hurricane season. June 1 would always bring out the worse in the Miami media, they would sensationalize the season by stating that if I didn’t watch their show that night that I might die. This is why I hated my birthday.

It was nonstop of that dreaded infamous nine letter “H” word. The Miami Herald would fire the first salvo of the season with a big announcement heralding the beginning of the season on the front page. There was no escaping it, the weatherman would join in on the early AM shows. It would continue on the radio, it was a continual blitzkrieg of narcissist drivel.

There was no escape from the hurricane hysteria, not even in the sports page. The Miami Herald had a ditzy dizzy blonde reporter write an article about how the Miami Hurricanes needed to change their name. She asked, “"How can we ever give a heartfelt cheer for the Hurricanes again?" Would someone please tell her hurricanes have been kissing Fort Dallas/Miami before 1896!

1993 was the year things escalated, one year removed from the buzz saw that was Hurricane Andrew. Bryan Norcross, the hero of Hurricane Andrew, would come on TV reminding you that he was the hero of the Hurricane Andrew. You flipped the channel to that sensational station that featured Rick Sanchez and Sally Fitz, Rick would look at the screen with his smug puss trying to be ultra-cool as he spoke, “You know, you’re going to die if you don’t watch our hurricane special tonight.” At times I thought this over hyped duo was about to climb atop their desk and scream, “The hurricane is coming! The hurricane is coming! Run for the hills, the hurricane is coming!” Don Noe knows nothing rounded up the nauseating migraine.

I’m digressing away from my birthday so I’ll end this part. Bryan Norcross graduated to the Weather Channel where you can see him periodically talking about Hurricane Andrew. Sally Fitz resigned to be with her husband. Rick Sanchez was picked up, dropped by MSNBC and CNN. The ditzy dizzy blond still writes for the Miami Herald. As for Don Noe? I don’t know.