Tony Starks's Cold War (fan fiction...eww!)

The corporate culture here is so backwards. There's no inter-departmental cooperation and the red tape you go through to get information from upper management is never worth the trouble. I can deal with the non-competes and security precautions, but it's hard to design guidance systems and meet deadlines on the military contracts when our hands are tied on every project. I requested specs over a month ago for the electro-magnetic system from the Iron Man armor and today I receive an email with web links to videos featuring Iron Man magnetizing opponents to immobilize them.

That's it. That's all I got. No schematics, no models, not even a "sorry, that's classified." Bullshit links to web videos I could have googled myself.

The pay is good and our kids are in a great school, but the problems start at the top and get worse the lower on the totem pole you are. Mr. Stark doesn't give a damn about the work we do. He's too busy posing for magazine covers, attending fund raisers, and presenting checks to orphanages to bother with such tedious matters as the future of the company, national security, or performing quality work that keeps us ahead of today's technologically sophisticated enemies of freedom.

And here's where things get sticky...

The other day, I got a call from a Russian military sub-contractor working on a new defense project based on an old design for the Crimson Dynamo's armor. They want to create a scaled-down version that can be replicated for an elite squad of soldiers who can defend Russia against splinter groups from Georgia and unstable, non-EU nations who are increasingly falling under the influence of terrorist groups.

I know a lot gets made of modern Russia's connections to it's authoritarian past and the shady relationship those in charge have to ex-agents of the KGB, but it seems more and more like the Russians are just trying to protect the progress they've made in recovering from a rocky transition to democracy and capitalism. How is America's interest in installing missile defense systems in Eastern Europe any different than what Khrushchev pulled during the Cuban Missile Crisis?

If we're on the brink of a new cold war, how can we blame anyone but ourselves? Our aggressive foreign policies have escalated tensions and created a world where America's allies stand with us because they fear us. Our unilateral military actions, dismissal of UN leadership, and the voices of dissension among our "friends" in the developed world have made us no better than the communist threats we used to stand firmly against.

I'm not saying I agree with all the things the Russians stand for, but I understand their concerns about the reach and influence of the West. Would we respond any differently to military installations so close to our borders? I know posting a blog like this is as good as getting fired, but I don't care anymore. Tony Stark puts on a good face for the media, but everything about the internal operations of Stark Enterprises breeds mistrust among colleagues and apathy toward the noble goals military defense should aspire to achieve.

I love my country. I love the life I've had here, but it's just too hard living in the shadow of a lie. Stark Enterprises doesn't stand for the highest principles our nation was founded on and neither does the administration they serve. I probably won't bother going in tomorrow. I think the wife and I will head out to buy parkas for the kids. The Russians assure me the non-compete won't be a problem.


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Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.

MARVEL and all related characters: ™ & © Marvel Characters, Inc. All rights reserved.

Vodka, Milkshakes, and Temporary Tattoos.

We drove for hours with Damone blaring from the speakers; then checked into a cheap hotel, a block from the beach. I had a couple hundred bucks and nothing to worry about. I bought us some vodka and we got drunk in front of the AC. We couldn't stop our hands and didn't want to.

It was a perfect summer weekend.

She told me all the sweet words that made everything feel like it would stay just the way it was. She believed in it as much as I wanted to. We tried telling each other dirty jokes in Spanish, but couldn't remember the funny things we'd learned in high school.

After taking a shower together, we drank a little more and headed out of the room. We held each other back, laughing our heads off as traffic went by. It seemed like we waited forever before we were sure we could cross the street without getting hit by the old people, frowning as they passed.

We took off our shoes and ran into the surf. I didn't want to kiss her in front of the kids playing on the beach, but we went out in the deeper water and I held her close. The warm surges pulled us toward the shore and back out again. The waves were like an energy surrounding us, bringing us back to life after the sleepy afternoon of drinking.

When our fingers and toes began to wrinkle, we walked back out of the water, holding hands and feeling the hot sand under our feet. I pulled my wallet and the room key from my shoes, stuffing them into the wet pockets of my trunks. The sun was sinking behind the buildings.

She kissed me and pulled me back towards the road. We walked for a while and found a place to get burgers and shakes. I got a peanut butter banana shake while she ordered a cherry pineapple. She said vodka would be so good in hers, but she finished it there.

We talked about going to the movies. I threw out half a dozen other ideas to try and hide it, but we both knew there wasn't anything we wanted more than to get back to the room and out of our clothes.

So we did.

The next morning, I tried to walk down and get us some breakfast, but she woke up before I could make it out the door. I tossed the note I'd written in the trash while she got ready. She smiled up at me with her eyes closed, making one of her beautiful morning faces. I kissed her on the forehead and then the lips. Her hair was messy, but perfect. She put on her big sunglasses and wrapped her arms around me as I figured out the lock on the door.

It was already eleven. There was a taco truck open down the street, so we grabbed a couple burritos and walked to a strip mall arcade. I shot pinball while she played whack-a-mole. She bought us some temporary tattoos from a machine: a rainbow, a unicorn, and a Bratz character. She made me put the unicorn on my arm and couldn't stop laughing while I tried to preserve my dignity.

We found a picnic table in front of a closed restaurant and sat beside each other, quiet for a while. I kissed her on the forehead and she started crying. She cuddled up to me and told me she was so happy. I never knew what to say in moments like that. I pulled her close to me and told her I loved her. I should have said more.

Summer ended and the sweet words didn't come true.

She didn't come back to school in the fall. I graduated the next spring, wanting to hide away for the rest of my life. I went back to the beach a couple years later, just to walk around. It makes me crazy to think about it again. Now I know, but it's not like you get another chance. You learn to live with it and try to forget as much as you can.

I should have asked her to marry me.

Good morning, Tokyo.

Masuka turned off the alarm with the laser and rolled over to face the window. The kid in the apartment below had parked his mech in front of the balconies again, obscuring the best view of the local skyline. Masuka sat up, shaking off sleep as the sounds of pterodactyls and helicopters faded from overhead, into the mechanical pulse of the city.

Masuka shuffled to the kitchen. He took the "hatcher" off the counter and tossed it to the floor. An inch before impact, the hatcher froze into glowing ball of light and released a "yubikin," a cyber-genetic hybrid looking something like a chipmunk crossed with a squid. Masuka set out a water dish and the yubikin scampered over to drop it's tentacles in the bowl.

Taking a canned orange juice from the fridge, Masuka looked at the yubikin. "We're late. You better jump in the bag."

Masuka left the building, pausing only to feed the magnetized aluminum into the recycle tube. He marveled at the brilliance of whoever figured out how to magnetize aluminum for mass production. In another five years, everyone would think it had always existed.

Yubikin squirmed in the messenger bag as Masuka's scooter hummed to life. He dodged a couple old ladies, took the alleyway shortcut, then pulled out into the nightmare river of machines. Mini jets, mechs, hydro-cycles, rocket cars, and bike messengers all dived for every open space as they raced to long days in front of their glow boxes.

Musuka hated wearing a helmet, but listened to his email as he rode. He used to soak in the city, but like everything else in his lonely life, that had grown too familiar. It became part of the chaos that he constantly struggled to tune out.

Masuka took his seat beside Tiko Timiko in their shared office. Tiko was a pretty girl behind her glasses. She designed electrical systems for tall buildings and the Downtown Renovations Initiative, a project that promised to keep the company busy for the next fifty years. They could turn to each other any time they wanted, but Masuka and Tiko had not spoken to each other in months--not without communicating through their consoles.

Masuka's glow box came to life and brought up a rendering of a city block. "Run rigidity and fire test, sealant six, existing architecture."

The screen shook. Masuka felt the vibrations in his seat. He glanced over at Tiko. She didn't even pause. She kept tracing circuits on the screen like a cyber doc going over capillaries of a "dead" robot. The dampeners blocked out everything.

Masuka stared at the rendered city as the earthquake subsided. A wind blew through the street and everything went completely quiet. Then, the world broke apart as a huge wave rushed through the streets, carrying digital people and tiny cars away in it's fury. Chunks of concrete flew out from one of the buildings at the end of the block. A hand curled around the edge of the building--a hideous, green hand, covered in scales.

Zilla-X.

The monster stepped into the street, drawing to its full height, its eyes glowing with rage. Even when awakened as part of a computer simulation, Zilla-X was not a "morning person."

Gunshots sounded from one of the windows, which only succeeded in angering the creature more. Masuka tapped his fingers impatiently. The kids who wrote these things always built unnecessary theatrics into the sims. A mini jet flew overhead and was batted down by Zilla-X.

The monster turned his attention to the buildings. He roared and breathed blue fire at the windows. He swung his head, wrapping three buildings in the inferno of his bad breath. Concrete crumbled and windows melted. Towers atop the buildings turned into molten puddles and dripped onto the tsunami-soaked streets.

Steam rose from each drop. Masuka could hear screams from the people trampling over each other to escape the terrible monster. So unnecessary. He shook his head. "Reset all."

Masuka leaned back in his chair, staring at the sunny morning that bathed frame one of the rendered block. He rubbed his face in frustration. He'd told the bosses the new formula wouldn't stand up to rigidity and flame tests. In trying to cheap out on the budget, renovations were being compromised. The higher-ups would rather use weak, alternative sealant than do a proper job of monster-proofing small buildings in older sections. After all, only poor people worked in buildings smaller than twenty stories.

"This is so stupid!"

"What?"

Masuka turned to Tiko. "Sorry. Nothing."

"You want to get a snack?"

The question was funny, but not. Masuka looked into her pretty eyes, behind the glasses. Nobody wore glasses except to dress up. She was trying to be cute, but no one ever noticed. Masuka smiled and nodded. "Yeah. Let's get a snack." He turned back to the glow box, "Build formula and render Old Tokyo for sealant seven rigidity and new gen monster flame test."

They waved off their glow boxes and Masuka put on his messenger bag. Tiko looked surprised when it moved. "Oooh! You've got a yubikin!!!" He fished it out and handed it to her. She kissed it on the top if it's tenticles and smiled. "I love it!"

Masuka looked at his feet, embarrassed as they boarded the lift tube. He glanced back up at her, trying to think of something to say. "I like your glasses."

Tiko smiled. "Thanks."

The rest of the way down, they couldn't stop blushing. The lift was silent except for the friendly purring of the yubikin as it lie curled up in Tiko's arms.

Turning Addicts Into Experts

I could see the tears welling up and the lips trembled as he spoke.

"I'm dying..."

I turned my head away for a moment, then met his eyes again. I completed the thought for him, "...of boredom."

My reflection vanished along with the melodrama as I opened the medicine cabinet. I grabbed fistfuls of everything and dumped them on the counter. Band-aids, a thermometer, antacid, breath strips, a bent comb, contacts, peroxide, condoms, niacin, antacid, multivitamins, aspirin...ugh. I had a lot of antacid, but nothing to get me sharp and full of pep.

...unless rails of niacin would do the trick...I tried to remember what niacin was for...normally, I mean. Part of the B-vitamin group, one that dehydrates while increasing blood flow, supposed to help with cholesterol. Something like that. Same stuff that's in pasta. I needed something I knew would do the trick. No guesswork, this time. I made a mental note to snort some angel hair on my next trip to Olive Garden.

I marched into the kitchen. Vinegar by the spices and bleach under the sink. I could make ammonia, but it would just make me dizzy and I'd probably fall asleep. Ginger was supposed to do something, but I couldn't remember what. Nutmeg was a hallucinogen in the right amounts. Or was it poisonous? Was I thinking of hemlock? Why had I not been a more attentive student in school?

That question would keep. Maybe indefinitely.

I wiggled the mouse, but everything was still spinning in circles. Nothing would connect. My ISP had sent something in the mail about switching over to fiber optic lines and some areas having temporary outages. It was a hell of a time for the internet to be down. Anyone could be a genius with Google at their fingertips. Turning addicts into experts is what the internet was built for--after porn, of course. I fired up the laptop to see if I could locate an unprotected wireless network. Maybe one of my neighbors had a different provider...

(...searching...searching...)

...but no dice.

I'd seen something on t.v. about getting high from cooking dog urine and snorting what was left after evaporation. Was it on "Mythbusters"? Maybe it was "Jackass." I probably didn't have enough dog piss in the freezer, anyway.

Mentos, Pop Rocks, and Mountain Dew? I could get plenty of crap for blowing up my stomach at the corner store. Maybe they'd have caffeine pills...but they wouldn't have anything industrial strength. Not the kind of shit that helps Nick Nolte get upright in the morning. In another hour, I'd be groggy again, sitting like a zombie in front of the computer, trying to will myself back into "productive mode."

I opened the fridge, wondering what mold and spores I might find lurking. Without Google to guide me, it would be a crap shoot. My stomach growled it's discontent.

I'd not eaten all day.

I dug out a carrot and crunched into it's sweet deliciousness. My stomach thanked me in it's own quiet way as I finished the carrot and bit into another. I poured myself a tall glass of water and stretched myself out on the couch.

My mind drifted and imagined all kinds of possibilities. The t.v. was off, but I could see the reflection staring back at me. He smiled. "I'll bet if you lay there another ten hours, you'll wake up sharp and full of pep."

I smiled back. "I'll bet you're right."

Then, I slept.

Who's there?

It's worse in a small house. If it was a big house like in the movies, I don't think it would bother me so much, but it's hard feeling the vibrations through my mattress from hollow footsteps in the next room.

I stare at the black wall and hear a book being pulled from my shelf. Someone sits in my chair, opening to the first page. The quiet breathing comes from a few feet away.

When I can't take it any longer, I switch on the desk lamp, get up, and turn on all the other lights. I look through my books, but can't tell if anything is out of place. I pass my hand over the chair. Is it my imagination? Does it feel cooler than the rest of the room? Sometimes, in the morning, things on my desk are not quite the way I remember them. My mind is playing tricks on me.

After a while, I turn off the lights and try to sleep again. Cold air touches my back. I close my eyes, frozen. A moth flutters against my skin and I can't brush it away. A sound comes from the kitchen.

A mouse? The thought of something real gives me courage. I roll over quickly to face the empty darkness.

"Who's there?" I call out as loud as I can.

What would I do if someone answered?

I fill a cup with water and go outside. The darkness has its own sounds. I lean against my car, taking comfort in the stars and the lights on the horizon.

I can't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep. The things I fear the most are the things I haven't heard, the voices of the dead. I can handle them sitting in the darkness, but I'm afraid of their words. It can't be real. I know I'm not crazy. It doesn't make sense, but still...

The dead have been accumulating almost as long as the living. If they're here, they're all around us, passing through us, passing through each other. Do souls end? Where do they go?

I finish my water and go back inside. The emptiness should be a relief, but I keep thinking of all the things filling the space. Something's got to be there--things I can't see. I choke on the air. It's hard to breathe, when your mind multiplies worms filling up the darkness.

I walk through the dead, putting my cup beside the sink. I turn off the lights one by one. The sheets are damp from my sweat. I push everything away except the pillows. I take deep breaths, trying to drown out the sounds from the darkness. I think about girls who used to put their arms around me. For a moment, it feels nice. Then, my thoughts drift back to the dead.

I stare at the ceiling until I'm swallowed by the darkness. I'm glad I don't remember my dreams. I don't think I'd want to.

Andy, Sandy, and Charlie Bob

"So they come in the room and Andy's just jawin' and twitchin', drunk as shit. She keeps holding his head down and being loud. I thought the manager was gonna call the cops or some shit." Charlie Bob took a long swallow from his can of Bud before continuing. "She finally let's Andy up for air and tells him he can do whatever he wants to her, but he's just saying 'oh fuck,' over and over. Me and Sandy were still in the bathroom trying not to bust a fucking gut. The girl didn't realize Andy's got Tourette's. She thought he was just drunk, so she keeps answering back, 'okay, okay, okay,' over and over. Sounded like Little John. Oh, man. It was fucking great."

Everybody laughed while Charlie Bob slapped Andy on the back. Andy grinned and followed Charlie Bob back to the cooler. Charlie Bob ran his hand through the ice, grabbing himself a fresh one and handing one to Andy: Andrew Michael Coolidge...Charles Robert Coolidge's baby brother.

Andy popped open the can and swallowed the air a couple times before speaking. "I like the way you tell it."

Charlie Bob let out a belch. "You done good with that girl. That was a hell of a night."

The night in question was a Saturday night in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee about a month prior, when Steve Williams married Amanda Lester, a dyed blonde who loved talking about how much Malibu she could drink and had made her way through most of the guys in the fire department at least twice. Charlie Bob told Steve one time, "I'll bet she'd fuck a petrified turd if there was a ten minute wait for dick." He never thought Steve would marry her knowing what everyone else did. Charlie Bob meant everything he'd ever said about Amanda, but was glad Steve didn't hold it against him.

"Hey!" Charlie Bob turned just as Sandy wrapped her arms around him and planted a sweet tea kiss underneath his beer soaked handle bars. She gave Andy a hug and laughed at both her men. "Ya'll drinkin' already?"

Charlie Bob nodded. "Hell yes. Fish fry's over."

Sandy grabbed herself a beer. "How'd it go?" She smiled at Andy. "Did he run everybody off, bullshitting?"

"They--there were a lot of people earlier." Andy swallowed the beer, trying to hide behind the cold can.

"I told them we ought to do barbecue. How was work?"

Sandy shrugged. "Busy." She searched through her purse and pulled out a pack of 100's. "Eddie dropped a load of dishes and Meredith was yelling at him out front while customers were waiting at the register."

Sandy lit a cigarette while Andy watched the smoke trail up. He could feel himself turn red. He'd probably do something like dropping a load of dishes.

When Charlie Bob joined the fire department, Andy kept hanging out at the station. One day, he told Charlie Bob that he wanted to help out and be a fireman. Charlie Bob could say "hell no" to about anybody in the world. Anybody, except Andy.

Charlie Bob talked to Derrick Angel, the fire chief, about taking Andy on to sweep or wash the trucks or something. Derrick turned Charlie Bob down flat, which would've been the end of it, except Charlie Bob said he'd pay Andy out of his own pocket if Derrick would just let him hang around and do a little bit. Derrick agreed under the condition that if Andy ever fucked anything up, he was gone.

Charlie Bob had more than a few things to say about Derrick after that, but everything worked out. Andy lived with Charlie Bob and Sandy, so all the money Charlie Bob was secretly paying Andy ended up going back into Charlie Bob and Sandy's bills, anyway. After a while, Derrick moved out of state and Steve Williams took over as chief. Andy had become something like the station's mascot.

Sandy never blinked about Andy living with them and Charlie Bob loved her for it, though he told her it was because of her tits. Sandy stomped out her cigarette and finished her beer.

"Ya'll ready to head?"

Andy looked at Charlie Bob. Charlie Bob grabbed another beer from the cooler. "Yeah. Just a sec." He shotgunned his last beer and tossed the can in the trash. He grinned at Todd Evans. "Ya'll better recycle that shit."

Sandy smiled, putting an arm around Charlie Bob. "Let's get out of here before you can't get it up."

Charlie Bob laughed. "Short Bob's never seen the day." He kissed her on top of the head, put his arm around Andy's shoulder, and helped them both to his truck.

George Is Alright.

The door opened to a dark room filled with the smell of stale smoke and liquor. George sat there, his head against the back of a recliner with his eyes wide open. He looked like he hadn't slept in months.

"George? The door was open."

His head dropped and he smiled. "Come in."

"How's it going?"

He chuckled. "Tommy."

I walked over and sat on the bed. His eyes half-followed me. It made my head hurt, just being there. "You been alright?"

George nodded. "I've got great friends and more money and pussy than I know what to do with." He laughed again.

George hadn't been alright in a long time. He had driven most of his friends away, lost a half dozen jobs over the last four years, and hadn't been laid in about as long, unless he'd paid for it. He motioned towards the mini-fridge

"There's some beers if you want some." He knew I wouldn't.

"Thanks."

His head hovered over an almost lifeless body. His fingers stretched out and then curled back again. It was painful to look at him, the remains of a friend who'd been a mentor and told me a million lies over the years to help me stop being a coward and shape me into the kind of man he'd stopped trying to be.

"You want one?"

He shook his head. "Nah. They'll keep."

The unwelcome sunlight slipped between the blinds, falling against his dark blue shirt. I couldn't think of anything to say. It had taken a long time for him to become like this. Those of us who whispered behind his back couldn't pin it on a single event.

He'd gone through a bad breakup with a nice girl. He'd helped put down a half dozen sick animals on his grandparent's farm. He didn't talk about the time he lived in Tennessee, except to remind everyone that Memphis was as bad a shit hole as any place he'd ever been.

He'd gone through a ton of coke and weed back then. A lot of people wrote him off. When he finally got it out of his system, we thought he'd come back around. I guess it wasn't the kind of thing anyone gets over. He was clean except for the booze, but everything he'd lost was gone forever.

He stood up and shuffled over to his computer. He clicked around until sleepy music came on.

"You been writing?"

He glanced at me. "I guess."

"I've been working on a few things. Nothing very good."

He nodded. "Send them to me." He took a slice of cheese out of the fridge and ate it. "Did you work today?"

"Yeah." It was hard to tell if he was making conversation or if he cared.

"How was it?"

I shrugged.

He stretched and looked at the clock. "I guess the mail's come. You want to go out for a bit?"

"Sure."

We walked to the mailbox. He stuffed an ad for a car lot in his back pocket and rolled a cigarette. "I hate smoking inside. It makes everything smell like shit." He watched the smoke trail off. "I'm glad you don't smoke."

"What have you been writing?"

"My memoirs." He cut a fart and laughed.

I laughed too, until everything was quiet again. Being around George made me uneasy. He was like a caged animal, made tame by years of nothing changing. You never questioned the totality of his defeat, but always wondered how deeply buried the natural instincts were.

We walked back inside, into the darkness.

He grabbed a beer before taking a seat in front of the computer and I sat on the bed again. The glow from the screen made him look sick. He rummaged around in the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of vitamins. He took one and washed it down with the beer.

He clicked around on the computer again, and scrolled through a document. "I really have been writing my memoirs." He took another pull off the bottle. "It's all bullshit, though. All ego. If I even remembered the truth, I don't think it would amount to much." It wasn't something either of us wanted to talk about, so he changed the subject. "How's Amy?"

"She's alright. We had a fight the other night. Well, actually, she just yelled at me while we ate a thirty dollar meal."

He nodded. "That's why I eat at home."

We talked about nothing for a little while longer, then he put on some old movie by a German director he loved. We watched it for a bit, until I decided it wasn't as good as he remembered or maybe he wasn't in the mood for it.

We went out again and leaned against his car. He smoked as the sun dropped behind the trees and the mosquitos began their quiet night flights. The gray blue sky turned his face to ash behind the bright red cherry.

"I hate the city, but sometimes I miss living there."

"Why don't you move?"

He shook his head. "I've got a good life here. I'll probably just stay here until I die."

He hated the sound of it as much as I hated listening to it. We both knew it was true.

Living in the city had been hard on him. He'd spent too much time there. He'd poured himself into the fast paced life and spent every minute of every day laughing at asshole's jokes. He'd networked and been the life of the party. Everyone loved him as much as he'd hated himself. Out here, he didn't have to face any of that. He felt like he was better off empty than living in the city.

It was getting late.

"I'd better go."

He nodded. "Send me that stuff you been writing."

"I will." He took another long drag off the cigarette and looked out into the night, into the distance of all that dark nothing. "I had a good time."

He smiled. "Me too."

He watched me drive away and I kept the radio off for the whole drive home. I could picture him going back in for another beer, sitting in front of the computer, hacking away at the keyboard for a few hours, until stopping for a bit and falling asleep in his chair.

George hates for people to see him like this. He prefers the loneliness, because he doesn't know any other way to face each day. He knows he's not alright and probably won't ever be again. Everything he writes is a memoir and it's all bullshit. He'd never tell it as a sad story. He changes the names, talks about raising hell, and laughs off how the characters should have known better.

George laughs a lot when there's nothing to laugh about and I don't ever feel like there's anything I can do about it.