by Steven-Elliot Altman (SG Member: Steven_Altman) Our Fiction Friday serialized novel, The Killswitch Review, is a futuristic murder mystery with killer sociopolitical commentary (and some of the best sex scenes we’ve ever read!). Written by bestselling sci-fi author Steven-Elliot Altman (with Diane... more

by Steven-Elliot Altman (SG Member: Steven_Altman)

Our Fiction Friday serialized novel, The Killswitch Review, is a futuristic murder mystery with killer sociopolitical commentary (and some of the best sex scenes we’ve ever read!). Written by bestselling sci-fi author Steven-Elliot Altman (with Diane DeKelb-Rittenhouse), it offers a terrifying postmodern vision in the tradition of Blade Runner and Brave New World...

By the year 2156, stem cell therapy has triumphed over aging and disease, extending the human lifespan indefinitely. But only for those who have achieved Conscientious Citizen Status. To combat overpopulation, the U.S. has sealed its borders, instituted compulsory contraception and a strict one child per couple policy for those who are permitted to breed, and made technology-assisted suicide readily available. But in a world where the old can remain vital forever, America’s youth have little hope of prosperity.

Jason Haggerty is an investigator for Black Buttons Inc, the government agency responsible for dispensing personal handheld Kevorkian devices, which afford the only legal form of suicide. An armed “Killswitch” monitors and records a citizen’s final moments — up to the point where they press a button and peacefully die. Post-press review agents — “button collectors” — are dispatched to review and judge these final recordings to rule out foul play.

When three teens stage an illegal public suicide, Haggerty suspects their deaths may have been murders. Now his race is on to uncover proof and prevent a nationwide epidemic of copycat suicides. Trouble is, for the first time in history, an entire generation might just decide they’re better off dead.

(Catch up with the previous installments of Killswitch – see links below – then continue reading after the jump…)



[THE KILLSWITCH REVIEW – CHAPTER SIX, PART ONE]

[A NEW FACE ON THINGS]

[Previous Chapter]

Elsa led them through the underground and up onto the street, into the oppressive heat. The infocrawl on a nearby building read two o’clock. Their civilian clothing didn’t cool as well as BBI grays, and sweat gathered instantly between Haggerty’s shoulder blades and down his spine. Corbin wasn’t doing much better; he didn’t envy her the wig.

The Westside was almost as busy in the predawn hours as Vegas had been earlier that evening. Few CCs lived here. The Westside had long functioned as a kind of holding cell for immigrants awaiting Provisional Citizenship, but few of them got far along that path anymore and their population was dwindling. Sanctions had been tightening for years, until it was almost impossible to gain legal entry to the country. Even CCs who ventured beyond its borders weren’t guaranteed permission to return. Increasingly, NewVada’s least desirable neighborhood had become home to disaffected JCs too restless to continue living with their parents and too young to be hired for anything but part-time, low-level work. They crowded three and four to compartments meant for no more than dual occupancy, pooling meager resources to scrape by.

The Westside was also home to another, unsavory element, as Haggerty had pointed out to Regina: betting boards, shoot-up galleries, sex parlors, and individuals that preyed upon the less fortunate in quasi-legal or outright illegal ways. A group of such undesirables observed them as they passed the recessed alcove where they were sharing a bottle. The rough young men with painted faces unleashed catcalls and sexual gestures at the two beautiful CC women, giving Haggerty dark, calculating looks.

Corbin and Haggerty quickened their pace.

Elsa led them past gaily lit ten-credit stores thronged with immigrants, some of whom clearly had availed themselves of the relatively inexpensive plastiche parlors. But without geno-immunization and telemor, there was only so much plastiche could do. For Westsiders, flesh was not always flawless and unmarked by the passage of time or disease. A woman emerged from a storefront, purchases dangling from a bag carried awkwardly in her left hand, her withered right arm held close to her side. A few blocks farther, they encountered an old man, back bent, pock-marked, nearly bald, walking unsteadily toward them. The old man glanced up at Haggerty as they came abreast of each other, and Haggerty intuited that the old man must be truly as old as Haggerty himself. To be confronted by the reality of his actual age unmediated by technology was unsettling.

“Oldster got a good look at you,” Corbin said, turning to watch the man shuffle away. “We should hurry, in case he sounds the alarm.”

“Not that kind of neighborhood,” Haggerty said.

He pointed out the broken surveillance cams. In this district, Big Brother turned a blind eye. Only marginally reassured, Corbin kept skittishly glancing around.

The buildings surrounding them were older, decrepit, and barely habitable if they weren’t already abandoned or condemned. A billboard for BBI towered above the street, depicting an elderly woman — her true age, like that of the old man they’d just encountered, was apparent — happily displaying her unit above the slogan They care enough to let me make my own decision. Haggerty found it deeply disturbing. In this place, who needed a KV unit? The Westside immigrants were already dying of the old evils that had beset the industrialized world before the stem had been cracked, evils that continued to plague the rest of the planet. As for the JCs . . . Cherub’s taunt sounded in his mind: What’s the difference if someone doesn’t bother with the formalities?

“This is the building,” Elsa said, stopping before a courtyard alcove strewn with stinking refuse baking in the heat.

The building’s façade had fallen into such disrepair that the seams and dried adhesive were visible in the simulacrum slate designed to look like brickwork. The upper floors were dark. Corbin grimaced and plunged after Elsa through the refuse to the entrance. Haggerty followed slowly, holding his breath and peering into the shadows to make sure they weren’t walking into an ambush. He felt the need for a celtrex, but it would have to wait.

They made it to the entrance without incident, then down a narrow hallway only marginally less filthy than the alcove outside. Both of the building’s tubes were inoperable; they had to walk five flights up damaged stairways. Elsa looked at each door carefully; a third of the way down the corridor she stopped.

“That one,” she said.

“Do we knock or just break and enter?” Corbin asked dryly.

“We knock,” Haggerty said.

Corbin pounded on the door. “Open up!” she shouted. “Police business.”

No response — and no one stirred from the other compartments. Haggerty knocked. More silence.

“Try the card, Elsa.”

Elsa inserted the plasticine keycard in the locking mechanism. The bolt slid back with a snick. Haggerty gently pushed the door open and stepped into the dark, windowless pairplex.

“Lights on,” Corbin called, to no effect.

Haggerty reached his hand inside of the door frame and flicked a switch, and the lights came on.

“These old buildings are still on manual,” he explained to Corbin.

Immediately visible in the tiny room were bunk beds, a flowmat, a sink full of dishes, and multiple darkglow posters of Clone Jesus aiming their instruments at the viewer. Climate control was nonfunctional. A small makeshift desk housed an ancient desktop computer plugged into an electric socket. Beside it lay an old-style spiral bound notebook filled with scribbled diagrams and technical jargon Haggerty could not fathom. Then a holographic photo frame on the desk caught his attention. He lifted it for a better look — and felt like he’d taken a body blow.

The holograph showed five young people — four girls and a boy — in front of a small cottage somewhere in the desert, sunlight glinting off a power grid in the distance. There was Teardrop, her platinum hair skinpainted with streaks of black, and beside her stood Regina, looking no older than she did now, laughing at the camera. Behind them, one arm thrown casually around each girl, was the blue-haired boy who had pressed, grinning. The thin girl Regina had talked to at the Orphanage reclined on a flowmat at their feet like a vamp from a bygone film era, long red curls draping her narrow face and blisterbrands on both arms. Hovering beside Regina, dressed in a black skinsuit, her hair skinpainted purple, fuchsia, and magenta, was a girl Haggerty did not recognize.

“Looks like we’re in the right place,” Corbin said, inspecting the holograph over his shoulder.

Haggerty was forced to admit that Regina was involved with Teardrop and the boy. How and why had yet to be determined.

“Your girlfriend —” Corbin continued.

Elsa broke in. “Jason, I’m picking up erratic breathing.”

The agents turned their attention to the bathroom door, which stood ajar. Corbin lunged forward, slamming the door open.

Collapsed on the bathroom floor was the last girl in the picture, wearing only a simple camipant underskin. Her hair was dark now. She moaned softly, her back arching and her hips twisting, her fingers clutching the bathroom rug as paroxysms gripped her body.

“Looks like she’s on some kind of euphoric,” Haggerty said.

“Most likely one that produces sexual stimuli,” Elsa elaborated.

Corbin stared in disgust. “Is there something we can do to bring her down?”

“Check the cabinet over the sink,” said Haggerty. “See if there’s any SoberUp or Qwik-D-Tox.”

Corbin stepped over the writhing girl to open the cabinet. None of the commercial preparations for counteracting the effects of alcohol and most recreational drugs were on hand.

“We’ll just have to wait until she comes out of it,” Haggerty said. “Elsa, watch the girl while agent Corbin and I look around.”

Five kids in one small space produced a lot of clutter. Haggerty scrounged through unlaundered girls’ clothing, papers and leaflets, empty bottles of alcohol and spent poppers, and bags of makeup. Cabinet shelves held personal care products. A box of SoberUp gave him brief hope they’d be able to get the girl back to normal quickly, but it was empty.

“We’ve got an illegal black box,” Corbin called, extracting it from the kitchen cabinet. “The tabs are sealed but the name and serial numbers have been scraped.”

She handed the unit to Haggerty. He wondered if it was his. There was no way of telling unless he activated it, and reviewing an undischarged box was a Federal offense that Elsa would not override without authorization.

“Jason, the girl is reviving,” Elsa informed them from the bathroom.

“It’s about time,” Corbin muttered, moving straight to the girl. “What’s your name?” she demanded, pulling her up by the shoulders.

“Sharyn,” the girl said, staring emptily at Corbin, apparently too high to be alarmed. She giggled. “What’s yours?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Corbin said, roughly moving the girl to the flowmat. “You’re in serious trouble, Sharyn.”

“I’m already past trouble,” the girl said, sobering for a moment, a look of despair replacing the drug-induced euphoria.

“Who gave you this?” Haggerty said, indicating the black box and then pocketing it.

Sharyn laughed abruptly. “It must be Traci’s. She must’ve nicked it from someone at work.”

Haggerty grabbed the holograph and indicated the thin, dramatically posed girl with copper curls and blisterbranded arms. “Is this Traci?”

“That’s her all right,” Sharyn said.

“And where exactly does she work?” Haggerty asked.

“It’s a secret.” Sharyn placed a thin finger to her lips and shook her head — then burst into hysterical laughter and doubled up on the floor, clutching her stomach.

“What are you dosing?” Corbin demanded.

She was laughing so hard they could barely make out her words.

“Happy Sticks?” Haggerty said.

“That’s right,” she giggled, which started another laughing fit.

Haggerty looked to Corbin, who shrugged.

“Elsa?” he inquired.

“I have nothing on it in my data banks.”

Haggerty leaned over Sharyn. “Who are the other people in this holograph?”

The girl glanced at the picture again. “That’s me,” she said, her finger hovering over her own image. “God, I look like shit. That’s Traci, Teardrop, Regina, and Sunset.”

“The boy’s name is Sunset?” Haggerty said. “Do you know his surname? Do you know Teardrop’s?”

“Do you know they’re both dead?” Corbin added coldly.

“What?” Sharyn stared at the other woman in horror.

“You heard me. They’re both dead. And if you don’t help us you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cell — if you’re lucky. Otherwise, you’ll get shipped off to exile. No more drugs. Just disease, poverty, and early old age.”

The girl retreated on the flowmat, terrified, until her back hit the wall.

“Take it easy,” Haggerty told Corbin.

“What was Teardrop’s real name?” Corbin persisted. “Who was she with the last time you saw her?”

“I thought that was her real name,” Sharyn whimpered. “It’s the only one she ever used. She hasn’t been home in over a week. She went with Sunset to meet people who worked with Clone Jesus. Last I heard she was making it with Cherub.”

“The bass player?” Corbin demanded.

“They got the total hook-up.”

“And where are Regina and Traci now?” Corbin asked.

Sharyn shook her head.

“Tell us or we’re turning you over to the police!”

Tears flowed down Sharyn’s cheeks. “I don’t know where anybody is! Traci should be at work. She won’t be home until morning. Regina went looking for her brother.”

“Who’s her brother?” Haggerty snapped.

“Sunset’s her brother,” Sharyn answered desperately. “But —”

Haggerty winced, recalling Regina’s shrieks that woke him into this nightmare. She had watched her brother commit suicide and been unable to tell him. He didn’t know anyone who actually had a true brother or sister — birth applications had been so tightly controlled for the past century — and couldn’t imagine the bond that must exist between them. But he was familiar with grief, and he couldn’t help aching for her.

“We need you to tell us where Traci works,” he told Sharyn.

“I don’t know,” Sharyn insisted.

“Polygraph analysis indicates she’s lying,” Elsa said plainly.

Haggerty turned stern. “You work with her?”

Sharyn’s face contorted. “I’m just a delivery girl.”

“Delivery girl for whom?” Haggerty demanded.

Sharyn shook her head rapidly, alarm escalating to fear. “Are Teardrop and Sunset really dead?”

“Yes,” Haggerty told her softly. “And we’re trying to keep more people from dying. But to do that, we need to find Traci and whoever gave her the box.”

“I’m dead if I tell you where we work,” she whispered. “And if you go there then Traci’s dead too.”

Haggerty took her gently by the shoulders. “I promise we’ll get you into protective custody and arrest everyone involved,” he said. “We’ll go there with a squad of police and Federal agents and get Traci out before anything bad can happen to her. Just tell me where you work and the place will be out of business come morning.”

Corbin was pacing with agitation. The girl watched her with mounting anxiety.

Confident that he could get Sharyn to answer if Corbin would leave them alone, Haggerty stood and motioned Corbin to step away with him, to tell her.

Corbin shrugged him aside. “All right, that’s it!” she shouted, advancing on the girl and slapping her hard across the face.

Sharyn curled herself into a ball and wailed. Haggerty moved to her side.

“Why the hell did you do that?” he snarled at Corbin.

“She’s lucky I don’t kick the shit out of her.”

Corbin extracted the com from her hip pocket and flipped it open. She clipped her earpiece and began pressing in a call code.

“What are you doing?” Haggerty barked, his hackles rising. “They’ll trace us!”

“That’s what I want,” Corbin said. “Let Woyzeck get it out of her. Once she tells him that Traci gave her the box we’re in the clear.”

Could it be that simple? Under normal circumstances, letting the police handle the investigation now was the right thing to do. But these were hardly normal circumstances. Corbin could establish that Regina had been the one to accost Haggerty. The holo established Regina’s connection to the triple press. Sharyn could confirm that Traci had supplied the box and Woyzeck would find out who was really behind this. But Haggerty wondered if Sharyn truly held the answers, and he still didn’t know if he could trust Corbin.

He knelt beside the sobbing girl as Corbin’s call went through.

“Detective Woyzeck,” Corbin said into her earset, “this is Nia Corbin. I’m with Haggerty on the Westside. We found a witness that can clear us of any criminal charges regarding those stolen units.” There was a pause, then, “Yes, his assistant is with us. Yes, she has the recordings uploaded.” Another, shorter pause. “Understood.”

Corbin switched off and raised her autostun.

“What the hell are you doing?” Haggerty shouted, angrily getting to his feet. “She’s in no condition to make a run for it.”

Sharyn covered her face, her sobs graduating to keening moans.

Corbin smiled tightly. “Sorry, Haggerty,” she said.

As Haggerty realized the drawn weapon wasn’t for Sharyn, the room went black.

Corbin fired. The shot went wide in the dark. Sharyn screamed.

Then nothing.

* * *

Excerpt from The Killswitch Review, published by Yard Dog Press. Copyright 2011 Steven-Elliot Altman.

Steven-Elliot Altman is a bestselling author, screenwriter, and videogame developer. He won multiple awards for his online role playing game, 9Dragons. His novels include Captain America is Dead, Zen in the Art of Slaying Vampires, Batman: Fear Itself, Batman: Infinite Mirror, The Killswitch Review, The Irregulars, and Deprivers. His writing has been compared to that of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Michael Crichton and Philip K. Dick, and he has collaborated with world class writers such as Neil Gaiman, Michael Reaves, Harry Turtledove and Dr. Janet Asimov. He’s also the editor of the critically acclaimed anthology The Touch, and a contributor to Shadows Over Baker Street, a Hugo Award winning anthology of Sherlock Holmes meets H.P. Lovecraft stories.

Steven also bares ink on his body, and is bi, as in bi-coastal, between NYC and LA. He’s currently hard at work writing and directing his latest videogame Cursed Love, an online free to play gothic horror RPG from Dark Hermit Studios, set in Victorian London. Think Sherlock Holmes, Jack The Ripper and Dorian Gray mercilessly exploit the cast of Twilight. Friend Cursed Love (Official Closed Beta) on facebook and you can have fun playing out this tawdry, tragic romance with Steven while the game is being beta tested!

Diane DeKelb-Rittehouse spent several years in Manhattan as an actress before marrying her college sweetheart and returning to the Philadelphia area where she had been born. Diane first worked with Steven-Elliot Altman when they created the acclaimed, Publisher’s Weekly Starred-Review anthology The Touch: Epidemic of the Millennium, in which her story “Gifted” appeared. Diane has published a number of critically acclaimed short stories, most notably in the science fiction, murder, and horror genres. Her young adult fantasy novel, Fareie Rings: The Book of Forests, is now available in stores or online.

Interested in buying a printed copy of The Killswitch Review? Well, Steve’s publisher Yard Dog Press was kind enough to put up a special page where SuicideGirls can get a special discount and watch a sexy trailer. Just follow this link to KillswitchReview.com and click on the SG logo.

* * *

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(image) by Laurelin The holidays are upon us. Halloween is over, and even with the turkey worshipping holiday only a few days away I find the world around me skipping over the gluttony and jumping right into the greed of the Christmas season. It’s everywhere: the commercials on TV, the lights going... more

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The holidays are upon us. Halloween is over, and even with the turkey worshipping holiday only a few days away I find the world around me skipping over the gluttony and jumping right into the greed of the Christmas season. It’s everywhere: the commercials on TV, the lights going up all around my beautiful city, and my roommate bringing home scented candles that fill the house with the scent of peppermint and evergreen. I can’t help but feel a bit like the Grinch when his heart grew and burst out of that little metal box-- I love this time of year. It makes me hopeful, the end of the year. Gathered with family, ready with friends to start a new year, a better year.

“It’s boyfriend season,” my friend Lindsay said the other night. We were appropriately perched at my bar just as I had gotten off of work, my ex having taken over for me. Sundays are weird, us working together. We need to be friends, so I stay even when my shift is through. I glanced up at him quickly, our eyes meeting for an awkward fleeting moment as I flashed back to Lindsay, nodding and clutching my pint of beer. My knuckles were white around the glass and I thought it might break. It didn’t. Neither did I. God, every minute here is like an hour, trying to not look like an asshole, trying not to just run screaming from the room. Winter is more like ex-boyfriend season. I seem to be on a roll starting the holidays on my own year after year. How festive.

Even with a few failures looming over my head I always feel lucky this time of year as well, impossibly lucky to have such an amazing family who supports me in everything I do. Never a word from my parents about who I was dating now and how it inevitably ended. Not a word about why I chose bartending, or why I chose writing. They know I chose a hard life, but one that makes me happy. I don’t have a husband or children to bring to Thanksgiving dinner or a lot of money in my bank account for retirement, I don’t have that amazing sense of style that my cousins have, the one that always makes me feel like I’m playing dress up no matter how nice I thought I looked when I left the house. I don’t have those things, but I feel lucky to have all of them, my family.

During the holidays we all sit by the woodstove in our slippers, and drink our coffee with Baileys and we talk. We talk about everything, and I feel so lucky to be the black sheep in a family who loves me. We remember when my brother was sick for years, and my family had no money so everyone would come to our house and bring food for Thanksgiving. We remember when my cousin Matt was fighting in Iraq, and my aunt and uncle were too heartsick to travel, so we all went to their house and decorated a tree and hung stockings from the fireplace. I had arranged for my friend Lisa who worked for the USO to send Matt and every man in his company Christmas care packages, and when I told my Aunt she said it was the best present, and we all cried.

I guess winter to me isn’t exactly boyfriend season-- it’s the perfect season to be grateful for everything else that you have. It’s been another long year, a year of hard work and harder play. I know that I’m a little different than everyone else; still bartending, writing about drinking and ruined relationships. Just broke up with a new one, starting this new year alone. Again. Yes, I’m happy. Yes, seriously! Yes, I have more tattoos. No, you won’t like them. Pass my yellow duck slippers, I don’t know what I’m wearing but it’s not from The Gap and since the cousins showed up I feel frumpy. Pass the Baileys, we drink to my brother’s good health and his new marriage, to my cousin’s new baby and Matt’s safe return home. I might be in the midst of ex-boyfriend season, but it’s almost a new year, and we start it together. I can’t wait.



***

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by Darrah de jour (video) All over the United States, a band of activists has sprung up to take the law into their own gloved hands. “Real life Superheroes” are anywhere from 18 to 62 years old, run the gamut of ethnicities, backgrounds, and gender expressions, and have no real training in fighting... more

by Darrah de jour



All over the United States, a band of activists has sprung up to take the law into their own gloved hands. “Real life Superheroes” are anywhere from 18 to 62 years old, run the gamut of ethnicities, backgrounds, and gender expressions, and have no real training in fighting crime. However, captured in the Michael Barnett documentary Superheroes, they appear to be part of a movement that’s taking flight.

“The film touches on a zeitgeist-y moment. I think we’re in a very troubled time right now as a society,” Director Barnett tells me over a whisky on the rocks in the dimly lit Santa Monica bar, The Yard. “#OccupyWallStreet is a very power to the people movement. People are fed up and they feel like they don’t have control and they don’t have a voice. And they’re trying to create one. This movement is so on par with that. Though a little more eccentric, it is a protest,” he asserts. “It’s saying ‘I don’t think government is efficient, I don’t think they’re helping us. I don’t think that help is coming from the top down.’”

The perky waitress seems thrilled to interrupt us to refill empty glasses and eavesdrop. The subject of our banter, which careens into after dark street patrolling and hand-made weaponry, is no secret however. In fact, there are a plethora of online forums (such as RealLifeSuperheroes.org) where you and I can engage with these Stan Lee-esque vigilantes, and now, they are under a worldwide spotlight.

Having just returned from a London screening, Barnett, a commercial director who self-funded the film, reluctantly reveals that Superheroes has won multiple awards. Accolades include The Audience Award at Calgary Underground Film Festival and The Grand Jury Award at the Los Angeles United Film Festival, among others. Shot over 15 months, this lauded and still slyly hip documentary shines a well-balanced light on a growing phenomenon, which is spearheaded by people who are self-sacrificing but not martyrs, unassuming but politically-conscious, proactive but not reward seeking.

During the day, RLSH are security guards, teachers, tattoo artists, and stay-at-home dads. But, at night, not unlike Clark Kent’s famous transition into Superman, these young men and women transform into “Dark Guardian,” “Amazonia,” “Mr. Xtreme,” “Zimmer,” and “T.S.A.F” – which stands for The Silenced And Forgotten, and belongs to one of the three female Superheroes represented in the doc.

Their real identities remain under wraps, as do their faces. Wearing sunglasses, baseball caps, head scarves and then, of course, their masks (with the exception of Zimmer, an out gay New Yorker for whom a mask would be too much like crawling back into the closet) none of the crime fighters reveal their true selves. Who they are during bank hours is less important – sometimes even to them – than who they are after dark.

***

In 1964, a 28-year-old Catherine “Kitty” Genovese was stabbed multiple times in the New York neighborhood of Queens, and left to die. She was brutally assaulted – physically and sexually – and left to bleed out. Another shocking aspect of this violent crime is that a number of neighbors saw or heard the attack in progress – and did nothing. Rather, they chose to turn out their lights and draw down their curtains. Allegedly, one neighbor even turned up his radio to drown out her screams. They simply “didn’t want to get involved,” one witness said. Kitty’s death made international headlines. In our own backyard, our most defeatist trait was killing women. Apathy.

The memory of Genovese’s death, and what is now termed “the bystander effect,” served as a call to arms for Mr. Xtreme, a San Diego superhero and a central figure in the film. He told me, “Genovese is an icon. There’s a lot of Kitty Genovese’s out there, and whether male or female, young or old, I see this happening all the time. It gets us fired up and outraged.” A mentor for youth and would-be Superheroeshe explains, “We want to show young people an alternative to gangs, drugs and the criminal life. Saving a life is the most rewarding part of being a real life superhero. And inspiring people.”

The 35-year-old activist and founder of The Xtreme Justice League, who has a working relationship with police, was recently recognized as a key tool in the capture of the Chula Vista Groper – a man who for five years groped and possibly sexually assaulted women in the area. San Diego Deputy Mayor Rudy Ramirez commended Mr. Xtreme’s help in spreading public awareness. Ramirez said, “The work that Mr. Xtreme has done with posting the fliers certainly contributed to…the capture of the Chula Vista Groper.”

While some dismiss these Superheroes as just outfitted danger seekers, the truth is, many are soldiers for the homeless population in their neighborhood. “Zeta Kits” – Ziplock bags filled with twenty-dollars worth of ‘must-haves’ like deodorant, socks, toilet paper and lip balm, are purchased out of pocket, and passed out by Portland power couple Zetaman and Apocalypse Meow. Irony beware, during Comic-Con, while caped wannabe’s paraded their latest and greatest, winning awards and recognition, the humble RLSH population banded together on the streets in shady intersections, helping the down and out improve their luck.

Filmmaker Barnett and I continued our tete`-a-tete´ well past the first drink, adventuring about the technical and philosophical facets to life as a superhero. Listen in.

Darrah de jour: Let’s start with a technical question. What type of camera did you use?

Michael Barnett: Canon 5D mark II.

Ddj: Do you think that your film has resulted in an upsurge of real life Superheroes?

MB: Definitely. Mr. Xtreme of the Xtreme Justice League in the beginning of our film was an army of one. Now, I think there’s fifteen in his unit in San Diego and they’ve opened a branch in Oregon.

Ddj: Are there any international Superheroes?

MB: There are a ton of international Superheroes. They’re all over.

Ddj: I noticed that a lot of Superheroes in the film had a traumatic upbringing or events that turned them into crime fighters as opposed to being criminals themselves. What are your thoughts on that?

MB: I think it’s an astute observation. I don’t often make generalizations about this community because each person does it for their own reasons and they do it in their own way. But the one thing I really did discover is that by and large – not every one of them – but a large percentage, had some tragedy or trauma happen to them and it’s now manifesting itself as a need to do good for others.

Ddj: One of the Superheroes mentioned that he traded in alcohol for fighting crime. Do you think that a lot of these guys are adrenaline junkies?

MB: Some of them are adrenaline junkies, some of them abide by the law, some of them are fearful in their approach. Some of them really are in it to have a physical encounter with other people.

Ddj: Stan Lee is in the film, and he mentions that none of them have actual superhero powers and that they are putting themselves in danger. What do you think is the greatest danger they are encountering at night on patrols?

MB: These guys patrol in terrible neighborhoods. And America is hurting right now. It’s a tough time for this country. There are very dangerous places all over this country, in every city, and these guys go right to the epicenter of the worst parts of their communities. So it’s not the safest job in the world.

Ddj: Is there any level of in-fighting or politics in the group?

MB: There is. These guys do this because they’re really fed up. They’re fed up with bureaucracy and society status quo and they’re looking for a way to make grassroots change. And in the end there’s no rulebook or manifesto, so they’re trying to make their own rules as they go and they don’t always agree with each other about what those rules should be.

Ddj: A lot of them had handmade weapons. I have a list: a flashlight that doubles as a stun gun, or a 16” baton Amazonia had, a ring of Pharaoh’s fire, bear mace and a sonic grenade. Which weapon was your favorite?

MB: My favorite weapon was Master Legend’s Iron Fist. It can do incredible amounts of damage. It could be a cautionary tale and I think it will be in the near future with one of them getting hurt in a situation.

Ddj: Dark Guardian had a very protective costume. Who do you think had the most appropriate costume for crime fighting?

MB: Master Legend had a costume like a tank, a bullet proof vest, helmet, boots.

Ddj: The animation in the film made you feel like you were watching a comic book. Who did the animation?

MB: We wanted every character to have their own very distinct look. Mr. Xtreme felt very indie comic, very Ghost World. So we hired Jeremy Arambulo. New York Initiative felt very dark and sharp, so we got the well known Rev. Dave Johnson to do that. Master Legend – the art there was so beautiful. That was Andy Suriano. Captain Sticky was very retro. So we went with an old school comic book artist, Richard Pose. They drew the panels and then we handed them to Syd Garon who brought it all to life. I think fanboys will specifically respond to this film.

Ddj: I really appreciated the fact that there were multiple ethnicities reflected as well as women who are RLSH. You introduced Stan Lee talking about a comic book where a female protagonist was running in heels and he thought that her legs looked good in heels, but that wedgies would be more realistic. Was there any subliminal feminism or commentary in why you entered with that?

MB: I just thought it was very funny. Women are drawn in comics so specifically. I had fantasized as a kid about so many women in comics. Rogue from X-Men. Stan’s 90 years old and I thought it was great that he’s still so aware. I thought it was perceptive and nostalgic. He knows his audience.

Ddj: Mr. Xtreme’s family wasn’t extremely supportive of his life choice to be a RLSH. If you were a parent, how would you feel about your child being one?

MB: It would be a mixed bag. I would do everything I could to get them trained properly.

Ddj: The New York Initiative used “baiting” as a tactic during night patrols. What are your thoughts on having a flamboyant, gay character like Zimmer played to trap a homophobe? Do you think it’s ethical?

MB: It’s hard to be present for crime. The police deter crime and solve crime after it happens. Very rarely are they there for crime. You have a team of very young, ambitious, intelligent, motivated RLSH in the NYI and they don’t want to sit around and wait for crime. They want to root out criminality in a courageous way, that’s rarely been done. It was super unsafe and terrifying to shoot. They’re risking their lives.

Ddj: If you could have any superpower what would it be?

MB: The power to stop time.

Superheroesthe movie is playing on HBO and in select theatres nationwide. It’s also available on DVD. For more info visit: www.SuperheroesTheMovie.com

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Post-feminist sex and sensuality expert Darrah de jour is a freelance journalist who lives in LA with her dog Oscar Wilde. Her writing has appeared in Marie Claire, Esquire and W. In her Red, White and Femme: Strapped With A Brain - And A Vagina columns for SuicideGirls, Darrah will be taking a fresh look at females in America. Hear her being interviewed about female sexuality on the WingGirlMethod.com, visit her blog at Darrahdejour.com/srblog, and find her on Facebook.



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by Hoodoo4102 (image) [Above: Noemie in Kawaii Bunga] Employees of Target and Best Buy are voicing their opinions, trying to get a message across to the CEOs of their companies before they’re robbed of their time with family. One in particular, Anthony Hardwick of Omaha, NE, has voiced his displeasure... more

by Hoodoo4102


[Above: Noemie in Kawaii Bunga]

Employees of Target and Best Buy are voicing their opinions, trying to get a message across to the CEOs of their companies before they’re robbed of their time with family. One in particular, Anthony Hardwick of Omaha, NE, has voiced his displeasure at his employer, Target, and has become the featured petition on Change.org. And while I'm writing this blurb, the petition has just jumped up from a staggering 170,000 to 180,000 signatures of its 200,000 goal. A similar petition inspired by Hardwick’s, posted by Rick Melaragni of Tampa, FL, concerning Best Buy’s opening hours is currently sitting at 14,550 of its 15,000 goal.

Anthony's message is quite clear, and well put:

While all's quiet on the Target front, Best Buy CEO Brian Dunn writes a heart warming message to Employees and Customers saying*:

Thank YOU Brian! It's always so touching to see a CEO open his mouth wide enough just in case he may need to have a Thanksgiving foot for dinner with a side of trimmins'.

So what does this mean for those hard working hourly employees of corporate America? Thanksgiving breakfast, black out curtains, no booze (since getting a DUI on the way to work would make for a whole different kind of Black Friday!), and beddie bye at noon-o-clock so the board can eat meat, slog brew, and belch their American spirit to the tune of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and ESPN's Thursday Night Football -- all for one hour of over time.

If you would like to join Anthony's cause you can do so at www.change.org.

*Since time of writing, Brian Dunn has deleted his own post on his Corp Blog as quoted above and replaced it with another expressing his thanks to the company and his employees for sacrificing their holiday for the company.

by SG's Team Agony feat. Aadie Let us answer life's questions - because great advice is even better when it comes from SuicideGirls. (image) [Aadie in Time Out] Q. I'm 27 years old mother of three with a boyfriend that I've been with for four years. He is driving me nuts but he is... more

by SG's Team Agony feat. Aadie

Let us answer life's questions - because great advice is even better when it comes from SuicideGirls.


[Aadie in Time Out]

Q. I'm 27 years old mother of three with a boyfriend that I've been with for four years. He is driving me nuts but he is the father of my youngest and he’s good with the kids. My question is about this other guy that I play video games with. He is a 28-year old single parent with two kids and we are really good friends. I can’t take my mind off him and that too is driving me nuts/ I'm like so torn up about what to do. I can really see myself with this guy but I don’t know if I'm messing up by thinking about letting my boyfriend go (he has broken up with me like 30 times). I don’t know what to do?

A: I think that most single men are pretty much exactly the same, just with different faces. This is so we can tell them apart – lol.

So keep that in mind (new boy = new problems). If you’re falling out of love with your boyfriend, you should be true to him and true to yourself. You can A: Leave him, or B: stick it out for your children. But whichever path you find yourself walking, I strongly hope you will be steering clear of your male video gaming hombre.

I think because this male friend is there and is listening to you, he's a source of comfort given that your current situation is causing you distress. You’re therefore more drawn to him now then you normally would be. Leaving one man and running to arms of another won’t help you solve anything. Maybe you just really need some "on your own time" to think things through with your boyfriend, but don’t forget to communicate with him either.

Aadie
xoxo


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Got Problems? Let SuicideGirls’ team of Agony Aunts provide solutions. Email questions to: gotproblems@suicidegirls.com