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10 March, 2009 / Erik

I Want to Build a Brand

On last week’s This Week in Tech, John C. Dvorak claimed a brand can be cultivated from nothing in eighteen months. I want to prove it. Here’s the plan: I’m going to post the first scene of my novel here on future threat. If it can sustain a certain level of hits over a week, I’ll publish the whole chapter, which is just under 2,000 words, and continue to post chapters bi-weekly. If you like the first scene and care to see the subsequent events, all you have to do is send the permalink to one person. Here’s the first scene of The Fuller Equation:

1: Blood on the Podium

My name is Fuller and I am the Voice of God.

I’ll fill you in on the rest later. First, I’ve got to keep a man from dying. Scanning the dais, all I see is people scattering and watching their persons for fear of another set of gunshots. There hasn’t been a report since the sounds that took down the future of the nation. Meanwhile, here’s me, a short fool trying do what little I know to stop the blood loss. I think I see his wife running off stage to get the secret service or some sort of medical help. My shirt’s coated in White House worthy hemoglobin; it’d be ruined if it hadn’t been red to begin with.


How did I get to this point? Why am I the only one helping him?

No, wait. Focus and keep applying pressure. Senator Garland, still conscious despite begin shot, looks at me and smiles. I don’t particularly like to be smiled at and this is the single scariest fucking smile I’ve ever seen.

“So is one of you motherfuckers going to do something about the very important person dying in my hands?” I shout to the people still scattering. I don’t know if anyone can hear me over the din of all the people in the convention hall running for their own little useless lives.

“Fuller …” says presidential candidate Garland. It’s just a statement of fact and a sad commentary on where we all are; I’m bearing witness to his last breath. Another scan of the stage and I see the running mate. That Fuckhead gives me a thumbs-up and looks on before running into protective custody. Why the fuck is no one trying to save the candidate?

I barely sense Garland’s hand sliding across mine from the barrier all the blood has created. Two in the chest. They wanted him to linger and cough to death.

“The paramedics will be here soon, boss,” I stumble through encouraging words. I do what you see in movies when things like this happen. I finally think to look up for my own safety and I only get a glimpse of him, a man dressed entirely in white. The fucking dream was real. Shoot me now, Man in White, I don’t want this.

I hear a shrill voice scream my name and I lose sight of the man in white. I look to stage right and see Valerija barreling toward the dais. You’d think her security clearance would’ve been lifted when I fired her treacherous ass.

“Get back. He’s still here!” I shout at her.


“The guy who’s killing the future, you stupid bitch.”

I wonder if she was part of their plan all along. The medics finally arrive and someone shouts for me to keep holding down the spot. They finally take over their duties completely and I follow the stretcher, keeping an eye out for men in white. Thankfully, EMTs wear blue. We’re running down corridors with exposed steam-pipes and fire-proofing toward the ambulance they always keep at conventions just in case of serious shit level events like this. Garland is smiling that smile again.

“They always wanted you anyway, Fuller,” he says as we get to the elevator. He quietly says one last thing before a secret service dude pushes me aside and Garland’s wife tramples me to be at his side. The Agent just nods a no and I perceive. This is the last time I can hope. Mother of fuck, Garland’s already dead. The elevator doors close.

I hear that foolish cunt behind me, huffing as she catches up to us. Her boots clod against the concrete. I just wish she’d trip. Give me a pratfall to lighten the mood.

She wraps her arms around me and instinctively, I move in kind. That cinnamon smell. Pale skin in contrast to my own tan. Night black hair and contact. I hold her face in my bloody hands. She can make it a painting someday and jumpstart her artistic career. Fuck if I care. I take one last drink of those chroma-key eyes. Stop time if you can because this is the last time I’ll let you in. I leave blood on her face and say, “This changes nothing. You are terminated.” The waterworks come on.

I ask her, “Our best hope just died and you’re crying over a job?”

The entire thing is written. It just requires some editing along the way. Hopefully, you’ll get to see more of it.

Continue with Chapter One


One Comment

Leave a Comment
  1. Dwight Williams / Mar 28 2009 2:37 pm


    On target, man. Hook, line and sinker.

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