That's right... Done by ZekeySpaceyLizard again!

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My new project, Fancy Mike is currently underway! Do you like instrumental/abstract hip-hop? I personally make music I enjoy listening to. The first single has finally been released to Newgrounds: Time Travel.

There should me more tracks on the way but in the mean time, enjoy this video created by our very own ZekeySpaceyLizard to the second single: Monsterville, which should be released to the portal in the next few days.

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Visit Fancy Mike on Myspace.

I have about 2/3 of a month left of vacation so here's the lowdown:

1) Invertebrata
The sequel to Ansel's momentous short film, Larvae, is currently in production so you may commence holding your breath. The very first film, Larvae was backed by a track created by ZekeySpaceyLizard. It was a treat for the ears and so was the movie. We are trying to create a much greater experience for "Invertebrata." it's not necessarily going to be the same, I mean, where's the fun in that? no, Invertebrata is going to be much darker and insidious, according to Ansel. We have already gone through two song drafts that just did not fit the bill for Invertebrata so just know that this takes a lot of hard work. I am currently hard at work on a new version of the track and I am really liking this one. I wish I could post a sample but that would sorta, maybe, kinda ruin it a little bit. Until I get the thumbs up from Ansel; I can only talk.

2)MAC 2008 - July
Sorrowed Tears is the theme. I made a song. I'm happy with it but some of the other songs in the competition are wicked sweet. I'm not scared, just fathomed by all the submission we've had so far. This is actually my first time participating in a MAC, until now, all I did was spectate.

3)Camp-North
If you love art, a tight community and a whole lotta fun, then go on over to Camp North right now and sign up. There are tons of great artists and discussions held on a daily basis and all you're doing right now is missing out! Also, it was started by Nathaniel Milburn and atomic-noodle, two great guys so what isn't there to like?!

Just got this yesterday! Oh you don't know J Dilla? Shame on you.

Managed to score a picture with her.

I make it from scratch. You want it in an upcoming film or game, message me!

I just bought a MIDI controller and now I'm using it for the very first time! I've never really made classical/electronic music until now. It's an M-Audio Axiom 25. I've actually made a couple of songs already.

Two Years
Open Your Eyes
My Escape (Preview)

Please give them a listen and let me know if you like the new direction I am going into. This doesn't mean I have given up guitar though.

-The Hulk sucked. I just finished watching Season 01 & 02 of Dexter on Showtime, (though not all in one sitting,) and it's a great ass show.

-Ordered a MIDI keyboard two weeks ago, and it still hasn't come. I ordered a USB recording interface, that came and I ordered it FIVE DAYS after the MIDI keyboard... Hmmm, I think it may be lost.

-Does anyone actually like the show LOST or HEROES? I haven't watched any of them ('cept for the premiere of LOST when it first came out for the first 20 minutes and thought, hmmm, Jurassic Park?)

-COKE POINTS, COKE POINTS! It's a Battle Royale for COKE POINTS!

-Got a new computer finally, s'drained my account but it was worth it. Vista is not that bad... Actually, it's not bad at all. It's all good.

-It's this time of year that I purchase last year's NCAA and Madden. That's right, NCAA 09 and Madden 09 are coming out but guess what? I just bought the 08 versions!!! And I didn't even pay nearly a 1/5 of retail! Suckers.

-Reading lots. I have read at least 5 books this past month .5 and that is a lot for me. I want to get back into writing but I can't. There is an invisible barrier in the way. :(

-Gotta feed the fish.

-Decided I need a new graphics card for the new computer so I got one. And a new graphics card needs new games!!!!! Crysis, Call of Duty 4, and Orange Box, yezzir!

1. The Plot: I'm on a mission. The world is about to end and only I know how to save it. My racist friend Roy says he wants to tag along but I shush him and quickly point to the television set. Eddie Murphy's on so he gets quiet. I look at the checklist, stuff I need before I leave the house. I have this condition where my mind tends to wander. They call it attention deficit disorder. If I had more time, I would find a way to travel back in time, to undo certain things I wish I hadn't done. Drinking is the most efficient mode of time travel but I'm an alcoholic so there's no solace in that method. I am forced to repeatedly jot down my ideas onto paper; so as to not forget anything, something I've been doing for a very long time. Oddly enough, the checklist only suggests that I take two items: a single no.02 pencil and a boiled egg. I promptly flip the list over and find the exact same items, messily scribbled on the center fold of the back page. Confused, I question its authenticity and ask myself why I would ever need two no.02 pencils.

I slip on some baby oil on the way to the closet but manage to regain my posture without anyone noticing. I live in a duplex, except my side of the house feels more like a green room, a green room to a pornographic film to be more precise. With the only bathroom in the entire duplex, men from across town form gigantic lines to use my bathroom. They claim it's the best in the area, must be the color of my door, fuchsia.

Every hour of every day, I am subjugated to a crowd of scantily-dressed men, each donning a unique number tattooed in indelible ink across their freshly-bronzed arms. They say they're shooting a major pornographic film. Must be a gang bang. Some of the men are clearly amateurs. I can tell because they aren't vested in satin robes like some of the veterans. A few of them have the decency to shut the door while they piss and others just whip out their dicks in the middle of the room. The real assholes are the ones who have the audacity to jerk it all over my toilet seat. I am very reserved so I never say anything. Lucky for them, I'm not a woman.

2. The Flashback: I always remember Dad as having a lot of money in his wallet. He never liked to spend his money. The only time he ever spent his money was to bribe the police officer of our small town. Dad was a serial killer. We lived in New England, somewhere near a pretty big college.

"The banks can't be trusted," he always preached. Dad kept all his money in an old coffee can buried deep, somewhere behind the red tool shed in the backyard under a rusted iron pail. I'd always be stirring peanut butter around in a jar because it relieved the arthritis in my right hand. By the age of nine, I was already developing acute signs of dysentery. My mother always had a fear of left hands so my dad and I were forced to always keep our hands hidden in our pockets whenever she was in the room. We never had a name for her special power. She was so intimated by left hands that she constantly covered her left eye with a patch made of sterling silver.

"This is to keep the were-wolves away, the sterling silver," she always said. I enjoyed stitching quilts together on Sunday afternoons with my mother but she always seemed a bit off. She was very fond of plastic hooks.

Whenever dad wasn't counting his money, he went to sleep. He never worked but somehow, we always had a lot of money stashed away. Dad had built a time machine (which was actually our refrigerator.) He had put an ad out in the newspaper about time travel and this had attracted a lot of people to our house. When the people came, dad took their money and told them that our refrigerator was their ticket to time travel. When the people crawled into the refrigerator, dad would lock the door on them. He only killed at night because the police was more susceptible to hearing screams of pain during the day. While he killed, Dad would always scream more than the victims themselves. Mom never said anything.

My brother, Elroy, I never got to see him. Mom had him tied to a pole in our front yard. He was always flying above our roof, talking about how he wanted to be an astronaut. She told me that he was not like me. His body was a kite. Surprisingly, there never was a puddle under the refrigerator. Dad knew how to clean up after himself. I needed to learn how to do that. My walls never spoke to me and up until the accident, they always talked to me. I tried to eat marbles in the seventh grade and failed. This is how I found out about my teeth. They are excellent grinders but terrible incisors.

3. The Rising Action: Reaching for my periwinkle coat, I search my pockets for any spare change but find nothing. Unconvinced, I slip my hands back into the waist pockets and check again, this time finding a stray tooth-pick and a twenty. I examine the bill and realize Franklin's face has been defaced to look like Batman's. My eyebrows flutter a couple times and for a few moments, I'm slightly amused. One of the porn actors prematurely ends my day-dreaming with a tap on the shoulder; he's bald.

"I see you're leaving. We haven't had any toilet paper since Monday. Some of us have been forced to use the sink to wipe our ass. Would you mind getting us some toilet paper?" asks a distinguished looking fellow. As he is speaking, his titular mustache is moving up and down with every word. I pay no attention to his words and instead retort with a mildly obscene remark.

"Blue isn't my favorite color and besides, you look like a broken hour class in that outfit," I say this while receiving pretentious looks from a bunch of the other dudes.

"My jacket isn't blue at all. In fact, I'm almost certain it's mink and you my good sir, are not a gentleman. You are not treating us like house guests. We deserve more respect." As he is finishing his spiel, I imagine upper cutting him in the throat, vicariously extracting his Adam's apple from his throat, and throwing it against the wall; but then realize I have a very limited imagination so I stop imagining and carry on with the idea. My clenched fist manages to send ripples up his face and through his hair. To my amazement, his moustache flies off his face and lands in the middle of a bowl of red punch, hovering amongst the rampant pieces of lemon zest. The ripple also sends a shockwave through his brow causing the hairs to fall, now he looks like a ghost; a ghost with a burnt-toast Peruvian tan. I ask him if he's ever seen the Matrix.

"I was going to rob a bank today. Now I can't because I have got a nosebleed-" I furtively cut him off and silently begin breathing through my nostrils. Mildly chuckling, I look down at the checklist and cross off "boiled egg." I toss it at his feet and ask the dude if he's got a no.02 pencil on him. He replies by spitting in my face, except the spit is full of blood and somewhat runny.

Enamored by his gesture, I smear the blood and spit mixture over the entire side of my left face and nonchalantly adjust the cuffs on my jacket. What follows is worthy of any violent action flick. Swinging my leg back, I swiftly entrench my size twelve footing into the fool's crotch and hear a sound unfamiliar to my ears: the sound of breaking eggs except right now, there are no eggs breaking anywhere.

In a stupor, the dazed actor breaks into a sweat and I complacently remove my Armani trainer from his now-soaked crotch and violently beginning kicking in the air; to dry my shoe of course. As I am doing this, he begins to stumble over in my direction, blindly swinging his arms in hope of landing a punch. I crouch down readying myself for another uppercut. The guy seems more confused than in pain so I take my time. Stumbling toward my now hunched-over figure, the guy trips over a discarded bottle of baby oil and as he is about to fall on me, possibly further staining my periwinkle coat, I swing at his chin.

4. The Climax: This time, there isn't much of a ripple, more of a thunk followed by a few flying teeth. The man does manage to expel more bodily fluids onto my coat but at this point, it really doesn't matter. I follow through with a satisfyingly realistic sounding left hook and the dude's face contorts with my fist, his right cheek forming a makeshift mold around my now-aching fist. I continue with a flurry of blows to his head and with each punch, my fists get softer to the touch, ripping flesh from my bones and turning my hands into raw hamburger. Similarly, his face doesn't look to hot anymore. After about 302 blows, I cease pummeling at his now concave face and take some time to breathe. I can't feel my hands anymore and my face is on fire. My clothes are drenched in sweat and I can feel a line running down the crack of my back and into my ass.

"Someone turn on the air," I yell in between gasps of breath to the dudes standing in a line waiting to use my bathroom. No one answers. Again, I demand the same thing and again, nobody says anything. I stand up and decide that I've had enough. Staring at me like stupid sheep, the dudes do nothing as I reach for the magazine shelf situated a couple feet away from the bathroom door. Out of the pile, I don a pineapple grenade from somewhere in between a Rolling Stone and Penthouse Magazine. Still saying nothing, I wish them a nice life and pull the pin. I've always wanted to go out with a bang. As the sound of the pin resonates across the room one dude says something.

"Dude, can you at least wait until I take a leak?" Too late. I begin to take baby steps back toward the only window in the duplex and meanwhile, they all start rushing for the bathroom in hopes of escaping the grenade blast. One of them manages to kick down the fuchsia door but it's already too late. I chuck the piece of metallic fruit at dude number 342's ass and take a leap of faith toward the window. It isn't candy glass. The blast sends me flying through my window made of soda-lime and the shards are jagged enough to tear odd shapes into my coat. Soda-lime isn't very resistant to sudden thermal changes, let a lone an explosion; but then again, is glass supposed to be able to survive a pineapple grenade explosion within such a confined space such as my duplex?

5. The Falling Action: As I go deaf for a few seconds, I can feel myself being propelled through the air toward the outside, and its then that I realize that everything is moving in slow-motion. Roy, my racist friend is slowly getting his bones crushed as his body violently smashes against the living room wall with reciprocated angst and the television set appropriately smashes into a thousand pieces, moving at a pretty lucid pace. All around, a bush of fire is consuming everything I own, creating an odd bouquet of colors; all warm colors. My side of the duplex now looks like a scene from Apocalypse Now, in the making. Admiring the colors I decide to give the interesting flurry a unique name, synonymous to mayhem: tropical envy. What I am experiencing at this moment can only be described as tropical envy, a recipe for mayhem.

Still in slow motion, I realize that my head is still moving in real time, allowing me to see everything in much greater detail. As I swing my neck around to the right, I turn just in time to see my bathroom tiles fluttering like butterflies on an improvised escape route away from the scene. The dudes are all floating in mid-air, some falling, others still rising. They all have varied grimaces on their faces, some funny, others obviously in pain. While I am watching all this, I wonder if they are experiencing the same thing: slow motion. I yell at one of the dudes but he doesn't reply. Out of pure insolence or total ignorance, I'll never know if he actually heard me or not. What I do realize is that everything is rapidly returning to real time. I know this because my arms begin to flail at a much quicker pace and my clothes are beginning to flutter even more rapidly.

My left shoulder hits the ground at an awkward angle and sends me flying through the lawn, head over heels toward my own mailbox. Knocking it over is a federal offense so I attempt to adjust my tumble with my left hand but fail. My left arm violently checks the box and the rest of my body slumps to the ground from the sudden impact. I land on my left side with a satisfying crunch and realize that my left arm may now be out of socket. Unsure, I try to move my arm but feel a sharp pain shooting up that same arm, into my chest, and down my ribs. I blink tears and look down to see an arrow complacently lodged somewhere inside my ribcage. Perplexed, I apply pressure to the newly formed wound and try to move my left arm again. Again, I feel a sharp pain but this time, it's real and not from some random arrow. Stuttering due to shock, I swear at the house. Something falls from the sky and lands on my head. It doesn't hurt. I grip at the item with my right hand and examine it.

It's my checklist. My checklist quickly disintegrates as I hold on to it. Yeah, now I'm starting to feel I shouldn't have left that inside before I chucked that pineapple grenade. Ten feet away, another object flunks to the ground. What was initially my "pristine" persimmon sport coat is now my "botched-up and smelling of smoke" persimmon coat. Again, I swear at the house and begin to remove my periwinkle coat. Because of my dislocated arm, it takes about an hour to take off but I eventually manage to slip on the persimmon sport coat with ease. It's covered in ash but still looks better than my periwinkle coat, which is now covered in various bodily fluids, including sperm.

6. The Denouement: As I get up, I wonder at the pragmatism of the situation. Where is the police? Why haven't the neighbors called the police? And why am I worried about the police all of a sudden? With all these questions running through my mind, I feel a vibration in my ass; it's my cell phone. I reach into my chino pants and feel around for some loose change while fishing for the phone. Nothing. I look at the name and its Chuck, my best friend from Law School. A little over two years ago, Chuck's dad got eaten by a fire-breathing dragon while they were doing some charity work in Guatemala. Nowadays, Chuck cries a lot more.

"I've been trying to get a hold of you since Friday. Where have you been? You know we're friends, right?" Chuck is saying all this as I turn around to view the remains of my house. What I see comes to me as a shock.

7. The Plot Twist: Bewildered, I realize that the duplex is gone and in its place, stands a fucking tanning salon. While Chuck is yakking away at my ear, I check the ground for burn marks, the surrounding grass for debris, and the sky for any sign of smoke; nothing.

Chuck is now babbling about our days back at Law School, about how I thought I was going to transfer to med school because of some girl. As Chuck takes a break to cough, I quickly become aware of the situation. The explosion must have propelled me through time. The slow motion was my body experiencing time travel and the mailbox was my landing beacon. Interrupting Chuck, I ask him what year we're in.

"Aaron, that's such a ridiculous question. You are such a nihilist-"

As Chuck is making more mindless banter, the phone drops out of my hand and makes a quiet thud in the grass next to my feet. Four years into the future, I slump down to my knees. Four years into the future, I throw my arms out in front of me. Four years into the future, my left arm isn't dislocated anymore. Four years into the future, my hands are still intact.

I begin to cry and realize that I haven't cried since I found out my dog had aids. As I am crying, I realize that Jesus never fixed any of my problems.

This was a test for paragraph spacing, next post is my STORY!