[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

The man in the gray trench coat watched as Rimina Jacoby left Bandini’s Café. “Ah, the clever bitch beat me to it! One eye and she’s got a foresight I’d kill for. Well, if ya gotta get beat, might as well be by the best.”

After limping over to a park bench, the visitor sat down and reached into the innards of his coat. He produced a bottle of Pepsi Free, popped off the cap with a twist, and drank greedily. He downed more than half the bottle, then wiped his mouth and chuckled. “Gah, why the hell did they ever stop making this? To make room for energy drinks? Fetid! Sometimes the world makes no sense at all.”

He briefly contemplated following the mystic. After all, it’d long been a dream of his to finally hold a second meeting of the minds. Last time they met he was but the learner, and now he was on his way to becoming a master. But he knew that she was long gone, vanished into an unquantifiable mist.

He was a master of a discipline that, although related, was at odds with the teachings of Rimina Jacoby. “If only we could palaver, everything’d be sorted out. She calls upon the stars, asking them for advice. I redefine astrophysics, discerning how it was that stars even came to exist. She moves only forwards, but can project infinite possibility onto any consciousness. I move in any direction I choose, but can still only experience a singular reality.”

The Pepsi Free was finished, the glass bottle held up in a makeshift salute. The man in the gray trench coat saw that he was alone…but something told him that the Woman in Gray Robes could hear him. “So we have it, one for the ages. Art versus science. And you’re winning…

“If if I didn’t respect you so much,” a smile of remembrance crept cross his face, “I’d be pretty pissed. Hell, I’m one of the world’s greatest scientific minds and I’m being outclassed by a gen-u-ine gypsy mystic.”

The lighthearted rival of the one-eyed seer brought himself to his feet and began shuffling away. It’s not that he didn’t want to keep sitting, thinking about his most formative days. Because he did. But he also knew that that he was a day away from Event Zero. And to be sighted this far into the game, to have to rely on reignition, well that was simply unthinkable.

He was out of sight just in time see Daryl and Clark as they left Bandini’s Café. From his vantage point, he saw them perfectly. Clark looked rewarded. Daryl was determined. And this made sense.

Of course it made sense. It couldn’t be any other way.

The wind picked up, kicking leaves and threatening to knock over the spy. He held his own, pushing back and limping along as he always would.

[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

The man in the black suit had sex on his mind and murder on his lips. He strolled about the bar casually, basking in the waves of smoke and perfume and unadulterated passion. Ah, this feels so damn good he mused, soaking up the human emotions of which he was usually devoid.

Of which he was usually incapable.

But a year had come and gone, and the man in the black suit was again granted his one day. Twenty-four hours in which he would not only be able to feel again, but to feel in a way that no human could fathom. Sensation amplification, if you will. Food and wine tingling on the tongue in such a manner as to border on erotic ecstasy. Every neon bulb in the bar shining brighter than it had been ever been designed to. The chatter and laughter and soft whisperings behind ears, every single syllable being heard with a stereo clarity that wouldn’t be mastered for decades. Aromas, even sweat and tears, hitting his nose with a candy shop sweetness.

And touching another human being – well, that’s what the man in the black suit spent the year looking forward to the most.

Even incidental contact, brushing by others as he made his way through the lounge, was enough to make him close his eyes and breathe heavily. This pushed the man in the black suit toward his emotional precipice, threatening to derail his plans if he wasn’t careful. “Oh my,” he exhaled, “I had better get to it.” He was acting with resolve. Dark, deadly resolve.

Moving towards the back of the bar, the man in the black suit scouted the scene. He was one of only a few men at the club that wasn’t a soldier. And soldiers always wooed the girls away. A symptom of the times he figured. But for every member of the armed forces present, there were at least three civilian women. So there were plenty of choices, and besides, trying to filch away a woman from one of these soldiers would’ve been bad news.

Not that the man in the black suit couldn’t kill the lot of `em. But he didn’t want the mess. Not on his one special day of the year, anyway.

A stroke of luck! He spied a dainty, raven-haired beauty sitting by herself at a table, milking a cigarette for all its worth. Her impeccable smile, her slender frame, her gossamer throat, it was all so sexually invigorating. Even her pale complexion — she wasn’t a Geisha, but her milky face wasn’t too far off — it screamed for attention in the midst of a society that generally asked all members to keep their eyes glued to the floor.

And feeling the bloodlust rising within, the man in the black suit couldn’t help but imagine how good it would feel to absolutely destroy the girl. To pillage her. Mind. Body. Soul. Consentual sex wouldn’t suffice, not on this day of hyperbolic sensation. No, he would forcefully enter her, deposit his rotten, lifeless seed, and then murder her. Approaching his prey, he conjured images of wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing existence away.

“Hello. How are you this evening?”

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

Born into a family of mysterious vagrants, Rimina Jacoby spent her first years in Bavaria. Shortly thereafter, the Jacoby family was ousted by local villagers who grew suspicious of their idiosyncrasies. The family headed for Portugal, along with the remaining Bendjiems, whose widower of a father had been murdered. And, if the rumors were true, raped. The suspect – the brother of local woman Father Bendjiem had begun courting.

In a villa outside of Faro, both the families Jacoby and Bendjiem were absorbed into a small but accommodating gypsy population. As a toddler, Rimina learned how to persuade marketplace fools to spend too much money on flowers. They were stolen from a cemetery only a quarter-mile away. Her dirty hands and shoeless feet evoked pity while her rosy cheeks evoked the wallets.

She was the perfect resource for a society struggling for subsistence.

That was, of course, until the dog bit her left eye out. On Rimina’s seventh birthday she made the mistake of trying to sell stolen flowers to Pedro Jordão. Not only was Jordão the drunkest resident of the villa but he was also in a state of sorrow. Grieving for his recently deceased wife. So when the dirty gypsy girl with the delightful smile tried to sell him the same basket of flowers he had left for his wife that very morning, he lost his fucking mind.

With the command to SIC! this insanity was transferred from Pedro to his enormous Cujo of a mutt.

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