Imagine, if you will, the thrill of undiscovered country. The rush in mapping out virgin shoreline and valleys. Go ahead, name an outcropping of rock after yourself and maybe a waterfall for that guy who loaned you a nickel back in ought-five. Point is, you live in a time where the earth is a boundless mystery, filled in one piece at a time by cartographers more interested in drawing cool sea serpents than in going all the way to the edge of the paper.

Now, stop yer dreaming and join the real world… hippie. The earth is well-known, well-traveled, and a registered trademark of Google. All points north, east, south and west are at our fingertips and in HD. We’re over it, and there be no monsters here.

Now you understand how advertisers feel.

All they want to do is help us discover an exciting world of products we already know and probably own. We hate ads because we’ve been there, done that and used the t-shirt to wash the car. Let’s face it: advertising to people is so over.

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“The Soul of a Fighter”

Ty was jump-roping, beads of sweat bouncing off his chest as his legs pistoned up and down on the filthy tile of the mens room floor. For Ty, jumping rope was both fun and healthy. From beyond the bathroom door the crescendo of blood-thirsty hoots and howls was building. The crowd was a tinderbox and the half-price drink special was the lit match.

“You better get out there,” said Buzz, as he grit his teeth and finished his 90-lb dumbbell curls. “You don’t want to give them an excuse to start playing with their knives.”

Ty grunted, remembering his last fight here at CC Rider’s Bar and Grille for Bikers and Their Friends. He was on the verge of landing the finishing elbow on Angel, when some punk stumbled out of the crowd behind him and started stabbing. Before Ty could react, the punk melted back into the frothing mass of drunken bettors. He would later track him down and break both of his wrists, but the cheap shot almost cost him the bout.

Such was the life of the modern gladiator. The hard-knock jock. The pit-fighter. Ty threw his jump-rope on a chair, taped his fists, nodded to Buzz who threw out a nearly inaudible “Good luck” and opened the men’s room door.

The place was packed, like it is every Saturday night. The jukebox had given out years ago, leaving only the cacophony of the crowd to fill the air. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and sweat. As Ty walked into the middle of the room, he started hearing the familiar taunts: “W-alll riiiighht!” “Get him!” “W-alll riiiighht!” They wanted bloodshed, and they were going to get it, because The Executioner was here.

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I have to be honest. I’m not sure I can embrace the idea of a real Atomic Blowtorch the way Dave has. Granted, my association to the story is not as direct as Dave; I don’t have a grandfather to tell me stories about Bureaus of Genetic whatzit, or handwriting analyst buddies to confirm conspiracy theories.

The only evidence I have that the Atomic Blowtorch existed is a defunct, poorly designed web site full of broken image links and spelling mistakes. And the only reality that site suggests is that the Blowtorch was a comic book hero…a fictional comic book hero.

I can accept the reality of genetic study and the scientific drive of early-20th-Century pioneers to push the freakiest of boundaries. I’m just not sure there’s room in my “heaven and earth” for philosophies that include living, breathing superhumans.

That said, I can accept the existence of comic books and the aging of the human brain. I’ve met Dave’s grandfather, and he’s an amazing man. Still, I find it easier to believe his wartime memories have somehow gotten rolled up with vague recollections of a comic book from his youth.

Whatever General McWayne and the BGA were trying to do, I’m sure it was men like Dave’s grandfather who were the real heroes — no genetically-engineered superheroes required.

While sifting through some of my grandfather’s old documents (mainly just love letters to my grandmother and certificates of authenticity for his collection of “Omnivores of the Central Plains” decorative Franklin Mint plates), I stumbled on this faded requisition order. The order itself is of little interest, but the signatory deserves some attention. Check it out:

So I brought it to a handwriting analyst I knew. He’s able to determine someone’s personality characteristics, based solely on his or her signature. His research returned this:

1) A pronounced opening initial usually points to an inflated ego. Judging by the hash marks on the “E” and the fact that the top-most mark was placed below the top of the character, the author considers himself quite powerful, perhaps even god-like.

2) The near-parallel nature of the “K” and the “L” in the signature reveals the author’s dependence on mood-altering medication. In study after study, reliance on such medication (as well as an affinity for hard-boiled eggs) has been proven a primary cause of “Symmetrical Consonant Generation.” Therefore, said author was likely battling depression or a rage disorder and enjoyed the occasional egg.

3) Note the manner in which the “M” and the “W” of the surname dwarf the “c”. Obviously, the author suffers from impotence.

4) Finally, look at the flare at the end of the surname. This is most revealing, showing us the author is a) left-handed, b) slightly overweight, c) emotionally responsive to whale-song and d) hiding a giant secret.

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