UNWINNABLE WEEKLY ISSUE THREE Copyright © 2014 by Unwinnable LLC All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Unwinnable LLC does not claim copyright of the screenshots and promotional imagery herein. Copyright of all screenshots within this publication are owned by their respective companies Unwinnable 820 Chestnut Street Kearny, NJ 07032 www.unwinnable.com For more information, email [email protected] Editor in Chief Stu Horvath Managing Editor Owen R. Smith Senior Editor Steve Haske Design Stu Horvath UNWINNABLE WEEKLY ISSUE THREE Contributors Matt Marrone Steve Haske Stu Horvath Chris Dahlen Gus Mastrapa CONTENTS From the Desk of the EIC One Angry Man by Matt Marrone Hoary Night by Steve Haske The Many Lives of Edward Thatch by Stu Horvath Netrunner and My Kid by Chris Dahlen Dungeon Crawler, Part 2 by Gus Mastrapa Biographies and Illustrations From the Desk of the Editor in Chief Hi there, Thanks for joining us again. This week, Matt Marrone is on jury duty, Chris Dahlen is playing Netrunner with his kid and Gus Mastrapa reveals what happened to that little girl we met back in Unwinnable Weekly Issue One. Meanwhile, Steve Haske serves up some ambiguously chilly fiction and I ponder the life and legacy of the notorious pirate Blackbeard. I admit, it is a pretty eclectic mix of writing. Weird, even, at least on the surface. That’s the cool thing about being freeform. If you put a bunch of seemingly disparate things together in a deliberate way, you start to find connections between them all. It’s just how our brains work. Sometimes this is a trick of the mind, something psychologist call apophenia. This false pattern recognition is why we see a man in the moon or rabbits in the clouds. Other times, we perceive a truth that would have otherwise remained hidden. This is the “Eureka!” moment, the revelation of discovery and the spark of creativity. True or false, the patterns we perceive are valuable, whether the spawn insights or flights of fancy. What does a four hundred year old pirate have to do with a cyberpunk card game? That’s up to you to decide. Stu Horvath, Kearny, New Jersey May 23, 2014 Got something to say? Send letters to the Editor at [email protected] Rookie of the Year: One Angry Man By Matt Marrone or four days, I waited to speak to the judge. I sat there silently in the jury Fbox, prepared to tell her that my fair-mindedness and respect for the process would make me perfect for her case, that I was willing to see past my own biases to give the defendant the presumption of innocence, and to follow the letter of the law even when I disagreed with it. And then, after four days of being dicked around, she finally called on me. She asked, “Why do you think you would be a good juror for this case?” I didn’t hesitate. “Actually, I don’t think I’d be a good juror for this case at all,” I said. She paused. “Why not?” “I don’t think I have the patience,” I said. I wasn’t trying to get out of service. February is a slow month in sports journalism, probably the slowest, and although I missed an important trip, getting my slip in the mail couldn’t have come at a better time. As I said, I was ready, if not raring, to go. That changed. The judge asked me for clarification. I explained to her that after sitting there quietly in the courtroom or central jury or in the hallways of the Queens County Courthouse for four days, my belief that jury duty was for me had completely evaporated. That by the end of the third day – when we were sent home for the weekend before she had even interviewed half of us (half!) – I headed to the E train, hopping mad. I think she understood, but she wasn’t quite done with her questions. “As a journalist, do you have any suggestions for how to fix our legal system, Mr. Marrone?” I told her a five-minute exchange between a judge and a prospective juror wouldn’t be enough to cover it. “But at the rate this has been going,” I said in front of my fellow jurors, the assistant DAs, the defense counsel, the defendant, the bailiff and a few assorted watchers, “this trial is going to take six months.” The judge surveyed the court. “You do understand there is a reason why we’re so careful?” she asked. “That it takes time to ensure a fair trial. As you’ve seen from some of your fellow jury members, you get very different answers on day four than you get on day one.” Checkmate. “In that case,” I said, “perhaps I am proof that the system works. Because on day one, I would have told you how great a juror I would be, how as a journalist my skepticism and curiosity would make me ideal. But now, on day four, I know that I don’t have the patience to put up with this.” t was over. The judge moved on to the next juror without her usual string Iof follow-up questions. She never asked me if I’d been convicted of a crime, or if I could look the defendant in the eye and promise him impartiality. (My answers would have been no and yes, but it didn’t matter.) I would be dismissed from the case by lunch time. As we left the courtroom that afternoon, a few of my prospective jurors came up to me. “You said what we all were thinking,” one of them, an older gentleman, told me. “I could see you biting your tongue when she asked for suggestions on how to fix the legal system,” said another. “I wish you had kept going.” I have to admit, those words and others made me feel like a bit of a folk hero that day. Still, what did I accomplish? For four days, I had stressed over being a juror, wondering how much of my life I would need to sacrifice to society, letting waves of both idealism and frustration run through me, before ultimately deciding that maybe it wasn’t the best idea for me. And when it was done, and I’d earned my four-year reprieve, I felt, as I walked to the Kew Gardens/Union Turnpike subway station a free man, that I’d lost more than I’d won. U Hoary Night By Steve Haske t had been weeks since the old journeyman had seen anyone when the Ipilgrim wearied his way into flickering firelight of the camp, making a clamor. The old man listened to the crack of branches and stumbling of feet coming from the encroached darkness. He sat unmoved from his place near the fire, intent on the reddish shroud at its edges, where night blanketed the trail to the old settlement below the mountain. He put on a hand on his chin and felt at his white whiskers. Cold cut at his cheeks. “Criminy,” a voice uttered from the brush. The old man waited for the traveler to appear, entreating a place to rest and the chance to converse with another soul. The figure emerged in dirty rags, beaten by the ravages of hard travel. Part of the traveler’s face was wrapped in brown cloth. He swayed slightly and approached the blaze, hands held out in front. The old man leaned forward, squinting. “Didn’t expeck t’see no man out trampin’ the wilds at this hour,” the old man addressed the pilgrim. “Reckon it was time to make a move on,” the pilgrim answered slowly, with distance. “Thieves killed my horse back down near th’ valley junction.” “Bears out in these parts,” the old man said absently. “Feller might easily get himself kilt no way comin’ near no thieves, neither.” “Figger’d it’d be best takin’ my chances up here than holing up in one’a them cheat’s dens what I jus’ passed through.” The old man did not immediately reply, but wiped at his tearing eyes, bleary. “Lord,” he muttered presently. “The rheums actin’ out. Cain’t see fer no man. His will, his will,” he said to no one in particular, motioning with one hand to an empty patch of ground. “Set here, boy, no bandits near. He pass His providence in small ways.” The pilgrim moved closer, unloading a small satchel from around his shoulder, carefully lowering himself into the dirt. In the light, the old man acknowledged the stain that darkened the makeshift cloth bandage clinging to the man’s exposed face. His eyes glimmered. “Say, I know ye,” he said. “I’ve seen that face. Yer that turn-round collar they’ve been talkin’ about. Seen ye in the saloon last wick.” He paused for a moment, taking in the traveler’s wound. “Them fixed y’up powerful, I see,” he said as his head made a quick jut toward it. “Reckon so,” the pilgrim replied, looking into the blaze. “Not much can be done in this here camp with some wound like that’un,” the old man continued. “Caught me with a good blow when they killed m’horse,” said the pilgrim. “A good knock’s all. Don’ know why they ain’t just finish th’ job.” His head bobbed with exaggerated buoyancy as the words left his lips.