#sam farsight

Okay, now that that's over—serious business time! As you may know, I bought the largest Blaze package at $150.00 USD for approximately 50,000 impressions. This was in effect from Thursday, April 21, 08:38 to Friday, April 22, 08:38.

Overall, I got 58,193 Impressions. This broke down into: 239 likes, 50 reblogs, 7 comments (a few of them were my own.) 1 Follow (which was probably due to me adding them first) and 11 shares off of Tumblr.

I had two people purchase The Wingman. One print, one e-book. Meaning I had a net loss of about $130.00USD. And the post I Blazed has had precious few notes on it since Blazing.

What does this mean to the book industry? Well, it means advertising sucks. For one thing.

We meticulously combed the meta qualities of my serious post to be widely appealing and upbeat (qualities that get lots of reblogs). I know many people think that means I was cheating, but keep in mind—despite gaming the meta content to be marketable, I lost money. This, unfortunately, tracks with similar experiments done on Facebook and Amazon. If you're trying to advertise your stuff as an indie artist/author—DON'T! Tumblr is selling about the same impressions that other sites are using at about half the cost... actually, less than that, if you take in the fact that people find Tumblr advertisements amusing. It is important to note: This was NOT a high traffic day, so doing a similar experiment on a Friday/Saturday may yield slightly better results. Tags are a roulette. I did my best to tag appropriately, but there is most certainly a better method to utilize tagging. I did not follow up with a second Blaze on the same post to see if the extra advertising would reach different people. I suspect it will, but we deemed it too risky to Blaze the same serious advertisement twice. Ideally, an advertisement builds goodwill so people will like you; ours had mixed results on that front. A second Blaze would've stretched people's patience too much. Especially since there appears to be Blaze purists who want Blaze to only be used to meme on people.

Overall, being a novelist is harder than ever. At least with image art, the artist's work gets to speak for itself. The Art of Writing has to evolve, and the Art of Storytelling is trending toward shorter one-off posts or things in which other users can participate.

Instead of taking the bus uptown, I turned south and walked deeper into the Heap. That's the name we locals gave to the badlands. Cops won't protect you in the Heap. Every few years some hotshot fresh from the academy will take up a beat in the Heap to put the gangs on their toes. They never last long.

Down here your only choice is to aid the gangs or move away. Good luck trying to move away.

If you've never been to the Heap, it's not pleasant. Old brick buildings leaned precariously against newer "affordable" housing projects. Cardboard replaced every other window. The whole place was held together with rusty nails and duct tape.

But what gets me is the smell. Imagine the contents of a million porta-potties after the annual chili festival all poured into a vat of booze and spilled across every sidewalk, every door, every lamppost, and every store. It's an all-out assault on your orifices. We call it the Heap's welcome. Newbies to the Heap never fail to toss their cookies, adding to its lustrous aroma.

Don't ask me how I could stand it. I grew up with that smell. To me, it smelled like home. 

I walked quickly through BloodBlade turf. I tried to tell myself to calm down, but my heart wouldn't listen. It's alright, I told myself, knowing full well that talking to yourself is a sign of delusions. No one knows you jumped in with the SmashStones yet. Everyone on the block knew me. I saw old man Yin setting up his stir-fry shop. He waved like everything was normal. Did he know I was skipping school? Or did he just forget what day of the week it was?

Or, a darker part of me asked, does he know you've joined the SmashStones and he's just trying to keep you calm so you'll walk deeper into BloodBlade territory?

Paranoia's a bitch.

I'd walked this street a bajillion times, never caring who's turf I was in. This was the first time I'd walked down it after Jerry died. I'd never appreciated how long the road was. Or how shady the buildings were. Or how many punks hid in the old places like cockroaches.

You wouldn't notice where BloodBlade turf became SmashStone territory. It's not like there's a line drawn on the ground. But I knew when I'd crossed it. I wasn't worried so much about getting shot as I was about the mission ahead of me.

Once more I thought about my mama. She's a kind person. She'd never hurt a fly if she could help it. Even now, twenty years after I’d seen her, I have trouble remembering what she looks like. But I never forgot that smile. It was the kind of smile that cared about everyone. She would never have approved of this plan.

You're probably wondering why I didn't just pack it up and go home. So what if I stole a cop car? No one knew it was me. The gangs would assume I had cold feet--they get people like that every weekend. I could've left. I could've turned around, bought a meal off of Yin and walked into Bio101 in just enough time to be cool. I wish I could tell you that's exactly what I did.

But I didn't.

Instead, I turned off the main road and started walking in the narrow lanes between the buildings.

The idea of leaving haunted me every step I took… but I didn't… I never… 

… 

… 

A part of me knew--even then--that it was already too late for me. I felt drawn down the path. An instinct that pulled me straight into the deepest danger.

I told you before, I was afraid of heights. But that never stopped me from climbing trees. In Briar City, we keep our State-mandated parks at the top of our skyscrapers. There's not a view like it anywhere else in the world. When I was a child, we'd dare each other to climb up on the rails and hang with our toes off the edge. Parents would freak out if they caught us--that's what made it fun!

When the others dared me, I would climb past the guardrail, up onto the concrete itself. I would stand up. And look down. Every time. I'd stare down the side of the building, wind brushing around me, and I'd think about falling. My heart pumped wildly, my feet would fill with lead. My mouth dries up.

It was like my worst fear was calling for me.

It was that same instinct that called to me now. I couldn't have stopped even if I'd wanted to.

In front of me, the path opened up into a dead-end ally. At the end, a tacky pink bar sign hung over a ramshackle brick building. The lights had long ago been shattered. The Rock. It was one of those places that would've looked old even when it was new. SmashStone moving into the old karaoke bar didn't do it any favors. Vagrants slept on garbage bags stacked on the sidewalk. It baffled me to think that a trash truck could weave its way through the narrow paths that fed into this place. But then again, the trash was piled high enough, maybe they never did.

The smell of vomit was stronger here. But it wasn't the only scent in the area. The air was thick with a haze of marijuana and a twang of cocaine. The SmashStones were known for their drug addictions.

Presentation is everything. I walked through the door with little regard for who saw me enter. I stood up straight as if I had all the right in the world to be in this dump. Not that it made much of a difference. For one thing, most of the "patrons" were lying everywhere unconscious from their long night of partying.

For another thing, I'm not actually all that tall. It's hard to look imposing when you're five-foot-two.

Rough thumps and pained grunts disturbed the sound of snoring thugs. It sounded like someone was getting beat up. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it came from the back room.

I was less confident walking past the sleeping crew. Before, I'd met Terry Mac, the recruiter, outside The Rock. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was going deeper into the devil's den.

Hand on the door, I pushed it open with as much bluster as I could manage. This time there was at least an audience.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," the figure at the other end chided. 

It was pitch-black in the room. The dusty light behind me revealed only the back of a muscle-bound man in a green wife-beater. Terry Mac, his back turned to me. I heard a few more thuds and the clank of chains. It was a punching bag, not a body. I released a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"He-he. I heard about your little adventure last night," he said, stepping away from the bag and taking off his gloves. His hands were still wrapped in white gauze, but that didn't stop him from lighting a cigar. He puffed a rancid blast right at my face, causing me to cough. "The Rat squeaked quickly enough. You owe me a thank you. If I hadn't warned him about your initiation you'd be behind bars." He looked over my shoulder and seemed to rethink his statement. "Well, behind iron bars," he chuckled at his own pun. 

"Thank you," I said through gritted teeth.

"He-he-he," Terry cackled. He took another long puff from his cigar--and then knocked me to the floor!

I didn't have time to react; the man lashed out faster than I could even see. And I was looking right at him. The door flipped shut, it's tiny plastic windows not enough to pierce the darkness. I fell to the floor. Mac kicked at me. I tried to cover my gut with my arms and legs, but he knew all those tricks. His silhouette, a black form against the single ray of light from the door, leaned forward. A flurry of punches hit my sides. Something cracked. The dull red end of his cigar was the only thing that stood out.

I instinctively curled up into a ball and planted both feet as high as I could reach. I heard an "oof," but the red light didn't fall. A grip of iron clamped down on my calves and the next thing I knew I was being hurtled into the punching bag.

"Not bad, pebble," he said.

Getting back on my feet was no picnic. I felt like lead had been poured into my body. Except for my chest. The ripping, stabbing pain felt like someone had left a hot knife just under the skin. Standing up tall caused the room to sway like a boat on the water.

"Why did you come here?" he asked. All I could see of him was that damned cigar tip. It moved briefly as he flicked the ashes off the tip.

"I-I want to join you guys," I croaked out.

"I don't think so," Mac retorted, giving me a swift box on the ears. The ringing was unbearable but as loud as it was, Mac was louder still. "Your old man had a death sentence on him, your ma refused to pay the taxes. You've always been a good little boy, toeing the line and condemning our clients. Says here you joined college." He threw a file on the floor into the square patch of light. It lay opened with my picture pinned to several pages of thick text.

A full police file with all my personal information. The Rat had a busy night.

"I want revenge!" I shouted. Spittle and blood flew out of my mouth and landed splat in the middle of the file. I surprised myself. The truth just leaped out of me without any kind of planning, but already I could see how to spin it.

"My friend, Jerry was killed last week in a BloodBlade raid. I want them to suffer!"

"So you thought you could just join up with the SmashStones and kick them all into the dust," Mac finished.

I nodded reluctantly.

"Grow up," the bruiser condemned. "You don't just decide to join up with us on a whim. That's not how it works. We only take people we can trust. For that, you've got to do us… a favor."

I hesitated. Mac could see it. He flicked his ashes away irritably. "What kind of favor?"

Terry Mac’s shadow loomed over me. I'd never felt so small before. My head throbbed; the pain was nearly unbearable. I thought longingly about my seat in the college. I'd never been so enthused to have the chance to fail a class again.

"It says here you live in BloodBlade turf," he said, gesturing to the blood-splattered file. "Last week they stole our biggest shipment of drugs. That's the attack that your friend got caught up in. If you want to join us, first you have to prove your loyalty by finding that shipment--and returning alive, of course. If you do that, you'll be one of us."

I couldn't believe my luck.

I laughed. Hard. Hard enough that I spit up more blood. I howled to the empty rafters above dribbling my own blood down my chin like a madman.

Terry Mac took a step away from me.

"W-what's so funny!" He snarled, flicking his ashes away.

"You think I came here empty-handed? I already know where the drugs are being held." I felt strangely light-headed despite the pain. Looking back, that was probably a warning sign of something unhealthy.

Terry Mac looked lost for words. "Where--How?!?"

"My cousin, Beck. He runs with the BloodBlades. He let it slip that he's on guard duty for their drug stash. Warehouse 15 near the docks. Even better. He let slip that one of their boys got busted yesterday, meaning they don't have enough manpower to guard the shipment around the clock."

Mac was silent for a long time. When he spoke again it was with bated breath. "When?" 

I allowed myself to grin. "Tonight at nine O'clock. But you boys had better strike now. Because they move the whole shipment to a new location at ten."

I pushed a little too hard. Mac shook his head in disbelief. "That's too perfect!" He growled. He stepped in like he was going to hit me again. Instead of flinching, I stood taller; inviting him to hit me. 

He hesitated.

"You just said I couldn't do this without conviction," I reminded him. "Look at me now. Do I look like I'm still doing this on a whim?" I couldn't see Mac. I couldn't look into his eyes. But I could feel the doubt radiating off him.

Terry Mac stepped into the square of light. He stared at the rafters in contemplation. It looked like he was having a silent conversation with himself. "Why should we trust you?" He said, at last, making eye contact.

I held his gaze, I wanted him to see my conviction. It would make it all the sweeter when I burned this bar to the ground. "There's only one thing on my mind," I told him truthfully.

"And that is?"

"I want Cutter to die."

A laugh cut through the darkness. Mac withdrew against the wall. It was a deep, booming laugh that filled me with dread. There was only one person in the Heap who had a laugh like that.

A large mass dropped from the rafters. The whole building shook at his landing. Mac flipped an old iron switch and the lights flooded the room.

"I like you, kid," the mass boomed. He was a veritable wall of muscle. The veins popped out against his skin, blue on red. His square face had slash marks crisscrossing all areas in a patchwork of scars. His wide grin revealed a mouth full of chipped teeth. The only white man in the entire gang. The infamous SmashStone. 

A giant of a man, SmashStone easily stood seven feet tall. I couldn't tell you if my knees were shaking from the beating I just suffered or from this man's sheer presence.

He put his hand on my shoulder and it was like someone dropped a sack of cement on my back. I started to fall to the floor but the behemoth's grip refused to let me collapse even as my knees gave out altogether. "It's not often I'll let in some unknown mineral off the street, but you've got stones in those britches, boy."

Honestly, I'm not sure what I said in response to this. Probably something like "hub-ub blek," since I was about two-thirds passed out already.

What I do remember is SmashStone grabbing the cigar right out of Terry Mac's mouth and planting the burning end right in the center of my chest. To say it burned would be a bit of an understatement. A drill burrowed its way into my chest! Charred skin and fried hair mixed with those noxious cigar fumes and ate their way up my nose. I howled to the sky, spitting up blood that would drip down my chest and mix into the inhuman concoction.