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For the 3rd year in a row, the cameras of Shuta Multimedia were present for the CFP Short Film Presentation at the University of Scranton.

Special thanks to Jer Tobin, who provided the video clip that allowed this "Updated" version of Vlog 80 to be possible. (Pun utterly Intended)

In addition to the glimpse of "Updates," you get interviews with Jer Tobin and Donna Shuta, as well as the event introduction by Jeff Fowler and Jer Tobin.

Learn more about the CFP and "Updates" in Shuta Multimedia Vlog 80!!!

Related Links

• http://www.communityfilmproject.org/
• http://www.youtube.com/user/CommunityFilmProject
• http://www.facebook.com/pages/Community-Film-Project/111099205597842
• http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=118709404817399&ref=ts%2F

 

Excerpt # 3 From

Tales of the Black Knight: The Orphan’s Tale

By Vincent Shuta

From Chapter 7: Enemy Territory

The car rolled to a stop at his destination. Joe got out and surveyed the scene, as the car went to go park itself. A wall of tinted glass framed in black marble rose up in front of him, seventy stories high. The bright sun and blue sky tried desperately to cast a happy glow about the place. The building shined to be sure, but somehow the tint and the marble seemed to pull the color from the light. Only its intensity was reflected. Through the tint of the windows, he could see men and women on every floor going about he day to day tasks of running a business. How many of them knew about the company’s dark side?

He stopped outside the building, one last time trying to think of other options besides walking into the trap. He reminded himself that he had to find out what the threat was. Hiding from it didn’t remove the threat. It was much like going for a medical exam; putting off the exam didn’t make the tumor inside any less real, or the disease in the bloodstream any less dangerous. It was always better to face the danger; excise the tumor, take the medicine--whatever was necessary. But it took courage.

If these people were going to try to kill him, his friends, or his family, he had to know.

There was also the not-so-minor problem of Mayhem. Could she be in one of these rooms, being held against her will? Or was she being wined and dined in one of them as a reward for leading him here?

Joe entered the building, and was met just inside by a security guard. Joe would have been very relieved if said guard was idly watching sports and asking for your name and badge. He was not. He was wearing a full suit of armor and holding an energy rifle powerful enough to kill a tank.

He directed Joe through a weapons detector. Joe was unarmed, wore no armor, and carried no explosives, bioagents, chemical agents or nanotechnolgy beyond his glasses. The detector decided he wasn’t a threat and beeped it’s aproval. The guard seemed rather annoyed that he couldn’t turn his rifle on Joe—or better yet, on a tank Don’t worry—next time I’ll bring my tank.

The wall before him was done in black marble, which matched the exterior of the building. The floors were done in a contrasting white. The motif of the dark lording over the light struck Joe for a moment. A second later he dismissed the décor as being perfectly corporate.

And then he wondered what the difference was between the two concepts.

Stop it, he told himself. You’re starting to think like Hanover.

He approached the receptionist; a young woman whose striking beauty and radiant smile was almost as disarming as the machine he just passed through. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Yes, I have an appointment with a Mr. Crenshaw. The name is Zam. Joseph Zam.”

She glanced down, as information streamed across her desk top. “Ah. Here you are; the 9:35 appointment. You’re very prompt sir.” “Well, I’d heard that Asguard had the most attractive receptionist in Atlantica. That alone is enough to encourage punctuality.” Yes, he was flirting, but then she could report that he was relaxed—probably unprepared. Flirting was in his nature anyway. She smiled and pretended to be taken aback, playing her part perfectly. “Thank you so much sir.”

Again she turned her attention to the screen. “Mr. Crenshaw is available, Mr. Zam. Take the elevator marked with the blue light.” She pointed to a row of elevators. Sure enough, one had a soft blue light glowing happily over its entrance. “Thank you,” he said, as he turned, and walked towards the blue glow. Half way there he turned back. “Oh and by the way,” he added, causing her to look up from her desk. “The reports were by no means exaggerated.” She smiled, and thanked him again, but quickly looked back to her desk. Was she aware what awaited him, or was he simply the hundredth person to flirt with her today? As the doors closed, he guessed that depended on how many people left these meetings via the front doors, and in what condition they did so.

Across from the Asguard Tech headquarters was a parking garage. It wasn’t special by any means. It was of standard concrete and steel construction, and had roughly 100 floors. It was of the older, static design of parking garages. Rather than have robotics move the cars about racks, the cars themselves drove up the ramps and found a parking spot. Sometimes people parked their own cars, though that was less common. Some used the spaces for clandestine romantic encounters; others used the height of the building to get a good look at the city.

Still others had different purposes.

A silver sports sedan with tinted windows parked on the top floor, facing the Asguard headquarters. Behind the car’s grille, a thermal imager was mounted. On a screen in the dash of the car, a lone heat signature could be seen riding an elevator to the top floor of the building.

There were no controls in the elevators, but Whisper had uploaded a map of the building which had been “retrieved” from the engineering offices that had designed it. Joe briefly called it up on his glasses, with his position marked on the map. It seemed he was headed towards the top floor. Perhaps there was a fancy neural interface for the elevators, but somehow he doubted it. Joe guessed you didn’t move about this building much unless someone else pushed the buttons.

The doors opened, and Joe was greeted by another guard. Joe wouldn’t have thought it possible, but this one was holding an even bigger gun than the last one. By the looks of it, it was a chain-driven machine gun—the same type of weapon that Dice used to smuggle into New Ecuador. It was the perfect thing if you needed to kill a bunch of tanks.

“Name?” the guard requested. “Joseph Zam.” He responded. “Go to your right; the second door on your right.” “Thanks.” Joe replied, and got no response. He could almost feel the sights of that massive gun aimed squarely at his back. He knocked on the specified door, which opened to reveal an older man, thin and balding, with a gold pair of circular spectacles. It struck him that somehow some glasses were glasses, whilst others fell solidly in the realm of spectacles. The spectacles were simple and round, as if designed for owls, by owls. He wore a gray button down shirt, and gray pants of a slightly darker shade. His clothes rounded out the picture of the World’s Most Experienced Bean Counter—or at least his protégé.

The room was undecorated. The walls were the same black marble. The desk was battleship gray with a black marble top. There were some bookshelves behind the man, but they only contained office binders of data. There was nothing to denote anything of personal significance in the room. No family pictures, no models of the companies fighters, not even a name on the desk.

“Ah, you’re right on time, Mr. Zam. Do step in. My name is Crenshaw—Douglas Crenshaw.” The words were quiet, and deliberate; the voice, neither high nor low. There was almost a sandpaper quality to the voice, as if the speaker was recovering from a sore throat—or had smoked heavily without nanotech treatments. Mr. Crenshaw gestured towards a single chair in front of the desk. “Do have a seat.” As Joe stepped inside, he noticed a large, middle aged man in black uniform holding the door for him. “Thank you,” he said as he passed, and took his seat.

The large man closed the door behind him. As he did, a small red light, in the corner of Joe’s glasses, blinked once. It was visible only to him, and told him that he was cut off from the outside world. The room was shielded against transmissions.

“Oh, forgive my rudeness,” Crenshaw added. “This is one of Asguard Technology’s security officers—Mr. Davis. The corporation insists that one is present at meetings such as this one. In case the discussion becomes…” he searched for the word. “Animated?” Joe offered. Crenshaw smiled—it was a small tight, smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Yes, animated; that would be the proper term. Now I’m sure you’re wondering why you’ve been…invited here.” Again the pause between words; it was obvious Crenshaw liked to parse his verbiage very carefully.

“Yes indeed. Your…invitation seemed somewhat urgent.” Joe matched Crenshaw’s cadence, to indicate that he too thought that using the term “invitation” was a bit of a stretch in this instance. Crenshaw turned and took a binder from the shelf. The side of the book was labeled “BMC Hardcopies.” In an age when text could be displayed on literally anything, why were they still using paper? Perhaps it was some dogma of the cult of business that information wasn’t valid unless it was printed in ink. Joe noticed his hands were stained in places. He recognized it immediately as wood stain. Joe’s mother owned a store selling antiques and collectables. Wood stain was the store’s lifeblood. If Crenshaw was into furnature restoration, perhaps there was some common ground here he could use to humanize the conversation.

“Well, we’ve been providing your company with fighters, almost since its inception.” Crenshaw started, and paused. “And you’re going to throw us a party to say thank you.” Joe chimed in. Crenshaw ignored the comment, because to do otherwise would have disturbed the sentence he just formed. “We have noticed a steady decline not only in your purchases, but in your deployment of our product.” Crenshaw presented this as if Joe were an employee, behind in his quota.

Humanizing this conversation seemed a lofty goal to say the least.

“And…” Joe prompted.

“We would like to encourage BMC to purchase more of our product.” Joe was almost ready to believe that the threatening tone of the invitation was a result of his host’s inability to communicate. Then he remembered Mayhem’s disappearance. “Of the 50 or so pilots we have, Mr. Crenshaw, only perhaps twenty percent prefer the Marauder to the Consolidated Griffin. I myself find it too heavy a fighter to fit my style of fighting. A lighter variant or even a new fighter that is as maneuverable as the Griffin would certainly grab our attention. But we let our pilots choose their own ships; my hands are rather tied as far as sales are concerned.” “Well, perhaps I can suggest something that will...untie… your hands, and grab your attention.” He’s cutting to the chase awfully quickly, Joe thought. “Why certainly—I’m all ears.”

“Perhaps we simply need to build more of a relationship with the members of the Bellona Mining Company,” he started. “Perhaps we could get to know your members more…,” he paused as he looked in his binder. “…know their families more. Your parents are still living in Pennsylvania, aren’t they, Mr. Zam?”

Joe felt the flash of anger wash over him—strange how it still came, even when you expected the threat. But he didn’t flinch. He paused and tried to evaluate this man. Was he dealing with a bookkeeper near retirement, now being asked to make some petty threats, or a true psychopath allowed to flourish in an environment that only cared about results?

“Wonderful people; your dad is a medical technician…a crack diagnostics man and a wizard with the medical applications of nanotechnology. And your mom runs that sweet little curio shop. Perhaps if we spoke with them, we could explain the wonderful…security we could give you all if you just used our products.” The securities of not having someone stick a gun in your face or burn your stuff or do who knows what else. Joe still wasn’t saying anything. The man certainly knew how to play the part, but was the part his? Or was someone else writing the script.

“Then there’s your beautiful sister…the teacher. A kinder sweeter girl you’ll never meet…” I’ve had enough of this, Joe thought, suddenly glad that he was unarmed. The only way to find out if he was dealing with man or beast was to push back. “Perhaps we could build relationships in two directions.” He replied, almost brightly…almost. “Is your mom is still living at Shining Towers Retirement Home?”

That got Mr. Crenshaw’s attention. His head shot up from his binder, and his mouth dropped open. Good flinch, Joe thought. Did you really think your own team was the only one that gathered intelligence on people?

“That must make it easier for you when you visit on Wednesdays.” Joe continued. “Perhaps I or one of my people could stop by on Thursdays. She doesn’t have many visitors then. Thursdays probably drag on for her. And doesn’t your daughter still play center for one of the company’s basketball teams? I’ve always loved basketball. Perhaps I could visit a few of her games. Julie’s really improved her rebounds in the last couple months...”

From behind him, Joe heard the sound of metal sliding on leather. It wasn’t much of a sound, but Joe had been waiting for it since he walked into the building. “Put that gun away, Davis. It’s not Saturday.” The only gun range in Atlantica was only open on Saturdays, and Davis spent a fair amount of time there. Alright Crenshaw: Do you really want to play this game?

“Davis,” Crenshaw held up a hand, and Mr. Davis relented. “I do think Mr. Davis misunderstands us, doesn’t he Mr. Crenshaw?” Joe added, with a tone of earnest goodwill that was chilling. “I meant no ill intent, and I’m equally sure you didn’t either.” Crenshaw shook his head. “I mean no ill intent.” He stood up and put the binder back on the wall. He spoke without turning around. “But Mr. Zam, this world is a dangerous place. It’s a world where you need strong relationships to survive.” Poor soul, Joe thought. You’re not running this; you were told what to say and how to say it. Joe smiled. “But you have that with us already, Doug—can I call you Doug?” Crenshaw turned to face Joe. He was ashen. “How do you mean?” he asked. “I’ve calculated that indirectly, we’re responsible for at least thirty percent of your sales over the last 10 years.” Crenshaw was taken aback. “How…how do you figure that?” he stammered.

“You sell to Havoc Incorporated, and most of their ships fall to ours. Every time they challenge us, they’re purchasing fifty new Marauders from you.” Joe put his hands behind his head, and smiled. “We’re keeping the lights on for you guys. And we do still buy the odd Marauder and spare parts from you. The men who fly them won’t fly anything else.” Until I tell them what went on here, Joe thought. “When you report to Macy, please tell her to take these things into account when she thinks of us.” He could have said “your boss,” but obviously he wanted Macy to take several things into account.

“I certainly will. Thank you for your time. Mr. Zam.” “The pleasure has been all mine,” Joe replied. “You can take the same elevator down that you came up in.” Crenshaw directed.” “Excellent. Have… a nice day, gentlemen,” Joe added. The way he matched Crenshaw’s verbal style was not meant to mock, and Crenshaw knew it. This man had paid close attention to even his mannerisms; he wasn’t about to forget Doug Crenshaw. Joe gave an extra nod to Mr. Davis as Davis opened the door for him, locking eyes with him just for a moment before he left.

The trip down the elevator was uneventful. As he soon as he regained a connection, the words “Confirm Red” appeared in his range of vision. “Confirm” he thought. He knew it was a formality at best. When he lost contact, Whisper would have sent a general alarm to all BMC members and their families that trouble was afoot. The next twenty four hours would be especially shaky.

In the parking garage, across the street from Asguard, the silver sports sedan with the tinted windows started making its way down from the roof.