The door of George Dean's room creaked open and his father walked in. Jonathan Dean was like George’s clone, only with small wrinkles in his skin and a fully shaved head. He looked over at his son. Jonathan’s face was neither kind nor caring, neither considerate or compassionate. He hadn’t asked whether or not George had suffered any serious injuries during his exhibition match with David Johnson. And he wasn’t going to.
“Your life is an extension of my own.” Jonathan began his lecture. “And my life is an extension of the Dean family heirs that came before me. No more. No less. And the actions you take, be they honorable or embarrassing, reflect not only my life and yours, but also on Dean Enterprises and everything this family has built.”
George was about to respond. But just as he opened his mouth, his father shot him a look of dismissal.
“In your defensive,” Jonathan continued, “I have no idea why Principal Nelson would authorize such a ludicrous exhibition match. But I assure you he has been chastised. Having said that, George, the boy was an amateur. This David Johnson character shouldn’t have been able to touch you. And you let him beat you within an inch of defeat.”
Jonathan sighed.
“For the good of the family, I banish you from this household," Jonathan said, his voice completely void of emotion. “Everything has been arranged. In light of your failure, I expect you to comply. It's the least you can do for embarrassing this family. Tonight will be your last dinner. You'll leave in the morning. My public relations staff will release a statement saying you will attend a boarding school in Europe. Frankly, I don't care what you do. As long as you're gone in the morning.”
And his father was gone. George Dean sat at his desk ashamed and confused. David Johnson did things with trash that he couldn’t do with the finest combat training in the world. And that’s what humiliated him the most. He stared callously at the reflection in the mirror on his desk, his eyes narrow, dark and menacing. And he made a vow.
I’ll get you, David Johnson, George Dean thought. You won’t get away with making a fool of me.
Warrior Minister
David Johnson has been one of God’s most faithful servants, a balance of kindhearted empathy, fierce courage, humorous insight, and almost unparalleled fighting strength. But it hadn’t always been that way. From his troubled childhood to conquering the sins of his past, witness the origin story of the Miracleverse’s most celebrated warrior.
The 22-part series will be updated twice a month on the 6th and the 22nd at 3:05 PM starting August 2011.
Episode 7
There was complete and total silence in George Dean’s bedroom at the Dean Family Mansion, located in the suburban area of Union Cross called Green County.
George Dean sat in deep contemplation with his elbow resting on the marble desk in his room, letting his cheeks sag in between his fingers. His room wasn’t like the typical room of a fourteen-year old boy, with toys and video games. He was all business. The walls and floors were made of rich brown wood. He had pictures of his many excursions around the world mounted everywhere.
At his desk was a highly-advanced computer with a holographic screen that was programmed to respond only to his voice. Across from his king-sized bed was a 79-inch flat-screen TV buried into the wall. In his dresser drawers were silk pajamas and a small compartment with imported colognes. But George wasn’t thinking about any of that. As he caressed the red scar running down the side of his face, the only thing on his mind was the exhibition match he had won against David Johnson, a victory that he could neither relish nor celebrate. Because had it not been for a strange stroke of fate, he would have been utterly defeated.
He sat there as his desk remembering the match, remembering David Johnson like a horrible dream. David’s movements were the fastest, most fluid of any combatant George had ever dealt with. The attacks came and went like scattered showers of precision and accuracy. It didn’t matter what he did or how advanced his weaponry was. It didn’t matter that he had been through the finest combat training programs money could buy. George Dean couldn’t keep up with him.
He remembered it all, remembered lying on the ground, remembered David Johnson standing over him with that arm cannon made from garbage. He remembered the absolutely horrified expressions on the faces of the ATSD board members, like they had just seen the world end three times. He remembered Principal Nelson’s insipid looking smile.
And he remembered the final seconds of the match, remembered click-click in David’s arm cannon and why it wouldn’t fire its final shot, the one that would have render his severely damaged battlesuit incapable of continuing the match. The cannon had been powered by gasoline. And it had run out just in time. Since David couldn’t continue, George had won the match.
Some victory, George thought.
George Dean sat in deep contemplation with his elbow resting on the marble desk in his room, letting his cheeks sag in between his fingers. His room wasn’t like the typical room of a fourteen-year old boy, with toys and video games. He was all business. The walls and floors were made of rich brown wood. He had pictures of his many excursions around the world mounted everywhere.
At his desk was a highly-advanced computer with a holographic screen that was programmed to respond only to his voice. Across from his king-sized bed was a 79-inch flat-screen TV buried into the wall. In his dresser drawers were silk pajamas and a small compartment with imported colognes. But George wasn’t thinking about any of that. As he caressed the red scar running down the side of his face, the only thing on his mind was the exhibition match he had won against David Johnson, a victory that he could neither relish nor celebrate. Because had it not been for a strange stroke of fate, he would have been utterly defeated.
He sat there as his desk remembering the match, remembering David Johnson like a horrible dream. David’s movements were the fastest, most fluid of any combatant George had ever dealt with. The attacks came and went like scattered showers of precision and accuracy. It didn’t matter what he did or how advanced his weaponry was. It didn’t matter that he had been through the finest combat training programs money could buy. George Dean couldn’t keep up with him.
He remembered it all, remembered lying on the ground, remembered David Johnson standing over him with that arm cannon made from garbage. He remembered the absolutely horrified expressions on the faces of the ATSD board members, like they had just seen the world end three times. He remembered Principal Nelson’s insipid looking smile.
And he remembered the final seconds of the match, remembered click-click in David’s arm cannon and why it wouldn’t fire its final shot, the one that would have render his severely damaged battlesuit incapable of continuing the match. The cannon had been powered by gasoline. And it had run out just in time. Since David couldn’t continue, George had won the match.
Some victory, George thought.
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