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Still, I was smart - smarter than most white folks down here want a black man to be - and I got my degree. I started out walking a beat in Algiers, just across the river from the French Quarter, the Vieux Carre. I can’t forget the smell - like gutting time at a Cajun boucherie - the snatches of Voodoo gibberish smeared across the walls in blood.
But he didn't tell me where to find the scum that butchered Celie, because something scared him more.
Still, as I floated in and out of tortured dreams, I remembered the look in Ti' Joe's eyes. Despair is like frostbite - at first it just makes everything numb, saves up all the pain like a debt you can't possibly afford to pay. Teddy LeDoux's place faced out on an alley near Bourbon Street; Teddy liked to pretend every weekend was Mardi Gras.
Papa Jean's address led me to the other side of the Intracoastal - the swampy, desolate outskirts of an immigrant slum called Archahaie. After one of those juice-heads puts you through a wall, you learn to recognize the look… and to fear it.
I stood there, drowning in my own sweat, wondering what the Devil would look like in a dirty black dress.
As soon as the nurse flipped on the lights, I started babbling about Voodoo curses and demon arms. I checked out at the end of the week despite Doc Timmons' protests and caught a cab out to Archahaie. I came to with the help of Baron Cimiterre's smelling salts: the slaughterhouse stench of blood and bile and exposed viscera. I lay there, trembling in the borrowed clothes of a dead man, staring into the tunnel that joins the evil we live in and the evil that lives in us. One of the hardest things about running is finding a good run -- when you’re bogged down in setting up logistics for how long, how fast and how much you’re hitting the streets, it’s difficult to actually enjoy it and keep it going. You can also take advantage of Runkeeper’s dashboard to see how your runs improve over time, run with a specified program (like their popular 5k trainer), and allow friends to send you encouraging messages while you run. A great exercise routine can only do so much of the work -- it’s also about what you put in your body that counts. Setting up a system is relatively easy, and it rewards you for staying on track by offering badges and challenges to loyal users. Users can select workouts based on their desired goals (sculpting, toning, strength and quick workouts that focus on different areas of the body) and relative fitness capabilities. If you’re all about making small lifestyle changes to help you lose extra pounds -- like climbing the stairs instead of taking the elevator or walking to lunch instead of driving -- then you’ll be pleased to know that you can track it all without springing for a pedometer. There’s no extra features beyond a simple number, but sometimes that’s all you need to get motivated.
Workout mixes are vital to pushing you further, whether it’s reaching the top of the next hill or turning up the speed on the treadmill.
FitRadio is a good option to cure bad music blues, offering a series of flowing mix playlists specifically designed to keep your heart rate up and in the groove.
If your idea of fitness is less treadmill and more Trikonasana, then you also know that a yoga habit (especially in a big city) can be a pricey and rigid one. Pocket Yoga is a very simple way to workaround the constraints of practicing yoga by bringing full yoga workouts to your smartphone. The whole point of exercise is to keep an active heart rate, but actually checking a pulse during a workout can be a pain. Enter Instant Heart Rate, an app that takes accurate pulse measurements by utilizing a smartphone’s camera to measure color changes in the tip of a pointer finger. Everyone knows that a balanced diet and regular exercise is the key to leading a healthy and robust lifestyle, but getting there can be no picnic. With the right tools and input, you can turn your smartphone into your very own trainer, nutritionist and commitment keeper for less than a drop-in exercise class — and boost your chances of success while doing it. No, the Devil buys on the layaway plan: he trades you a few sins for this piece, a cheap vice for that one, damns you by scraps and slivers. Their members were mostly refugees from Haiti and Jamaica, with a sprinkling of local talent from the Bayou. We managed to push the psycho bastards back over the river, but we couldn't take the West Bank away from them. I'm a man who knows violence, friend - I grew up with it, learned to use it on the football field, fought against it on the streets of Algiers. I walked to the seedy parking lot around the corner, already planning the moves in my head. The owner, Jean Ducheval, wasn't exactly a snitch, but he was one of my best sources of information on the Voodoo gangs. He saw the truth: I was not a cop anymore, and I would do anything to get the scum that butchered Celie.
At the end of a dead-end gravel road off of Bourresouse, I found a ramshackle hut that matched Papa Jean's description. And a heartbeat - a monstrous heartbeat - like a thousand men pounding on the Petro drums…. When she killed the lights the second time, I pinched my eyes shut, tried to swallow the panic. The cabby - a Haitian - looked like his eyes were going to bug out of his head when I told him where to turn. I was just drifting off to sleep when the door of the room exploded off its hinges and slammed against the opposite wall. Something black and tarry spattered across the walls, the floor, the ceiling, like engine sludge. I could see taloned feet, tree-trunk legs, a body covered with hair that wriggled like carrion worms. My sweet Creole princess, chocolate skin wrapped in a gown of milky white, somber face staring down at me from the top of an ebony cliff. After evenly gluing all of the clothespins on, I covered the board with newspaper and taped it down. Runkeeper, easily one of the most popular fitness tools online today, can help you with all of it by using your smartphone’s GPS to gather helpful information about your daily run.


MyFitnessPal is a straightforward, simple calorie counter that helps track food intake daily, setting caloric goals and factoring in exercise to give an accurate readout of how your diet shapes up every day.
The app has a robust and fairly accurate pre-established database of foods -- even broken down to brands and menu items at popular restaurants.
It’s a challenge to find out a great workout for women, and Nike Training Club has fixed that with Nike Training Club, a big database filled with bodyweight exercise routines to get you moving quickly.
This means that there is something for beginners and also fitness junkies looking to switch up their routines. Google Now quietly introduced a fitness tracking feature to its list of helpful information, so its simple to see how many steps or miles you’ve done in your day.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, a lackluster or stale mix can keep you from really getting into it, and you’ll spend your workout cycling through your endless music library instead of pushing through a workout. The app offers a selection based on genres, and plenty of different professional DJ mixes to ensure that your playlist options are varied. The best benefits come to those who practice yoga faithfully every day, but not many people have the time or money to make that a reality. Exercise watches with built-in heart monitors can be expensive, and more traditional chest monitors can feel bulky and awkward in a fitness setting.
Just click the “Measure” icon, cover your camera lens with your finger, and the app will track the rate of your heartbeat as well as produce a PPG readout of every single beat. We’ve all felt bored, burnt out or just plain too busy to get out the door and pound the pavement or hit the gym, and falling off the wagon is really easy when accountability is lax. Here are eight apps that can give you the edge in your workout routines, designed to help you see results and track your progress with ease. Powered by its own proprietary technology, Mashable is the go-to source for tech, digital culture and entertainment content for its dedicated and influential audience around the globe. By the time he holds the pink slip and consigns your sorry ass to Eternal Flame, you don't even know what happened, or how. Made second-team all-American as a sophomore, had the NFL scouts drooling all over themselves. They spread a crazy fever through the streets, more like cults than gangs: Secte Rouge, Cochon Gris, Vinbrindingue, Bissage. The Voodoo gangs packed a higher caliber of fear than I've ever seen - you could feel it crackle in the air all over Algiers, juicing your nerves. The stink of the place nearly made me gag - rotting chicken guts, fermented blood, other smells I couldn't name and didn't want to.
The doc said it was a miracle I hadn't bled to death, said it looked like the wound had been cauterized with a blowtorch. I figured it was the mambo's idea of a joke, but I parked across from the place and waited. By the time that grinning piece of shit realized he'd lit the wrong fuse, it was too late for all of us.
It looked like somebody had painted that whole room with the Cochon Gris and used Vixama's gizzard for a brush. I jerked the Beretta out from under the pillow and pointed it at the doorway, figuring the Gris had found me. He trades you a few sins for this piece, a cheap vice for that one, damns you by scraps and slivers.
Comprehensive and simple, MyFitnessPal is a great way to get an idea of what your diet looks like and how you can change it over time.
You can also sync your own music to the workout, providing a seamless session that lets you get your sweat on. As you run, zombies are hot on your tail, and the app will cut into your music to tell you that they’re gaining fast. For beginners, there’s a handy pose dictionary that describes each movement in detail, and there are plenty of advanced poses available for experts. The whole process takes less than 30 seconds total, and it keeps a detailed log of every heart rate test so you can see differences over time. Figured I'd go hardship after my junior year, pick up a cool million in signing bonuses, maybe more. God, she was one fine Creole woman - skin as smooth and sweet as milk chocolate, eyes as wet and wide as Lake Pontchartrain.
The rest is lost in fog, except for glimpses that sometimes leap out of the darkness and rip another chunk out of my soul before I can kick them back into the shadows. I also knew he had a punk named Ti' Joe in one of the cages, a street soldier for the Cochon Gris. Teddy gave me a spare key to his place and fumbled through a few awkward words of sympathy before he made his escape. The midday sun beat down so fierce that it boiled clouds of vapor out of the steamy marsh beyond the graveyard… but that place still made me shiver, friend. It was huge and shapeless and impossibly black - a hole torn out of the daylight straight into the bottom of a Bayou swamp. I slipped out the side exit, tossed the suitcase in the trunk of the Buick, and got out of there as fast as I could.
I propped my head on a pillow that smelled like somebody’s old socks and planned my getaway. Something slithered through the doorway where the mambo had been: a featureless blob, black on black. You also “collect equipment” along the way to help service Abel Township and make it stronger against the oncoming hordes. Then that lard-ass hillbilly tackle blind-sides me in the Georgia game, and my knee is gone. I played hard and clean, never touched a payoff… but if the rules got in the way of a good bust, I bent them. They even stirred things up in the Quarter… and the Mayor won't stand for anybody screwing with the tourists.
Nothing obvious… but good vice cops develop an instinct for trouble, or they become dead vice cops. A street cop sees so much human ugliness that the outer layer of his skin hardens into this armor-plated shell that shields him from the madness he has to wade through every day. I'd broken three of his ribs, shattered his right arm in two places, turned that mocking grin into bloody mush.


I sat there with my head in my hands, afraid to move… afraid that I would blow away like smoke.
I dug around in the trunk of the Buick and pulled out the Beretta hidden in the spare tire. He was the blackest black man I’ve ever seen, maybe because I always saw him in baggy white pants, a baggy white pullover, and a battered white fedora. Weird symbols littered the walls, along with newspaper photos of ritual gang murders clipped from the Times-Picayune: Mama Lucille’s shrine to mayhem, New Orleans style.
I just wanted out of there, just wanted to put some miles between me and Mama Lucille's Voodoo Kitchen. The muffled glow of street lamps streamed through the curtains, filled the room with ugly shadows. I had this nightmare vision of my own bloody arm lunging out of the darkness to strangle me, but the place was deserted. A couple of other punks sat behind what looked like an embalming table, counting out stacks of hundred dollar bills from a leather suitcase. The last thing I noticed was the embalming table, the leather suitcase filled with more cash than I would earn in a lifetime. I couldn't go home, couldn't go to Teddy's - I didn't want to go anyplace the cops or the Gris might find me.
Mama Lucille stood there, wearing the same dirty black dress, leering at me like a sooty skull. I stared into a hole chewed through the skin of the world I knew into a shadow world where demons prowl the savage jungles hunting for wayward souls, where dark magic falls from the sky like poisoned rain. She has a contract with the Secte Rouge to take out the Gris; to take out all the competition, eventually. There are 23 missions to play through, as well as a 20k mission challenge, so there’s plenty zombie goodness to keep you running for a while.
Ti' Joe had a private cell, because the Voodoo punks scared the shit out of the regular low-lifes.
On the streets they say the Voodoo punks are immune to fear, but I saw terror in Ti' Joe's eyes.
A short, plump mulatto woman with coarse gray hair and a dirty, sweat-stained black dress opened it. I glanced down at the place where I could feel my phantom arm resting on the bed, burning with invisible fire. I tightened my grip on the Beretta and slipped across the street, followed the casket delivery boys through the side entrance.
I drove around until I found a crumbling flophouse between a strip joint and a Cajun diner on Ascon. What's left will drip down through that black tunnel into the world he sees in nightmares… into a place he doesn't ever want to be.
Maybe there's still time for you to buy it back the same way: with one tiny act of penance at a time.
I stuck it in my pocket and steered into the crush of traffic crawling across the bridge into Algiers. Papa Jean was one of the good guys in Algiers: always helping the ones who needed help the most, trying to keep the kids out of trouble.
A casket that size could probably hold a hundred kilos of junk, maybe more, worth a king's ransom on the streets.
I saw every nightmare that had ever devoured my sleep - my private horde of horrors snarling and slobbering at the gates of their unnatural habitat. The Voodoo gangs have some nasty magic of their own, but they never think to use it on a crippled ex-cop who can't do shit. A lot of the boys at the Precinct House bought into it, especially the ones who grew up around the Bayou.
The righteous part of Lucius Freeman - the part that laughed at Teddy's lame jokes, that slid a few bucks to homeless bums instead of busting them, that made sweet love to his sweet woman after a fourteen-hour shift when he was almost too tired to move - that part just spilled out of the wreckage and turned to dust.
The stink of him… denim marinated in sweat, like the fur of some sickly animal, wrapped in the ghostly scent of ganja.
I couldn't go home - couldn't sleep in that house ever again - so Teddy took me in at his place. They had that crazy, invincible glow you see on a junkie's face when he's dropped some PCP. The crematorium would give the Gris an easy way to dispose of enemies - the parts they didn't eat. If I could waste Vixama - the mastermind behind most of the horror in Algiers - that would be revenge enough.
Before they know different, they wind up looking like a spilled vat of bloody gumbo - Mama's special recipe. New Orleans doesn't just sing, friend: it jitters and jives and wails like a wild animal that can't be caged. That night, I huddled on Teddy's lumpy couch and suffered through nightmares that refused to end… nightmares that would never end. I paid for the room with a twenty, pretended not to notice while the clerk stared at my vacant sleeve. The siren in my head screaming now, but my heart thumping louder, pounding out one frantic thought. The Cochon Gris had stolen everything: my wife and my job, the two things I loved in this world. I felt, I heard the brittle crack of bone, the sharp twang of snapping sinews, the meaty rip of muscle tearing like soggy paper.
I figured I'd stop by the house in the morning and pick up my passport, then take a drive out to Moisant and catch a flight to Mexico City. She laughed while it crushed the life out of her, cackled while it plucked off her arms and legs like the wings off a mutant moth.
The stolen arm of the loa wrapped me in a tentacle of fire, lifted me above the bed, hurled me across the room.



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