Last one inspired by Linkbait this night. 'War kittens' are from the mind of a Chris.
1. Fluffy McStubbingtons, who famously refused to aid Caesar in conquering the Celts in order to focus on what he saw as the greater menace: a long string of yarn. Caesar opted not to punish the kitten on account of its wee little paws.
2. Lord Tobius, hailed by some as Sun Tzu reborn. But many find it difficult to perceive the visual difference between biding one’s time for strategic reasons and a simple desire to lie in a sunbeam all day.
3. Freya, the Norse goddess of fertility and war, was known to be accompanied by many assorted cats and to be the one who chose the slain of the battlefield to make merry in Valhalla. Some scholars theorise that her cats may have assisted her in this role; others, of a more traditional ilk argue that the cats merely lay on the chests of the slain, purring and awaiting pettage.
4. Harold Godwinson, the very temporary king of England, was ever accompanied by the noble Bojangles – so much so that the feline rode on his steed during the Battle of Hastings. Which begs the question: did the arrow that lodged itself in Harold’s eye really originate with a Norman bow, or was it a political statement by Bojangles? The two were known to argue frequently over whether Bojangles was allowed to recline on the back of the throne.
5. As dogs were to Hitler, so cats were to Stalin. The crazed dictator was so fond of a tabby named Lenny that he made him his premier military advisor after sending the rest of his generals to Siberia for having murder in their hearts. But Lenny disappeared just prior to the implementation of Operation Barbarossa. Did he defect to Germany? Or was he forced to go on the lam after stumbling across starving former peasantry?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
5 life lessons learned from somewhat apologetic buccaneers
Again, Linkbait. 'Somewhat apologetic buccaneers' courtesy of Isaac.
1. The time to apologise is not when you are already at the gallows. The crowd is very excited to see you die horribly and are unlikely to let you off with a heartfelt “My bad.”
2. Again, timing is everything. An apology after you have awakened an evil god from its slumber by means of filching accursed treasure from indigenous peoples does little to bring back their dear, departed, devoured grandfather.
3. The success rate of apologies is strongly correlated to how recent one’s last wash-up was conducted. Filthy, sweaty stink has never endeared anyone to anything.
4. An apologetic air must be balanced with an appropriate level of rogueishness. Charm the pants off them and they might even forgive you for the grandfather thing.
5. Even still, “My bad,” seldom cuts it when returning to the governor his daughter, now suspiciously round in the middle. You may be expected to make amends in a more permanent fashion.
1. The time to apologise is not when you are already at the gallows. The crowd is very excited to see you die horribly and are unlikely to let you off with a heartfelt “My bad.”
2. Again, timing is everything. An apology after you have awakened an evil god from its slumber by means of filching accursed treasure from indigenous peoples does little to bring back their dear, departed, devoured grandfather.
3. The success rate of apologies is strongly correlated to how recent one’s last wash-up was conducted. Filthy, sweaty stink has never endeared anyone to anything.
4. An apologetic air must be balanced with an appropriate level of rogueishness. Charm the pants off them and they might even forgive you for the grandfather thing.
5. Even still, “My bad,” seldom cuts it when returning to the governor his daughter, now suspiciously round in the middle. You may be expected to make amends in a more permanent fashion.
5 reasons telemarketer mimes can cause suicidal fantasies
Oh, hey, Linkbait. 'Telemarketer mimes' courtesy of my astonishing Aunt Jenn.
1. Invisible boxes are seldom of use to anyone, except to drunkenly creative frat boys.
2. Holding a telephone conversation is a trying experience, as one is tempted to interpret the silence as just plain rudeness.
3. Unlike regular mimes, they are seldom satisfied with your mere pocket change.
4. A pack of such creatures results in the creation of a mime call centre, which clogs the streets and causes terrible traffic jams.
5. It is difficult for the average citizen to distinguish between a short of breath telemarketer mime and the much more common telemarketer zombie. Such a citizen can be forgiven for thinking that the apocalypse has come and bringing about the inevitable.
1. Invisible boxes are seldom of use to anyone, except to drunkenly creative frat boys.
2. Holding a telephone conversation is a trying experience, as one is tempted to interpret the silence as just plain rudeness.
3. Unlike regular mimes, they are seldom satisfied with your mere pocket change.
4. A pack of such creatures results in the creation of a mime call centre, which clogs the streets and causes terrible traffic jams.
5. It is difficult for the average citizen to distinguish between a short of breath telemarketer mime and the much more common telemarketer zombie. Such a citizen can be forgiven for thinking that the apocalypse has come and bringing about the inevitable.
5 ways pretzels have been involved in political scandals
Inspired by Linkbait, 'pretzels' suggested by Amanda.
1. As we are all aware, pretzels go particularly well with beer – a fact no one was more aware of than John A. Macdonald, first prime minister of Canada. So enamoured was he of the combination that he spent all of his campaign money on it and had to go begging a rail baron for enough funds to go on another bender.
2. Did Catherine de Medici mastermind the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre? Very probably. It is theorised that the Huguenot populations of France had a much readier supply of pretzels than the Catholics, a supply which she wished to secure. Perhaps then her sons would shut up.
3. Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, was a well-known proto-German whom Henry though to be ugly. As a good proto-German, Anne was very much fond of a fresh, hot pretzel and would eat them on any occasion, including in the marital bed. The complaint of ugliness was very much a pretext for the couple’s divorce. Henry simply could not stand the crumbs.
4. The Munsinger Affair is known as the sexiest political scandal in Canadian history, for no other such scandal featured Soviet spies seducing innocent young cabinet ministers. But how could the stalwart men of Diefenbaker’s cabinet be taken in so? Simple. The same cutbacks that cost us the Avro Arrow cut deeply into the government’s Pretzel Fund for Starving Orphans. Munsinger claimed that the shortfall could be found within her hotel room. They did it for the orphans.
5. Watergate: caused by a president consumed with lust for power? Or lust for pretzels?
1. As we are all aware, pretzels go particularly well with beer – a fact no one was more aware of than John A. Macdonald, first prime minister of Canada. So enamoured was he of the combination that he spent all of his campaign money on it and had to go begging a rail baron for enough funds to go on another bender.
2. Did Catherine de Medici mastermind the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre? Very probably. It is theorised that the Huguenot populations of France had a much readier supply of pretzels than the Catholics, a supply which she wished to secure. Perhaps then her sons would shut up.
3. Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, was a well-known proto-German whom Henry though to be ugly. As a good proto-German, Anne was very much fond of a fresh, hot pretzel and would eat them on any occasion, including in the marital bed. The complaint of ugliness was very much a pretext for the couple’s divorce. Henry simply could not stand the crumbs.
4. The Munsinger Affair is known as the sexiest political scandal in Canadian history, for no other such scandal featured Soviet spies seducing innocent young cabinet ministers. But how could the stalwart men of Diefenbaker’s cabinet be taken in so? Simple. The same cutbacks that cost us the Avro Arrow cut deeply into the government’s Pretzel Fund for Starving Orphans. Munsinger claimed that the shortfall could be found within her hotel room. They did it for the orphans.
5. Watergate: caused by a president consumed with lust for power? Or lust for pretzels?
5 ways people have gotten rich exploiting tardy reverends
Inspired by Linkbait, 'tardy reverends' suggested by the lovely Karla.
1. In 1932, Mrs. Haversworth took advantage of Reverend Nolan’s late arrival by passing out the collection plate early. By the time he arrived, glasses askew, the collection plate had already passed around with Mrs. Haversworth pocketing the proceeds.
2. Knowing her reverend husband’s tardy tendencies, Linda Ives set up an elaborate insurance scam involving arson, a roll of duct tape, and Reverend Ives’ consistently late homecomings after Sunday service. Miraculously, the insurance company did not catch onto her scheme in a timely fashion. She is alive and well in Rio.
3. Do you have any conception as to how much a well-done and sizable stained glass window is worth? Did you know that with teamwork and a reverend eating his bagel at ten o’clock can equal a killing earned on the antique circuit? So Mr. Freely discovered, to his fortune.
4. Prohibition was a time for creativity and enterprise, especially as represented by a church well-stocked in sacramental wine and a reverend who could be persuaded to ‘forget’ to make a run to the grocery in exchange for some crisp dollar bills. The roof does not replace itself, you know.
5. Jesus, perhaps the original reverend, was most displeased when he returned from the dead two days behind schedule to discover that Mary Magdalene had converted his old carpentry workshop into a busy tourist trap.
1. In 1932, Mrs. Haversworth took advantage of Reverend Nolan’s late arrival by passing out the collection plate early. By the time he arrived, glasses askew, the collection plate had already passed around with Mrs. Haversworth pocketing the proceeds.
2. Knowing her reverend husband’s tardy tendencies, Linda Ives set up an elaborate insurance scam involving arson, a roll of duct tape, and Reverend Ives’ consistently late homecomings after Sunday service. Miraculously, the insurance company did not catch onto her scheme in a timely fashion. She is alive and well in Rio.
3. Do you have any conception as to how much a well-done and sizable stained glass window is worth? Did you know that with teamwork and a reverend eating his bagel at ten o’clock can equal a killing earned on the antique circuit? So Mr. Freely discovered, to his fortune.
4. Prohibition was a time for creativity and enterprise, especially as represented by a church well-stocked in sacramental wine and a reverend who could be persuaded to ‘forget’ to make a run to the grocery in exchange for some crisp dollar bills. The roof does not replace itself, you know.
5. Jesus, perhaps the original reverend, was most displeased when he returned from the dead two days behind schedule to discover that Mary Magdalene had converted his old carpentry workshop into a busy tourist trap.
5 crazy ways that killer penguins are infiltrating pop culture
Inspired by Linkbait, 'killer penguins' suggested by my mother.
1. James Cameron’s Avatar: unsubtle metaphor about an indigenous people defending itself against imperialistic outsiders with the aid of a heroic member of said outsiders? Or devilishly subtle metaphor about Antarctic explorers and what the penguins did to them?
2. Vincent, the loyal canine of Lost fame, was originally meant to be a penguin until said penguin viciously gored the original actor portraying Jack Shepherd.
3. The pet rock craze originated when a penguin by the name of Exeter opted to replace her egg with a rock due to its greater potential for the culling of humans.
4. That same Exeter went on to influence pop culture in another way – by whispering secrets into George Lucas’ ear as he slumbered. That is why there is C-3P0.
5. Exeter’s cousin, Lucille, was known to lurk the sets of the Star Wars prequel trilogy, being lured by the chemistry between Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman. This chemistry was killed dead when the two thespians had to contend with a penguin staring, staring at them with murder in her eyes.
1. James Cameron’s Avatar: unsubtle metaphor about an indigenous people defending itself against imperialistic outsiders with the aid of a heroic member of said outsiders? Or devilishly subtle metaphor about Antarctic explorers and what the penguins did to them?
2. Vincent, the loyal canine of Lost fame, was originally meant to be a penguin until said penguin viciously gored the original actor portraying Jack Shepherd.
3. The pet rock craze originated when a penguin by the name of Exeter opted to replace her egg with a rock due to its greater potential for the culling of humans.
4. That same Exeter went on to influence pop culture in another way – by whispering secrets into George Lucas’ ear as he slumbered. That is why there is C-3P0.
5. Exeter’s cousin, Lucille, was known to lurk the sets of the Star Wars prequel trilogy, being lured by the chemistry between Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman. This chemistry was killed dead when the two thespians had to contend with a penguin staring, staring at them with murder in her eyes.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The Taxman
Audio version available here.
The taxman approached the house with no little trepidation.
And oh, there was such a good reason for this trepidation. This little taxman, you see – Smithly was his name – he drew the short straw. And any tax collector, no matter how large or brave they were, would hold their briefcase with shaking hands as they approached the Wizard Thompson’s house. But the Wizard owed a million dulcs to the city, the mayor promised the citizenry streetcars in the last election, and it was tax season.
So that is why Smithly made out his will, kissed his wife with a passion he hadn’t felt since their wedding day, and headed out to this eyesore of a residence with many long forms, pens, notices, and other special things.
He stepped up to the door. The bronze knocker was in the shape of some many-tentacled thing, which can’t have been an octopus, because it had too many tentacles. He did not use the knocker. The constabulary had provided the tax collectors with many interesting and stomach-twisting accounts of what happened to those who used the knocker. Instead, he took an iron rod out of his briefcase and beat it against the door, ready to flee at the first sign of dimension-warping death.
It did not come. The door opened into a perfectly mundane hallway. There was no one on the other side.
Smithly stood there for could very well have been for hours and ages, his knees knocking together like hands clapping. His teeth chattered, his muscles went taut. The only reason he didn’t sweat was because he felt so very cold. Eventually, he moved forward – not by steps, but by millimetres, like an overgrown caterpillar.
He reached the threshold. A shock raced through his bones, paralysing him, stilling his shaking and all other movements save his breathing. He couldn’t even blink, poor man! Even when a speck of dust fell right upon his eye!
“WHO DISTURBS MY SOLITUDE?” boomed a voice from everywhere.
Smithly felt his jaw loosen, not enough so that he could open his mouth wide for a full-bore yell. He gave it an admirable try, though.
“THAT’S ENOUGH OF THAT.”
The pseudo-yell shrunk into a squeak.
“NOW TALK PROPERLY.”
“M-Mr. Charles Smithly from Municipal Revenue. I’ve come to see about your taxes.” He swallowed, hugely. “...or maybe even have you pay them...”
The ground opened up beneath him. Smithly fell, something big smacked him on the head, and everything went so terribly dark.
~
When he came to – which wasn’t all that long afterwards, actually, somewhere between thirty and sixty seconds – he was bound to a chair with invisible chains in a lamp-lit room. There was a table before him. On the other side sat the Wizard Thompson.
Honestly, the wizard wouldn’t have looked to impressive to you or I if we’d been ignorant as to his grand status. Just a middle-aged man, even if he were really plenty older than that, with a big nose and an only moderately competent attempt at a beard. He didn’t even dress that oddly, unless button-down shirts, suspenders, and ties suddenly became dreadfully passé in the time since Smithly approached his house. The ornate gowns and cloaks a wizard was entitled to were not for him, as they were a bit of a hazard in his line of work.
“Now,” he said with a voice that was not so booming, but quite deep all the same. “You must be able to tell me a reason why anyone would weep over the death of a taxman.”
Smithly considered this. Having not been killed yet, he’d calmed down a touch, but he knew his answer had to be good. “My wife would miss me a bit,” he said. “And her parents like me, which I understand is not a certainty with in-laws. Also, I think I’m a pleasant fellow to have drinks with and I’ve never made a collection in anger.”
The Wizard Thompson grunted, but he did nod, which Smithly took as a promising sign. “And?”
“I’m kind to animals.”
“Then why don’t you have a dog?”
Panic rose. He was spying on him! Has he been spying on him? They did say that he could see anything that went on in the city; maybe he had a watch on all the tax collectors, just for these moment, and... Oh, just tell the truth! “My wife sneezes whenever they’re about.”
“Good, good. Now, just one more question... Why should I pay your taxes?” And here the wizard’s expression became terrible indeed and Smithly thanked his lucky gods that he had the good sense to take care of his necessities beforehand.
What should he tell him? The city needed streetcars? The Wizard Thompson could teleport at will.
Civic duty? He always did like to remind them all how many times he saved them from devilspawn and what have you.
Because everyone else had to pay them and damnit, he should have to as well? He also liked to remind them all how much he wasn’t like ‘everyone else’.
Mr. Charles Smithly was small and not very brave, but he had a job and felt he did it moderately well and that if he didn’t pull this one off, someone else would pull the short straw. It would keep going, on and on and on, until this city had no tax collectors. On that day, the city would be rubbish.
“Because if you do,” decided Smithly. “If you pay the full million, I’ll do something for you.”
“Do what?” asked the Wizard Thompson, leaning forward.
“Anything. Anything you name.” There. The only possible solution. “But we’ll have to sign a contract, if you please.”
The wizard smiled, not at all nicely. “Agreed.”
~
Have you ever heard of an hoxform? Oh, you educated readers must have, but I must provide an explanation for children or the ignorant: an hoxform is the product of a drunken tryst between a cobbler and an imp. Yes, I know, it doesn’t seem that dreadful. But it’s like vanilla and cumin, which are fine and innocuous enough tastes on their own, but combined together makes one reach for the minty toothpaste. An hoxform smells bad, looks worse, has runny bits all over it and relishes the eating of belly buttons. If you think this doesn’t sound serious, consider that these hoxforms possess large mouths and even larger teeth.
The Wizard Thompson had one penned into his third basement, in a magic seal that looked for all the world like a hopscotch game. This Smithly noticed as soon as he was led down after the signing of the contract, but he was much too polite to voice this.
Then he noticed the hoxform. He squeaked. His stomach reeled, despite its lack of contents. “I’m to kill that?”
“Yes,” said the Wizard Thompson. “I’m much too busy to do it myself, but obviously, I can’t keep it here forever – the stench of it! But rest assured, should you die, I’ll grant your wife a generous settlement. I’d romance her too, but as I said, I’m very busy. Now, you’ve got everything you need?”
All Smithly had was his briefcase filled with papers and things, the iron rod, fear, and a bit of a desire to give this wizard a smart smack on his big nose. “No.”
“Excellent.” The Wizard Thompson snapped his fingers and teleported out of the room.
And the hoxform was shambling outside the hopscotch square.
Smithly followed his first inclination, which was the same as the first inclination of any human with a lick of instinct, and that was to grasp the iron rod like a sword and back up into the farthest corner. To this would have been added a scramble for the high ground, but there was no high ground in the third basement. The wizard had not even the basic courtesy to have a sturdy bookcase he could clamber onto. Had he done so, Smithly might have had the leisure to tear some cloth off of his clean and professional outfit to stuff in his nose – the hoxform really did smell dreadful.
But he had to make do with breathing through his mouth.
The hoxform shambled closer, as hoxforms are wont to do. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth between those very large teeth, dripping syrupy saliva all over the nice, clean floors. Almost puppy-like, except puppies weren’t bipedal with mouths about level to one’s belly button. Also, puppies tended to be fluffy and not have skin like rough green violet leather. And their claws could be trimmed. And they didn’t have opposable thumbs.
Smithly dug his shoulders into the two walls. They absolutely refused to give way to a secret passage. His hands couldn’t seem to keep the iron rod steady for love or life and the hoxform, of course, lunged for the belly.
He struck the rod sharply over the creature’s head. Again. Again!
The hoxform slunk back and tilted its head at him, like a confused child. That head leaned back ever so slowly, then snapped forward, claiming the iron rod. It gulped it down and burped.
That was when the taxman screamed because really, that’s when almost anybody who wasn’t a wizard would have screamed. The hoxform screamed right back, which didn’t help at all.
Really, now! What else did he have! Just his silly, shiny briefcase, filled with miscellanea, and absolutely nothing else aside, because this damnable room was austere to the point of monkishness! Except... except... Wait, wasn’t one of its parents a brownie? And what did brownies particularly didn’t like?
Still screaming intermittently, because that seemed to keep the thing from coming any closer for the time being, Smithly put down his briefcase and shimmied out of his coat. It was a new coat. He’d just picked it up from the tailor’s the other day and it fit him nicely. He’d miss that coat, but it would be too sticky after this. He chucked it at the hoxform. It landed on its head.
The hoxform stopped its screaming – and so Smithly stopped his – and pulled the coat off of its head. It inspected it with its watery eyes and gave what seemed to Smithly to be very much like a grunt of satisfaction. It donned the coat with a flourish, the pus and whatnot oozing through, and the taxman silently mourned his fine coat. The creature proceeded to wander about the third basement, presumably to search for a mirror. It paid no heed to any other living things nearby, belly buttons or no.
Smithly pondered his next move. It was distracted, yes, certainly, but how was he expected to finish it off? I must remind the reader that it did eat the iron rod ably, which as a rule, no creature mundane or magical should cavalier about. But if it were suffering any ill effects from the act, it gave no indication.
He opened up his briefcase. Papers, papers, pens, pens. Nothing that could be reasonably expected to take out anything that was larger than an insect. Except...
Smithly took off all his clothes then, leaving on only his long johns for decency’s sake. All these articles – his shirt, his trousers, socks, and shoes – he trailed in front of the hoxform like candy. All these the hoxform donned, becoming more and more ecstatic the more clothes it put on.
Until, as the last shoe was crammed onto its over-large foot, it collapsed onto the floor in rapture. Smithly beat its belly with his briefcase until it regurgitated the iron rod. Then he switched his weapon.
~
Later, the Wizard Thompson inspected the taxman’s handiwork. “Inelegant,” he said. “But ultimately effective, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”
He filled the briefcase up with coins, allowed Smithly to wash his hands up, and gave him a pair of shoes. What a kind man, thought Smithly, in a bit of a daze as he shambled through the streets back to Municipal Revenue. Certainly not at all like the stories.
~
The next morning, Smithly’s supervisor called him into the office and looked very serious at him.
“Now Charles,” he said. “You did a very brave thing yesterday, no question, but there is a bit of a problem.”
Smithly’s hands shook again, his heart thumped loudly. “Whatever could it be, Mr. Garret?”
“We had a look at your deposit after dawn broke and it’s all gone, every last coin.”
His jaw dropped. He could just about manage a “Pardon?”
“Fairy gold, Charles. That’s what Thompson gave you.”
Smithly recovered from his swoon eventually and it was at that time that his supervisor offered him some basic but essential advice. “Next time,” he said. “Make certain you sign that contract in blood.”
~
The taxman approached the house with no little trepidation. In his briefcase, stoppered tightly and wrapped with a cloth, was a red-filled vial.
The taxman approached the house with no little trepidation.
And oh, there was such a good reason for this trepidation. This little taxman, you see – Smithly was his name – he drew the short straw. And any tax collector, no matter how large or brave they were, would hold their briefcase with shaking hands as they approached the Wizard Thompson’s house. But the Wizard owed a million dulcs to the city, the mayor promised the citizenry streetcars in the last election, and it was tax season.
So that is why Smithly made out his will, kissed his wife with a passion he hadn’t felt since their wedding day, and headed out to this eyesore of a residence with many long forms, pens, notices, and other special things.
He stepped up to the door. The bronze knocker was in the shape of some many-tentacled thing, which can’t have been an octopus, because it had too many tentacles. He did not use the knocker. The constabulary had provided the tax collectors with many interesting and stomach-twisting accounts of what happened to those who used the knocker. Instead, he took an iron rod out of his briefcase and beat it against the door, ready to flee at the first sign of dimension-warping death.
It did not come. The door opened into a perfectly mundane hallway. There was no one on the other side.
Smithly stood there for could very well have been for hours and ages, his knees knocking together like hands clapping. His teeth chattered, his muscles went taut. The only reason he didn’t sweat was because he felt so very cold. Eventually, he moved forward – not by steps, but by millimetres, like an overgrown caterpillar.
He reached the threshold. A shock raced through his bones, paralysing him, stilling his shaking and all other movements save his breathing. He couldn’t even blink, poor man! Even when a speck of dust fell right upon his eye!
“WHO DISTURBS MY SOLITUDE?” boomed a voice from everywhere.
Smithly felt his jaw loosen, not enough so that he could open his mouth wide for a full-bore yell. He gave it an admirable try, though.
“THAT’S ENOUGH OF THAT.”
The pseudo-yell shrunk into a squeak.
“NOW TALK PROPERLY.”
“M-Mr. Charles Smithly from Municipal Revenue. I’ve come to see about your taxes.” He swallowed, hugely. “...or maybe even have you pay them...”
The ground opened up beneath him. Smithly fell, something big smacked him on the head, and everything went so terribly dark.
~
When he came to – which wasn’t all that long afterwards, actually, somewhere between thirty and sixty seconds – he was bound to a chair with invisible chains in a lamp-lit room. There was a table before him. On the other side sat the Wizard Thompson.
Honestly, the wizard wouldn’t have looked to impressive to you or I if we’d been ignorant as to his grand status. Just a middle-aged man, even if he were really plenty older than that, with a big nose and an only moderately competent attempt at a beard. He didn’t even dress that oddly, unless button-down shirts, suspenders, and ties suddenly became dreadfully passé in the time since Smithly approached his house. The ornate gowns and cloaks a wizard was entitled to were not for him, as they were a bit of a hazard in his line of work.
“Now,” he said with a voice that was not so booming, but quite deep all the same. “You must be able to tell me a reason why anyone would weep over the death of a taxman.”
Smithly considered this. Having not been killed yet, he’d calmed down a touch, but he knew his answer had to be good. “My wife would miss me a bit,” he said. “And her parents like me, which I understand is not a certainty with in-laws. Also, I think I’m a pleasant fellow to have drinks with and I’ve never made a collection in anger.”
The Wizard Thompson grunted, but he did nod, which Smithly took as a promising sign. “And?”
“I’m kind to animals.”
“Then why don’t you have a dog?”
Panic rose. He was spying on him! Has he been spying on him? They did say that he could see anything that went on in the city; maybe he had a watch on all the tax collectors, just for these moment, and... Oh, just tell the truth! “My wife sneezes whenever they’re about.”
“Good, good. Now, just one more question... Why should I pay your taxes?” And here the wizard’s expression became terrible indeed and Smithly thanked his lucky gods that he had the good sense to take care of his necessities beforehand.
What should he tell him? The city needed streetcars? The Wizard Thompson could teleport at will.
Civic duty? He always did like to remind them all how many times he saved them from devilspawn and what have you.
Because everyone else had to pay them and damnit, he should have to as well? He also liked to remind them all how much he wasn’t like ‘everyone else’.
Mr. Charles Smithly was small and not very brave, but he had a job and felt he did it moderately well and that if he didn’t pull this one off, someone else would pull the short straw. It would keep going, on and on and on, until this city had no tax collectors. On that day, the city would be rubbish.
“Because if you do,” decided Smithly. “If you pay the full million, I’ll do something for you.”
“Do what?” asked the Wizard Thompson, leaning forward.
“Anything. Anything you name.” There. The only possible solution. “But we’ll have to sign a contract, if you please.”
The wizard smiled, not at all nicely. “Agreed.”
~
Have you ever heard of an hoxform? Oh, you educated readers must have, but I must provide an explanation for children or the ignorant: an hoxform is the product of a drunken tryst between a cobbler and an imp. Yes, I know, it doesn’t seem that dreadful. But it’s like vanilla and cumin, which are fine and innocuous enough tastes on their own, but combined together makes one reach for the minty toothpaste. An hoxform smells bad, looks worse, has runny bits all over it and relishes the eating of belly buttons. If you think this doesn’t sound serious, consider that these hoxforms possess large mouths and even larger teeth.
The Wizard Thompson had one penned into his third basement, in a magic seal that looked for all the world like a hopscotch game. This Smithly noticed as soon as he was led down after the signing of the contract, but he was much too polite to voice this.
Then he noticed the hoxform. He squeaked. His stomach reeled, despite its lack of contents. “I’m to kill that?”
“Yes,” said the Wizard Thompson. “I’m much too busy to do it myself, but obviously, I can’t keep it here forever – the stench of it! But rest assured, should you die, I’ll grant your wife a generous settlement. I’d romance her too, but as I said, I’m very busy. Now, you’ve got everything you need?”
All Smithly had was his briefcase filled with papers and things, the iron rod, fear, and a bit of a desire to give this wizard a smart smack on his big nose. “No.”
“Excellent.” The Wizard Thompson snapped his fingers and teleported out of the room.
And the hoxform was shambling outside the hopscotch square.
Smithly followed his first inclination, which was the same as the first inclination of any human with a lick of instinct, and that was to grasp the iron rod like a sword and back up into the farthest corner. To this would have been added a scramble for the high ground, but there was no high ground in the third basement. The wizard had not even the basic courtesy to have a sturdy bookcase he could clamber onto. Had he done so, Smithly might have had the leisure to tear some cloth off of his clean and professional outfit to stuff in his nose – the hoxform really did smell dreadful.
But he had to make do with breathing through his mouth.
The hoxform shambled closer, as hoxforms are wont to do. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth between those very large teeth, dripping syrupy saliva all over the nice, clean floors. Almost puppy-like, except puppies weren’t bipedal with mouths about level to one’s belly button. Also, puppies tended to be fluffy and not have skin like rough green violet leather. And their claws could be trimmed. And they didn’t have opposable thumbs.
Smithly dug his shoulders into the two walls. They absolutely refused to give way to a secret passage. His hands couldn’t seem to keep the iron rod steady for love or life and the hoxform, of course, lunged for the belly.
He struck the rod sharply over the creature’s head. Again. Again!
The hoxform slunk back and tilted its head at him, like a confused child. That head leaned back ever so slowly, then snapped forward, claiming the iron rod. It gulped it down and burped.
That was when the taxman screamed because really, that’s when almost anybody who wasn’t a wizard would have screamed. The hoxform screamed right back, which didn’t help at all.
Really, now! What else did he have! Just his silly, shiny briefcase, filled with miscellanea, and absolutely nothing else aside, because this damnable room was austere to the point of monkishness! Except... except... Wait, wasn’t one of its parents a brownie? And what did brownies particularly didn’t like?
Still screaming intermittently, because that seemed to keep the thing from coming any closer for the time being, Smithly put down his briefcase and shimmied out of his coat. It was a new coat. He’d just picked it up from the tailor’s the other day and it fit him nicely. He’d miss that coat, but it would be too sticky after this. He chucked it at the hoxform. It landed on its head.
The hoxform stopped its screaming – and so Smithly stopped his – and pulled the coat off of its head. It inspected it with its watery eyes and gave what seemed to Smithly to be very much like a grunt of satisfaction. It donned the coat with a flourish, the pus and whatnot oozing through, and the taxman silently mourned his fine coat. The creature proceeded to wander about the third basement, presumably to search for a mirror. It paid no heed to any other living things nearby, belly buttons or no.
Smithly pondered his next move. It was distracted, yes, certainly, but how was he expected to finish it off? I must remind the reader that it did eat the iron rod ably, which as a rule, no creature mundane or magical should cavalier about. But if it were suffering any ill effects from the act, it gave no indication.
He opened up his briefcase. Papers, papers, pens, pens. Nothing that could be reasonably expected to take out anything that was larger than an insect. Except...
Smithly took off all his clothes then, leaving on only his long johns for decency’s sake. All these articles – his shirt, his trousers, socks, and shoes – he trailed in front of the hoxform like candy. All these the hoxform donned, becoming more and more ecstatic the more clothes it put on.
Until, as the last shoe was crammed onto its over-large foot, it collapsed onto the floor in rapture. Smithly beat its belly with his briefcase until it regurgitated the iron rod. Then he switched his weapon.
~
Later, the Wizard Thompson inspected the taxman’s handiwork. “Inelegant,” he said. “But ultimately effective, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”
He filled the briefcase up with coins, allowed Smithly to wash his hands up, and gave him a pair of shoes. What a kind man, thought Smithly, in a bit of a daze as he shambled through the streets back to Municipal Revenue. Certainly not at all like the stories.
~
The next morning, Smithly’s supervisor called him into the office and looked very serious at him.
“Now Charles,” he said. “You did a very brave thing yesterday, no question, but there is a bit of a problem.”
Smithly’s hands shook again, his heart thumped loudly. “Whatever could it be, Mr. Garret?”
“We had a look at your deposit after dawn broke and it’s all gone, every last coin.”
His jaw dropped. He could just about manage a “Pardon?”
“Fairy gold, Charles. That’s what Thompson gave you.”
Smithly recovered from his swoon eventually and it was at that time that his supervisor offered him some basic but essential advice. “Next time,” he said. “Make certain you sign that contract in blood.”
~
The taxman approached the house with no little trepidation. In his briefcase, stoppered tightly and wrapped with a cloth, was a red-filled vial.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Latitudes
This is set in the same world as 'Strike in the Shining City' but is otherwise unrelated.
~
In the northern wastes, the dead marched.
White-faced men and women, gums black with rot, their clothing worn loose over their bony frames, pulled their sleds. Spoiled foot, novels, and silverware. All the necessities of survival, pulled over miles of ice and snow from ships long since foundered.
The peoples of that land – the living peoples, that is, those who learned from millennia of trial and error how to thrive in such a place – watched the procession, close enough to make out the details and far enough to be out of reach from the wights. But the intelligence was valuable and that is why they watched, despite the risk.
But those that marched never looked up. Nor made noise, nor stopped for sustenance. The dead very seldom took notice of the living.
~
Jocelyn Jones had a father once and from what she could remember, he was brave and kind and knew everything important about everything. Then he wandered off to sea on some grand expedition and she never saw him again.
But she had been proud that her own father was to be part of history – engineer on the first ships to navigate the Great Northern Sea! – as was every one of her fellow citizens, so it took her years to worry. How could she be expected to? Once the last whaling ship spotted the Sedemay and Idemay in Mutiny Bay, it would be at least three years before the sisters could break through the ice floes to the other side of the continent and send word of their safety. Perhaps even five years.
Then six years passed. Seven. Eight. Nine. Not a sign, not a whisper. Jocelyn grew into a woman in that time and buried her poor, patient mother on the decade’s anniversary of the sailing. She counted the coins of her inheritance and decided, for decency’s sake, she must find and bury her father too.
She told no one of her intention. The attention of the papers and the interference of the commander’s widower held no charm for her, no matter the financial support they would offer. Friends and family could not be trusted to keep their mouths shut. She merely booked passage on a packet ship and walked aboard.
“Another young one out to seek her fortune!” said the captain with a laugh. She was Norrish, Jocelyn observed, so maybe she had a right to do so. Laugh, that is. How many like her must she have ferried across these waters when she herself felt compelled to seek her own fortune elsewhere?
“Too true, too true,” said Jocelyn. She smiled. A personable captain brooked well for an enjoyable passage.
This turned out to be completely false, as her stomach was apt to remind her all throughout the three months on the open ocean. With good winds, those three months might have been only one. She would have loved to stand on deck all the days and nights, taking in the same sights as her father did years ago, but her love for clothes that were not soaked entirely through overcame all.
They limped into Landormouth Harbour eventually, though. Jocelyn shook hands with the captain and vowed to buy her a drink someday and never, ever sail on her ship again. But there was worse to come, as well she knew it, and with that in mind, she marched with resolution to the Mutiny Bay recruitment office.
The tweedy clerk at the front desk did not question her credentials nor her work ethic. Would-be fur traders would do the work they were presented with or die and even if Jocelyn walked into the recruitment office with a miraculous lack of knowledge of that essential fact, she would learn with admirable swiftness. The clerk shoved a contract across the width of the desk, a space conveniently left blank for Jocelyn to fill her name in. “The next batch to paddle west leaves in two month’s time, so you’ll be wanting to net yourself some employment in the meantime. We can provide you with lodgings, provided you agree for us to garnish your wages when you start properly working for us,” the clerk explained.
“Two months?” asked Jocelyn.
“Yes. Is that a problem?” The tone said with perfect clarity that the clerk possessed neither the ability or inclination to fix this if it were.
Jocelyn picked up the contract and read it over, not a single sentence of fine print missing her gaze. “This shan’t do,” she said. “I’ll come back if no alternative can be found, but not before.” Two weeks later, she sidled back in and shamefacedly signed the contract. The clerk leaned back in her wooden chair and did not trouble herself to hide her smug satisfaction.
The two months Jocelyn passed at the docks, hauling and heaving the cargo of the ships that anchored there. She grew strong with her labour and cultivated many interesting bad habits, such as the traditional boozing and brawling. Were either parent to see her then, she knew, wiggling a loose tooth with her tongue as the taste of copper lingered in her mouth after an especially interesting night in the bar, they would have dropped dead of shame.
When the convoy of recruits and old-timers left Landormouth for the rivers, she joined it eagerly. Maybe she’d miss the young men, but her funds had drained away to the extent that she had to use an advance to buy an urn.
“You’re contract’s for the standard eight, ain’t it?” asked Rupert, an old-timer.
“That’s the truth of it.” Rupert made sympathetic noises. He’d gone through the same and so would everyone else on this journey, provided they didn’t die.
She hoped, of course, that she’d be stationed at Solomon Factory, furthest north. But no, it was inland for her and that was how those seven were spent – preparing skins and furs and paddling them back east. Haggling with the hunters and traders of many tribes, who knew the business better than she. Falling in love, out, back in, back out. Digging a bullet out of her arm with her fingers and washing the wound with whiskey. Losing fingers to frostbite, then toes, after two horrible nights rescuing a comrade from the blizzard-formed snowdrifts.
You never saw snow or felt cold like that back in Spira. Such things did not exist there. And Jocelyn was still far, far south from where her father must have died. But the eight years wound up, as they were wont to do, and the factor granted her an audience in the cupboard he liked to call an office.
“I want to go north,” Jocelyn said. “How can this be done?”
“Wait some months,” said the factor. He knew the ‘why’ of it and she knew he knew, even if she could have sworn that she never told a soul. But no one can keep a secret in a place so small. “A doctor is coming, with similar interests to yours. He can keep you company; you can make sure he doesn’t die.”
Jocelyn waited eight months to match the years. She worked in the meantime, getting some practice burying bodies to boot. Some of the bodies were very young, younger than her. But Dr. Oakes came after all and he was better than she expected. He knew his way about the terrain and the languages and knew how to keep her arm from paining her.
They paddled to Solomon Factory, with many others, and they continued on alone in high summer, when the sun shined for months on end. Trudge, trudge, they went, clad in snowshoes, packs stuffed with pemmican and things to trade, and ready to forage and hunt at any opportunity.
And here is where Jocelyn lost count of the turnings of the world. Perhaps the occasional – very occasional – persons they happened across would be able to tell, but she lacked the wit to learn their tongue. The cold sucked that out of her.
“How long have we travelled?” she breathed, the air bracing her throat.
“Three days, three months,” said Dr. Oakes.
“How can you be sure?”
“How can anyone be sure of anything? But do trust me.”
These conversations and others of equal inanity sparked up on the hour, near as Jocelyn could tell. If she annoyed the good doctor with him, he did not say. She might have called him a gentleman, but her father was an engineer and her mother a landscaper. So on that count, he was no better than she. She was too much of a lady to say so, though. Much time passed regardless.
One day – or at one point in the longest day of Jocelyn’s life – Oakes made a
reckoning. “We’re near,” he said. “We keep walking, but not much longer.”
And over three rolling hills, they found them. Ice shelters with their fur-clad dwellers. They spotted the pair before their own eyes caught up with their brains. They marred the untouched and shining snow, faces unreadable, spears held at ready. Oakes, hands empty, spoke to them in something resembling their speech and they laughed. They did not lower the spears, but gave them good-natured prods with the butts of them. Jocelyn could barely feel it with the cold and the layers of furs and skins and linen she wore.
They did not laugh later, after they had done their trades and Oakes told them of the lost expedition. “’The pale people march,’ they say, in circles and they never stop,” he reported to Jocelyn. “They’ll tell us where to go, for a price, but they won’t take us there.”
Her decision was made years ago and the urn bought years ago in Landormouth felt heavy in her kit. “We make the trade.”
“Are you –“
“We make the trade.”
They did so and they headed west.
Dr. Oakes explained things on the way. “They’ve never changed their course, not since they showed up years ago. They keep an eye on them to make sure of it, but... You hear of such things in other wilds, but always singular, never in a group like this.”
“But it’s them. It has to be them.”
Then she saw the wights, marching in the distance. Her right foot moved in front of her left, quite involuntarily, but Dr. Oakes took hold of her bicep before it could go any further than that.
“They’ve seen them eat humans,” he said. “You mustn’t move any closer.”
But she shoved him off, wincing with the pain of the action, and moved closer anyway.
Two dozen wights marched, Spiran sailors all, led by an officer whose uniform had been bleached free of colour by the elements. Was it Commander Gartner herself, she wondered? She had the stature, certainly, but the flesh was practically scraped off of her skull. Jocelyn shivered, in a way she thought had been numbed out of her, and resolutely tore her gaze from the officer to the sailors. To look for a face she recognised. She found it.
She vomited, the product of which froze before it hit the snow. But she steeled herself, enough to call out, “Father?”
The dead sailor stopped, his harness going slack as the others marched past. His eyes were still there in his sockets and his flesh was mostly intact, too. Just rotting and white, with black gums. No muscle or fat on his bones – how long did it take for him to get that way? He was not a slight man when she was a girl.
He changed his course. He marched to her. He reached out to her and clutched her cheeks. He opened his mouth – a rasping sound came out which might have been her name. He closed his mouth. The flesh of his hands felt as cold as the air surrounding them. What happened to his gloves, Jocelyn wondered? How did his fingers not snap off with the slightest pressure?
They regarded each other, father and daughter. She knew not how he saw her, but she saw sadness. Half a man, with half a life. It would be kinder, she thought, to end it now, before memories of this had time to supplant the happy ones of the large man who knew many things.
Jocelyn curled her fist and punched him the remains of his belly as hard as she could, just as his fingernails dug sharply into her face. For good measure, she took out her pistol and shot him in the brain and in the heart.
Oakes helped her then, helping her carry the corpse well away from the now interested others, helping her build a fire, helping her burn the body of her father on it and gather the ashes into the urn afterwards.
“Will you do anything for the others?” he asked.
Jocelyn considered the matter. “They can look out for their own,” she said. She walked back south, urn packed carefully in her kit, and she did not look north again. Ten years had passed since she buried her mother, twenty since she last saw her father properly. She had done her duty. It was time to go home.
~
In the northern wastes, the dead marched, their numbers one fewer. In the years and decades to come, people would arrive from across the eastern seas. They would find a familiar face, burn it out of mercy, and leave the others – too tired to do anything for them.
~
In the northern wastes, the dead marched.
White-faced men and women, gums black with rot, their clothing worn loose over their bony frames, pulled their sleds. Spoiled foot, novels, and silverware. All the necessities of survival, pulled over miles of ice and snow from ships long since foundered.
The peoples of that land – the living peoples, that is, those who learned from millennia of trial and error how to thrive in such a place – watched the procession, close enough to make out the details and far enough to be out of reach from the wights. But the intelligence was valuable and that is why they watched, despite the risk.
But those that marched never looked up. Nor made noise, nor stopped for sustenance. The dead very seldom took notice of the living.
~
Jocelyn Jones had a father once and from what she could remember, he was brave and kind and knew everything important about everything. Then he wandered off to sea on some grand expedition and she never saw him again.
But she had been proud that her own father was to be part of history – engineer on the first ships to navigate the Great Northern Sea! – as was every one of her fellow citizens, so it took her years to worry. How could she be expected to? Once the last whaling ship spotted the Sedemay and Idemay in Mutiny Bay, it would be at least three years before the sisters could break through the ice floes to the other side of the continent and send word of their safety. Perhaps even five years.
Then six years passed. Seven. Eight. Nine. Not a sign, not a whisper. Jocelyn grew into a woman in that time and buried her poor, patient mother on the decade’s anniversary of the sailing. She counted the coins of her inheritance and decided, for decency’s sake, she must find and bury her father too.
She told no one of her intention. The attention of the papers and the interference of the commander’s widower held no charm for her, no matter the financial support they would offer. Friends and family could not be trusted to keep their mouths shut. She merely booked passage on a packet ship and walked aboard.
“Another young one out to seek her fortune!” said the captain with a laugh. She was Norrish, Jocelyn observed, so maybe she had a right to do so. Laugh, that is. How many like her must she have ferried across these waters when she herself felt compelled to seek her own fortune elsewhere?
“Too true, too true,” said Jocelyn. She smiled. A personable captain brooked well for an enjoyable passage.
This turned out to be completely false, as her stomach was apt to remind her all throughout the three months on the open ocean. With good winds, those three months might have been only one. She would have loved to stand on deck all the days and nights, taking in the same sights as her father did years ago, but her love for clothes that were not soaked entirely through overcame all.
They limped into Landormouth Harbour eventually, though. Jocelyn shook hands with the captain and vowed to buy her a drink someday and never, ever sail on her ship again. But there was worse to come, as well she knew it, and with that in mind, she marched with resolution to the Mutiny Bay recruitment office.
The tweedy clerk at the front desk did not question her credentials nor her work ethic. Would-be fur traders would do the work they were presented with or die and even if Jocelyn walked into the recruitment office with a miraculous lack of knowledge of that essential fact, she would learn with admirable swiftness. The clerk shoved a contract across the width of the desk, a space conveniently left blank for Jocelyn to fill her name in. “The next batch to paddle west leaves in two month’s time, so you’ll be wanting to net yourself some employment in the meantime. We can provide you with lodgings, provided you agree for us to garnish your wages when you start properly working for us,” the clerk explained.
“Two months?” asked Jocelyn.
“Yes. Is that a problem?” The tone said with perfect clarity that the clerk possessed neither the ability or inclination to fix this if it were.
Jocelyn picked up the contract and read it over, not a single sentence of fine print missing her gaze. “This shan’t do,” she said. “I’ll come back if no alternative can be found, but not before.” Two weeks later, she sidled back in and shamefacedly signed the contract. The clerk leaned back in her wooden chair and did not trouble herself to hide her smug satisfaction.
The two months Jocelyn passed at the docks, hauling and heaving the cargo of the ships that anchored there. She grew strong with her labour and cultivated many interesting bad habits, such as the traditional boozing and brawling. Were either parent to see her then, she knew, wiggling a loose tooth with her tongue as the taste of copper lingered in her mouth after an especially interesting night in the bar, they would have dropped dead of shame.
When the convoy of recruits and old-timers left Landormouth for the rivers, she joined it eagerly. Maybe she’d miss the young men, but her funds had drained away to the extent that she had to use an advance to buy an urn.
“You’re contract’s for the standard eight, ain’t it?” asked Rupert, an old-timer.
“That’s the truth of it.” Rupert made sympathetic noises. He’d gone through the same and so would everyone else on this journey, provided they didn’t die.
She hoped, of course, that she’d be stationed at Solomon Factory, furthest north. But no, it was inland for her and that was how those seven were spent – preparing skins and furs and paddling them back east. Haggling with the hunters and traders of many tribes, who knew the business better than she. Falling in love, out, back in, back out. Digging a bullet out of her arm with her fingers and washing the wound with whiskey. Losing fingers to frostbite, then toes, after two horrible nights rescuing a comrade from the blizzard-formed snowdrifts.
You never saw snow or felt cold like that back in Spira. Such things did not exist there. And Jocelyn was still far, far south from where her father must have died. But the eight years wound up, as they were wont to do, and the factor granted her an audience in the cupboard he liked to call an office.
“I want to go north,” Jocelyn said. “How can this be done?”
“Wait some months,” said the factor. He knew the ‘why’ of it and she knew he knew, even if she could have sworn that she never told a soul. But no one can keep a secret in a place so small. “A doctor is coming, with similar interests to yours. He can keep you company; you can make sure he doesn’t die.”
Jocelyn waited eight months to match the years. She worked in the meantime, getting some practice burying bodies to boot. Some of the bodies were very young, younger than her. But Dr. Oakes came after all and he was better than she expected. He knew his way about the terrain and the languages and knew how to keep her arm from paining her.
They paddled to Solomon Factory, with many others, and they continued on alone in high summer, when the sun shined for months on end. Trudge, trudge, they went, clad in snowshoes, packs stuffed with pemmican and things to trade, and ready to forage and hunt at any opportunity.
And here is where Jocelyn lost count of the turnings of the world. Perhaps the occasional – very occasional – persons they happened across would be able to tell, but she lacked the wit to learn their tongue. The cold sucked that out of her.
“How long have we travelled?” she breathed, the air bracing her throat.
“Three days, three months,” said Dr. Oakes.
“How can you be sure?”
“How can anyone be sure of anything? But do trust me.”
These conversations and others of equal inanity sparked up on the hour, near as Jocelyn could tell. If she annoyed the good doctor with him, he did not say. She might have called him a gentleman, but her father was an engineer and her mother a landscaper. So on that count, he was no better than she. She was too much of a lady to say so, though. Much time passed regardless.
One day – or at one point in the longest day of Jocelyn’s life – Oakes made a
reckoning. “We’re near,” he said. “We keep walking, but not much longer.”
And over three rolling hills, they found them. Ice shelters with their fur-clad dwellers. They spotted the pair before their own eyes caught up with their brains. They marred the untouched and shining snow, faces unreadable, spears held at ready. Oakes, hands empty, spoke to them in something resembling their speech and they laughed. They did not lower the spears, but gave them good-natured prods with the butts of them. Jocelyn could barely feel it with the cold and the layers of furs and skins and linen she wore.
They did not laugh later, after they had done their trades and Oakes told them of the lost expedition. “’The pale people march,’ they say, in circles and they never stop,” he reported to Jocelyn. “They’ll tell us where to go, for a price, but they won’t take us there.”
Her decision was made years ago and the urn bought years ago in Landormouth felt heavy in her kit. “We make the trade.”
“Are you –“
“We make the trade.”
They did so and they headed west.
Dr. Oakes explained things on the way. “They’ve never changed their course, not since they showed up years ago. They keep an eye on them to make sure of it, but... You hear of such things in other wilds, but always singular, never in a group like this.”
“But it’s them. It has to be them.”
Then she saw the wights, marching in the distance. Her right foot moved in front of her left, quite involuntarily, but Dr. Oakes took hold of her bicep before it could go any further than that.
“They’ve seen them eat humans,” he said. “You mustn’t move any closer.”
But she shoved him off, wincing with the pain of the action, and moved closer anyway.
Two dozen wights marched, Spiran sailors all, led by an officer whose uniform had been bleached free of colour by the elements. Was it Commander Gartner herself, she wondered? She had the stature, certainly, but the flesh was practically scraped off of her skull. Jocelyn shivered, in a way she thought had been numbed out of her, and resolutely tore her gaze from the officer to the sailors. To look for a face she recognised. She found it.
She vomited, the product of which froze before it hit the snow. But she steeled herself, enough to call out, “Father?”
The dead sailor stopped, his harness going slack as the others marched past. His eyes were still there in his sockets and his flesh was mostly intact, too. Just rotting and white, with black gums. No muscle or fat on his bones – how long did it take for him to get that way? He was not a slight man when she was a girl.
He changed his course. He marched to her. He reached out to her and clutched her cheeks. He opened his mouth – a rasping sound came out which might have been her name. He closed his mouth. The flesh of his hands felt as cold as the air surrounding them. What happened to his gloves, Jocelyn wondered? How did his fingers not snap off with the slightest pressure?
They regarded each other, father and daughter. She knew not how he saw her, but she saw sadness. Half a man, with half a life. It would be kinder, she thought, to end it now, before memories of this had time to supplant the happy ones of the large man who knew many things.
Jocelyn curled her fist and punched him the remains of his belly as hard as she could, just as his fingernails dug sharply into her face. For good measure, she took out her pistol and shot him in the brain and in the heart.
Oakes helped her then, helping her carry the corpse well away from the now interested others, helping her build a fire, helping her burn the body of her father on it and gather the ashes into the urn afterwards.
“Will you do anything for the others?” he asked.
Jocelyn considered the matter. “They can look out for their own,” she said. She walked back south, urn packed carefully in her kit, and she did not look north again. Ten years had passed since she buried her mother, twenty since she last saw her father properly. She had done her duty. It was time to go home.
~
In the northern wastes, the dead marched, their numbers one fewer. In the years and decades to come, people would arrive from across the eastern seas. They would find a familiar face, burn it out of mercy, and leave the others – too tired to do anything for them.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Strike in the Shining City: Chapter IV
In which our heroine experiences a marital difficulty.
When I was little, my father used to take my sisters and I to the neighbourhood shrine.
It was a sprawling old building – the type that should’ve been an attraction for all of us and all the kids we played with. So many hiding places! So many spots with strange sorts of echoes to take turns shouting in! So many golden doodads of great religious significance to get our grubby fingerprints all over! But we’d have to be dragged there, to a body, and would tear out as soon as the service was done.
~
Have you ever had this feeling? A loved one dies. You’ve gone to their wake, paid your respects. Then you go to where they lived to help sort it out and you see all of their things, exactly how they left it. Like they’ve just popped out for a bit because they forgot to get the milk for tea. It never fools you. And that’s what the shrine was like.
All of us children felt it and that’s why we stayed away, refusing to show either the proper respect or proper disrespect for the gods. Our parents despaired, but we noticed they didn’t try punishing us that hard. Like they felt it too, but didn’t want to acknowledge it.
I mention this because it’s the exact feeling I got when Toynbee opened up the trapdoor and led us down the ladder.
~
She didn’t protest my request for information. She didn’t even speak – just took several deep and shuddering breaths before pushing herself to her feet, swaying in a non-existent breeze. But she did look at me like I’d struck her, flinching when I raised my hand to brush a stray hair from my cheek.
“Please,” said Toynbee after many long moments. “Please, please don’t make me go down there.”
“We see you’re uncomfortable with the notion, but it’s either that or you can stay up here with Constable Calvin while I have a look myself,” said Horace. My shouting muscles warmed up abruptly. Yes, detective friend. Let’s make sure that the member of our pair with a point of comparison for what’s down that trapdoor stays up in the sunlight!
But Toynbee spared his ears. “You can’t go down alone,” she said with a flatness that startled me. From her workbench, she picked up a weird device – like a lamp on a stick and held the same way as a torch. Then she kneeled by the trapdoor’s hinge and, with gentle fingers, turned what I had assumed was just a knob by increments, right, left, right. Hearing a click, she grabbed the knob with her entire hand and hauled it and the trapdoor upwards.
She pressed a button on the device, causing the glass portion of it to illuminate, and began her descent with a weird, mechanical motion.
“Shall I follow first, or shall you?” asked Horace with nonplused eyes. I sighed and followed Toynbee.
The ladder, of course, was just the same as in the chamber – flawlessly welded iron.
The walls of the tunnel were just the same as the chamber’s, all white-grey stone, perfectly cut and fit together like the richest of Spiran nobles into their coats.
The smell was just the same, the source-less blue light was just the same, the amber light from Toynbee’s torch gadget notwithstanding. She stood close to the ladder, clutching the gadget like a security blanket.
The walls were built of the same sort of grey stone as that room underneath Lark and Hammersmith and had the same sort of non-smell.
The metal doors were nearly the same. Oh, they looked exactly similar to the ones in the chamber, except for one crucial difference: there was a lot more of them than four. They lined the tunnel past where I could see. I counted twelve. Of course, being who I was, I tried the knobs of the first four and might’ve saved myself the energy for all the good it did me. That act created the closest thing resembling a smile I ever saw coming from Toynbee, but it should be noted that this isn’t saying much.
With a thump, Horace landed on the floor behind me. “I guess you must believe me now, don’t you,” I told him without turning around.
Came the dry response, “Did I ever actually say that I doubted you?”
“No, but you weren’t respectful enough of my observations. So Toynbee, you said these lead to the brothel...?”
“Yes,” said Toynbee. “Everywhere.”
“Define ‘everywhere,’” said Horace.
And here Toynbee began to walk, looping her arm around mine as she passed me, pointing her torch straight ahead. I went along with her without resistance, compelled more by curiousity than by a desire to comfort her. “Places here, places elsewhere. Places that used to be.” She shook her head violently. “And ‘things.’”
We passed the twelfth door – I could hear Horace striding with us, close enough to interfere if something happened to the two of us, close enough to run away if he had to – and straight ahead was a room. Here Toynbee stopped us. Another passage lay on the opposite end, but to my right and left were more locked doors. And there was a ladder, rising up the heavens or who knows what. Another apartment or house? A business? (Not the brothel; we didn’t walk nearly far enough for that.) I’d have to find out. My hand lifted, itching to grab onto the rungs.
But then it hit me. The ‘feeling’ – the one I had in the shrine, so long ago. The unfamiliar familiarity of it made me sick and my hand dropped down. Onto my sword hilt, as it turned out, and I only realised when Toynbee jerked away from me like I had the pox.
And I could hear, like a tremor in my bones, a rasping. Just on the edge of human hearing. It was enough to make me lose my nerve and I ran. Gods help me, I was to first to run.
~
Later, after we were all back in the sitting room, Toynbee looked me in the eyes and made a slashing motion across her heart. I thought then that Horace must have seen it, but nowadays, I’m not so sure.
~
Still later, but not by much, us two were left alone in the room while our witness went to the lavatory. Rivers may rise, civilisations may crumble, but the people still have to relieve themselves. The good detective and I didn’t spend the time idly.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“Do you think she’s the murderer?” I asked.
Horace was swift and decisive in his answer. “No. I think she’s unwell. I think she can tell us what happened to Madam Clyde. But while theoretically, she could muster up the strength to land the blows that killed her... Look at her. Look at her arms. Do you think it’s all that likely?” I wasn’t all that certain and I told him so. You never know what someone’s capable of doing when they’re sufficiently enraged, impassioned, etc.
And I told him so. “And we can’t very well leave her here. Best case scenario, she’d hurt her own self! By accident!”
“And what do we do with her? Throw her in the jail with the smugglers, thieves, vandals, and confirmed killers? Jane, you’re smarter than that.”
Leaving her alone in that place had to be the worst idea ever conceived of, I thought. Right conclusion, wrong reasons. I had a talent for such things, in those bygone days. But at least I had the good sense to be grateful for him not bringing up my flight. If not the good sense to thank him for it.
But he was the detective, I was the constable. I may have counted him as a sort of friend, but I could only argue with him so far. Worse yet, I couldn’t come up with any alternatives. So he waited for Toynbee to re-emerge, finished his questioning, gave her his information and told her to ask for him should she remember or need anything else.
And then we left. I think I smelled something acidic when we were still in the yard, but that could be my memory playing tricks on me.
~
The watch house was in a tizzy and the captain was in her cups when we returned. Flask, rather.
Captain Charla Loper, famed in story and song. I’ll try not to let her future actions sour my depiction of her too much, but I think this was my impression of her at the time: she was a charming soul, fun to drink with, wonderful boss and utterly unsuited for her job. Everyone knew that in her youth, she set out to be a lawyer like her wealthy parents wanted – she fell into the captaincy position because militia work was the Thing To Do with that set, but no one else wanted the top spot. And when Lark ordered us here, so she came too.
“That bastard Harkley’s in town,” she said. Before I could feign astonishment, she added, “Spoke at a union meeting, gave us the slip after we got word. Oh, and your husband’s been arrested.”
Horace prodded me in the back with his finger, reminding me to stop hanging my mouth open like an idiot. “What for?” I asked. Demanded. Squeaked.
“Disturbing the peace, that sort of thing. Go talk with him yourself.” Another constable, sweating and puffing, burst into the watch house stole away Loper’s attentions.
To the jail I went. Horace could protect himself for the rest of the day.
~
Frederick was crammed in the cell with six other men – violent revolutionaries, every one. He seemed mostly intact, except for the knee, where the fabric of his trousers ripped revealing a dirty and bloody mess. I whistled. We met at the bars, hands touching, faces warmed with each others’ breath. “Now tell me,” I asked, my voice a whisper. “What’s the worst that you did today?”
“I punched Constable Erdric in the nose. I think we had her over for dinner once.”
“And the knee?”
“An unfortunate run-in with the street.”
“You need it cleaned.”
“I know.”
A gap in our conversation, filled with quiet, non-incriminating background chatter.
He spoke, smoothing my fingers with his own. “You’re going to get me out of here, aren’t you?”
My first impulse was to refuse him. I didn’t voice this, but he was a smart man and probably knew it already. I had a duty to both my job, the city and the prime minister. That meant something to me in those days. Tossing them away so blithely felt akin to setting myself on fire after cladding myself in oily rags.
But... we were married. He followed me right into this damnable city, even after a flurry of letters and telegrams telling me how much he detested the idea. If my colleagues did their job – and I had no reason to believe that they wouldn’t, not in a great big blow-up such as this with at least two cities breathing down their necks and the reporters circling – they’d find out that his connection with Harkley went just a bit deeper than him being an enthusiastic audience member. Mine too, come to think of it.
I dipped my chin to my chest, following it up with a proper nod. “You’re bloody right, I am. I’m going to regret this and afterwards, you’re going to cook me a nice dinner and fetch me a pint and a pipe. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
The officer on duty was Floria Appleby. We were friends since the Gullenburgh days, she and I, and it was out of deference to that that she kept well back while I chitchatted with Frederick. I marched up to her with intent. “Floria,” said I. “You’ve got a choice here.”
Eyebrow raised, she asked, “And what’s that, then? If you want a conjugal visit...”
Well. Honestly, violence was the first plan, but why not take a better one when it presents itself? My muscles relaxed, relieved over not having to punch anyone myself today. “I really don’t know how long he’s going to be in here, do I?” Very annoying, isn’t it? Just over a silly, stupid assembly! Yes, I know he technically resisted arrest, but do you see how Erdric acts when she’s making an arrest? I know, shame! He’ll probably get off anyway, so where’s the harm? No point in making your life miserable too. And so on. The details of the conversation aren’t important in the slightest.
“No promises – don’t want the sarge catching wind of this, you understand – but I’ll see what I can do.” Floria winked, in a way she probably thought was suggestive. “Come talk to me tomorrow, why don’t you?” I tell you, being a loyal and trusted member of the Princess Aggies had its perks. Too bad I was rushing behind the metaphorical bushes to piss it away.
But there was little else to do at the jail, save calling Frederick a poor little bunny and patting him on his dear head, so I left.
Now to go find that bastard Harkley.
When I was little, my father used to take my sisters and I to the neighbourhood shrine.
It was a sprawling old building – the type that should’ve been an attraction for all of us and all the kids we played with. So many hiding places! So many spots with strange sorts of echoes to take turns shouting in! So many golden doodads of great religious significance to get our grubby fingerprints all over! But we’d have to be dragged there, to a body, and would tear out as soon as the service was done.
~
Have you ever had this feeling? A loved one dies. You’ve gone to their wake, paid your respects. Then you go to where they lived to help sort it out and you see all of their things, exactly how they left it. Like they’ve just popped out for a bit because they forgot to get the milk for tea. It never fools you. And that’s what the shrine was like.
All of us children felt it and that’s why we stayed away, refusing to show either the proper respect or proper disrespect for the gods. Our parents despaired, but we noticed they didn’t try punishing us that hard. Like they felt it too, but didn’t want to acknowledge it.
I mention this because it’s the exact feeling I got when Toynbee opened up the trapdoor and led us down the ladder.
~
She didn’t protest my request for information. She didn’t even speak – just took several deep and shuddering breaths before pushing herself to her feet, swaying in a non-existent breeze. But she did look at me like I’d struck her, flinching when I raised my hand to brush a stray hair from my cheek.
“Please,” said Toynbee after many long moments. “Please, please don’t make me go down there.”
“We see you’re uncomfortable with the notion, but it’s either that or you can stay up here with Constable Calvin while I have a look myself,” said Horace. My shouting muscles warmed up abruptly. Yes, detective friend. Let’s make sure that the member of our pair with a point of comparison for what’s down that trapdoor stays up in the sunlight!
But Toynbee spared his ears. “You can’t go down alone,” she said with a flatness that startled me. From her workbench, she picked up a weird device – like a lamp on a stick and held the same way as a torch. Then she kneeled by the trapdoor’s hinge and, with gentle fingers, turned what I had assumed was just a knob by increments, right, left, right. Hearing a click, she grabbed the knob with her entire hand and hauled it and the trapdoor upwards.
She pressed a button on the device, causing the glass portion of it to illuminate, and began her descent with a weird, mechanical motion.
“Shall I follow first, or shall you?” asked Horace with nonplused eyes. I sighed and followed Toynbee.
The ladder, of course, was just the same as in the chamber – flawlessly welded iron.
The walls of the tunnel were just the same as the chamber’s, all white-grey stone, perfectly cut and fit together like the richest of Spiran nobles into their coats.
The smell was just the same, the source-less blue light was just the same, the amber light from Toynbee’s torch gadget notwithstanding. She stood close to the ladder, clutching the gadget like a security blanket.
The walls were built of the same sort of grey stone as that room underneath Lark and Hammersmith and had the same sort of non-smell.
The metal doors were nearly the same. Oh, they looked exactly similar to the ones in the chamber, except for one crucial difference: there was a lot more of them than four. They lined the tunnel past where I could see. I counted twelve. Of course, being who I was, I tried the knobs of the first four and might’ve saved myself the energy for all the good it did me. That act created the closest thing resembling a smile I ever saw coming from Toynbee, but it should be noted that this isn’t saying much.
With a thump, Horace landed on the floor behind me. “I guess you must believe me now, don’t you,” I told him without turning around.
Came the dry response, “Did I ever actually say that I doubted you?”
“No, but you weren’t respectful enough of my observations. So Toynbee, you said these lead to the brothel...?”
“Yes,” said Toynbee. “Everywhere.”
“Define ‘everywhere,’” said Horace.
And here Toynbee began to walk, looping her arm around mine as she passed me, pointing her torch straight ahead. I went along with her without resistance, compelled more by curiousity than by a desire to comfort her. “Places here, places elsewhere. Places that used to be.” She shook her head violently. “And ‘things.’”
We passed the twelfth door – I could hear Horace striding with us, close enough to interfere if something happened to the two of us, close enough to run away if he had to – and straight ahead was a room. Here Toynbee stopped us. Another passage lay on the opposite end, but to my right and left were more locked doors. And there was a ladder, rising up the heavens or who knows what. Another apartment or house? A business? (Not the brothel; we didn’t walk nearly far enough for that.) I’d have to find out. My hand lifted, itching to grab onto the rungs.
But then it hit me. The ‘feeling’ – the one I had in the shrine, so long ago. The unfamiliar familiarity of it made me sick and my hand dropped down. Onto my sword hilt, as it turned out, and I only realised when Toynbee jerked away from me like I had the pox.
And I could hear, like a tremor in my bones, a rasping. Just on the edge of human hearing. It was enough to make me lose my nerve and I ran. Gods help me, I was to first to run.
~
Later, after we were all back in the sitting room, Toynbee looked me in the eyes and made a slashing motion across her heart. I thought then that Horace must have seen it, but nowadays, I’m not so sure.
~
Still later, but not by much, us two were left alone in the room while our witness went to the lavatory. Rivers may rise, civilisations may crumble, but the people still have to relieve themselves. The good detective and I didn’t spend the time idly.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“Do you think she’s the murderer?” I asked.
Horace was swift and decisive in his answer. “No. I think she’s unwell. I think she can tell us what happened to Madam Clyde. But while theoretically, she could muster up the strength to land the blows that killed her... Look at her. Look at her arms. Do you think it’s all that likely?” I wasn’t all that certain and I told him so. You never know what someone’s capable of doing when they’re sufficiently enraged, impassioned, etc.
And I told him so. “And we can’t very well leave her here. Best case scenario, she’d hurt her own self! By accident!”
“And what do we do with her? Throw her in the jail with the smugglers, thieves, vandals, and confirmed killers? Jane, you’re smarter than that.”
Leaving her alone in that place had to be the worst idea ever conceived of, I thought. Right conclusion, wrong reasons. I had a talent for such things, in those bygone days. But at least I had the good sense to be grateful for him not bringing up my flight. If not the good sense to thank him for it.
But he was the detective, I was the constable. I may have counted him as a sort of friend, but I could only argue with him so far. Worse yet, I couldn’t come up with any alternatives. So he waited for Toynbee to re-emerge, finished his questioning, gave her his information and told her to ask for him should she remember or need anything else.
And then we left. I think I smelled something acidic when we were still in the yard, but that could be my memory playing tricks on me.
~
The watch house was in a tizzy and the captain was in her cups when we returned. Flask, rather.
Captain Charla Loper, famed in story and song. I’ll try not to let her future actions sour my depiction of her too much, but I think this was my impression of her at the time: she was a charming soul, fun to drink with, wonderful boss and utterly unsuited for her job. Everyone knew that in her youth, she set out to be a lawyer like her wealthy parents wanted – she fell into the captaincy position because militia work was the Thing To Do with that set, but no one else wanted the top spot. And when Lark ordered us here, so she came too.
“That bastard Harkley’s in town,” she said. Before I could feign astonishment, she added, “Spoke at a union meeting, gave us the slip after we got word. Oh, and your husband’s been arrested.”
Horace prodded me in the back with his finger, reminding me to stop hanging my mouth open like an idiot. “What for?” I asked. Demanded. Squeaked.
“Disturbing the peace, that sort of thing. Go talk with him yourself.” Another constable, sweating and puffing, burst into the watch house stole away Loper’s attentions.
To the jail I went. Horace could protect himself for the rest of the day.
~
Frederick was crammed in the cell with six other men – violent revolutionaries, every one. He seemed mostly intact, except for the knee, where the fabric of his trousers ripped revealing a dirty and bloody mess. I whistled. We met at the bars, hands touching, faces warmed with each others’ breath. “Now tell me,” I asked, my voice a whisper. “What’s the worst that you did today?”
“I punched Constable Erdric in the nose. I think we had her over for dinner once.”
“And the knee?”
“An unfortunate run-in with the street.”
“You need it cleaned.”
“I know.”
A gap in our conversation, filled with quiet, non-incriminating background chatter.
He spoke, smoothing my fingers with his own. “You’re going to get me out of here, aren’t you?”
My first impulse was to refuse him. I didn’t voice this, but he was a smart man and probably knew it already. I had a duty to both my job, the city and the prime minister. That meant something to me in those days. Tossing them away so blithely felt akin to setting myself on fire after cladding myself in oily rags.
But... we were married. He followed me right into this damnable city, even after a flurry of letters and telegrams telling me how much he detested the idea. If my colleagues did their job – and I had no reason to believe that they wouldn’t, not in a great big blow-up such as this with at least two cities breathing down their necks and the reporters circling – they’d find out that his connection with Harkley went just a bit deeper than him being an enthusiastic audience member. Mine too, come to think of it.
I dipped my chin to my chest, following it up with a proper nod. “You’re bloody right, I am. I’m going to regret this and afterwards, you’re going to cook me a nice dinner and fetch me a pint and a pipe. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
The officer on duty was Floria Appleby. We were friends since the Gullenburgh days, she and I, and it was out of deference to that that she kept well back while I chitchatted with Frederick. I marched up to her with intent. “Floria,” said I. “You’ve got a choice here.”
Eyebrow raised, she asked, “And what’s that, then? If you want a conjugal visit...”
Well. Honestly, violence was the first plan, but why not take a better one when it presents itself? My muscles relaxed, relieved over not having to punch anyone myself today. “I really don’t know how long he’s going to be in here, do I?” Very annoying, isn’t it? Just over a silly, stupid assembly! Yes, I know he technically resisted arrest, but do you see how Erdric acts when she’s making an arrest? I know, shame! He’ll probably get off anyway, so where’s the harm? No point in making your life miserable too. And so on. The details of the conversation aren’t important in the slightest.
“No promises – don’t want the sarge catching wind of this, you understand – but I’ll see what I can do.” Floria winked, in a way she probably thought was suggestive. “Come talk to me tomorrow, why don’t you?” I tell you, being a loyal and trusted member of the Princess Aggies had its perks. Too bad I was rushing behind the metaphorical bushes to piss it away.
But there was little else to do at the jail, save calling Frederick a poor little bunny and patting him on his dear head, so I left.
Now to go find that bastard Harkley.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Underground: A 3-Day Novel
Friends may recall that last September, I participated in the 3-Day Novel competition. I did finish it, but on the fourth day - I fell asleep while writing on the third.
And here it is.
Unedited, uncut. Let the buyer beware.
PS: Please note that if you're like me, Google will not generate an in-browser copy for you. You'll have to click the 'Download' link in the top left corner.
And here it is.
Unedited, uncut. Let the buyer beware.
PS: Please note that if you're like me, Google will not generate an in-browser copy for you. You'll have to click the 'Download' link in the top left corner.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
A Brief History of Metal
This is a short story I wrote several months ago. I'm posting it now because I still haven't finished that thrice-damned chapter and I feel guilty about not updating this blog in a week. I am very sorry. This is very silly.
~
What I’m about to tell you is a true fucking story, all right? Give me a beer. And some nachos.
So yeah, once upon a time – what the hell is wrong with starting a story like that? It’s fucking traditional, that’s what it is. Anyway, once upon a time, this world was a boring ass place. The people, I don’t know, they tucked their buttoned-up plaid shirts into their pants and weren’t trying to be ironic. They listened to Backstreet Boys and shit like that and went to, like, Mormon school or something. Fucked up, right? I know.
~
So the gods were total fucking douches. They had the awesome power of Metal in their hands, but they didn’t let any of the mortals have it, which is totally un-Metal. And there was this Prometheus dude. He was one of them, right, but he wasn’t a total fucking douche. ‘Cuz he liked us, you see? Thought we had potential or some shit like that.
Anyway, Prometheus wanted to swipe the power of Metal for us, but he couldn’t, ‘cuz the other gods were already on his case for nicking the holy motherfucking power of Fire for us back in the day when we were still scratching our nutsacks with sabretooth claws. (Although that’s pretty Metal too, if you think about it.) So he had to find some other dude to do it for him.
What the shit? You got me Budweiser? This piss isn’t fit for pig’s puke. Try again, you fucker, or I’ll tell you a story about how I kicked your ass in, like, five minutes from now. Better.
So Prometheus had to find a dude and because he was all wise and shit, he knew he had to find just the right dude. He flew down the mountain on a badass lightning bolt chariot – yeah, gods, lived on a mountain, everybody fucking knows that – and went to this town of humans. It was, like, on top of a glacier and it was all fenced off because of these hardcore giant warthogs that ate skulls.
There was this hunter dude, right, who hunted the warthogs because they kept trying to eat his sisters. One day, he was doing his hunting shit and he totally stabbed one through the heart with a fucking spear. And Prometheus, he was watching this, right? Sitting back, having a beer. And when this dude was cleaning the blood off his spear, Prometheus was all like, “Hey. That was pretty fucking awesome.”
Even though this dude was pretty badass in a time before Metal, he didn’t know what the fuck Prometheus was talking about. He was all like, “Dude. The warthog was going to eat my sisters. That’s not awesome.”
But Prometheus expected this kind of bullshit, so he didn’t throw lightning bolts at him or anything. Yeah, I fucking know it was Zeus who was the god of lightning, right? It’s called creative license, you pisshead. But yeah, no toasting the mortal. Instead, he told him, “Look, if I told you about a totally epic quest that you could go on without your sisters being eaten, would you go on it? I can’t do it myself. Hands tied.”
And the dude, he was all like, “What’s the nature of this quest?” Or some other crap. Prometheus told him and he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Because if you don’t have Metal, you haven’t heard of it. So he wanted to know what was in it for him and Prometheus said, “Your sisters won’t get attacked up douchebag warthogs anymore and every lady in the village will fucking absolutely want to hang out with you.”
The dude knew that was awesome, even without Metal, so he agreed. What? You want to know his name? Right, it’s Bob. What’s your goddamned problem with Bob? Bob’s a hero’s name.
Prometheus let Bob say bye to his sisters ‘cuz the other gods might want to tear his guts out and stew them up in some sick sort of soup if they caught him. He flew him over right to the base of the mountain after that and told him he might have to kill shit on the way, but if he killed that warthog, he’d be able to handle those fuckheads. So Bob started climbing with his spear and it wasn’t long before he had to start stabbing things.
First, there was, like, one of those basilisk things. He stabbed that motherfucker and kept climbing.
Then there was the dragon. And the wyvern. And he had to slaughter them too. I am not mixing my mythologies. You shut your fucking face, you ugly son of a bastard.
And there was a gorgon, and a minotaur, and, I don’t know, a vampire. But his spear was just too fucking awesome and they’re killed too.
Finally, there was the unicorn. Now, what you got to know about unicorns is that they’re not the shit you see on My Little Pony, right? They, like, speared dudes with their horns and drained their blood. Like vampires. Mean sons of bitches and they fucking hate dudes who aren’t virgins. And Bob? You’re a fucking idiot if you think he was a virgin. So the unicorn saw him and its eyes just totally went all red and it freaked out at him and charged at him.
Bob was getting pretty bushed by then and the unicorn got the drop on him. Speared him through the chest! But it didn’t get his heart and Bob was fucking pissed off about being speared, so he headbutted the motherfucker on the neck. ‘Cuz it was all angled because of the spearing, right? What, do you want a fucking diagram?
So the unicorn was like, woah, what the fuck is up with this dude, he’s fighting back. And he got all freaked out in another way and pulled out. And you know, the thing about the power of Metal is that it leaks. It’s like fucking radiation, dude. And Bob was really fucking close to the Metal so he was getting infected with it like Godzilla with holy mother of shit atomic energy.
So Bob said, “That’s what you did with your mom. Last night.” He tore that horn off with his goddamned bare hands and stabbed the unicorn with it. Its own horn. Like, a lot. Until it was dead. Then Bob tied it around his neck like a war prize, ‘cuz it was.
But the gods finally woke up after one hell of a party and Zeus was like, “What the shit? Some fucker’s been killing all my watchcreatures.” The other gods were totally wasted and couldn’t give two shits, but Zeus was pissed all to hell and went Bob-hunting.
Sucks to be Zeus, though, ‘cuz Bob had already laid his hands on the power of Metal in form of the electric guitar. He was all levitating and shit and making thunder crash and his hands were fucking flying over the strings. And Zeus was like, “Aw shit.”
So Bob punched Zeus in the face and flew off and there wasn’t a goddamned thing Zeus could do about it. For what are gods against the power of Metal? Oh, and Bob told him not to fuck with his shit or fuck around with humanity from now on, or he’d totally come back to the mountain and turn it into the biggest motherfucking pile of rubble ever.
Zeus sat there pissing his pants like a baby for a lot of time after that, because Bob was just too awesome, but after awhile, he was like, hey! “That asshat Prometheus is behind this! I am totally going to tie him back up to that rock and get that eagle to peck out his liver again. Only the eagle will be, like, a zombie, ‘cuz Hercules killed him before.”
So he found Prometheus and Prometheus was having none of that shit, right? ‘Cuz as far as he knew, Bob was counting him in the list of shit Zeus wasn’t to fuck with. And Zeus was too much of a fucking pussy to push it.
Meanwhile, Bob totally made the world completely fucking awesome and zapped all the Mormon schools into rocks with his Metal-thunder powers and fried all the warthogs. Then he found some other dudes and made them his acolytes. Got ‘em a drum set, a bass, another guitar, a violin – what the fuck’s wrong with a violin, don’t make me punch you – and taught ‘em how to play them and formed this epically legendary band with them. They went on tour and everyone learned about how awesome Metal was and his sisters got to be, like, sound engineers or some shit ‘cuz they didn’t have to worry about being eaten by warthogs anymore. They made the world awesome, but one day they just keeled over and died. Like... that! Right in the middle of a fucking concert! There were motherfucking riots!
But yeah, it was okay, ‘cuz the power of Metal had spread and there were these dudes who started their own bands and went touring. Like the circle of life off of fucking Lion King. Yeah, that movie was pretty awesome.
I think they’re buried in some island tomb somewhere now? You know, like fucking King Arthur? So like Arthur, they had to become maggot food, but it’s okay, ‘cuz that’s Metal and anyway, they’re totally supposed to rise again someday to save the world in its time of greatest lameness.
And that’s the story of metal. Now get me another beer. And where are those goddamned, motherfucking, pissant nachos? Son of a bitch, I’m hungry.
~
What I’m about to tell you is a true fucking story, all right? Give me a beer. And some nachos.
So yeah, once upon a time – what the hell is wrong with starting a story like that? It’s fucking traditional, that’s what it is. Anyway, once upon a time, this world was a boring ass place. The people, I don’t know, they tucked their buttoned-up plaid shirts into their pants and weren’t trying to be ironic. They listened to Backstreet Boys and shit like that and went to, like, Mormon school or something. Fucked up, right? I know.
~
So the gods were total fucking douches. They had the awesome power of Metal in their hands, but they didn’t let any of the mortals have it, which is totally un-Metal. And there was this Prometheus dude. He was one of them, right, but he wasn’t a total fucking douche. ‘Cuz he liked us, you see? Thought we had potential or some shit like that.
Anyway, Prometheus wanted to swipe the power of Metal for us, but he couldn’t, ‘cuz the other gods were already on his case for nicking the holy motherfucking power of Fire for us back in the day when we were still scratching our nutsacks with sabretooth claws. (Although that’s pretty Metal too, if you think about it.) So he had to find some other dude to do it for him.
What the shit? You got me Budweiser? This piss isn’t fit for pig’s puke. Try again, you fucker, or I’ll tell you a story about how I kicked your ass in, like, five minutes from now. Better.
So Prometheus had to find a dude and because he was all wise and shit, he knew he had to find just the right dude. He flew down the mountain on a badass lightning bolt chariot – yeah, gods, lived on a mountain, everybody fucking knows that – and went to this town of humans. It was, like, on top of a glacier and it was all fenced off because of these hardcore giant warthogs that ate skulls.
There was this hunter dude, right, who hunted the warthogs because they kept trying to eat his sisters. One day, he was doing his hunting shit and he totally stabbed one through the heart with a fucking spear. And Prometheus, he was watching this, right? Sitting back, having a beer. And when this dude was cleaning the blood off his spear, Prometheus was all like, “Hey. That was pretty fucking awesome.”
Even though this dude was pretty badass in a time before Metal, he didn’t know what the fuck Prometheus was talking about. He was all like, “Dude. The warthog was going to eat my sisters. That’s not awesome.”
But Prometheus expected this kind of bullshit, so he didn’t throw lightning bolts at him or anything. Yeah, I fucking know it was Zeus who was the god of lightning, right? It’s called creative license, you pisshead. But yeah, no toasting the mortal. Instead, he told him, “Look, if I told you about a totally epic quest that you could go on without your sisters being eaten, would you go on it? I can’t do it myself. Hands tied.”
And the dude, he was all like, “What’s the nature of this quest?” Or some other crap. Prometheus told him and he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Because if you don’t have Metal, you haven’t heard of it. So he wanted to know what was in it for him and Prometheus said, “Your sisters won’t get attacked up douchebag warthogs anymore and every lady in the village will fucking absolutely want to hang out with you.”
The dude knew that was awesome, even without Metal, so he agreed. What? You want to know his name? Right, it’s Bob. What’s your goddamned problem with Bob? Bob’s a hero’s name.
Prometheus let Bob say bye to his sisters ‘cuz the other gods might want to tear his guts out and stew them up in some sick sort of soup if they caught him. He flew him over right to the base of the mountain after that and told him he might have to kill shit on the way, but if he killed that warthog, he’d be able to handle those fuckheads. So Bob started climbing with his spear and it wasn’t long before he had to start stabbing things.
First, there was, like, one of those basilisk things. He stabbed that motherfucker and kept climbing.
Then there was the dragon. And the wyvern. And he had to slaughter them too. I am not mixing my mythologies. You shut your fucking face, you ugly son of a bastard.
And there was a gorgon, and a minotaur, and, I don’t know, a vampire. But his spear was just too fucking awesome and they’re killed too.
Finally, there was the unicorn. Now, what you got to know about unicorns is that they’re not the shit you see on My Little Pony, right? They, like, speared dudes with their horns and drained their blood. Like vampires. Mean sons of bitches and they fucking hate dudes who aren’t virgins. And Bob? You’re a fucking idiot if you think he was a virgin. So the unicorn saw him and its eyes just totally went all red and it freaked out at him and charged at him.
Bob was getting pretty bushed by then and the unicorn got the drop on him. Speared him through the chest! But it didn’t get his heart and Bob was fucking pissed off about being speared, so he headbutted the motherfucker on the neck. ‘Cuz it was all angled because of the spearing, right? What, do you want a fucking diagram?
So the unicorn was like, woah, what the fuck is up with this dude, he’s fighting back. And he got all freaked out in another way and pulled out. And you know, the thing about the power of Metal is that it leaks. It’s like fucking radiation, dude. And Bob was really fucking close to the Metal so he was getting infected with it like Godzilla with holy mother of shit atomic energy.
So Bob said, “That’s what you did with your mom. Last night.” He tore that horn off with his goddamned bare hands and stabbed the unicorn with it. Its own horn. Like, a lot. Until it was dead. Then Bob tied it around his neck like a war prize, ‘cuz it was.
But the gods finally woke up after one hell of a party and Zeus was like, “What the shit? Some fucker’s been killing all my watchcreatures.” The other gods were totally wasted and couldn’t give two shits, but Zeus was pissed all to hell and went Bob-hunting.
Sucks to be Zeus, though, ‘cuz Bob had already laid his hands on the power of Metal in form of the electric guitar. He was all levitating and shit and making thunder crash and his hands were fucking flying over the strings. And Zeus was like, “Aw shit.”
So Bob punched Zeus in the face and flew off and there wasn’t a goddamned thing Zeus could do about it. For what are gods against the power of Metal? Oh, and Bob told him not to fuck with his shit or fuck around with humanity from now on, or he’d totally come back to the mountain and turn it into the biggest motherfucking pile of rubble ever.
Zeus sat there pissing his pants like a baby for a lot of time after that, because Bob was just too awesome, but after awhile, he was like, hey! “That asshat Prometheus is behind this! I am totally going to tie him back up to that rock and get that eagle to peck out his liver again. Only the eagle will be, like, a zombie, ‘cuz Hercules killed him before.”
So he found Prometheus and Prometheus was having none of that shit, right? ‘Cuz as far as he knew, Bob was counting him in the list of shit Zeus wasn’t to fuck with. And Zeus was too much of a fucking pussy to push it.
Meanwhile, Bob totally made the world completely fucking awesome and zapped all the Mormon schools into rocks with his Metal-thunder powers and fried all the warthogs. Then he found some other dudes and made them his acolytes. Got ‘em a drum set, a bass, another guitar, a violin – what the fuck’s wrong with a violin, don’t make me punch you – and taught ‘em how to play them and formed this epically legendary band with them. They went on tour and everyone learned about how awesome Metal was and his sisters got to be, like, sound engineers or some shit ‘cuz they didn’t have to worry about being eaten by warthogs anymore. They made the world awesome, but one day they just keeled over and died. Like... that! Right in the middle of a fucking concert! There were motherfucking riots!
But yeah, it was okay, ‘cuz the power of Metal had spread and there were these dudes who started their own bands and went touring. Like the circle of life off of fucking Lion King. Yeah, that movie was pretty awesome.
I think they’re buried in some island tomb somewhere now? You know, like fucking King Arthur? So like Arthur, they had to become maggot food, but it’s okay, ‘cuz that’s Metal and anyway, they’re totally supposed to rise again someday to save the world in its time of greatest lameness.
And that’s the story of metal. Now get me another beer. And where are those goddamned, motherfucking, pissant nachos? Son of a bitch, I’m hungry.
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