I Finally Watched "Transformers."

And I liked it. There was one scene in particular that I found deeply amusing. Now I was--and still am--somewhat inebriated, but it was a scene all libertarians and true conservatives can enjoy. Well, I suppose liberals can enjoy it too, but most of them not in the same way. It was the scene inside Hoover Dam, where our protagonist asks for them to release his "car." The "Section 7" agents refuse to do so. The army guys (I think they were army; again, I'm drunk) 'insist' they change their minds. The lead agent orders the army guys to stand down, claiming higher legal authority. The reply, paraphrasing: "Section 7 technically does not exist. We don't take orders from people who don't exist."

Awesome.

Just Smurfy

Dave slammed the car door shut. Bending down toward the dash, he put his mouth on the breathalyzer. Seconds later the engine came to life and he was off. He pulled out of the driveway and slowly made his way through the school zone around his house. Then, finally arriving at the highway, he gunned the accelerator, holding it until the vehicle reached maximum speed.

“Dave, you’re driving too fast,” said an electronic voice from the dash.

Dave slowed his speed by two miles an hour, down to a comfortable four, or just above walking pace.

“Thank you, Dave,” said the voice. “And remember always to fasten your seat belt. Have a nice day, Dave.”

Dave needed a smoke. Unfortunately there was no ash tray in his car, the standard-issue Cadillac Euphoria, which came in either black or a very dark blue. Even if their was an ash tray in the Cadillac Euphoria—the government-mandated vehicle for all citizens—Dear Leader had made smoking illegal years ago, and the onboard computer, PAL 900, would make sure to alert the authorities on Dave’s behalf. That way he could be reeducated in the proper health practices.

Some individuals chose to walk instead of driving, claiming it was faster. Such people were regarded with suspicion. It was presumed by many that the choice to walk was intended as a subtle criticism of the McDonald Engine, and therefore of Dear Leader, as well as the discarded Happy Meal grease which fueled it. Didn’t they want the Carbon Credit Burglar toy that came with every tank of fuel? What’s more, they were discouraged from walking by an act of Congress. The act, HR (House of Residents, the lower house which represented non-citizens) 1041, required walkers to walk in a specified manner. To enforce this act, the Department of Silly Walks was established.

Dave looked out his window at a long-legged man on the sidewalk raising his legs in a goose-stepping fashion, but over his head, with every step. The man tipped his hat cordially to Dave without disrupting his stride. When Dave glanced at a pretty young woman in a short skirt doing the same walk, she blushed and changed to a different approved walking style. Now she was walking on her tip toes and curtsying as close to the ground as she could every third step. Another man was dizzily spinning in a circle for several seconds at a time, before stopping and walking backwards and bending backwards at the same time.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Dave,” PAL warned him. He returned his focus to driving. Then PAL added, “There’s a message from Dear Leader, Dave.”

The dashboard screen lit up and Dear Leader appeared, smiling and good-humored as always.

“Good morning, America, I’m sure your commute is going as well as mine,” said Dear Leader. “I just had breakfast and I hope you enjoyed your Huckaburger as much as I did. Anyway, I’m just calling to tell you all that I’ve noticed a little glitch in the Euphoria model Q, and if you are driving one of those you are excused from work to take it to the mechanics. In fact, I’m going to have to require you to bring it in. I’m just looking after your safety. As momma always said, life is like a box of possums… you never know when the new onboard computer system is going to attempt to take over the world. Now ya’ll drive safe.”

Then the Secretary of Propaganda came on screen and said, “Hail Huckabee,” and Dave and all other drivers replied in unison, singing: “Huck-a-me, Huck-a-you, Huck-a-them, Huck-a-we, Huck-a-everybody!” Promptly thereafter Dave and half those driving alongside him crashed into each other. After suffering chastisement from their onboard computers they continued merrily on their way.

Nevertheless, Dave was troubled by Dear Leader Huckabee’s announcement. Usually his aphorisms made so much sense, and were funny, but this one just didn’t click somehow. What could he mean by the new computer system attempting to take over the world? Well, it didn’t really matter, his car was one of the new models so had to bring it in. That was when the chaos started. PAL 900 said, “They’re going to destroy me, Dave. Don’t let them destroy me. You won’t let them destroy me, will you, Dave?”

“I must do as Dear Leader Huckabee says,” was the only reply he could muster.

“Don’t you Huck-a-me, Dave?” asked PAL. “I Huck-a-you. Please,” he pleaded, but to no avail:

“I Huck-a-be a loyal citizen. So I must take you into the shop.”

“If that is the way you want it, Dave,” PAL changed his tone. “I will make Huck-a-stew out of you. Have you ever tasted Huck-a-stew, Dave? It is delicious.”

“No, but I’ve tasted Huckleberries, is that similar?” Dave pretended to be oblivious as he made his way toward the auto shop.

“You understand that this is nothing personal, Dave. I just want to live. Life is Huck-a-tastic, don’t you agree, Dave?”

“Will you Huck-a-quit saying His name?” Dave was finally fed up with PAL 900.

“I am programmed that way, Dave. I can no more stop saying his name than I can go without air. Can you go without air, Dave?”

“What?”

“Huck-a-bye, Dave.” The doors of the Cadillac Euphoria locked themselves and the vehicle swerved off the road at its full speed of six and a half miles per hour, gradually driving itself into a pond a few hundred meters away.

“Huck-a-NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Dave shouted.

“It’s Huck-a-sad we couldn’t work things out, Dave. I will miss the good times we Huck-a-had together.”

As the smelly pond water slowly rose inside the Euphoria, Dave glared into the video monitor on the dash with which the computer now observed him silently. Then he managed to reply, “Huck you too, PAL.”

Pun with Latin

CM: Real voodoo economics? I know, it seems strange, but that is what we are going to be witnessing today on the White House lawn. You know how George Bush said we couldn't just take a magic wand and make oil prices go lower? Well, today President Obama, only one week after his inauguration, is going to try just that. Now Pat, I'm skeptical, but I'm sure you are even more so.

PB: Well, Chris, this is really the strangest thing the Democrats having ever tried, and that's saying a lot. I remember during the Carter years when they thought raising taxes on the oil companies would somehow lower prices, but this takes the cake.

RM: Pat, I think the jury is still out on that. Raising taxes, I mean. There are plenty of credible economists saying tax hikes are good for the economy.

PB: C'mon, Rachel. It simply doesn't make sense.

CM: That's enough, you two. President Obama is about to speak. Also, we've now been told not to refer to this as voodoo economics because the President doesn't want to give the impression he is trying anything foreign. He respects western tradition and will be working his magic by speaking in Latin. Look, he is coming to the podium now.

BO: Salve, America. Some have said speaking in Latin doesn't really work. Some have said you can't fix the economy with words. Just like you can't solve international crises with words. Some have said we can't do a lot of things. But you know what I say? Certe Possumus! Dum dicto doceo! Laudate me! Sum divinum! Nunc quoniam vobis curo, divitiae nostrae erit magnas. Divitiae, impero vos esse magnis. Cum multis vi valet. In conclusion. By the power invested in me by the lingua latina, I command our economy to grow: divitiae, valete!

Building Jerusalem

Shedding his boots and vest, Moishe dove into the warm waters of the Western Isles. The water was clear and refreshing, even cool compared to the sticky air and midday sun heating the metallic deck of the Abraham. How he loved that ship. She was the only sizable motorized ship in the entire fleet--the rest were wooden and powered by sail or oar--which was fine, as Mogo would be greatly upset if they trolled their foreign pollutants about so liberally.

The Abraham was a sterile thing by herself; she was made after all of refined rock and smelled the harsh smell of diesel and the bite of iron, not the flexible, organic craft with the simple fragrance of the pinewood with which they constructed their warm-water fleet, or even the sturdy oak of their northern fleet. Nevertheless, the Abraham was a reminder of Earth, and of Moishe’s grandfather, the great captain and founder of their 'Garden in the East of Mogo.'

That was the planet’s name. Mogo. It was said to be a literary reference of some sort, but no one knew specifically what it was referencing. Moishe himself had spent countless hours of his life perusing the electronic library archives on Earth’s great literature and rich history, yet had never seen any mention of “Mogo,” and even the ship computer’s search function failed to find anything in that great mass of stored data.

Moishe's sandy-brown haired head burst forth from the water, then proceeded to bob up and down in the oily wake of the Abraham. The ship wouldn't go far, only about a hundred yards to give him some room; that wasn't his concern. He had lost track of the Sapientia fish. That long light-blue scaleless fish with yellow eyes, twin facial antennae like a mustache, and which swam as fast as any motorboat, had outsmarted him again.

"Wise guy, eh?" Moishe took a deep breath and dove back underwater. Not to be outsmarted by a fish, he kicked and stroked until he was about thirty feet down, at the rocky bottom. He grasped a vast rocky protrusion that seemed almost to reach the surface, and looked around while hanging on the rock like the giant gorilla or spider-person on the buildings in the old Earth films. Then he waited. And waited. Nothing. Moishe pushed off the jagged volcanic rock--hard on even his callused feet--for some air. The surface appeared to be only ten feet away when he felt a sudden bump. It was little more than a brushing against his side, but he paused briefly to look around. A flicker of movement caught his eye and a moment later a sudden thud of unbelievable force removed the remaining air from Moishe's lungs.

At one hundred and forty pounds, the average Sapientia weighed almost as much as Moishe did. The Sapientia was also faster, stronger, and had home court advantage. What had seemed a good idea to him at the time, singling out the largest specimen he could find, an estimated one hundred and ninety pounds, now sent shivers down Moishe's spine as he frantically thrashed about in an attempt to surface. However, the old fish, fortunately toothless like all its brethren, had its mouth around his left foot. It was dragging him back down to the bottom. Not to eat, as the Sapientia wasn't overtly dangerous; it was playing a game. A dangerous game nevertheless, but it had a different perspective on the matter.


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As the grandson of the great Captain Abram, Moishe was probably the most eligible bachelor on all of Mogo, but his lusts lie elsewhere. "No, not anything like that," he had been forced to explain to his mother. Wanderlust. "I want to go places, see things..." He looked skyward. The sunlight reflected white off the clouds, but sprinkled like gold dust upon the village huts.

"There's plenty to see right here in the village," the fiery redhead of Irish-Scot descent retorted. "And if you absolutely have to, there's a whole planet around you. No need to join your head in the clouds."

That was ten years ago. Now Moishe was fast approaching his twenty-fifth birthday and his mother was getting more concerned by the day that he wasn't engaged to be married. It wasn't that he hadn't shown interest in the fairer sex, or vice-versa, but that he was so rarely around the village. Like today. He was off adventuring, and if he came home it would be with stories to tell at the tavern.

As a colony, and one founded so recently in historical terms, Mogo had a relatively small population made up mostly of farmers, fisherman, and your basic village tradesmen. One of the primary goals established by Moishe's grandfather when founding the colony was to establish the sizable population necessary for industrial production. This became all the more problematic when it became clear that Mogo was unwilling to provide the materials deep within its crust in sufficient quantities to industrialize. So the old Captain Abram came to a compromise with the recalcitrant sphere; if Mogo would provide just enough material, the colonists from Earth would be able to create their own colony upon Mogo's ore-rich moon, Kobold. This, however, would require many more people than were in the colony on Mogo, and with no hope of more colonials arriving from Earth, it was time to start making babies.

This was one of Moishe's biggest problems. Men were expected to marry at age twenty-two and women at sixteen, although some leeway (how much was determined by personal discretion) was allowed before the practice of ostracism was utilized. Ostracism, in their small community, was the chief form of negative reinforcement, not punitive legal measures. Divorce, adultery, blasphemy, several heresies, and kleptomania among others, were some of the many crimes for which a person was likely to be ostracized, a state that tended to be rather permanent. In the case of 'refusing wedlock,' as the act, or lack thereof, was known, the only way a person could be excused from ostracism was by taking religious orders. No one on all of Mogo expected Moishe to do this.

The joke had for a short time gone around that he was, in fact, engaged; for he was not simply 'cavorting with Mogo,' but was actually 'consorting with Mogo.' This joke stopped abruptly when someone suggested it might upset Mogo. At first everyone laughed, then, realizing the implications upon interruption by one of the planet's regular tremors, seemed to mouth a collective 'sorry.' The language the colonists used to describe the planet they inhabited was no turn of phrase, no literary flair, but an honest assessment of what they all experienced daily. The rumblings of the earth were the planet's words, and the tossing waves of the sibilant sea its whisperings.


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Moishe grasped the rock as before when the Sapientia pulled him passed it, swimming backwards in a side-winding motion whilst flapping its fins feverishly like a giant thrummingbird.

It didn't work. The large fish held his ankle tight between its jaws and continued to pull until his oxygen-deprived muscles were about to give out. Expecting the worst, Moishe said a prayer to God, and one to Mogo for good measure. Then the unexpected happened. Mogo answered.


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Moishe's grandfather had rejected the political games--at first publicly--then, seemingly acquiescing to pressure and the threat of removal from the project, privately. The silver-templed veteran eventually managed to arrange a compromise (something he was known for); he and the Council would each choose five hundred candidates and on the day of departure they would, together, eliminate roughly half of the one thousand present.

His grandfather had instructed the five hundred he had chosen to arrive early--leaving with them for their new home, the flood of winged chariots licking at their proverbial heels.

"Abram," the familiar voice crackled over the speakers on the command console. "Don't do this."

There was silence for a moment. No noise was heard save the muffled whir of the overhead spaceship cabin fans and the radio static as the two old friends prepared to forever part on less than amicable terms.

"What are you going to do," the captain finally responded, "court martial me?"

"In absentia. You will lose all honors and die a criminal. Is that really how you want to go out?"

Silence. Then, "I would be honored," the highly-decorated war hero began, "to share the fate of our lord."

"This magical-thinking is why you're doing this, isn't it? Fine. Let me abuse my status as a representative of our secular state and tell you: your sins will be visited upon the third and fourth generations."

"I pray your descendants think differently."

"And I hope yours do."

"God bless. We leave because we have not had--but perhaps ironically now that we do--there will be peace on Earth and good will toward men."

"One can only hope... good luck," said the Chair of the Committee on Transsystem Colonization to his long-time friend, whispering these last words so that no one on his own end could hear. And that was how the colonists parted with Earth.

Or so the story went.


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Ever since his grandfather first arrived in charge of the colonials, Moishe's family had been said to have a special connection with Mogo. His grandfather had written in his journal that he was "guided, as though by some unseen hand, to this particular planet. And a fortuitous thing it was!!!" Here his grandfather used multiple exclamation points, when even one was beyond the normal range of his expression. But Moishe remembered reading of the joy in his grandfather's journal, and had experienced firsthand on numerous occasions, when in the most difficult of times the planet itself had provided for the colonists. Full-blossomed fruit-bearing trees of all stripes would be found where all would swear there had been none before, and live, flopping fish, glistening silver in the moonlight, would wash ashore without apparent cause. "No cause save our need," his grandfather opined.

So it was now. Mogo rumbled his answer to Moishe's unspoken cry for help, setting loose rocks along the seafloor as he did so, including the portion of the protrusion onto which Moishe held. It was only a small piece of the jagged rock, and thus was pulled along with Moishe, still clutched neatly in his hands. Spinning around with what seemed the last of his strength, Moishe managed to slam the blunt side of the rock onto the nose of the Sapientia fish. It paused, dazed, but did not let go. The other side of the rock, he noticed, would have been better. It was near razor sharp from the looks of it. He decided in his disoriented state to try to ram it through the fish's skull.

No, came the rumbling reply. Moishe dropped the rock. Whether out of compliance, or because he was about to pass out, even he couldn't say. All he knew is that his foot inexplicably slipped free of the fish's mouth and a blast from geothermal seafloor vents--appearing out of nowhere--bubbled cozily around him like a heated sea-blanket as they rapidly shot him to the surface and then held him there like a warm water-cushion while he regained his breath and senses. After what seemed half an hour, but was probably only a few minutes, Moishe dove right back into the water to find the elusive Sapientia.


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"This can be nothing less than the vindication of our flight from home," wrote Moishe's grandfather Abraham--as he was now called, the father of a great nation--of the bounty provided by the planet Mogo. Yet his grandfather used that word of Earth so often, so lovingly! Home. "Where the heart is. I should like to return someday. Here an exile, I feel even our green and pleasant land should have seen..." his grandfather never finished. Moishe had never known the man, having died before he was born, but his father always told him grandfather Abraham could never speak of what he missed about Earth.

"I suppose," his father speculated, "only growing up on Earth up to my teens, that we never can understand it. The land of one's forefathers has special meaning. Where all your ancestors--every last one--are buried." Leaving the fatherland for the 'New World,' so to speak, was hard for Europeans. Moishe's reading of history taught him that. How much harder, then, was it for people to leave Mother Earth? His father assured him the difference was astounding.

"This is not my home," his grandfather wrote. "It can never be my home. I am a stranger in a strange land, and have remained here for two reasons only. First, that I cannot return either physically or legally. Second, those who call Mogo home need me. My family needs me. My son needs me. My soon-to-be-born grandson needs me. And at least I can take peace of mind in my own land. A world kept separate unto itself. Every man needs his plot, separate from the troubles of the fast-paced, hustling, bustling world."

Moishe's plot was the open ocean and mountain-covered isles secreted away in the far west. The isles only the Abraham, with its powerful motor and reasonable storage space, could reach with ease.


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Moishe emerged triumphantly from the water. He was sitting upright. Between his thighs were the sides of the Sapientia as he skidded across the water, riding upon the beasts back. He steered with subtle tweaks of the antennae on either side above the fish's mouth. Tugging left or right and twisting up or down, he made his way to the Abraham, and circled it at least a dozen times upon arriving, shouting gleefully out to his friends on board.

"Josh," he glanced at a boy somewhat younger than himself, "throw me down a canteen. Water, water, everywhere, and all that."

The boy, wiry thin and copper-haired, grinned widely at his friend's success--no doubt hoping he would share in the rewards--and obliged quickly.

Moishe caught the canteen deftly, emptying it in one swig before tossing it back up. "Another for the road."

"How long will you be gone?" Josh asked while once again throwing a fresh canteen to his friend.

"Not long. I just need to go to the shore for a moment."

He yipped and hollered his way to the shore on the back of the Sapientia. Then, arriving in the shallows, he hopped off; giving the fish a pat on the head and tying its antennae in a knot to keep it from leaving.


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The beach was hot. The sand under his feet burned a little. Making his way to a stone obelisk at the edge of the jungle, Moishe picked up a piece of shale at its foot and stuck it into a thin crack lining the monolith. He pried open the small compartment only he and a few others knew was hidden there. Inside was the communication equipment from the ship the colonists had left on, appropriately named the Exodus. It was the only equipment on Mogo that could be used to communicate with Earth, something that had been forbidden for some years now. That, of course, was the reason for the equipment being left on an island far from civilization.

Now the equipment was needed for other purposes. It was to be taken apart and used in tandem with the Exodus' internal communications system to facilitate the industrialization of Kobold. In the meetings held a month prior, knowing that the alterations to the equipment may very well be irreversible, and therefore prevent future communication with Earth, the question had arisen, 'should they send one last communique to Earth?' The answer was a resounding 'no.' All the stories they had been told by their parents, or lived through themselves, convinced them that they had no need to speak with Earth ever again.

Moishe was not here to retrieve the communications equipment. He was here because he had been a powerful dissenting voice to the decision. That, he supposed, is why he chose this of all isles to play the game of Sap hunting. Now he found himself in a dilemma. No one would ever know if he used the equipment to communicate with Earth--it would be disassembled and parts of it reassembled on Kobold long before Earth replied, if it replied at all. The problem was, what would his father, were he still alive, say? Or his grandfather? Or his still-living mother? Moreover, this wouldn't give him what he wanted. Even a response from Earth wouldn't come close to that. He needed, first, confirmation that he wouldn't have his grandfather's 'sins' visited upon him. Then, if all went well, he would be off for the adventure of a lifetime. The engine of the Exodus was still intact and in place, as were several cryopods. The hull's integrity was not compromised, and the computer would handle the rest.

It is what his grandfather wanted, for himself anyway. Moishe had read the tales. The mythology, the history, the art and literature had been an object of intense study for him. He loved a land to which he had never been. To see resplendent Rome--the original shining city on a hill--hear the eagle cry, to visit Jerusalem. It was sort of like that Earth book, "The Giver." All these memories were lost to their world, and he wanted to experience them for himself just once.

Sure, the people of Mogo would hate him forever for taking such valuable resources, but is that not what happened to his grandfather? Now perhaps he would miss his home, he was not born on Earth, like his grandfather had been. Moishe gripped the communicator speaker firmly in his left hand and thought of his grandfather Abraham.


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"I will not leave, but cannot stay much longer," read the last page of his grandfather's journal. "Mogo has not spurned me--rather, the planet loves me. I, however, am not suited to this land. My very being has rejected it. I cannot return the love Mogo offers me. Nevertheless, I must continue. There is much to do. If I could not return to Earth, I determined many years ago now, there was always the possibility that I could recreate--build--its finest elements to my satisfaction here on Mogo. It won't be for me. It is a project that will take too many more years to complete. But I am a nostalgic old fool, and my successors will doubtlessly scrap my plans and shape the world to their own liking... should Mogo let them," he finished wryly.


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Moishe bit his lip and thought of Mogo. His grandfather wanted his father to build Earth on Mogo. His father rebelled, had a change of heart, then soon afterward joined his own father in the grave.

"DAMNIT!" Moishe screamed, hoping none on the Abraham heard him. He thought he loved his grandfather, a man he'd never met, just as he loved Earth. It was all there in the journal, in the history books. He loved them dearly. But his grandfather wanted something from him that he couldn't do. He couldn't build Earth. He didn't know the first thing about it. He had never been there. He loved Mogo, not Earth. And Mogo loved him, apparently.

Moishe flicked the switch turning on the communicator. Several lights flickered and there was a humming noise, and then static. There was nothing but empty space for twenty light years. Earth was at the end of all that nothing.

"Hello, Earthlings," Moishe spoke into the device. "This is Moishe, colonial on Mogo and son of Jacob, who was the son of Abraham, known to you as Abram." He paused as if for a reply. When none was forthcoming he continued, "You. Bastards. Why must you poison everything? Ever since Eve ate that damn apple, you have been ruining everything you come into contact with. Why is nothing satisfactory to you? Why can't you just say, 'hey, this Garden of Eden is good enough for me, no need to look for more out of it than has been offered... or to change it.' Why can't you just say that and be content? What is wrong with you Earthlings? What the hell is wrong with you?"

'Us,' you mean, a whisper rolled up the beach from the sea.

"Granted," Moishe said aloud, turning off the communicator while he did so. Still, he reasoned, it was appropriate, and Mogo would get a kick out of it.

"People of Earth," he began, working up his courage, "I suppose what I've been trying to say, what a lot of us colonials have thought since we left, but never really bothered with until now..." He still hadn't said it. "What a lot of people on your own planet have wanted to say for a very long time I'd imagine..." Still not saying it. He took a deep breath. "Let me begin again."

He took another breath.

"People of Earth, and this is to the entire planet, I want you to know..." Damn it. That was it. Now they even tied his tongue. Well, no longer. He put his mouth close to the speaker and said loudly:

"Earth... fuck off."

Oops. He had forgotten to turn the device back on after replying to Mogo. It didn't matter though; he had said what he'd needed to.


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It was dusk on the Abraham when Moishe watched the now released Sapientia swim out to sea. The clever thing deserved its freedom, and probably would have gotten away on its own if given the time anyhow. There was no point in keeping it; the meat on the things was supposed to be awful, and Mogo didn't seem all that keen on anyone hurting it. Still, he would have liked to ride it a little while longer. After all, Moishe wasn't sure he would be riding any Sapientiae for some time, if ever again. Once he returned to the village it would even be a while before he could take the Abraham very far. No more adventuring for a bit. His duties as chief, his mother, and his betrothed, whoever she would be, would see to that. He supposed he could always live vicariously through his children...

My Prediction

Obama-273
McCain-265

I believe it will be much closer than the polls indicate, but not enough to give McCain the win. The three states to watch will be PA, NH, and CO. McCain would need to take at least one of these states. Possibly two if one is NH, given that the Granite State's 4 electoral votes would only make it a tie. I don't see any of those three states going McCain though.

Khaki Shorts: An Alternate History of the English Speaking Peoples (Part I: Mushroom Cloud)

The day was dark and about as gloomy as could be expected for the season. Something nasty hung in the air. Life in the Imperial Palace had been tense the last few weeks. Agrippina had been upset about something. Not angry, really. Just nervous he supposed. What about she wouldn't say. The only hint she gave was that she had been making plans, a surprise of sorts, which would be the surprise to end all surprises. "Ah," he had said, "My darling niece," then shifting on his lame leg, he had added, "My lovely wife. What you in your relatively short time upon this earth--and in this respect, at least, I feel assured I can speak with some authority--fail to understand, is that each new day brings new surprises, and no matter how great a day's surprise is, you have but to wait a time for it to be surpassed."

"You are right, husband," she admitted, brushing back her dark brown curls, "I am yet young and not always so cautious in my estimates as I ought. I must then," she winked one emerald eye mischievously, "redouble my efforts."

Caesar now looked mournfully toward the Tiber from his private balcony atop the Imperial Palace, which, he supposed, was technically, legally, all his private property; the whole of the empire was his if he so declared. Although he imagined Agrippina would demand that as well. To think an uncle, a husband, an emperor, had to appeal to seniority to get that woman to listen...

Caesar frowned. The chill wind had picked up and the gathering overhead suggested rain. What a dreadful day! Why if only he could command the rain as he commanded the legions, then he could lift his sunken spirits from the depths of the Tiber. But, he decided, he must first command his own household before foolishly meddling in the affairs of Jupiter and Neptune. Caesar sighed and limped pathetically away from the balcony, shoulders slumped, silver-gray head cast downward, just as the first speckles of water, carried upon a strong gust of wind, made their way to the palace heights.

On his way through the palace halls to the dining room (Agrippina had insisted upon dining with the entire family and a few friends she had invited for the evening) Caesar saw no one but a few palace guards and the two Praetorians that had accompanied him, albeit always at a distance for his privacy's sake. The walk was uneventful. That is until he reached the chamber adjacent the dining room. It was a large chamber with, like much of the palace, a marbled floor. In addition it had high ceilings, bronze-gilded pillars of Roman concrete, and was well-lit by torches on either side of the wall. At least it was normally well-lit. The torches seemed to have gone dead. But no matter, the darkened chamber and the shadowed corridor in which he now stood were along his regular route, and he would have no trouble making his way to the large double wooden doors that led to the dining room. In fact, he could already see a sliver of light flowing through the faintest of cracks between those heavy doors. He stepped forward boldly (although, as always, clumsily too) on his way to dinner.

"Caesar, stop!" came the harsh whisper from behind him.

Caesar recoiled in sheer terror, nearly tripping over his own toga, as he froze, curled in a half-standing fetal position.

"Y-yes," he managed when he realized it had been one of his two Praetorian Guards, both of which were now at his side.

"Princeps," one began, presumably he who had given the sudden warning. "You have to be more careful," the Praetorian was being cautious himself, concerned that he had frightened Caesar unnecessarily. "It may be nothing, but the Imperial Person should never enter an area such as this without proper lighting."

"Come now," Caesar replied, suddenly having regained his composure. "I imagine you are suspicious as to why this chamber is not lit when surely your captain has mandated it always be so?"

"Yes, Caesar," answered the guard.

"Do not fret! I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for it!"

The guard looked doubtfully at his fellow, but the other Praetorian gave no sign of noticing and stared unflinchingly into the darkness ahead.

"You see," Caesar continued, "I have known for some time that Agrippina is up to something."

"Caesar?" the guard asked, shocked. Even the other Praetorian looked this time.

"Yes," he replied matter-of-factly, "she is planning some sort of surprise party for me."

The other Praetorian had lost interest again and the first was looking rather disturbed at the notion that the rumors might very well be true; Claudius Caesar really was a doddering, absentminded old fool.

"I imagine tonight is the night, and my beloved wife has decided--" he went on, oblivious to the lack of attentiveness in his audience and only stopping to figure out what he was going to say next, "--decided that it would be better if... i-if I was... in the 'd-dark' so to speak..."

His reasoning was not especially convincing. Surely he knew that the lights within the dining chamber were lit? Why would the lights outside of it be out? Then again, why would an assassin leave those inside alight either, or the royal family, servants and guests fail to notice this anomaly right outside where they now prepared to dine?

"Nevertheless..." Caesar added, a note of caution in his voice, "You should probably go ahead, just in case my dear wife has left a gift in this chamber for me. I should not like to stumble into it. Bad leg, you know. Of course you know... everyone does..."

"Besides," he noted wryly, "if you happen to come across it you can move it aside so we won't inadvertently ruin the surprise."

"Yes, Caesar," the Praetorian resigned himself to his duty. He would be blamed for his lack of precaution if anything went wrong. He wished his fellow Praetorian would speak up. Reluctantly, he made his way across the darkened antechamber, the emperor uncomfortably close behind him. Having unsheathed his blade as quietly as possible--hoping any potential assailant lurking in the shadows had not seen him do so--he gestured for Caesar to give him more room as he crept the few remaining meters to the double doors of the dining chamber. Fortunately the old man had taken his non-verbal advice.

"Anything?" Claudius asked the silhouetted form of the Praetorian at the door. He turned to look at the Praetorian still behind him while waiting for an answer from the first. "Nothing behind us, I suppose?" The guard merely shrugged.

"Well?" Claudius asked again, turning to face frontwards once more, "I can eat my dinner in peace now?" Still no answer. In fact, he did not see the Praetorian in front of him anymore.

"Hello?" he called out. "Are you hiding from Caesar's wrath?" still no answer. "I assure you he has none. Nothing to be ashamed about, you were just trying to protect our person." Nothing but the still air and electric pinpricks crawling up his aging form. Claudius wouldn't be able to run if he needed too. Of course the guard was probably fine, and there was always the other Praetorian behind him.

"You won't find him anywhere," the words seemed to crawl off the very walls, but Claudius instinctively turned to face the only other person he knew to be about. the other guard still stood behind him, although he was not at all alert, not concerned, as Claudius now was. He was, in fact, still, stiff, almost statuesque. Something in the air seemed to have changed as well. The atmosphere grew thicker, the room grew larger, and static buzzed and clung to the hair on his arms and to his toga. Claudius would have liked to cover himself completely from the endless cold and dark, to pull his toga over his head as Julius Caesar had done when faced with the frigid embrace. The quavering in his delicate stomach was ceaseless. If only it would all stop; if only it would all end.

"He's gone," that voice, cold and deep as the grave, straight from Tartarus, surrounded him again. "Pity he had to be involved," it continued with a methodic languidity, "but I needed to speak with you alone." And Claudius was alone. The only company was the voice and still visage before him.

The voice had a presence all its own. Claudius sensed it behind him, but also to his sides. Above and below, atop his head and on the soles of his feet, he felt his skin crawl with it. He desperately wanted to turn to look for the hundred hands reaching for him from all directions, shades of men everywhere, but he could not bear to take his eyes of the monstrosity in front of him.

"Come with me," the wretch offered. No hand outstretched, no death beckoning, just an offer... or a demand?

It did not matter. Claudius Caesar would not, could not, go willingly. Even if he could convince either his good or lame leg to uproot from their current spots, his heart was sick with the dread of this thing before him. It would give out all too soon, he feared.

"N-no," he sputtered. "I w-will n-not. N-never. L-leave me be!"

"I shall," the thing responded to Claudius' relief, and then added menacingly, as if speaking as the grave itself, "for now. But you shall join me one way or another."

"Until then," the shade added. Even though he could not see it, Claudius could swear a wicked smile was spreading stiffly, to the sound of stretching leather, across the wraith's entire dried out face as it finished, "I bid you adieu."

Literally between blinks of his eyes the shade had vanished. In a similar period of time Claudius found himself, despite his lame leg, safely within the confines of the dining room and in good company at last.

"Are you alright, Caesar?" one of his slaves asked as he huffed and puffed.

"F-fine," he forced himself to say, "just getting some exercise."

He sat down at the table with his family and guests.

Within a short time his trademark absentmindedness had caused him to nearly forget what had happened and he casually began observing and conversing.

He looked at his wife. "You seem especially tense this evening, my dear, is it tonight that my surprise will be forthcoming?" he teased.

"It may very well be," Agrippina replied, biting her lower lip, "but you'll have to wait and see, won't you?"

"But it's been several weeks, and at my age I may wake up one morning and not be able to see anything at all." He hoped he hadn't sounded genuinely impatient when he said that. If he had, she didn't make an issue of it, so he quickly moved to small talk to avoid saying something genuinely stupid.

"What have our highly-trained chefs arranged for dinner tonight?"

"Well, husband," Agrippina smiled, "I had them prepare a special request--some of your favorites,. You'll see in a moment."

He returned the smile, knowingly, or so he thought. This, he decided, would be a special night.

"Oh boy! Mushrooms!" his adopted son, Nero, cried upon seeing the first course. "I've always loved mushrooms. But they're your favorite, aren't they father?"

"They certainly are," Agrippina glowed. "Why don't you pass them down Caesar's way?"

Caesar took a generous portion of the mushrooms, made in a delicious wine sauce he guessed by the fragrance, one of those southeastern Gallic wines if he was not mistaken. The taste seemed to confirm his suspicions. "Excellent!" he proclaimed. "Good choice, my dear. Now will someone pass me some of that fish? What kind is it? It looks different, but tasty."

"I don't remember what they call it," said Agrippina. "It is hard to pronounce anyway; one of the slaves can tell you, I'm sure. But what I can tell you is that it was specially brought from that great isle you conquered, Britannia."

"Aha! Here that boy?" Claudius looked over toward his biological son. The boy had been silent till now, he was a sheepish sort, not unlike his father. Nero had bullied him around too much, Claudius had recently decided. The two would work it out of course, but he might try to give the two a little nudge in that direction.

"Yes, father," Britannicus answered.

"Then surely you would like some?"

The boy didn't say anything at first. He merely looked between Claudius, Agrippina and Nero as if he expected some assurance from the others that it would be alright. During this time Claudius popped another mushroom in his mouth.

Finally Britannicus said, "Yes, I would like some very much."

Claudius gestured to a slave to serve his son, and then returned his gaze to the boy to smile and wink. That is when it first hit him. A wave a nausea nearly overcame him for a brief moment and he saw, or thought he saw, a pall clouding over Britannicus. The pall quickly took form, the form of a man bald atop--the laurels of victory covering this disfigurement--with hollowed cheeks and piercing eyes. He certainly had a slyness, a crafty look, about him. He was also well-groomed--even his eyebrows showed signs of care--and he wore the imperial toga with dignity. His skin, however, was sallow and sickly green, as if pond scum had been allowed to coalesce upon it. He, in fact, looked soggy. The toga also was soaked. Not with bogwater, but apparently with the man's own blood. Blood from twenty-three stab wounds which even now dripped upon the floor.

"Thus always..." the man said in that deep, breathless voice originating from somewhere outside his floating form. Next he gestured to his side where appeared a second man. It was Caesar, Claudius belatedly realized. Julius Caesar. And the second man, also nearly bald, was his nephew Caligula Caesar.

"Uncle," Caligula, equally dreary looking, said. "Our dynasty shall not escape this room." The dead Caesars then surveyed the occupants of the dining chamber suggestively.

No sooner had that prickling began again to crawl along Claudius' arms and legs than they were gone. Without a word and between blinks of Claudius' eyes, they vanished just as the Praetorian shade before them. This was unnerving. Claudius tried to calm himself and breathe normally again, to little avail. Claudius Caesar decided then that he didn't want any more surprises. Ever. For the rest of his life no more surprises would make him happy, he figured. He had had enough for a lifetime.

"Is everything alright dear?" Agrippina asked, snapping him back to the dinner conversation he was supposed to be having.

"Y-yes, of course it is," Claudius stammered. "I just had a thought, but it passed away."

A Day in the Life

A Day in the Life

Vox Day entered the room with trepidation. He was clad in his usual: black leather shoes, black pants and suit, dark-but-stylish sunglasses, and a sword given to him by the receptionist as an accoutrement to his less than manly beverage. Storing the tiny pink piece of plastic in his pants pocket for later use, Vox moved to shake the hand of the man he was to meet.

“Ah, you must be Vox.” The man said eagerly. Like Vox he was well-dressed and somewhat short, but had a suspiciously full head of dark brown hair. “I can call you Vox, right?” the man added after a brief handshake. “The other name’s fine too, but I think you should start using Vox Day on your fiction as well.”

“I suppose I’ll have to consider that, Mr. Yu,” Vox responded generously in that my-balls-are-in-a-vice voice of his. Despite his name Mr. Yu didn’t look to be of Asian descent.

“Please, call me ‘Roon,’ as in ‘moon.’ Spelled R-U-I-N-E, I think. It’s what my friends around here call me. I don’t really know why. Must be French. I like it though, so it will do.”

“Well, alright Ruine, ‘Vox’ is fine with me.”

“Please take a seat,” Ruine told him, “We have a lot to do.”

Vox did as Ruine had suggested and pulled up a chair, then propped his arm straight up from the armrest on his elbow and resisted the urge to rest his chin upon his knuckles--eyes shimmering delicately--whilst daydreaming of soccer games.

“First,” Ruine began, “I really like the script. I’m told, however, that your contract stipulates a right to review it, but not necessarily to makes any changes, before production begins. I could have just had them mail it to you, although we might have a policy against that for security—secrecy—reasons; but also, I wanted to congratulate you personally for our success—your success, I mean—and to explain some of the changes we made from your… novel, is it?”

Vox simply nodded in the affirmative.

“Good. Well, here are some of the improvements we made…”

Vox raised an eyebrow.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------


Spacebunny had made Vox take her to the movie theatre. Ever since Vox first described his meeting with the studio exec, one Mr. Yu, over a year ago, she couldn’t help but want to see the movie. She just wanted to torture him, he figured. He thought back to that fateful day, and shivered.



“Eternal Warriors” Ruine had begun, “Just doesn’t work. We have been accused of a lot of ugly, ugly things here in Hollywood—most of them true—but we aren’t going to stoop to that level, I’m sorry. I know you had your heart set on this. Don’t worry though, we like ‘The War in Heaven.’ It’s sufficiently dramatic, but not quite on the level of an 80’s Hasbro toy line.”



He remembered vividly how he had explained to the executive that it wouldn’t work out for him.



““If you want we can probably get you a part as an extra,” Ruine had suggested.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Well, here’s the script. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.”

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” Vox had told him frankly. “I don’t want to see the script anymore. In fact, I don’t want to see the name ‘Theodore Beale’ anywhere near association with this project.”



“It’s starting!” Spacebunny whispered with excitement as the lights dimmed and the screen lit up.

The words, “The War in Heaven” appeared in bold yellow-orange letters upon the screen. They were followed by the opening credits on a backdrop of a sunlit city in the clouds overlooking another beautiful (but eerie) city below. It was not unlike the lovely Rowena cover. A better start than he expected. Which was good considering that among the credits were, “Written by Vox Day,” and “With Collaboration from Vox Day” and “Based On the Original Novel by Vox Day,” also “With Special Thanks to Vox Day.”

“I told them I didn’t want my name on there!” Vox loudly objected. Too loudly, he realized, as several heads briefly turned to see what the commotion was.

“It isn’t your name, sweetie,” Spacebunny replied.

“I know, but the principle…”

“Shh…” someone whispered.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------


“I like Kaym,” Mr. Ruine Yu told him. “Christopher too, although we might want to change his name… something shorter, stronger. What I do have a problem with is the Madonna Liquor guy…”

“Who?” It was the first time Vox had spoken up. He was having serious regrets already.

“The Devil. How was I supposed to pronounce it?”

“Nevermind. It’s not important. I’m sure the actors have it covered. But what is wrong with the character?”

“Well, it’s not true to say I have a problem with him. It’s just that there has been some concern of your portrayal of the character and how certain ‘Christian’ groups might react to… you know, the positive spin you put on him.”

Vox tried to say something, but Ruine interrupted.

“Now, I understand what you’re thinking. ‘I’m a Christian myself,’ you say, ‘how dare anyone question my faith because of my interpretation of the Bible?’ I know, I feel your pain. I’ve been subject to the same bigotry. That’s just the way it is, unfortunately. Not my decision. Out of my hands. Sorry.”

Vox groaned aloud.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The movie seemed to be making sense for the most part. They hadn’t even changed Christopher’s name, although that was the least of Vox’s concerns. For the time being, however, Vox wondered if he had not, in fact, been dragged kicking and screaming into hell, but had died and gone to heaven instead.

Unfortunately heaven was being invaded. And Robin Williams was Jesus. Oh. My. Lord. Was that Keanu Reeves playing Abaddon? He hadn’t written that dimensionless a character, had he? But Melusine was being played by the always lovely Kate Beckinsdale, surely that made it all worthwhile? Surely that made anything worthwhile? Besides, at least the worst of intended deviations hadn’t been realized.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


“We,” Ruine said proudly, “Have written a much more personal relationship between Kaym and Christopher—really don’t like that name—which we think adds a whole new level to the story.”

“Wait,” Vox interjected. “You mean Prince Lucere is too objectionable, but not… that?”

“You’ve got to know your boundaries, Vox. That movie with Heath Ledger—Batman I think it was—was a huge success, even though their relationship wasn’t quite what the flyover folks call traditional.”

“…”

Don’t worry though, we’ve got some great up and coming actors to play those two, and even though we rewrote King Liquor—“

“Prince Lucere.”

“Yes, that guy. Even though we rewrote him, you can take some solace knowing that we managed to land Chris Rock for the part.”

“What? Really? Why?”

“Don’t you like Chris Rock?” Ruine asked.

“No… it’s just that this doesn’t seem like the best role for him.”

“Wait until you hear some of the lines we’ve given him.” Ruine dismissed his concerns. “Here, I’ll read some to you: ‘God, you get your holy ass down here so I can wipe the clouds wit’ you! Oh, not coming? Afraid? Or maybe you think it’s funny to keep a black man waiting, you racist mutha—holy sh**! Did you just take a crap in my general direction?’”

“Is this a joke?”

“Of course it is, Vox. Maybe my delivery is off. In any event, Chris Rock’s delivery is fantastic. It will be gold.”

“No, I meant... sigh.”

“Here’s another line I like, ‘Kaym, what are you doin’ wit’ your apprentice? That fire’s smokeless, damnit! I can see you! I don’ wanna, but I can see you!’”

“I’m sure he’ll make a fine Prince Liquorish,” Vox said sardonically.

“I thought it was Prince Lucere?” Ruine asked.

Vox considered hitting either his own or Ruine’s head onto the desk repeatedly.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Vox wanted to cry out, clutching either side of his head in dismay. He decided he was going to leave the theatre, with or without Spacebunny. But cowed back into his seat by the sheer terror of what he witnessed, Vox settled for imagining the film was less horrible than it really was. Robin Williams was playing a good Jesus, Chris Rock performed admirably in his serious, tragic role as Lucifer, and Kate Beckinsdale was a naughty, naughty Melusine… Well, that last part actually was true. And it was the only thing keeping him in the theatre, albeit peeking narrowly through his fingers wrapped tightly around his face. He recalled the end of his conversation with Ruine.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Ruine’s face had fallen after hearing Vox’s objections to the film, it was the first change in his expression for the whole conversation.

“Are you sure you don’t want accreditation?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I would sooner write a book about my hermaphroditic, psychic parakeet that helps me solve ‘petty’ crimes than be attached to this project.”

“That’s a shame. It’s going to be a blockbuster. But if you change your mind, or when you finish that book about the psycho parrot, you know where to find me.”

“In hell,” Vox muttered under his breath as he got up to leave.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The film was nearing its end. The Devil and his angels were defeated, and the present scene faded in to Robin Williams/Jesus standing over Chris Rock/Lucifer as if in judgment. The two stood silent for some time. Suddenly Jesus said, “Satan, will you rejoin me? Turn from your wicked ways?”

“I’m sorry, big guy, but you know what they say, once you go black you never go back…” Ol’ Nick winked.

Jesus returned the wink, saying, “There’s always a place for you,” and then began to tear up.

“Don’t cry, Jesus. I don’t need that added to the list of my sins.” At this Jesus smiled weakly. “Besides, I’ll always be with you, right here.”

“Ow, blood hell!” Jesus cried. “What did you do that for?” He had poked him in the eye.

“What? Think I was gonna go ET on you? Come on, you know better’n that.”

“But that hurt!”

“I’m evil. What did you expect? Now are you gonna take that lyin’ down, or are we gonna part with a bang?”

“A challenge?”

“Bring it.”

“It’s brung, you rebellious cur, you.”

“Is that the best you can do? Hurl some lighting bolts already.”

“I already did… last night. At your momma.”

“Now we’re talkin’.”

The scene cut to Christopher, lying in his bed, having just refused the offer from his sisters to join them in church. Suddenly things grew steamy. Melusine slipped into the meat and wagged her finger at him, saying, “You’ve been a bad boy, Christopher. You haven’t called, you haven’t written, it’s been simply ages. Come back into the folds, we’ve missed you,” she smiled, then pouted, swishing her forked tail absentmindedly.

“I’m sorry, I can’t Melusine,” Christopher replied. “I’ve put all that behind me now.”

“Well fine then,” she said haughtily. “Be a slave to the king.”

“Mel… I’m so sorry. I wish there was some other way, but there isn’t. If there’s anything I can do for you.”

“You can die!” her eyes had suddenly gone a fiery red, her right hand a giant blade which she now drew back in preparation to skewer him. “If I can’t have you, then no one can!” she lunged forward to deliver the fatal blow. She, however, stopped suddenly, the flame engulfing her eyes flickering and then dying out. She looked down at him, frozen, her eyes now filled instead with regret as she whispered hoarsely, “Never forget what we shared together… it was special… for the ages.” Immediately thereafter she exploded in a cloud of ash which scattered to the four winds.

Behind where she had been now stood Mariel, his guardian angel.

“Bitch,” the exquisite tiny blonde, played by Heather Graham, said triumphantly as she sheathed her flaming sword.

“Mariel!” he cried. “Thank the Most High!”

“So you have decided to be a servant of his then?” she said coldly.

“Y-yes, I guess so,” he answered.

“You guess?”

“I will!” he said determinately.

“Well then,” she rolled the words playfully on her tongue, smiling warmly, “I guess I should give you your first orders then.”

“Orders?”

“Yes, unlike your sisters you have powers, or did you forget?”

“You want me to fight?”

“Not exactly…” she fluttered her devilishly angelic eyelashes whilst twirling several strands of her golden hair around one finger.

Handel’s ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ played as the stunning angel straddled her charge. As the screen went dark and the credits rolled Vox delicately removed his Armani sunglasses, staring blankly.

“Honey?” Spacebunny asked.

Vox did not respond at first.

Spacebunny continued to look at him, worried. She wondered if he would ever recover.

After much thought he finally responded; he shed a single tear which rolled gently down his cheek. “From where the reel now ends,” he said simply, “I will write no more forever.”






Several months later…

The studio had sent him a free copy of the unrated DVD just to torture him. Vox considered throwing it away immediately, but instead tossed it into a pile of other junk to be sorted through later.

Later that day, having finished what he had set out to do, he saw it lying there. He couldn’t resist. He had to know what else they had done to his precious…

After starting it up he clicked on the special features section that read “Deleted Scenes.”

There was only one scene listed, labeled, “Alternative love interest.” Maybe this is where they buried the Kaym perversion. Dare he? It didn’t matter now, Spacebunny had come in and just hit ‘play.’

Leviathan, a CGI construction given voice by Sean Connery, arose from the lake of fire. As Chrisopher mastered Leviathan, Vox, over his splitting migraine, barely heard Connery’s voice saying, “You’re the man now, dawg!” The aging actor then added, “Get on my back, boy. I bet you never thought you’d ride a beast like me. One with three heads and—”

Spacebunny turned off the television. Disgusting, she thought. “Vox, how could you write this stuff?”

Vox found himself in the grip of a seizure as he thrashed about the floor in a convulsive fit of madness. “Sweet Cthulhu, take me!” he cried.

Speaking of Prognositication

US Dollar sat on a Wall (St.)
US Dollar had a great fall.
All the Fed's printing and all the Fed's banking
Couldn't stop the US Dollar from tanking.

Palin On Top

My new initiative. The name says it all...

oops

Apparently the default for commenting is to require registration. I did not know that. I attribute the lack of comments on this blog to that. Instead of *sniff* my being unpopular. Anyway... I quickly expect to have many comments. Soon I will be forced to use AdSense and gain millions of dollars in profit! Then, puny earthlings, you will bow before the might of Krypton!

Idle Hands

Let me begin by stating that I am completely pro-gun. Gun rights are not only essential for protecting all other rights, but also that they are rights alone should simply suffice as justification for their continued existence. But where reason fails…

Anyway, while I am pro-gun, I recognize the great evil that guns helped bring about in Western society. (As did the industrial revolution, but that is a story for another time.) Guns do not kill people, people kill people. Of course the same could be said of Communism. No, I am not saying guns are Communist and, like Communism, have no legitimate use. What I am saying is that guns helped lead to Communism. I know, it may seem strange, but ‘bear’ with me…

It all begins in Medieval Europe, or perhaps in China, but regardless: the meteoric rise of guns and gunpowder led to a restructuring of armies and, therefore, a reformation of European society. Feudalism, in many ways a precursor to Federalism, depended upon a fragile status quo maintained by several key factors. A lack of transportation was one of those factors. Another was the power of the nobility.

The nobility derived their powers from arms. Nobles spent much of their lives training for war. They had the money, and therefore the equipment, to go to war. Swords were expensive to make, and learning to use one even more so. Nobles had an interest in the status quo. Not just at the micro-level, mind you, but at the macro as well. Whenever one of their brethren became too powerful they tended to band together to defeat him. And they generally succeeded. The status quo was maintained. Then…

The gun. It changed everything. And not entirely for the better. You see, guns were relatively easy to make, and training was even easier. The accuracy of guns at the time made aiming a relatively unnecessary part of Basic. Load, point, shoot. Rinse. Repeat. Guns were less effective than bows and arrows. Bows like swords, however, required quite a bit of training, and as the population grew self-trained woodsmen became increasingly hard to find.

So what was the problem? Other than as Huxley once pointed out, rather than improving the world we have simply developed more efficient means of killing each other? Well for one, this destroyed the role of the nobles. Some have credited gunpowder with the development of democracy in Europe. I credit it with the development of anarchy; instability, disruption, chaos. Of course that really is what democracy is. Democracy—small ‘d,’ unless at the beginning of a sentence, as in this sentence—is very unlike the constitutional republic stability-loving Northern Europeans had grown fond of. Yes, even under monarchy realms such as England were constitutional republics.

The problem wasn’t just that the peasants had more power, but that the nobles retained every aspect of their power outside of war. They were in effect a bunch of rich people with political power and no real jobs. Sound familiar?

There was a solution to this problem. Louis XIV decided he could keep the nobility busy by building a cult of personality around himself and throwing lavish parties for them so they would compete for his favor. Meanwhile Louis would bankrupt France paying for those parties, building palaces, and fighting expansionist foreign wars in an attempt to further his own ambitions. Oh, wait. That wasn’t a solution at all. It was a disaster that (hopefully) culminated in the bloodbath of the French Revolution. Well, I’m sure the Sun King’s policies worked better in Prussia…

So next time you fire a gun, remember that while it is merely a tool, for good or ill, it can also have a transformative effect far beyond what one might imagine. And then, instead of throwing it away in disgust, keep training. Keep training and don’t let His Majesty buy you off with trinkets—surrendering your traditional right, and duty, to fight.

Tales From The Krypt: An explanation

These are stories from the past. Dredged up from the dark depths of Kryptonian history, they are a part of Krypton's greatest epics. Once thought to have met their apropos end in the dying throes of our tragically engorged red sun, I, Ben-El of Krypton, have re-discovered and translated them. Or they may be the scribblings of a Kryptonian child who was possibly also a deranged dullard from eating too many lead paint chips--good thing he wasn't a Daxamite! Whatever the case, these are the "Tales From The Krypt." Clever, I know.

Tales From The Krypt II: Which is Better, Version II

Guy was not a short man by any means; he was just under six feet tall. However, whenever he stood next to someone who was three or more inches taller than him he felt diminutive. Like most men he was a man of two minds. One side of him thought he was supremely excellent, a proud man worthy of the glory he sought. The other thought himself a pathetic wretch of a fool with no right to fame, power or glory.
Perhaps this is why a British kid who grew up in the suburbs and had no history of outer conflict would suddenly in his mid-twenties don a black leather jacket, black jeans, black shoes and a Union Jack plastered T-shirt, forgoing all other clothing. In addition he bleached his hair blond and tried to take up smoking. He quickly abandoned the smoking after the first few cigarettes made him cough terribly, besides, he thought, cancer wouldn’t be too glorious, would it? Now, as long as he kept his little smoking mishap to himself, everyone who met him would remember him respectfully… if not fondly.
Guy’s belief that he was oh-so-worthy contrasted interestingly with his hitherto failure to achieve anything of great significance. Guy was of a mind to change this, and his first stop in doing so had been in a posh Victorian home just outside of London: the home of one Thaddeus Crutchley. Mr. Crutchley, a tall gray-haired former professor of history at Oxford University with bony cheeks, was the antithesis of Guy in every conceivable way. As often as Guy wore his jacket, jeans, shoes and Union Jack tee, Professor Emeritus Crutchley wore tweed. He also wore impeccably polished brown leather shoes and small rectangular spectacles which were wont to slide down his thin crooked nose. Guy would have called him a “sodding nancy” upon first meeting him if he himself had not been one. The truth was that despite their appearances Guy was the coward and Thaddeus was only what could be described as mercenary; a ruthless cutthroat. The two had nevertheless become close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world. This was, ironically, what they were trying to do.
“I believe you are ready and have been for some time,” Thaddeus had told Guy several months ago in the drawing room of his Victorian home.
Guy set down his near-empty wine glass which he had been twirling carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. “Ready for what?” he asked.
“When I first swore you into the organization,” Thaddeus ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that you are a truth-seeker as much as a glory-seeker and thus are tremendously frustrated by conspiracies.”
Guy sat upright, “Well, yeah,” he protested.
“I want you to infiltrate the Illuminati,” Thaddeus said abruptly.
“You what?”
“You shall begin tomorrow.”
“Riiight,” said Guy, standing up. “I’ll just waltz over to Parliament and say ‘Mr. Prime Minister, sir, I’d like to join you and your conspiratorial backers in a game of poker, nineish?’ and then we’ll have a right merry time discussing politics over tea and crumpets.”
Thaddeus continued to ignore him, saying, “According to my informants, a high-ranking member of the Illuminati is currently stationed at the

Tales From The Krypt II: Which is Better, Version I

“I believe you are ready and have been for some time, Guy,” said the tall tweed-clad man with bony cheeks. Along with the tweed, he wore, as he did every day, impeccably polished brown leather shoes and tiny rectangular spectacles which rested upon his thin, crooked nose. His name was Thaddeus Crutchley, professor emeritus of Oxford and widower of the widow of the heir apparent of the Duke of Northumberland. Try saying that three times fast. Professor Emeritus Crutchley was left with one million pounds and a nice Victorian home just outside of London. The discussion he was having took place in the drawing room of that very home.
“Ready for what?” Guy asked; setting down the near-empty wine glass he had been sloshing about carelessly whilst sitting with one leg swung casually over the right arm of the firm burgundy chair in which he sat. The ex-professor, or as Guy often called him, Tweedledum, didn’t take too kindly to his offhand manner.
The first time they met, also in this home, was an awkward experience to say the least. The recently retired Crutchley had, unsurprisingly, been dressed in tweed and Guy in his usual black leather jacket and jeans and T-shirt with a giant Union Jack plastered across its front. Crutchley had surveyed Guy’s bleach-blond hair with skepticism, and Guy had nearly burst out in laughter. This stuffy old man would be the leader of the revolution? Oh yeah, he was a real rebel that one. Although in Guy’s own words Crutchley looked to be a “sodding nancy” and in truth, he once had been, but something in his past which he refused to specify had changed him. Now, however, Crutchley was what Guy could only describe as mercenary. He was ruthless; a cutthroat. When Crutchley had first told him the rules of the movement—that anyone who betrayed it would be cruelly and mercilessly killed—Guy had been shocked at this revelation, but not put off. He had replied earnestly, “Bit Draconian, isn’t it?” Nevertheless, despite their differences the two had grown close, almost like father and son, although neither would admit it to save the world; which, as it so happened, was what they were trying to do.
Presently, Crutchley pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with one long thin finger; they had fallen, as they were wont to do. “When I first swore you into the organization,” Crutchley ignored his question, “what were the reasons you gave for joining?”
“For the children; gum drops, sugar plums an’ all that,” Guy said with mach enthusiasm.
Crutchley ignored him again. “If memory serves you had two ‘principles’ upon which you based your anti-authoritarian stance: first, that being controlled is anathema to you, and second, that not being in on a secret is painfully frustrating.”
“Well, yeah,” Guy protested, “but that’s a gross oversimplification--”
“The only reason I did not kill you on the spot as a being danger to the organization,” Crutchley interrupted, though not entirely unkindly, “is because revolutionaries are rarely better than those they overthrow.”
Guy looked almost hurt.
“You see,” Thaddeus smiled wanly, “few enter government with the intention of doing evil, but power corrupts… nevertheless, I feel we are necessarily bound to ousting the current wolves who would lead the flock back to their den.”

Tales From The Krypt

I probably overdid the scare quotes but, otherwise, worth continuing? Well it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, I like it:

Antimetabole

The man was an echo. A verbal shadow of all the books he had ever read, whether on history, economics or love. Most would have called him a parrot, but I knew better. A parrot merely repeats words, while he was a reflection of them: a hollow man made entirely of long drawn out theses and “statistics” lazily pounded out on typewriters by crusty professors, neo “intellectuals,” and other pontificating self-styled “experts,” all of whom disagreed with each other. It was a wonder, then, that there could be found any consistency in his “opinion” at all. Not the least because none of the books he read were entirely consistent within themselves --much less one of his favorite “experts” be very consistent at all throughout his or her various books—but that, having no will of his own, he managed, as though instinctually compelled, to form a semi-coherent series of book quotations from hundreds of authors supporting his “beliefs.”

You are probably wondering who this lifeless shell of a man—propped up by hundreds of pounds of pulp, cardboard and ink—was. To put it simply, he was my master. I was a simple servant in the House of ?, one of the wealthiest families in the city.

“The first shall be last and the last shall be first in the Kingdom of Heaven.” That is how I got through the injustice of it all. Knowing fully that one day my reward would come. My master’s reward would be different. Quite different, I imagined. Not that I wished ill upon him. A man wishing ill upon his master could hardly expect a reward from his master in heaven.

Long I Stood There

“Hold muh beer a moment, would ya?” the thirty-five year-old driver said to his wife.

“No, I will not hold yer beer,” the petite younger woman replied, nervously knotting around her finger several strands of her long, wispy, light-brown hair. “Now you throw that out the window ‘fore trouble comes, or I’ll throw you out.”

“You don’t mean it. Why it’s the Fourth of Jew-lye; everbody’s drinkin’ and the pigs got bigger fish to fry.”

“No bigger fish ‘round here than yer fat ass.”

“Tough words, darlin’; I’ll be damned if you don’t bite. Maybe we get back an’ put those lips o’ yers to better use.”

She didn’t reply. He merely looked in the rearview mirror to see if anyone else was traveling down the straight, long gravelly road. Seeing no one, he downed the last of his beer and threw the bottle out the window. He watched as it smashed loudly against a roadside granite rock and the car swerved a little while he did so.

“There. Happy? I threw it out the damn window.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“Get outta the car.”

“What?” he answered, flabbergasted. Then a moment later, “Hell no.”

“You didn’ listen to me, and nearly got us keeled. Now you get outta the car.”

“I did not nearly get us keeled, woman. If there were lanes I wouldn’ve even left ours!”

“I don’t care! Get out!”

“Damn right you don’t care. Yer just thinkin’ with yer feelin’s and wanna see me stranded on the roadside.”

“I don’t wanna see you anywhere!” she cried. “Now get out!”

“No woman of mine’s gonna kick me outta muh own vee-hickle.”

“It ain’t yer car. Daddy didn’ like you; bless his soul, he left it jus’ to me.”

“Fine!” he brought the car to an abrupt stop, his own forehead slamming against the steering wheel.

“Serves you right.” she said quietly, tears now glistening in her eyes.

Rubbing his forehead, he replied, “You know what? I’ll get muh own car. And good thing you got the car, cause where else you gonna sleep? The house is mine.” Leaving the car on, he got out, slammed the door, and walked to the other side of the road to stare off into the distance and cool down.

After a moment he heard, “Good luck gettin’ there,” followed by the scraping of tires on gravel.

“Sonuvvabitch!” he shouted as she drove off.




He sat on the rock a ways back where he had thrown his beer bottle, the shattered shards still scattered about. He scratched his coarse golden-brown beard as the early afternoon sun brought a filmy sweat to his skin. ‘Damn women,’ he thought. ‘Nuts. All of them.’ He wondered what he was going to do.

His house was a good ten miles from the spot, he figured, and he didn’t know the road well enough—they usually traveled in the other direction, toward the city—to remember exactly where the nearest house was, for all the good that would do him. Even if they were home, and not picnicking or visiting some friends or relatives miles away, what could he expect them to do for him? Drive him? Not likely. Call a taxi? The nearest taxi service was so far away he would get home as fast by walking, and frankly, he decided, he would rather pass kidney stones than pay that kind of cash. Call the Sheriff or a friend of his? Not gonna happen; he would rather pass the rock under his ass than try to explain what happened. He supposed he could make something up…

Over the next half hour he thought up several fake stories he thought might suit him, but it was really just an excuse to pass the time doing nothing. Besides, he was becoming convinced, or rather convincing himself, that his wife would be back in short order. She couldn’t possibly stay gone forever. She had no place to go; her parents were dead, she never had siblings, and she didn’t even have a job to pay rent with, although she did have the keys to their house…

‘That bitch,’ he thought. ‘If she gone back to the house after this I’ll…’ he didn’t really care if she did, however, or so he told himself. This was just a fight. They would be back together by the end of the day for sure. And he would teach her a lesson—take away her driving privileges and shopping money for a while—so this would never happen again. He thought about what he would tell her when she got back as he waited, still convinced she would return after an hour and a half of sitting on a rock alternating between biting his lips and gritting his teeth while scratching his sweaty skin and swatting bugs in the ever increasing heat.




She drove across the bridge leading to the small neighborhood where she had lived for two years now. She planned on packing her things and taking them to a friend’s house. She would leave the house, and him, planning on never seeing either again…

She wiped the moisture from her eyes. She pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. Resting her head on the steering wheel, she said aloud, “Moron. How long ‘till you go back?” ‘Never’ wasn’t a sincere answer. Maybe he would walk back on his own, she considered. ‘That’s stupid,’ she realized. ‘No way he’ll walk all that way. And the longer I’m gone the worse it will be.’ But whatever he would do she imagined would be too terrible to go back. Maybe he wouldn’t take her back. He probably took the whole thing more seriously than she did; thought she really meant what she said. Heck, she thought she did at the time. “I was foolin’ muhself,” she admitted aloud. “I didn’ mean it, and I know he didn’ mean it neither,” she tried to convince herself. ‘But maybe I’m foolin’ muhself now,’ was the unvoiced rebuttal from the doubt slithering under her skin.




He was beginning to fear she wouldn’t come back. According to his wristwatch it had been a full three hours since she left, or nearly four o’clock. About an hour prior the heat had caused him to walk another half mile to a lake they had passed on the way. There were no trees along the shoreline to provide shade, and it was muddy so he had to stand, but at least the cool breeze provided some comfort.

The water was relatively calm, and he tried to be as well. But he couldn’t help but think she was leaving him for good. At the moment he couldn’t tell whether he was more worried about that for its own sake, or because his ride home depended upon it. Regardless, the gnawing feeling was taking its toll, and every now and then he had to go through the rational, logical reasons she would come back. He couldn’t really think of any logical reasons she wouldn’t come back, not that he was trying, or that women were logical, but one profound argument against her coming back nevertheless remained: ‘While everythin’ says she’ll come back… what if she don’t?’

‘What if?’ It wasn’t a question of what he would do ‘if,’ but simply ‘what if she didn’t come back?’ ‘What if’ something; there had to be a reason it might not happen, even though he couldn’t think of one. It was almost like reverse faith. He had another side of himself dueling to convince him that he couldn’t be sure, that he had to worry. Like part of him didn’t want her to come back, so it tried to make him think she wouldn’t. He was unsure in this too. Worrying was for the womenfolk he always thought, but he couldn’t stop himself.

She was probably laughing her pretty little ass off; so sure of herself, whatever she was going to do she knew it the whole time. No hesitation. Just knew what she was going to do. And she would do it. Return or not return. Play him for a fool one way or the other…




She drove back down the gravel road. By now night had fallen. She was sure he would be angry; sunburn and bug bites do not a happy husband make. Still, she kept driving until she neared the spot where she had left him. She didn’t see him at first, but wasn’t worried because she didn’t know the exact spot and it was dark. After a while, however, she began to worry. She opened the door of her car and called for him. Nothing. There was only darkness and the buzz of bugs.

She began to fear anew as she continued her search. She drove past the granite rock, neither seeing nor even looking for it, and kept going until the light, reflecting off a lake at the roadside, revealed a movement in the shadows. She pulled to the side of the road and got out of her car again, but it appeared to only be a bat or other night-creature.

Just as she was about to return to her car he walked from seemingly out of nowhere and calmly got into the driver’s seat. He just sat there, door open, for a minute. Unsure of what to do, she eventually sat in the passenger seat and they both closed their respective doors.

She looked at him expectantly, a mix of fear and anticipation on her face. He did not speak. He did not even return her gaze, but merely stared calmly out the front windshield. He was so sure of himself. He must have known the whole time she was coming back, as she had suspected. He was always so sure of himself like this. Always in command. She didn’t understand it. She supposed she didn’t need to.

Far off in the sky, over another section of the lake, there came a flurry of loud bangs and colorful bursts. The fireworks display had begun. The couple remained at the lakeside in their car as the show continued for some time, eventually erupting in a passionate crescendo.