Nuke'em

PZZT. An Expander blast singed the left side of his blond crew cut, and nearly damaged his dark sunglasses as well. He pivoted around--BLAM!--firing off a shot into the creature's brain. The pink, many-tentacled monstrosity fell unceremoniously to the ground.

"That's one," said the red vest, blue jeans and boot-clad soldier. He had survived the crash. Which wasn't a surprise to him. It took more than a little heat to take down--

Another Expander blast. He returned fire.

"Two."

The hard-bitten gun-toting warrior made his way along the spiderweb lay out of the concrete-tunneled base, walking briskly despite the weight of the ammo, several guns, and his personal luggage, which he carried over one shoulder in a small-but-hefty black bag.

The eastern corridors, at least that's the direction his map gave them, had already been demolished by the Kalmari. Their mistake. He smirked. They had cut their points of entry by a third, and if he could make it back to the center of the web...

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The Kalmari had destroyed the rockets and communications equipment before he arrived, leaving him stranded. So naturally, he had salvaged the short-range communication equipment off the lagging Kalmari fighter that had welcomed him and sent out a distress signal to the nearby Kalmari fleet. It read: Help. Earth sends destroyers. Battleship. To retrieve weap-- it fizzled out. Suspecting a trap, the Kalmari proceeded with caution, and he used that time to prepare.

He hadn't expected the difficulty. It turned out that the Kalmari attack on the base had caused an--ironically--automatic reversion to manual controls. This made it impossible to open the sealed titanium doors to the base weapons' cache, because the control for the door was behind tons of rubble, and therefore he wouldn't have access to high-powered explosives. Unless, he had realized, he could get some rocket fuel. And there was no fuel left at the CHICK (Cuisine Haute Inter-Cosmic Kitchen) Base.

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Mission accomplished. Kalmari fighters were equipped with personal DNA encryption, so flying away after the fleet landed was never an option. On the other hand, he knew how to siphon a tank. Waiting outside the base in hiding as the fleet landed, he managed to carry away one hundred kilograms of rocket fuel from one of their fighters on a wheelbarrow. Of course by then several dozen Kalmari troops were already inside the base and he had to fight his way toward his goal. Which is where he found himself now, with two--no, make that three--of the enemy down, and who knows how many to go. Not to mention the thousands preparing to enter the base.

"Four," he said, pausing to wipe the sweat off his brow. He opened the door to a supply closet and took one canister of fuel, about fifteen kg, and wired it to the detonator he had prepared earlier. That would lighten his load a little.

He continued along the corridor and into the next, he wired another canister in another supply closet and repeated the process again and again until all but one was gone. He dropped the wheelbarrow, and several more Kalmari, and hurriedly carried the remaining canister toward the center of the base.

At the center lie the reactor core. The Nuclear reactor core. The video monitor showed hundreds of Kalmari flooding the corridors. He clicked the red button of his detonator. The camera went dead.

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

Now there was only one tunnel leading to the reactor core. They would all have to come through it. Several hundred were dead already, but there were at least two thousand left. How many of those their leaders were willing to throw at him remained to be seen. He lit the corridor up with his chain gun. The rounds shredded the approaching Kalmari and little bits of pink flesh plastered the walls. Only a few dozen had died when he ran out of chain gun ammo. He pulled out his rocket propelled grenade launcher and cleared out the remaining two dozen and prepared for the second wave. By the third wave he was out of rockets and switched to his shotgun, and was throwing pipe bombs. He had run out of shotgun rounds by the fifth wave, and after taking out the sixth wave with his dual sub machine guns only had one pipe bomb and a single round left in his pistol. That round he would save for the last. For now he backed into the reactor room and shut the blast door. But first he called out the challenge, “Come and get some, you bunch of pink pussies!”

After a little while a drilling sound came from just outside the door; they knew better than to try to use explosives here. He ignored their attempts for the time being and opened the black bag containing the few personal belongings he had brought with him to the base. Inside the bag was another gun, as well as a box of cigars. He lit one up.

Looking at the door, he said, “What are you waiting for? Christmas?”

Just then an air vent above him blew off and a Kalmari marine landed right behind him, grasping his throat and arms with its many tentacles. His cigar fell to the ground. He fought back. Pulling a tentacle away from his throat so he could breathe, he said, “What are you? Some bottom-feeding, scum-sucking, algae-eater?” He brandished only his pistol and a Bowie Knife; the other gun was still in his bag. Cutting one tentacle, he plied himself free and threw the Kalmari marine into the reactor room controls.

The creature quickly regained its tentacling. He stared at him intensely with its one large eye, and said, “Surrender, human.”

“That all you got?” he barked.

“There are thousands of us and only one of you,” the Kalmari marine pointed out.

“Not in here there ain’t. It's down to you and me, you one-eyed freak!” he lunged.

The creature deftly sprung aside, but he was even quicker; he had feinted, and now he about-faced, knocking the butt of his knife into the Kalmari soldier’s giant rubbery head. The soldier fell down and he kicked it several times before quickly tying its tentacles together in knots. Then he grabbed a piece of paper off the reactor console.

“Now,” he said to his dizzied foe, “We’re going to compose a letter.”

To the office of the President of the United States:

In the unlikely event that I don’t survive, he began, dipping a pen he had found into the Kalmari marine’s ink.

“You will never survive!

He jabbed it in the eye with the butt of his knife and then continued, I want you to make sure these bastards never cause us any trouble again. Make them all fry.

Those alien bastards are gonna pay for shooting up my ride!

He folded up the note and hid it in a small heat-proof safe in the reactor room. “Time to turn up the heat,” he said, just as the blast door began to give way. A flood of Kalmari was about to descend upon him. Nevertheless, he maintained his cool. Removing the gun from his black bag—it was bulky and yellow—he then walked to the reactor console and typed a series of numbers into the control panel and an alarm went off. He fired the gun this way and that, a cool blue lightening issuing forth from its tip, until the whole room was surrounded in ice. “Freeze-ray, never leave home without it,” he remarked.

He proceeded from the walls to the floor; blanketing the room, and stepping back further and further toward the center of the room until only he and the Kalmari marine were not frozen over. “Want me to put you on ice?” he asked, pulling out his detonator. He clicked the red button, blowing the final canister of rocket fuel—the explosion could just be heard half way across the base.

“What did you just do??!!” the marine asked.

“I blew the water reservoir. It’s going to mix with the overheated reactor core and bring this whole base to a boil.”

“But we’re in the reactor core!” the marine protested.

“Again…” he ignored the marine’s fear, “…Want me to put you on ice?”

“Y-yes,” the Kalmari warrior decided it would be for the best after all. “But it won’t work! It can’t work.”

“Which part?” he said as he froze the marine. “Nevermind,” he wiped the sweat off his brow. “Damn. It’s getting hot in here.” He froze himself as well, throwing his last pipe bomb at the blast door and detonating it just as he was enveloped by the cool, blue ice. The reservoir water and hundreds of Kalmari troops flooded in and shortly began to boil.

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He shattered the thin layer of ice surrounding him that hadn't melted yet when the reactor core performed the shutdown he had pre-programmed. "Told you it would work," he said to the stirring Kalmari marine. It found that he was right and also, to its horror, that its dead, boiled brothers were floating in the now knee-deep receding reservoir waters. Its tentacles were still tied together as well.

He left the room. He didn't come back for several minutes, and when he did he carried a six pack of beers and a big tub of butter in his arms. He sat down next to the marine and began to eat one of its brethren. "If only they were so tough when they were alive," he remarked. He added a generous portion of butter with his Bowie Knife. "Mmm. That's better." He looked over at the living Kalmari, "You want some of this?"

The marine quavered with a mixture of fear and disgust.

He ignored it and opened a beer. "So long before they send more men in, do you figure?"

Suppressing his desire to regurgitate with some difficulty, the marine answered, "You and your entire species will die soon."

"Not the way I figure it. They probably think I'm dead already. Won't come back in this base. On the other hand, I suspect I have enough DNA samples here to fly one of those fighters back to earth. Not to mention to keep my stomach satisfied as well." He opened another beer, belching and throwing the empty first bottle crashing against the reactor console. "Did you know the only part of your people that isn't edible is the beak?"

"Are you going to eat me too?"

"Hell no. Have plenty of cooked Kalmari already. Just thought I'd keep you around to pass the time. But you aren't much of a conversationalist. Then again, neither am I..." he chuckled and stood up. Swallowing the last of a Kalmari arm, he retrieved and lit a new cigar from the box on the other side of the room and, returning, pulled out his pistol. Cocking it, he stared the Kalmari marine in the eye, and said, "Nobody steals our CHICKs... and lives." An ink blot splattered across the still-frozen floor.

~Now for some much-deserved R&R


Dedicated to 3D Realms. Now get your asses in gear.

He Hasn't Got Shit All Over Him... Yet.

Sir Epididymis awoke with a start. Quickly rising to his feet--a little too quickly as it turned out, for blood rushed rapidly from his head, thankfully not out of his head though--he called out, "Gentle peasant, I seem to have overslept. Has, by any chance, good Sir Mace Manly yet made his way here marching under the magnificent banner of the Merry Marquess of the Midland Marche Marshes?

"Eh?" the farmer replied. "Don't know anythin' 'bout that. Never erd of 'em."

"Never erd of 'em?" Sir Epididymis cleared his throat. "Excuse me, never heard of him? Why he's only the most famous, bravest knight in the entire kingdom. How can you not have heard of him?"

"Knight?" the farmer pondered the word. "'Ee the one on 'eer, then?" the farmer pulled out a copper and held it up to Sir Epididymis.

"No!" Sir Epididymis cried. "That's the King!"

"The what?"

"The King!"

"Never erd of 'em."

"Never heard of the King?"

"'Ee important, Guvnor?"

"Important? He's the King!"

"Important's the King? Never erd of 'em."

"No! The King is important!"

"Same person, then, eh Guvnor?"

"The King is the sovereign of our entire realm!"

"Not my sovereign, I didn't vote fer him."

"Didn't vote for the King? Of course not! You don't vote for the King. Are you mad?"

"Am now, Guvnor. What about my rights? I 'ave a voice too you know."

Sir Epididymis clenched one armored fist around the throat of the stocky peasant. "Now you listen here," he said, "if you refuse to pay proper respect for the King, I will be forced to--"

The peasant managed to wiggle free and, after putting a dozen steps between himself and Sir Epididymis, shouted, "You can't stop us all!"

"Who all?" the Knight errant tried to close in on the fleeing peasant.

"The people!" the peasant answered. "The masses! Huddled and yearning to breathe free! The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few--from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs."

"What are you blathering on about? Hey! Come back here!"

The peasant was dancing away merrily. "These are the times that try men's souls, now is the winter of our discont--wait, that's not right--I'm Spartacus!"

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Having given up all hope on the matter of the maddened peasants of North Umborgringlugrand--for they all seemed to consider themselves members of what they called an "anarcho-syndicist commune"--Sir Epididymis rode toward the dark wooded region known as Fenndar Forest in hopes of crossing over into the rather saner County Winterset and from there to Grainwahl. Unfortunately, dismounting at a bridge crossing just before dusk, he came upon a band of peasants.

"'Afternoon," said one of them.

"Greetings, noble farmer. What brings you so far from your cropland at this hour?"

"Oh, I don't 'ave any cropland," the peasant replied. "I'm with customs, I am."

"Customs? What kind of customs?"

"See yonder trees?"

"Behind you? They are rather obvious."

"Those are the ones, yes. They make up the border 'tween the lands."

"Yes, I understand that. I intend to cross into County Winterset."

"Figured as much."

"Is there a problem with that?" Sir Epididymis was getting irritated.

"None at all."

"Then good evening to you."

"Just one moment though," the peasant said quickly.

"Yes?" Sir Epididymis grated his teeth.

"You 'ave to pay the toll."

"Oh, of course. The bridge toll. Very well." Sir Epididymis handed over the requested number of crowns then said again, "Good evening."

"Good evening," the man who had taken the crowns replied. "Wait," he added suddenly, just as Sir Epididymis was making his way across the bridge.

"What is it now?"

"Just... you 'aven't performed any knightly services while in our land 'ave you?"

"Of course I have!" Sir Epididymis balked. "I'm a knight! Now if you'll excuse me..."

"By any chance, did you receive payment for any of those services."

"I may have... how is it any of your business?"

"As chief customs officer," the man began, "I must inquire into services rendered and the amount, if any, of payment received."

"You what?"

"As chief customs officer I must..."

"I heard that! This is madness! Your whole 'commune' is tremendously silly, and I will not discuss the matter any further."

"Then you'll have to come with us, I'm afraid. To jail."

"To jail? For saving a damsel from a gang of bandits and another from a dragon? If I managed to banish Satan himself would I go to the gallows?"

"Only if you fail to pay the fees. Now, however, we are making progress. How many bandits were there?"

"Five."

"Good. Now, it may sound silly, but was it a male of female dragon?"

"What?"

"Just answer the question, sir. We're almost done now."

"Female, I believe."

"You believe?"

"Come now, how should I know the difference?"

"Yes, well that is why we're studying them," the customs officer replied as another of the 'officers' whispered in his ear. "Did you slay the dragon?" he added.

"Yes, I slew the bloody dragon! It was going to kill the damsel, that's what dragons do! I'm a knight, that's what I do!"

"No need to get upset," he said as the same man whispered in his ear again. "Oh my. I'm terribly sorry," he added. "The fine for killing a bitch is very large."

"Killing a what?"

"A bitch. A female dragon. That's what we call it. The town council is considering changing it to something less offensive, like 'sow.' If you have any suggestions, please mail them to..."

"I don't have any suggestions, and I never will. Now. What. Is. Your. Fine?"

"Quite a bit. The dragon is an endangered species you know..."

"Endangered? Good! I'd be happy to pay any amount if it would rid the world of such vile creatures. Now tell me the fine!"

"Oh, about let's say..." the customs officer looked around, "the cost of that horse. I mean a horse," he added quickly.

"My horse?" Sir Epididymis replied incredulously.

"Not your horse. Any horse will do."

"But you said my horse."

"No, I said your horse and then I quickly corrected myself in order to hide the fact that I was making everything up as I go along. Any horse will do. If you can find another horse I will take that one as well."

"You made that up, didn't you?"

"Did not!"

Yes you did!"

"No I didn't!"

"You made the whole thing up. You are nothing but horse thieves!"

"Nonsense," the officer looked at a clipboard he produced seemingly out of nowhere. "Slander against a government officer, check. That will cost you one sword."

"I will not disarm myself! Now step aside and let me pass from this wretched land."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Now how much did each damsel pay you for your services?"

"..."

"Your silence is only making things harder on you. Tax evasion is a serious crime."

"...They did not compensate me monetarily."

"Waitaminute. What is that supposed to mean, 'good' sir knight?"

"It means we had a good roll in the hay."

"Do you mean to tell me that you contracted business with their families in exchange for sexual favors?" the officer asked ominously.

"Yes, if you prefer to couch it in such unromantic terms. Now if it pleases, I shall take my leave."

"Leave? You can't leave! Men, arrest him for lewd acts!"

"Stay back!" Sir Epididymis whipped out his sword.

"You did the crime, now you have to do the time."

"Crime? You people are lunatics. Gather taxes from your own people and worry about them. I'm leaving this wretched land forever."

"If you do, we'll have to forward it to collections; we are in desperate need of finances to fight the increasing crime and attacks by dragons."

"Of course you have increasing crime and dragon attacks! You put a fine on slaying the latter, and do everything you can to drive out those who would thwart crime by private initiative."

"No, you misunderstand the situation. The dragons are reacting to the encroachment upon their land by the ever-growing local population; we tried a one-child policy but it hasn't taken effect yet. Perhaps in another thirty years the problem will be gone. As for the criminals, well, they just need a better education which we can't afford to give them--all thanks to stingy scrooges like you."

"Perhaps if you spent more time producing something of value, and less heckling those who wish to help, you would find your land to be wealthier."

"Oh, turn it around on me! Just typical. You overfed, inbred aristocrats with no valuable skills outside of killing people--real productive that--should just listen to us hard-working and more numerous..."

"Shut up! Shut up! Will you shut up?" Sir Epididymis cried. "I'll show you just how productive killing can be, bloody peasant!" With that Sir Epididymis ran the chief customs officer through with cold steel, sliced the next nearest peasant across the throat, and mounted his trusty steed. The remaining peasants scattered as he charged across the bridge and into the dark forest beyond just as the last of the sun's golden rays vanished behind the green hilltops. "Finally!" Sir Epididymis sighed, his horse plodding peacefully along the cool, shaded forest. The woods were calm and the damp pine needles fragrant. No noises save those of his horse and his incessant massaging of his temples made their way to his ears. "What a blight upon the earth!" he cursed. "God willing, I nor anyone else of sound mind will never have to see such ignorance given voice again till kingdom come."

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"Unhand me! Help!" cried a raven-haired maiden with creamy white skin. Then... "Bastard."

"That's right, ya know when yer beat. Now shut up, wench," a forty-something balding man wielding not but a massive paunch answered. Grabbing her by her hair, tied back in a long ponytail, he shoved one side of her face into the forest mud when she attempted to speak again. He eyed her covetously. She was clad scantily; wearing only a low-cut burnished black leather bustier and thong that left her midriff bare, and her long slender legs were also bare, save her high leather boots and a spattering of wet mud.

"Yeah, we gotcha now, ya little..." a second man began.

He was interrupted by the sound of a galloping horse.

"Quick, someone's coming," he said.

"Nah, he sounds a ways off ta me. Now ya get her boots, I'll take off the rest..."

"No! Don't take that from me," she pleaded. "Please, anything but that."

"Sorry, miss," said the paunch-wielder, "but ya don't have anythin' else we want. 'Less ya have a few hundred crowns hidden on ya somewhere..."

She subtly shook her head, her eyes looking desperately into his.

"Thought not. Now don't ya worry yer pretty little head, this won't hurt but the slightest. In fact, I suspect that ya..."

Now the sound of shouting accompanied the hoof beats.

"We better get outta here," the other man said.

"Nonsense. Keep at it. Get that other boot off; I've already got this thing unstrapped." And indeed he had.

She gritted her teeth, and snarling as only a porcelain doll can, she said, "I. Hate. You."

"Sorry to hear that luv, but I can't say that changes anything."

As he peeled her bustier slowly, delicately off her chest, a single tear rolled down her face and she stared blankly at the sky.

Then from around the corner of the woodland trail came a fantastic shout, and he laid the bustier immediately back on her chest as an armor clad knight burst forth from the bend.

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

Sir Epididymis charged with all speed, sword aloft and gleaming brilliantly like the surface of a lake in the thin strands of light that made their way through the waving treetops. "For Saint George!" he cried, slitting open the throat of a tall man in patched leather before jumping off his horse onto a shorter, but much fatter man. First Sir Epididymis hit the man on the bald spot of his head with the pommel of his sword, then he pummeled him into the mud, cut off his ears, scooped his eyes out with his plate-mailed thumbs, shoved a rusty nail up one of his nostrils, and stuffed his mouth with pine needles. To top it all off he grabbed a pine cone as well and...

"Wait!" the young woman cried.

Sir Epididymis turned. "Yes?"

"Thank you ever so much for helping me, but please show some humanity for that poor man!"

"Why? After what he was going to do to you?"

"Oh that's just a personal sentiment of mine. It isn't a crime worthy of death!"

"Personal sentiment? Are you jesting? Are the laws in this land so preposterous as that?"

"Of course it is important to me," she said, "I would hate to lose it."

"May I kill him now, then?"

"Please, good sir. I beg of you. Show some generosity. While my father gave it to me on the fifteenth anniversary of my birth, but..."

"Your father did what?"

"G-gave me t-these garments you see here," she said, now nervous. "That is why I was so reluctant to part with them.

"Oh. Right. Still not very fatherly of him, now is it?"

"I don't understand."

"That seems to be a common theme in these parts. Hold. You were reluctant to part with your garments because they were a present from your father? What about what they were going to do to you?"

"Nothing, I'm sure," she said innocently.

"Nothing? So they undressed you for no reason at all?"

"No silly," she giggled, "they wanted to take my garments for themselves, didn't you hear?"

"For themselves? What use do they have with women's wear?"

"Not for them. The one whom you still wish to hurt said he wished to gift it to his mistress."

"And you believed him?"

"Of course. It is common practice, after all."

"Common practice to maintain a mistress or to forcibly remove clothing from young women in the middle of the woods?"

"Both."

"Madness! All of you. Now where is the rest of your clothes? Put it on while I dispose of this wretch. He is still a thief and will suffer appropriately."

"The 'rest,' sir?"

"Yes, the remainder."

"I don't have any more..."

"What? Did someone else take them?" Sir Epididymis massaged his temples some more. "I'm not out of the woods yet," he sighed.

"Well of course you aren't. Are you blind, good sir?"

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"Thank you for saving my daughter from a most unfortunate fate," the tall, blond, well-built man holding a longbow greeted him.

Sir Epididymis had accompanied the young woman back to her home, which as it so happened, was in the middle of the woods.

"You are welcome."

"As are you... to stay with us any time. Now allow me to introduce myself. I am Long-Bo, leader of the Bo Clan. This..." he referred to a stockier, shorter man beside him holding a smaller bow, "Is my son, Short-Bo. To my other side here is my musical cousin, O-Bo, and unfortunately my younger brother is not with us tonight; he is an itinerant, but if you come across him in your travels--as I'm sure you will--know that he looks just like me, but with a beard, and his name is Ho-Bo."

"I see."

"Of course you have already met my daughter. My little Bim-Bo."

"And how did your clan come by this name?"

"We are all woodsmen. Hunters. Men of the bow. As was my father and my father's father, and perhaps his father as well. But not my father's father's father's father; he was born with only one arm..." Long-Bo paused momentarily. "Now the town whence came those two men you dispatched is lead by the Hat Clan. They have won the local elections six times running and are poised to do so again. They are very popular under the leadership of Mann Hat and his younger brother Mad, whom live in Mann Hat Manor just off of Main Street. His authority goes from the hills over Mann Hat Manor all the way to Mann Hat Inn on the other side of town. Do not rest there; 'tis a silly place."

"Fascinating. And I suppose you are a member of this arch-community?"

"Anarcho-syndicist commune? Yes. Are you not?"

"I am not from this land."

"Ah, I see. Let us sit around the fire and speak of the wonders of our land, then. Afterwards you shall tell us of your land and the freedom found therein."

"Very well."

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"The world is warming, the village elders tell us so!" protested Bim-Bo. "How can you not believe?"

"It is spring, of course the world is warming!" Sir Epididymis pointed out, "it does so every spring. What is there to worry about?"

"No," she insisted. "When our elders were young, it was much cooler than in these years."

"Grandmaster Shale of the Stone Masons has a theory," said Long-Bo. "He believes it is the carpenters and their great demand for wood that brings this calamity upon our times. For without forests there is less shade, and were there is less shade there is more heat."

"Of course a stone mason would blame the carpenters; they are his competitors!" Sir Epididymis objected. "Trees have been felled since Adam left the Garden, why should the earth warm only now? Damn guilds."

"Please don't speak ill of the guilds. Although we have yet to form a local woodsman guild, many of our friends are guild members."

"I apologize."

"Who is Adam, and what garden?" Bim-Bo asked.

"It isn't important," Sir Epididymis massaged his temples.

"Surely you believe each man--and woman--has a right to have a say in how they are governed?"

"Why?" Sir Epididymis scoffed. "Why cannot each man..."

"And woman."

"...And woman, simply determine their own lives?"

"What of your king then? Cannot he determine his own life?"

"Of course! And he does. What of it?"

"Then why must he rule over others?"

"Mostly he doesn't."

"Yes he does! That is what a king is. A tyrant!"

"Now you see here, young lady," Sir Epididymis said roughly, "I will not have you speak of the King of this realm in that manner."

"Help! I'm being impressed!"

"What?"

"You can't silence us."

"Why would I need to?"

"Because you are afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid we will overthrow your oppressive regime."

"Overthrow? And how do you intend to do that?"

"With force if necessary."

"With force? That's treason."

"You can try me for treason, oppressor, but you cannot stop the revolution which will bring peace to the land!"

"You intend a bloody overthrow of the legitimate government and yet say we are the oppressors? And what is more, you claim to bring peace? Madness."

"No king can be legitimate!"

"You are hysterical. We have a system of government which allows each community its own charter--laws and customs, its own festivals and traditions, none of which even the King and Parliament combined can overrule. Your community may be as free as it wishes to be, or as enslaved as it is, but do not say you will--with force--take that freedom from the rest of this land! Because by the grace of God we will stop you. We will root you out, you den of vipers... we will root you out."

"No. Only a mandate from the masses can be legitimate."

"Middle-aged women standing in booths, checking squares on parchment is no basis for a system of government! Supreme executive power derives from Divine mandate, not some farcical popular ceremony. If I went around saying I was emperor, simply because some semi-literate emotionally-invested mob with no conception of self-determination whom also have a penchant for mass thievery and turning on those they supported because conditions have worsened even though neither those they supported nor they themselves changed any policy positions--liked the way I presented myself, they'd put me away."

"You don't frighten us, English pig-dogs!" shouted Short-Bo.

"Well, what are you, then?"

"I'm French!"

"Figures. Wretched frogs always killing your best men," Sir Epididymis pulled out his sword. "I mean you no harm. However, I am leaving this forest now, and I will defend my person, my freedom, and my belongings, if necessary, so help me God."

Short-Bo went for an arrow. There was a flash and his bowstring was cut. "This is your last chance," said Sir Epididymis, "Now let me go in peace."

"Never!" yelled Long-Bo as he knotted an arrow and loosed it at the knight. It was promptly swatted away, however, with a backhand of Epididymis's sword. The knight then lunged forward and pierced lightly the patriarch's throat. Dark blood gushed forth so that Long-Bo was forced to make one of his tunic sleeves into a tournequette.

Meanwhile the knight gutted the silent O-Bo and turned to slash Short-Bo across the chest, whom had rearmed himself with a dagger. Immediately after accomplishing this, Bim-Bo jumped on his back and, removing his helmet, tried to bite an ear off.

"She-dragon!" he cried, pointing his sword upward and using both hands to ram it through her sternum. Removing it with a series of gentle twists, he wiped his sword clean of blood on the grass and brought it to bear against a newcomer: the wandering Ho-Bo.

Long-Bo had told the truth. Ho-Bo looked identical to his brother, but with a beard. A big blond beard. He also had a bow and hooded tunic, both green. So were his leotards and boots and hat verdant.

"Die!" Ho-Bo charged, pulling out arrows and firing them off rapidly as he went.

The knight deftly dodged them all. Then, seeing Ho-Bo had stopped well out of reach, and that Long and Short-Bo were recovering, he sought to end it quickly and hurled his sword at Ho-Bo. It went end over end, sparkling in the firelight, and stuck itself firmly into the broad trunk of a tree. "Missed," Ho-Bo quipped.

"I wasn't aiming for you." (At this point it is important to note that, among other things not previously mentioned in the text of this tale, Sir Epididymis had tied his horse earlier to a tree, which as it so happened, was the same tree into which his sword now stuck. Furthermore, his sword had thereby cut the rope with which his horse was tied.)

Immediately upon being freed, Sir Epididymis's trusty steed pounded Ho-Bo into the ground like a Baghdad Caliph, and then proceeded to do the same to its master's other foes. (Did we also forget to mention that the horse was rather more intelligent than the average horse? Sorry about that. Won't happen again. We swear. Really. You can trust us. Have we ever led you astray before? Other than that one time with the chicken pornography... and the other one with The Adventures of Chris Matthews, Mike Huckabee and the Clintons... and not to mention the... sorry, where were we? Oh yes.)

And so Sir Epididymis--having almost freed the land from the rotten stench of communism--proceeded on his merry way toward the County of Winterset, and from there to Grainwahl, where he was beset upon by many beautiful young women, none of whom were communists. Although one of them was a Unitarian.


And now for something completely different...

Excerpts from the trial of Charles I of England:


I would know by what power I am called hither ... I would know by what authority, I mean lawful; there are many unlawful authorities in the world; thieves and robbers by the high-ways ... Remember, I am your King, your lawful King, and what sins you bring upon your heads, and the judgement of God upon this land. Think well upon it, I say, think well upon it, before you go further from one sin to a greater ... I have a trust committed to me by God, by old and lawful descent, I will not betray it, to answer a new unlawful authority; therefore resolve me that, and you shall hear more of me.

I do stand more for the liberty of my people, than any here that come to be my pretended judges ... I do not come here as submitting to the Court. I will stand as much for the privilege of the House of Commons, rightly understood, as any man here whatsoever: I see no House of Lords here, that may constitute a Parliament ... Let me see a legal authority warranted by the Word of God, the Scriptures, or warranted by the constitutions of the Kingdom, and I will answer.

It is not a slight thing you are about. I am sworn to keep the peace, by that duty I owe to God and my country; and I will do it to the last breath of my body. And therefore ye shall do well to satisfy, first, God, and then the country, by what authority you do it. If you do it by an usurped authority, you cannot answer it; there is a God in Heaven, that will call you, and all that give you power, to account.

If it were only my own particular case, I would have satisfied myself with the protestation I made the last time I was here, against the legality of the Court, and that a King cannot be tried by any superior jurisdiction on earth: but it is not my case alone, it is the freedom and the liberty of the people of England; and do you pretend what you will, I stand more for their liberties. For if power without law, may make laws, may alter the fundamental laws of the Kingdom, I do not know what subject he is in England that can be sure of his life, or any thing that he calls his own.

And from the scaffold:

I must tell you that the liberty and freedom [of the people] consists in having of Government, those laws by which their life and their goods may be most their own. It is not for having share in Government, Sir, that is nothing pertaining to them. A subject and a sovereign are clean different things. If I would have given way to an arbitrary way, for to have all laws changed according to the Power of the Sword, I needed not to have come here, and therefore I tell you ... that I am the martyr of the people.'

Also, last words:

Always look on the bright side of life.

And Did Those Tentacles in Ancient Times...

I originally wanted to eliminate Americanisms, but decided it was unnecessary, especially given a certain line and the irony exposed therein. Also, language, sexual content, and bad pun warning. Parts are a little crude, but it seemed mostly necessary to me:



Across the world there are structures, magnificent structures of stone or concrete or marble, often jewel-encrusted with inlaid gold and pearl, arches and traceried windows, and coppered, bronzed, or even ivoried spires--signaling their presence to all and sundry for miles around. Other structures are more austere. Yet they all have one thing in common; they are all there for a reason.

At first this may seem elementary, trivial even. After all, aren't all structures there for a reason? Appearances, however, can be deceiving. Certainly when a man builds a home he surveys the land carefully; he does not desire the proverbial house built on sand. But how carefully? Does he look for stable ground? Yes. Does he look for access to water, transportation, and a nice view? Yes. Does he look for a nice community and environment in which to raise a family? Hopefully. Does he look for a mystical weak spot interconnected with hundreds--maybe thousands--of other such spots across the world by perfectly straight lines? Probably not. Some men do however. And they build massive structures. They build stark megaliths of simple stone, or temples and tombs resplendent. They build them, and then they die. New men come and inhabit these temples, or gaze at the stones in awe. They may convert a pagan temple to a church, or a church to a mosque, but the structure itself remains. As the structures collapse, no matter how Spartan, regardless of how mysterious their purpose or great the cost, men repair them as best they are able.

One such structure is St. Michael's Tower, perched upon the verdant mound known as Glastonbury Tor like a great cork tightly jammed into a giant grass-covered semi-spherical vessel. No, not like, is. Inside that mound, just beneath the surface of human consciousness, is a bubbling champagne of primeval power ready to pop its cork at any moment. If only it had a little nudge, a removal of its seal, it could be be poured gently into the surrounding lowland. Then, after aeons of fermentation, the world would drink its cup. Not yet though. Not quite yet. For now it waited.

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Meanwhile, elsewhere: something was happening. But of course something was always happening, and what in the affairs of men was not concurrent with the entrapment of a being older than the earth itself? Today, however, something of profound importance to this perpetual Promethean imprisonment was happening. Men were erecting new monuments. More towers. To secure their future, and that of their children and children's children, against the hidden horror that lurked beneath? No. Something else. The ancient mind sluggishly took in the doings of the men. The people no longer believed in it or its brothers. They no longer feared it. Their mistake. This boded well for the 'near' future.

A terrible sigh rolled down the Tor and across the surrounding lowland, echoing off rock and wood and home as of many whisperings. Men shivered and the land trembled.

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A new day. The sun shone in the sky. The birds chirped. The bees buzzed. The construction was finished. The wi-fi towers had been erected. The long wait was over... the ancient town of Glastonbury would have free wi-fi at last.

"Huh?" said the man, who had come with his laptop to visit St. Michael's, "the Tor must be a dead zone." Then, "Bloody!!?" A message had popped up on his screen, reading, Are you an organ donor?

He just stared, dumbly.

Then again, Answer the question. Also, are you a virgin? It is important.

The man slammed his laptop shut. Then he stood up. A searing pain struck him between the ears and he almost fell back down. There was a buzzing in his ears and he felt as if his brain was liquifying. He felt hot blood trickle from one ear as a guard came up to him.

"Alright, sir? Oh dear. This has been happening all day. Damn wi-fi is even killing the birds and the bees... er, you know what I mean."

He didn't. He could barely hear, and still was having trouble standing as the buzzing continued.

"Don't worry. You'll be fine. Humans are more hardy than that. Just come along over to the tower and we can give you some ear plugs and aspirin."

"Thank you," he mouthed, not sure if he had actually said it aloud or not.

The guard took him into St. Michael's. No one else was inside.

"Right over here," said the guard, directing the man to stand on a plaque. "That's right. Now all the pain will go away..." the guard flipped a switch and the plaque slid out from underneath the man, whom fell into the dark below. The plaque promptly returned to its place, and the guard smiled at the next person to come up the Tor.

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That night Ed Mann, a forty-four year old baker in Glastonbury, dreamed what no mortal ever dared before. In his sleep he saw a barren landscape, dusty and strewn with rock and starved shrubs. As the sun set he saw two figures struggling on a cliff. Finding his feet on solid ground, Ed Mann, walking up to see them better, gasped as a club struck surreal as a bolt of lightening and one of the two figures lie limp. The limp figure was heaved upon a flat stone slab and a jagged rock rammed through his chest. The standing man dipped a hand in the blood and put his now bloody thumb to his own forehead, muttering something. Then he turned around--his uneven, stone-cut, long dirty black hair hanging about his eyes and high cheekbones--and seemed to stare animalistically at Ed, whom awoke to a popping sound.

Sparkling lights could be seen outside his bedroom window. Pop. Pop. Pop, went the noise. Just firecrackers. Ed went back to sleep.

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"Well, why not?" asked the Councilman, scolding disappointedly in his musical and rather high-pitched voice.

"People have been complaining..."

"Which people?"

"Many."

"Anyone important?"

"'Important,' sir?"

"Tell me their names."

"Um... let me get the list."

"They must not be very important then," he chirped gaily, grinning. Then, seriously, "Don't bother."

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"Councilman?" a tall, bald, black man entered the room.

"What now?"

"I have the latest report."

"And?"

The man unfurled a map of Glastonbury, setting it on the Councilman's desk.

"There have been reports of illnesses all over Glastonbury."

"How does that concern me?"

"Sir..."

"Go on."

"While there have been reports from all over, most of them center around this region," he traced his index finger over an area of the map. "Right next to the Tor."

The Councilman smiled. "So the project was a success. I have to admit I was a little worried for a while there. Tell me, is there any explanation for why it took so long?"

"Well," the man explained, "we believe it's not enough for the wi-fi towers, that is, to disrupt the ley line energy. That is only the lock. You have to turn the knob and pull to open the door."

"Are you suggesting we destroy the tower? They will never let us."

"No. The keepers are too strong for us. Our Dread Master, however..."

"What about him?"

"He can be awoken."

"How?"

"A sacrifice."

"Obviously. You haven't been doing this very long, have you? What kind of sacrifice? Virgins, goats, babies, a thousand bottles of the finest Dom Perignon? Are we unleashing an unspeakable evil or launching a ship?" he chuckled boyishly, then with a hint of menace, "Because I really want to know."

"Uh, sorry. Teenagers, sir."

"Virgins?"

"Doesn't matter. We need a sexual frenzy followed by a feeding."

"An orgy followed by a light snack. And maybe some of that Dom Perignon I mentioned earlier. Couldn't have said it better myself. Oh, you mean the sacrifice. Well, if that's what we need, get it done."

"W-we will, sir. Tonight. We tried last night, but the, um, 'festivities' were of insufficient..."

"Your party sucked, I believe is what you're trying to say. Did you provide music? Snacks? Alcohol? Drugs?"

"The teenagers brought their own."

"You have the nearly limitless resources of the Deep Ones available to you and you didn't even buy the drugs?" he said, incredulous. "You're a disgrace to your people."

"Sir?"

"Americans, I mean. I'm evil, that doesn't make me a racist. I'm an equal-opportunity misanthrope."

"No, I mean what should we do now?"

"Oh, well, throw a party like the devil himself is coming to town. Come to think of it, I'll take over the party prep, you deal with everything else. Boy, in my younger days I was quite the hell-raiser. Still am, I suppose..."

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"So, after school..." the Twelfth year boy began.

"No." she replied weakly.

"C'mon, it'll be fun."

"James, I don't want to. Besides, my mom would kill me if I did, she's really religious."

"She doesn't have to know," he gently stroked her white-blonde hair.

"I said 'no.'" she replied curtly, looking away.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean... I thought you'd want. I really like you..."

She looked back into his eyes searchingly.

"It's just that," he continued, "you're so cool, and all the other girls are doing it..."

"And that means I should too?" she snapped.

"No." he was emphatic. "I didn't mean that at all. Just that I thought you'd want to. But if you don't, we can always go to a movie or something." He surveyed her cute, porcelain features tenderly. The silky-soft milky-white skin, large, sparkling, bright-blue eyes, tiny ears, delicate chin, small ski-slope nose, and curves, not fully-developed, leading to other nice features. "'Sides," he added, smiling, "you know you'd look good."

She returned the smile, her nose crinkling, and a little blue vein subtly revealed itself on her pale forehead. Then she pursed her small lips.

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

James had convinced his girlfriend, Sabrina, to at least come over after school and take a look. If she didn't want to go, that was fine, he told her, but at least have a peek before deciding. She liked it. A lot. But...

"I can't."

"What?" he said, flabbergasted. "Why not?"

"What would everyone say? Me wearing that."

"I thought you liked it."

"I do. But it's kind of... revealing."

"It will be dark. And there's this," he held up white lace.

"That's see-through."

"It will be dark."

"I heard that. I don't want to."

"Alright," he sighed. "What should I do with all this then?"

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. She couldn't ask for it. Not now. She looked at the gold-embroidered black and scarlet topless corset.

"How did you afford this?" she asked.

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"Councilman, there really is something fishy going on," the woman caught him in the hallway.

"Yes?" he turned around, smiling that devilishly handsome smile of his.

"Last night a group of about a dozen teenagers went to the Tor, and even more are planning on going tonight. Also, a man disappeared there this morning."

"Poof? Up in smoke?" he asked.

"No, just... his wife called..."

"I'm sure he'll turn up."

"What about the teenagers?"

"Did they disappear too?"

"No."

"Keep me posted, then," he strode off.

"Sir?"

"You know what I meant, darling," he called back. He then resumed his party preparations, muttering to himself, "pepperoni or sausage? Ah heck, both."

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"Mr. Snow?"

"Yes?"

"Mr. Lucien Snow?"

Irritated, "Yes?"

"Councilman Snow?"

"Again, yes. Are you now going to ask me for my address and shoe size?"

"That won't be necessary."

"Thirteen and a half, men's, in case you change your mind."

"Mr. Snow, I represent the Queen,"

"Which one?"

"Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland..."

"...And of Her other Realms and Territories Queen?" Councilman Snow interjected.

"Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith," the representative finished.

"And it is in this last capacity, I suspect," said Mr. Snow, "that you are intruding upon me?"

"Yes."

"Say no more. You are interested in the desecration of one of your faith's holiest sites?"

"Yes."

"And yet you probably voted for Gordan Brown's Labour Party in the last election?"

"I fail to see..."

"Answer the question. It is important."

"Fine. Yes. Now can we proceed?"

"Not yet. Why settle for the lesser evil?" Mr. Snow massaged his temples.

"I suppose it's only human. The concern is that the greater evil will be too great."

"I think you mean 'fear.' That's what it all comes down to. Me, I was born without adrenal glands. But that's another story entirely. For now, just let me say I'd be more worried about the superlative than the comparative if I were you."

"Now, let me ask you a few questions, Mr. Snow."

"No. No. No. And no. Not yet. I have one more question for you, and then I will cooperate fully with your investigation." He walked over to a closet and opened wide the door.

"...Which of these," he held up a white suit and a red and blue tie each, "would go better with this for a party?"

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"So they tell me you're a councilman?" she nearly fell over as she approached him. She was a little older than the others, university age. A little bit drunker too. Pretty though. "Ha!" she laughed, regaining her footing. Then, apparently regaining her line of thought as well, "What's that like?"

"Not really interesting at all. Mostly meetings and formality. I do get this cool, shiny medal though..."

She oohed and aahed at its gleaming under the torchlight, then began to lose interest.

"Want to see something really cool?" he asked.

"What's that?" she eyed him suspiciously, managing some degree of lucidity, even if only for a moment.

"Well, I shouldn't. Top secret," he winked, "now how about a cigarette?" He extended his hand and she took the thin white cylinder and put it to her lips. She bent forward and he lit it for her.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked. "You look like a good girl." Another girl nearby scoffed. "And who is this lovely little lady? A friend of yours?"

"She's nobody," the first girl replied.

"Nonsense! The more the merrier, I always say. Well actually, that's the first time I've ever said that, but what's your name, miss?" he said genially.

The girl, younger but prettier than the first, said sheepishly, "Sabrina."

"Are you enjoying the party?"

"I guess so."

"You 'guess' so? Why don't you grab your boyfriend over there and come along with us?" The first girl had a sour look on her face now.

"How did you know my boyfriend?" Sabrina asked.

"Met him earlier. He pointed you out when I asked if he had come with anyone. I told him you two made a cute couple, both very stylishly dressed. But my dear, why the modification to the top?"

"How did you know?" she asked, more suspicious than before.

"Darling, I don't mean to brag, but if there's one thing I know, it's style. And that kind of gown didn't come with a t-shirt underneath. But of course, you still make it look good."

"Style..." she said the word slowly, as if in thought. "Oh, you're gay?"

"Fag?" he replied.

"Huh?"

"Cigarette," he stretched out his hand.

"No thanks," she said quickly.

"Well, why don't you grab... Jack, is it? And I'll show you three..." he looked around, the other girl had gone, "...you two something wonderful."

"I don't know..."

"Why don't you go and talk with him about it? If you decide you want to, you know where to find me. I'm the tall man with silver hair wearing a white suit. In the meantime I'll see if I can find that other girl and her boyfriend."

"She has a boyfriend?"

"I believe she mentioned something to that affect, yes. And I thought you knew her."

"Only by reputation. I thought you were, um, you know," she said shyly.

"Oh. I see," he said coldly. Then, beaming, "I'm married," he held up his hand to show her the gold band with black onyx stone. "Now please," he pleaded in a tender fatherly tone, "don't wear that t-shirt any longer!"

"Um, I can't. There isn't anything here," she put one hand over her chest, "but the lace."

"It's pretty dark out here, but I understand."

"That's what he said," Sabrina looked down, nervously pivoting one foot.

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"Mmmm," Sabrina felt the vibrations in her bones. "It feels like drugs."

"Or like... *hiccup*" the older girl, Tabitha, began.

They were lying, one on her stomach, the other on her back, against one side of the Tor.

"It's warm," said Sabrina.

"It's hott!" exclaimed Tabitha.

"I don't know about this..." said James, he had been standing at the foot of the Tor. Lucien was busy doing something with the altar, a flat stone slab just over half way up the Tor.

"Come on James, the earth is shaking. But not like a tremor. It feels like there's something inside."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he retorted under his breath.

"Yeah, c'mon Jamie boy," said Tabitha. "Your girl wants you to lay down with her. Come and join us."

"Where's your date?" he asked.

"Shhh!" she replied, as if it was some big secret, then giggled.

"Forget this, I'm leaving."

"No!" Sabrina cried.

"Then stop playing around out here in the dark. I don't like this hill."

"It was your idea," Sabrina whined.

"I thought it would be a fun party, with a little ceremony. But..."

"Too real for you?" Councilman Snow was suddenly and surprisingly near the bottom of the Tor now. "You wanted to play sorcerer, but now that the earth is thrumming hotly beneath your feet they've suddenly gone cold?"

"Y-yes," James admitted with an odd mixture of pride and shame.

"Flesh is prickling?"

"..."

"I don't know about him, but mine sure is," said Tabitha.

Sabrina actually let out a little laugh before covering her mouth with her hand. "That's bad," she said.

"I suppose we'll just have to cancel the whole thing then," said the Councilman calmly.

"No!" the two girls cried in unison.

"Fine. I'm leaving."

"James... wait."

"Yes?" he stared Sabrina in the eyes.

"I-I'll wear it without the tee now. Just stay."

He paused. He bit his lip in thought, then, "And we'll go back to the party with everyone else?"

"But..." she protested.

Before everything got out of hand the Councilman said, "Doesn't matter. The party is here. The others will join us shortly.

"Goodbye," it was final. James walked off. As he did so the cold prickling that had hung around his arms and neck like a stubborn coat abated.

"Wonderful. Just wonderful. Now who will be my Second in performing the ceremony?" Mr. Snow said forlornly.

"I will!" the girls shouted in unison once more.

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

Music played. Flickering lights and shouts came from the foot of the Tor. Meanwhile Sabrina found herself sitting on the flat stone altar, bowlegged, her head backwards, staring at the sky, and her bare breasts--exposed through ripped lace--thrust forward. Tabitha sat opposite her, but otherwise identical. Lucien, moving reverently like a priest, brought a large, jagged rock before them. There was a popping sound and a dark wine issued forth, which he poured upon Sabrina's small, though pushed up, pale breasts. This lasted for a good ten seconds, then moving over to Tabitha, he repeated the process. When this was complete, he shouted in a stentorian voice, "...Let's get this party started!" Dozens of teenagers suddenly rushed up the Tor in a wild frenzy, and upon reaching the altar, proceeded even more frenzied, tearing their clothes off; the women were veritable Maenads and the men Silenoi. Tabitha was quickly swept up in the fray--to her delight, and Sabrina stared at her reddened breasts, whispering, "this isn't wine," while the councilman attended to other matters.

Lucien confronted the lone figure marching toward the Tor. "Come back for the fun?"

"No. I've come back to stop you."

"That so?" Mr. Snow let out a bark. "It's a little late for that. I'm leaving. I wanted to enjoy the party a little, but things are progressing so quickly... I don't want to be here when our Dread Master is awoken."

"You're staying right here."

"No. I'm not. Now if you want to try to convince them to stop having fun--if you want to kill the buzz--then by all means have at it."

James gritted his teeth angrily, but said nothing.

"This is really all your fault, anyhow," Councilman Snow whimsied.

"My fault?"

"You brought her here, didn't you? You convinced her to wear the corset and gown I gave you, or was that just a coincidence that she had them on?"

"If she wasn't here you'd have found someone else to do it."

"Not someone so fine--and I do mean fine--but that isn't the point, dear boy. You aren't here to save the world, but just one little girl. And I'm sure your reasons are entirely altruistic," he winked.

James fumed. "And what are your reasons?" he shouted. "Just felt like a party?"

"Yes. And this," Lucien lifted both hands--palms up--in pseudo-spiritual ecstasy as he twirled completely around, "is just the beginning."

"You're sick," James' eyes narrowed.

"But I feel so healthy, doctor!" Lucien mocked.

"I'm going to rescue Sabrina."

"I wouldn't try to stop you even if I could," Lucien told him, adding to himself as James marched up the Tor, "which, come to think of it, I could. What the heck is a sixteen year-old boy thinking when he confronts a giant of a man with demonic connections? I mean really. What do they teach kids in schools these days. No, I blame those bloody Americans and their media. Corrupting influence on today's youth. No two ways about it," he added gruffly. "Oh my, they're getting to me now too. Gods below!"

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James dodged several harpies--actually fairly attractive girls, but they were not behaving attractively--who had lunged at him. He briefly wondered whether they wanted him for a snack or... er, that was pretty much both sides of it. Ever since he first confronted the rather large councilman he had wished he'd brought protection. He quickly abandoned the train of thought, deciding it wasn't going anywhere pretty, and then looked for his half-naked girlfriend. Wow, realization dawned on him, he had really gotten himself into a sticky situation. Ugh. Why was he trying to protect her anyway, she was probably betraying his trust right now. If only he could find her... so he could tell her off. But was that really reason to risk life and limb--ah!--not that limb! A naked long-haired brunette had just grabbed his crotch.

"Leggo!" he shouted.

"Gimme," she shouted back with glee.

"No. That's mine!"

"Duh."

"No!" another girl yelled. "You can't own anything. Frrreeeeeeeee looooovve!" She grabbed his butt and then unfastened his belt while the first girl continued to hold him. He twisted and fell to the ground, briefly getting free, but they were quickly on top of him. Despite their berserker-style intoxication he was unwilling to hurt them, which made it difficult to get free. One of them grabbed the button on his jeans...

Suddenly another boy came and pulled one of the girls off; they tumbled to the ground together and began kissing furiously. Taking advantage of the opportunity--well, rather, electing not to take advantage of the opportunity--he pushed the remaining girl off his thighs and jumped up running. He would have to come in around the back now. He imagined he would later laugh about this--it was like a return to the days of the cooties.

Dodging a few more girls (and one guy) he made it to the altar where Sabrina still sat, staring at her breasts. He pulled her off the slab, simply saying, "We're leaving," and ran. She did not protest. They had barely made it past the bottom of the Tor when Lucien confronted them.

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"Come with me," said the Councilman.

"Not this time," James told him flatly. Sabrina actually seemed to agree.

"I assure you I only want the two of you to join me as witnesses."

"We don't want to witness anything... we've seen plenty already. Right, Sabrina?" She nodded.

"Fine," Mr. Snow acquiesced. "But let me ask you just one question."

"Hurry up."

"See that bench about fifty metres that way," he gestured with his head.

"Yeah?"

"That is the only safe spot for a mile in any direction. I circled salt around it for that purpose. You can join me and watch, or..." he smiled mischievously.

"Damn you."

"Yes, yes. Damn us all."

They walked at a quick pace toward the bench. On the way Lucien offered his jacket to Sabrina to cover up with, saying, "A gentleman has to protect a lady from the cold." James glowered.

When they arrived at the bench Sabrina sat. Peeling Mr. Snow's lent jacket slightly aside like a banana peel to reveal the soft flesh beneath, she peeked at her own breasts, running her fingers over their spattered, drying red coating, saying what she had repeated several times since the 'ceremony' had begun, "This isn't wine, is it, Mr. Snow?"

"Hmm?" he glanced her direction; his eyes had been intensely fixed on the thrumming green bulge. "Oh. That. Yes. It's blood," he said casually.

"Blood?"

"Yes, my dear. And I'm sorry to say it isn't exactly fresh. But mystical forces are very particular."

"Not fresh? What does that mean!!?"

"No reason to get hysterical. It's perfectly hygienic. HIV, for instance, didn't even exist when it was 'bottled.'"

"How 'unfresh' is it!!?" she demanded.

"I can't say for sure. As unfortunately it was some time prior to the written word... but I have it on the best authority--"

"AAHHHHH!" she cried.

"Oh dear. Would it help if I apologized for that and casting a spell on you and all your friends that made you behave in untoward ways? Not to mention all your friends will die... I'm terribly sorry, but some things just can't be helped."

"No, look!" James pointed stiffly, his finger hanging, disbelieving, in the air like some frozen marionette.

St. Michael's Tower had popped off the top of the Tor like a tiny pebble. The Tor ripped down its sides and screams could be heard as the teenagers once atop it--and each other--fell into the horrendous pit that formed in its place. Out of the gaping maw of the earth came a flapping sound. Then a red and yellow--but mostly white--giant arose with a chaotic cacophony accompaniment.

"It's beautiful," Lucien sobbed.

"What is it?" Sabrina asked, horrified.

"It is nothing other than..." he began a drum roll to the creature's giant wing beats. "...The vicious... Chicken of Bristol!" Lucien looked at both of them and said, beaming, "I don't know about you, but tomorrow I'm having giant eggs and Spam for breakfast!"

"Um, so why the orgy exactly?" James asked. "Couldn't you have awoken him with a sunrise or something?"

"No." Lucien answered matter-of-factly. "You see, he's jealous of humans. We are, after all, much more attractive than chickens. But don't take my word for it, why don't you and the 'bird' go over and ask him yourself?"

"I'm sorry, but I am not asking a giant chicken if he is attracted to me," Sabrina cleared her throat.

"But you are the one who aroused... excuse me... awoke him. And you didn't seem to mind his snoring earlier..."

"Snoring? Eww."

"Just think of what it will be like now that he's awake! But you better hurry up--early bird get's the worm!"

"I'd rather not," she wrinkled her nose, "Cock-A-Diddle-Don't."





You wear a disguise to look like human guys, but you're not a man, you're a chicken, Boo!

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.