Dave Littler's Tall Blog of Strength!

Ming day and a plea for help from Vancouver-area folks!

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 01:24:00 GMT

So, after having been promised a week in which to move my stuff to my new place, it turns out that I shall in fact have but two days to get the job done; this Sunday and Monday. This is naturally a cause for distress. Nevertheless, the new place is just two short blocks from my current home, and so it seems to me that with the help of a few friends, easily-accomplished in that time.

And so do I ask you, oh Vancouver-area readers, if you have the will, the means and the opportunity to aid me in effecting this one-man exodus on either of those two days. In addition to the fine conversation to be had, those who take part will be richly rewarded with food and drink specially ordered from a business establishment of their choice! What wonders to behold!

Anyone who feels like they might have even so much as a few hours free on either day, let me know; I expect it to be more or less an all-day process both days, and any help would be appreciated.

I could write a better god with my ass tied behind my back!

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 14:32:36 GMT

I was giving some thought to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah the other day.

Most of you will be in broad terms familiar with this fairy tale, but let me sketch it out in brief terms anyways. In the ancient middle east, there were, according to this story, two cities named Sodom and Gomorrah which were exceptionally sexualized societies. The details are a little sketchy, but it seems that homosexuality was not frowned upon, and it is heavily implied that gang rape was a pretty socially accepted sort of thing as well. These were, in short, people who were pretty committed to this whole “sexing” thing. The christian (or, at the time, Hebrew) god, Yahweh, decides that he doesn’t care for the looks of this place too much, and, in one of his frequently not-actually-all-that-omniscient-after-all moments, decides he needs to investigate this town. He makes a deal with his sycophantic toady, Abraham, that if there’s so much as a single person in the city who conforms to his morality, then he’ll let the matter slide.

He sends a couple of his angels on a fact-finding expedition, where they lodge with Abraham’s nephew in town, Lot. While there, they make quite the impression upon the population, who mob Lot’s house in an attempt to get freaky with these angels. Lot, whose sense of family values seems to be about as shakey as that of his uncle, decides that he would rather see his daughters gang raped in the street than allow two angels who could plainly take care of themselves to be confronted by an unruly and evidently horny mob. The mob is having none of it, though, and the angels announce that, as a result, their god is going to have them murder every living thing in the cities. As such, Lot and his family are told to leave and not look back, which 75% of them manage to do (Lot’s wife bringing the family’s total grade down from a solid A+ to a merely respectable C by glancing over her shoulder as she ran and being killed by the angels for the act in a kind of puzzlingly vindictive dick move).

When they’re up in the hills, with the city being rendered a flaming and stinking ruin (the benefit that using fire AND brimstone rather than just fire is not made exactly clear, but one assumes that the unpleasant aroma is meant to be some sort of additional penalty), Lot and his two daughters settle down for the night, and his daughters demonstrate that they were not altogether untouched by the culture of their hometown, as their very first impulse is to drug and rape their father, which they do with gusto.

There’s something that occurs to me, when I think about all of this, though; even if we assume that each and every person in these cities were somehow irredeemably evil, and we assume that Yahweh has the moral prerogative to murder them all as a result (which is a central assumption within the story, so I won’t really get into it here and now beyond calling it “bullshit”), there’s still the sticky question of the children and babies which resided in town, especially vis a vis murdering them for the fact that they happened to have had the wrong parents.

These would be children born to parents whose propensity for sexual violence is well-documented, and who would have grown up without role models or cultural influences to the contrary. It stands to reason that the overwhelming majority would have been the victims of childhood sexual abuse, and that, as with many sufferers of childhood sexual abuse, they would grow up to perpetuate the very same acts of violence they were exposed to during their formative years. All of which is to say that these would be difficult kids to deal with. But did they deserve to die for having been born into the wrong culture? For having been the victims of unfortunate circumstances beyond their control?

This is especially problematic for modern-day christian fundamentalists, whose ethos in large part revolves around the prevention of the killing of anything they call a “baby”, even if the “baby” in question is an unthinking, unfeeling lump of undifferentiated cells floating senselessly in a woman’s womb. How then do they square away the fact that their god would so cavalierly murder such a large group of innocent children and babies? The fact is, this is not an isolated incident; Yahweh had previously murdered every child on Earth during Noah’s Flood, and set Moses and Joshua about a path of genocide which saw them exterminating every living member of not fewer than thirteen city states throughout the lands which would come to be known as Israel. The murder of the first-born of Egypt before the Exodus, and the bizarre story of Yahweh sending a pair of bears to slaughter a group of fourty-two children for having made fun of Elisha (Yahweh evidently never having learned the lesson “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”). This is, in short, a fairly genocide-happy god, whose willingness to slaughter innocent children for being in the wrong place at the wrong time is well-documented.

One explanation I’ve heard christians offer a few times for this sort of wanton baby-murdering behaviour on the part of their god runs somewhat along these lines : “Once their parents were dead, who would care for them? Who had the resources? There wasn’t the social infrastructure in place to take in that many orphans. Better that they should die quickly than starve to death slowly afterwards.” This line of thinking, it seems to me, is somewhat problematic for essentially the exact same reason, though: It seems to convey the message that if a child is unwanted, and would be a burden on society, then Yahweh says it’s totally cool to just kill them so as not to cause a fuss. I’m not certain this is exactly what these apologists are looking for here.

But more importantly, it overlooks the whole “miracle” angle! This is a god who is plainly not only totally cool with big, flashy displays of magical power, he actually WANTS people to take notice of his great big miracles. In light of this, it seems like a genuinely omnibenevolent god could have very easily have provided a happier ending to this story...

And Lot did look upon the ruins of the city, and there amidst the rubble did be behold a miraculous sight.
Though the destruction of the town was complete, and no living man or woman was there to be found, there were, among the ruins, a vast multitude of children, unharmed by the fire and brimstone unleashed upon them by the Lord.
And Lot did realize that the Lord was merciful, for he had spared the lives of those innocent children of his town. But still did he ask aloud, “Oh, Lord! Who shall care for so great a multitude of children, that they should not starve?”
And the angels of the Lord did descend to the ground before Lot, and thus did they speak unto him: “For thou were the most righteous of all of the men of this town, thou hast been spared. And as the Lord is just and good, he hath no unleashed his fury upon these children, for it is an evil act to visit the sins of the father upon the child. The Lord hath lain this charge upon you, his noble servant, that you should be as a father to these children, that they might be raised to be righteous, as you are righteous in the eyes of the Lord.”
And though Lot was grateful for this blessing, still did he wonder how he would carry out this charge. “I am but one man, without home or lands or servants. How am I to feed and house and clothe so many?” he asked of them.
“Fear not”, they did reply, “For the Lord is generous to those who serve him well as thou hast done. For all of thy days, thou shalt have no difficulties in raising these children, nor want for food nor clothing nor space for them. All that thou needest that thou might raise them well will be given unto you.”
And Lot was grateful, and praised the Lord for his great generosity. And so he went forth and gathered unto him the orphaned children of Sodom and Gomorrah.
And it came to pass as the angels has spoken. A great new home, like unto a palace was given unto Lot, with rich lands and many servants to till the soil. The children were raised as Lot’s own progeny, and when they came of age, Lot’s daughters took from among the finest of them two husbands, that their tribe might flourish and prosper.
And in the fullness of time, they did honour Lot, and honour the Lord who did spare them, and across the land, all marveled at his great blessings and at the generosity and kindness of the Lord he served.

You know how strong Superman is? I’ll tell you. He’s exactly as strong as the writer writing him decides that he needs to be for the purposes of the story at hand, because telling a good story is often more important than consistency. The writers of the bible got this; sometimes it was necessary for a good story to write their god as being all-knowing and all-powerful. Sometimes it was necessary to write him as bumbling and idiotic. It all depended upon what the story at hand called for. In this case, the needs of the story were such that they had to have a god who was kind of ignorant and needed to send some of his guys to find stuff out for him, and who lacked the ability and/or character and/or imagination to figure out how to deal with the situation in a just manner. The point of the story, after all, was to convey a moral message which was easily understood to the casual reader: “I’M GOD AND YOU WILL FUCKING OBEY ME OR I WILL FUCKING SMASH THE SHIT OUT OF YOU BECAUSE I’M GOD AND I FUCKING HATE EVERYBODY.” A scary story like that does not call for the sort of kind and loving god that later writers would decide would benefit their narrative.

Still, to a literalist who believes the bible to be a true and accurate account of events which actually happened, it’s got to be a little difficult to square away this sort of abhorrent behaviour on the part of their god with the notion of him which they try so desperately to maintain and project upon would-be converts. Especially if they also hold to the currently-popular and kind of science-fiction-y idea that, to their god, all of time is one moment, and he experiences the past present and future all at once from his omniscient point of view. Not only do they need all sorts of excuses and evasions to explain why he would ever need to send his guys to find something out for him, they also need to deal with the idea that, while they’re shouting about how killing fetuses is wrong because their god says so in the present day, from that god’s perspective, he is at that very same moment killing every fetus on Earth during the flood, killing every fetus in Sodom and Gomorrah, and ordering his dudes Moses and Joshua to murder every fetus in Canaan.

It seems like there has to be some kind of weird cognitive dissonance there.

Which is odd, because ordinarily, Christian fundamentalism leads to all kinds of clarity and consistency, right?

Share the Wealth Wednesday #5

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 22:15:18 GMT

Well my oh me! Could it be Wednesday again so soon? Where DOES the time go?

This week, I've got another oldie but goodie, and one which I THINK is obscure enough that it should be new to a sizable enough portion of the population to whom it would be of interest.

There's this fellow on YouTube, you see. And he creates these amazing short videos by creatively editing footage from episodes of Star Trek : The Next Generation into these absurd, minimalist comedies. He has, creatively, entitled this series "The Next Generation", and there are over thirty of them thus far. While they do stand alone well on their own, there are running gags and whatnot which serve to create an overall violation of the sensibilities of anyone who's ever been a fan of the show which is at times quite breathtaking. I present for your consideration what I consider to be perhaps the best set of four episodes by means of demonstration.

So! What have you got this week, dear friends? What entertaining thing, to be found at the click of a mouse, might we enjoy as you have enjoyed it? It is time, ladies and gentlemen, to Share the Wealth!

The Curse of the Rhino King - Chapter 14 (in astonishing Audio-Rama Format!)

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 03:26:01 GMT

Sorry about the lateness of this posting; the virus which I spoke of last week ended up being rather more vigorous than I had thought, and I wasn't able to have it entirely expurgated until late on Saturday, and I knew there was no way I would be able to have it up in any reasonable time.

But we return, now, with chapter 14, in which, I fear, Reginald and his crew come off as a trifle unsympathetic in places. But I suppose that's for you, the audience, to decide for yourselves.

Chapter 14

Download Chapter 14 directly here

Download Chapter 13 directly here

Download Chapter 12 directly here

Download Chapter 11 directly here

Download Chapter 10 directly here

Download Chapter 9 directly here

Download Chapter 8 directly here

Download Chapter 7 directly here

Download Chapter 6 directly here

Download Chapter 5 directly here

Download Chapter 4 directly here

Download Chapter 3 directly here

Download Chapter 2 directly here

Download Chapter 1 directly here

Chapter 14

June 11, 1912, Aboard The Regal Swine II (provisional), off the coast of England.

The remains of the day went about as smoothly and uneventfully as they might have been expected to. Jack and Helmut continued their childish caterwauling about “shadowey figures”, even once we were aboard the new ship, but soon enough I had heard quite enough of their “We’re all in serious danger” and “will you stop ignoring me” nonsense and had them both confined to below-decks until they could learn to relax and enjoy one of the more peaceful elements of an adventuring lifestyle often fraught with danger, untidiness and unavoidable contact with uncivilized foreigners: the ocean voyage.

Which is not to say that the voyage was without its small frustrations and misadventures in and of itself. Far from it. I was of course familiar with Blackhawk’s refurbished freight ship, having faced it in battle from across the waves in the past, and so had developed a not-inconsiderable loathing of the ship prior to ever setting foot aboard her. An impression which I am sad to say was in no way diminished by a first-hand experience with her.

When first my team and I boarded the vessel, we were veritably assaulted by a pungent stench which seemed to permeate the entire interior of the great black ship high and reeking, it was like unto a curtain hung from the door frame, composed of a collection of all of the foul and unclean things on Earth, vapourized and suspended in the air for the dubious enjoyment of the deranged and mentally diseased.

“It smells like a goddamn chicken coop in here,” Jack commented, the first to put words to what we were doubtless all thinking.

“That’s it! The very thing!” Miss Elliot responded, holding a handkerchief to her nose in a futile effort to block out the reeking miasma. “Mister Blackhawk, what on earth is that horrid stench?”

Blackhawk, imperturbably, inhaled deeply of the very fumes which, even now, saw Professor Rutherford retching violently over the railing of the gangplank. “Horrid, you say?” he asked. “Personally, I find it altogether intoxicating. If you are curious, I would be more than happy to show you. Or at the very least, those of you who feel they have the fortitude to bear witness to something altogether remarkable.”

There were few takers; most of my men seemed to have some ready excuse or another, and opted instead to be shown to their quarters. Only Ivan, whose own natural aroma seemed to be fighting a valiant and apparently winning battle with that of the ship, Barty, whose boyish curiosity as pertains to all things vile and unpleasant overcame his revulsion, and Miss Elliot, who I’m not altogether certain understood that she was being led closer to the source of the stench (and seemed to think that this would somehow spare her the worst of it) dared to brave the belly of the particular beast. I, myself, naturally, though no less nauseated by the stench than I was by Blackhawk himself, refused to be dissuaded by anything as fleeting as my own violent gagging, and was glad to accept.

As the others saw their belongings squared away, we four were led deeper into the bowels (and never was such a term more appropriate!) of the ship, until at last we came to a wide open area which seemed to be open to the sky above via a sort of skylight in the middle of the room, and which, on this rainy evening, was lit by electric lights all about. The scene which was thus illuminated was a surreal one: The central hold of this former freight vessel had been converted into a vast and sprawling aviary. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of bird cages of all sizes and descriptions, containing an equally varied menagerie of birds, ranging from the colourful and fanciful Birds of Paradise of New Guinea, to the monstrous and seemingly-demonic Emu of Australia, to even more exotic and bizarre avians which I was not certain modern science yet had names for. The noise was all but deafening, and no less overpowering than the reek of dung which hung, choking, over the entire room. Even as I watched, a half-dozen sailors scurried about the bizarre marine aviary, changing food and water dishes, cleaning out slops and otherwise maintaining the grand spectacle. As overwhelming an experience as all of this was, however, there remained one curiosity which towered, both figuratively and literally, above all others.

“What’s in that one there?” Barty asked, pointing at a giant cage, perhaps two stories tall an proportionately wide, which dominated the centre of the room and which was covered by an equally giant tarp. “That where you keep your big fat mum when you’re not buggering her?”

Blackhawk gave a sort of choking noise at this and then forced a bit of a laugh. I could not help but smile as Blackhawk grated out “Precocious child! No, young man, what I keep in here is something rather special.”

“Is that what you call your mum? ‘Cause the guys I spoke to said her bum was nothing special.”

“Kingsley!” He shouted, his eyes wide with fury. “Discipline your brat! His manners are atrocious!”

“Discipline him? He hardly seems to be the one in the wrong here. After all,” I grinned at him like a Cheshire cat, “He isn’t the one who has indecent relations with his own mother.” Barty smiled at me broadly, and I fondly placed my hand upon his shoulder. “After all, his mother is dead.”

By this time, Ivan was barking out great loud laughter, and Blackhawk was going red in the face with fury. I noted with some satisfaction that even Miss Elliot, though plainly offended at Barty’s salty talk, could barely stifle her own laughter.

Encouraged, Barty began chanting in a sing-song voice “Fucks his big fat mum in her big fat bum! Fucks his big fat mum in her big fat bum!”

Finally, Blackhawk could stand no more of this and exploded. “Still your tongue, you insolent brat, or else I shall have you chopped up and fed to my ravenous, flesh-eating emperor penguins!”

Miss Elliot gasped in horror at this, and Barty, bless his heart, had the presence of mind to feign tearfulness as he began to wail at the idle threat. Gifted by the lord though she may have been with womanly compassion and nascent maternal instincts, she had not been so generously endowed with the sort of wits that the rest of those present were, and was as such quick to accept Barty’s small ruse on face value. She moved to hug him to her bosom with her sole remaining arm, and looked scathingly at Blackhawk, who was even now realizing his error. “How dare you, Mister Blackhawk!” She exclaimed. “To say such a thing to a mild and innocent boy like this! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

Blackhawk, though, was quick to recover his composure. “Oh, I am, Miss Elliot, I am!” he gushed, feigning remorse, “I beg both your and young master Bartholomew’s forgiveness. It is not the boy himself but the inept and careless upbringing which he has received which is to blame, and I should not have been so swift to lash out at him. I was simply offended on your behalf, Miss Elliot; it wounded me to see you so assailed with such uncouth language.”

I rolled my eyes and glanced over towards Ivan, who I saw had lost interest in the exchange; he gently held in his massive hands a sort of emerald and crimson bird which he had removed from its cage, and with great care was prying its ribcage open so that he might observe its frantically-beating heart as it attempted, weakly, to escape his great, paw-like hand. As Blackhawk’s gaze began to swivel about to where Ivan stood, the great Russian swiftly stuffed the still-living bird into his mouth and swallowed it whole, grinning serenely by the time that my nemesis set eyes on him once more. I could barely contain a chuckle of amusement at his antics, and resolved to suggest that Ivan spend as much of his time in the aviary as possible during this voyage.

Blackhawk, for his part, was talking again. “Allow me to make amends,” he said, all unctuous mock-charm once more. He strode towards the giant cage which even then must surely have contained his slumbering behemoth of a mother. “Though it is far too early to reveal the contents ... the true contents”, he added with a small twist of displeasure to his lips, “of this cage, I shall give you one hint. I suggest you hearken well, Kingsley, for it may be the one opportunity you shall ever have, and should you find yourself unprepared, I daresay that you and all of England shall be forfeit.”

“Spare me your charity, you blackguard!” I cut him off, imperiously. “I shall discern the truth of this matter on my own or not at all, and England be dashed if I don’t!” I was by now filled with patriotic fervor, and made no secret of it. “I shall furthermore discern it at a time and place of my choosing, not of yours, and not when the truth of the matter just so happens to be sitting a few short feet away from my face! Neither England nor I nor anyone else shall ever benefit from any act or gesture on your part, you brigand. Now be silent about the matter and continue to sail us to Ireland. I have had quite enough of your so-called aid.”

With that, I turned grandly on my heel and made to storm off out of the aviary, trusting my companions to follow in my wake. Miss Elliot continued to comfort and gentle Barty, whose continued weeping and wailing served as cover for his deliberate collisions with no fewer than three fine gilded cages, each of which were sent toppling to the ground, evidently unbeknownst to the boy, so lost was he apparently in his feigned distress. I was made quite proud of the boy: He was growing up to be a fine little gentleman. I was no less glad to put the stench and noise of the room behind me than I was Blackhawk’s own noxious presence.

My next rude surprise came a short while later as I was nearing the quarters which had been assigned me, and caught sight of a sort of mural adorning one of the corridor walls outside of what I would in time learn to be Blackhawk's own personal quarters. The mural was grotesque, depicting a sort of horrible boar tearing asunder the abdomen of a royal-looking fellow who bore a disturbing resemblance to our late King Edward, and gorging itself hideously upon his innards as the monarch struggled for his life in a distastefully weak and impotent manner. Even more horribly, the appalling regicidal beast wore upon its head a bloodied royal crown, which seemed to fit the animal's head more aptly than it might a human head. Behind and above this dreadful struggle, a gnarled and leafless tree grew, in whose leaves lurked a great black buzzard, whose intent and hungry stare gave no room for doubt as to what it intended soon to be feasting on, and by extension, wherefrom the ship derived its hateful epithet. Below this gruesome scene lay a brass plaque into which had been etched the words “The Time Shall Soon be Upon us...” I could not help but shudder invoulentarily both at the lurid scene and at the treasonous tone of its inspiration. Were I not so intimately acquainted with the moral depravity of the owner of this ship, I might have been shocked in a measure equal to my offense at the sight of it. As it stood, though, I could but marvel at the thought that the owner of such a display could walk freely on the streets of England without finding himself jailed for the offense.

My patriotic spirit quailed at the thought of it.

“An abomination,” I muttered furiously. “Absolutely abominable.”

Miss Elliot, close at hand, gave me a curiously questioning look at this, but offered no comment nor inquiry, which was just as well for my sake. It had been a long and trying day, and I was frankly prepared to lay myself down in whatever accommodations had been made ready for me.

As I entered the cabin, I was not altogether pleased. I concede some small measure of jealousy in this; I had of course been quite set upon taking advantage of the finery and comfort of my own master stateroom aboard the Regal Swine for this journey, and the comparatively humble room which I now occupied hardly measured up. Blackhawk, by comparison, must have been sleeping in considerably greater ease and opulence, which rankled me. It occurred to me, abruptly, that I sincerely wished that Captain Guinee had not been so dead-set upon being an irrational woman earlier; her pirating skills could have availed us considerably here, as I should in that moment have been very glad to have commandeered the vessel and to take Blackhawk’s quarters for myself. I decided in the morning I should speak to Jack, who, as a Yankee, was in essence a pirate himself and thus might be able to find it within himself to take care of this matter on my behalf.

More immediately, though, sleep beckoned. I unpacked Cleopatra from my duffle bag, cleaned and checked her ammunition and then placed her at the table by my bedside before settling down for a night of sleep at sea, silently counting, as I did so, the days ahead of me before we would set foot on the savage coast of the Ireland shore.

The second day of the voyage began considerably more pleasantly than the previous one had ended, however, as we outpaced the storm clouds behind ourselves and found ourselves the happy recipients of some pleasant summer weather, the sun shining brightly overhead and the cool sea breeze combining to create an altogether pleasant atmosphere, which it was decided we would take advantage of in the form of a meal taken near the bow, where we could enjoy the view and the vista of seemingly unending ocean all about us. Barty, some twenty feet away, was busy vivisecting a seagull he had downed with a shot to the wing with his pistol. How like a little Leonardo DaVinci he was, always curious as to the inner workings of all living things. He could go through a dozen cats in a week if he were sufficiently bored at home, and it warmed my heart to see that he had determined that his studies were not to be interrupted by our journey.

My father, Professor Rutherford, Miss Elliot, Blackhawk and I were present, and despite certain inevitable tensions, we were, by limiting our discussion to the sorts of pleasant and polite banalities which were a time-honoured and traditional sort of fare in society circles, nevertheless able to maintain a certain level of peace. The Professor and my father were in high spirits, for their parts, recounting tales of their adventures together in their now-remote youth, which Miss Elliot found quite enchanting, and which even Blackhawk listened to in respectful silence.

Or so it went until I saw my father struggling with his wheelchair rolling about with the swaying of the ship, and made what turned out to be a disastrous observation. “Papa,” I began, “you are aware, are you not, that there is none aboard this vessel of consequence who is unaware of the fact that you are feigning your infirmity? There is no reason why you need to confine yourself to your wheelchair...”

His eyes went wide with rage, and he jabbed me in the chest with his walking stick, savagely, standing up from his chair so that he might thrust his face towards mine, bringing it to within a few inches of my nose as he spoke. All around the table, the others went instantly quiet, presumably out of respect for my father and his manifest desire that he be heard clearly. “How dare you!” he screamed, “How DARE you? For you, of all people to preach at me about my infirmity! It is your fault” he bellowed, placing special emphasis on these last two words, “that I am so infirm! Why, before your sister and you came along, I was a young man! Young, and full of life! And now look at me”, he held his hands up to me, as though I had not seen them before. “I am old, now! Crippled and elderly! With death bearing down upon me like a raging bull! And it all began the moment that you… you and your blood-sucking parasite of a sister came into this world and began to leech the very vitality from me! And now!” he shrieked, pointing to his wheelchair with his walking stick, “Now I am confined to this infernal device, forever denied the simple pleasure of standing on my own two feet!” He was pacing about the deck furiously, now, while his wheelchair rolled gently back and forth with the rocking of the ship behind him, “all because of you! And in spite of this” he veritably spat at me, his eyes narrowed in fury, “You have the gall to tell me to stand and walk? For shame, boy! Shame on you, and shame on me for ever having brought such an ingrate as yourself into this world!” He sat heavily back down in his chair at this, and smoothed out the blanket he periodically covered his supposedly-crippled legs with.

“Now fetch me something to drink, boy! And make it strong! I have a bitter taste in my mouth from needing to address you directly!”

“Yes, pa-pa,” I replied, mortified by my own presumption. He was truly the best amongst us, and yet, for all of my best efforts, I seemed incapable of doing aught but infuriate and annoy him. That I had so shamed myself in front of my arch-nemesis and the woman who I hoped to deny him the love of was but an additional thorn in my side. I silently and solemnly vowed to redouble my efforts to be a son worthy of this towering colossus of a man.

It was as I made my way away from the table in search of some refreshments for my father that I noticed that the ship had lost some of its momentum. Curious, I walked to the railing and peered down at the water below, whereupon my suspicions were confirmed: there was but the slightest bow wave about the front of the vessel, and even as I watched, it seemed to still, and it was plain that we had come to a halt. I was about to inquire about this turn of events when I heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots down below, and the sounds of savage screams to accompany them.

It seemed that our pleasant lunch had been brought to an abrupt and premature end, and I resolved to make whomever was responsible pay for the effrontery against myself, my companions, and the sacred institution of lunch itself.

On the Manufacture of Outrage

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 15:00:50 GMT

The other day, US president Barack Obama, in his good-will tour of the far east, committed the
insufferable social gaffe of spreading good will. Specifically, while meeting Japan’s emperor, he
bowed at the waist in an approximation of the traditional Japanese gesture of greeting for a respected
figure. I say an approximation because, traditionally, one does not also shake hands while doing so,
which Obama did in this instance, but neither he nor the meaningless figurehead monarch seemed to
mind the fact that Obama bowed any more than the Emperor minded shaking hands. It was very much
a meet-you-half-way sort of gesture of politeness which no reasonable or rational human being could
honestly find fault with.

The OUTRAGE!

It should therefore come as no surprise, then, to learn that former US vice president and current
professional whiner, Dick Cheney, found fault with this, saying that America’s enemies would see in
this simple gesture of politeness a weakness which they could exploit. How demeaning and belittling
the sitting US president in this way is supposed to have weakened America less than seeing him act in
a polite manner is a little bit vague, as is the question of why, if Cheney is so concerned with
America’s president appearing strong, Cheney does everything in his power to weaken him a little bit
more each day. How, also, these un-named but presumably dark-skinned enemies might go about
exploiting this weakness is not a detail which he saw fit to elabourate upon; perhaps he envisions them
sending a group of Japanese emperors into the battlefield, and then, when American forces, emulating
their Commander In Chief, bowed before them, the enemy forces could take advantage of the
momentary distraction by opening fire upon them.

The more realistic* scenario is that Cheney woke up in the morning, rose from his coffin, ate his
traditional breakfast of freshly-plucked baby hearts boiled in a broth of virgins’ tears, and then
searched “Obama” on Google News to see what specific act there was in the news that day which
Cheney could publicly criticize. Finding Obama bent at the waist in one of the photographs, he grunted
“Guess that’ll have to do”, and had his bug-eating manservant call around to the usual media outlets to
see who would give him a platform for the criticisms he was even then formulating.

Indeed, I envision a parallel universe which is in all way identical to our own, save that at that moment,
Obama chose not to bow, but rather simply to shake hands. I envision, in that universe, Cheney having
words somewhat along these lines:

“President Obama’s failure to observe something as simple but as important as this culturally-
significant gesture indicates precisely what myself and others have been saying about him for some
time now. It shows his ignorance, his arrogance and his elitism. I think that America’s enemies will see
this failure on his part as a sign of weakness, if you will, and one which they can exploit. A president
which cannot be bothered to understand foreign cultures, as President Obama has shown himself to be
today, is one which will also be unable to understand the threats posed by certain radical elements
within foreign cultures. It is precisely this sort of inexperience that should have precluded him from
holding an office he is plainly unqualified and unprepared to hold, and this sort of hubris and self-
importance which keeps him so out of touch with the world around him.”

In two other, somewhat more distant parallel realities, in both of which John McCain won the 2008
presidential election, wherein McCain met with the emperor of Japan and, in one, bowed before him,
and in the other did not, the Dick Cheneys of these worlds had nothing whatsoever to say on the topic,
recognizing it as so trivial as to be unworthy of comment.

*It's all relative, really.

Share the Wealth Wednesday #4

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 14:55:05 GMT

It is once again Wednesday, and with this turning of the week, we once again find ourselves in line for that most exciting and fruitful of occasions; Share the Wealth Wednesday!

For those who do not yet know, and for those who have forgotten, allow me to elucidate in brief: Every Wednesday, we share some Neat Thing we have discovered on the net which others can share in and enjoy with no more than a few mouse clicks. A YouTube video, a video game, a webcomic, or whatever. While things which are new are always to be preferred, since things which have not existed for long are more likely to be new and novel to a larger number of people, the fact remains that even the very oldest of websites are as new as the day’s sunrise to someone who’s never seen them. Therefore, each Wednesday, we Share the Wealth, posting about these Neat Things here, for the benefit and enjoyment of all.

For my own contribution this week, I put truth to my own words by presenting something which has existed for the better part of a decade but which I only became aware of a month or so ago. There exists in the city of Austin, Texas, a public access television show entitled “The Atheist Experience”, which exists as a sort of outreach program for a group called the Atheist Community of Austin (or ACA, if you prefer), serving not only to discuss a wide range of topics – though predominantly religious and philosophical by nature - from an atheistic standpoint, both to educate the larger, largely christian community of Texas, as to who and what atheists are, and to show that they’re not the monstrous devil-worshippers that their preachers would have them believe they are.

In this, they are only partially successful.

Because, you see, this is Texas. And Texans are ORNERY. They’re aggressive, brash and loud. This applies to both the atheists on the show and their largely-christian callers. For you see, this is a call-in show, and their calls are always awesome, being, as they are, dialogues between two equally abrasive and loud groups with wildly differing world-views. I absolutely love watching this show. Doing so is possible because they not only also stream their show online – giving it a global audience – they also have an impressive archive of past shows going back some four years or so, which are freely downloadable and/or viewable online. I have lately been going through them at a rate of two or three episodes per week, and absolutely loving them. Give ‘er a look, eh wot?

Here's one of my favourite episodes, in which the hosts discuss in some depth the prevelant and ongoing meme of "Those angry atheists".

So! What about you folks? Share the Wealth!

The Curse of the Rhino King - A brief technical delay

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 14:50:22 GMT

I have to offer apologies for not having a new chapter of The Curse of the Rhino King up yesterday. My computer was – and to some extent still is – suffering from one of the most cunning and aggravating viruses I’ve ever seen. Among its various and dreadful effects, it made it impossible to make use of any of my computer’s sound equipment and also made it impossible for any of my programs to access the internet. While I’ve dealt with the bulk of the problems (save for the niggling little detail that I still haven’t managed to get that computer online), I didn’t manage to do so until late last night, and as such, it wasn’t possible to get anything ready. I promise to have one ready early on Saturday, on-schedule, though, even if I have to post it from my crappy emergency backup computer (from which I’m posting right now).

The Curse of the Rhino King - Chapter 13 (in astonishing Audio-Rama Format!)

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 02:38:05 GMT

Sorry for posting this so late in the day. It ended up being a bit more technically challenging than I expected to get some of the audio effects working the way I wanted them to. I hope you all enjoy what I've accomplished here (or at least, aren't annoyed by it); it's bugged me just a little bit that the dialogue and sound effects seldom reflect the acoustics of the environment in which the scene takes place (which I began to address last chapter), so with this one - which takes place entirely in a cramped metal room - I've taken significant pains to rectify this.

Thanks to all of the (many!) voice actors who participated in this chapter, one of whom we're hearing for the first time here.

Download Chapter 1 directly here

Chapter 13

As Jack and I were arriving in the engine room, the lights were only just coming back on, and I spotted Helmut, Captain Guinee and Professor Rutherford inspecting the engines, which looked rather the worse for wear; a great section of the turbine had been bent and torn out of place, leaving much of the assembly around it deformed and rent asunder in the process. The bodies of a pair of crewmen, seeming to have been bludgeoned to death nearby, gave mute testament to the ineptitude of the lower classes among my employ. Even as I was arriving, others were filtering in behind me; I spotted over my shoulder my father, in his wheelchair, being lowered gently down the steps by Margarida and Ivan.

“What the devil’s happened down here?” I demanded. “Has somebody’s rough housing gotten out of hand again? I’d given strict instructions that horseplay in the engine room be kept below level three.” I pointed at a notice I had had posted to the bulkhead near the door to this effect. “But it looks like these two chaps were at least at level six! Perhaps seven! Do I need to lower it yet further to level two?” I asked menacingly.

“Perhaps... as a cautionary measure,” Helmut responded, rather cautiously himself, I privately chuckled as I thought to myself, “but I think perhaps this is more likely an act of sabotage.”

“Sabotage!” I exclaimed, looking about skeptically, “Explain yourself, man!”

Professor Rutherford turned around from his place near the wreckage of the engine, smiling toothlessly at the evident opportunity to educate someone. “Sabotage, my dear boy!” he wheezed, “It’s the act of deliberately damaging or destroying an object or device in the hopes of preventing it from being put to its intended purpose. Quite nasty, business, usually. We’re just lucky in a case such as this that nobody got hurt!” Nobody seemed to have the heart to disabuse the nearly-blind old man of the notion, nor yet of that that he was contributing to our overall body of knowledge.

“Very helpful,” I allowed. “What about you, Helmut? Anything you wish to amplify your claim with?”

“Ja! Just after the engines stopped and the lights went out, Jack and I spotted some shadowey shapes fleeing the scene. The gunshots you heard were Mr. Cartwright’s efforts to halt their flight.”

“The sons of bitches were quick, though. Right quick. They was out that porthole up yonder before I could drill either of ‘em,” Jack added. He was handling his gun rather angrily, I thought, as he spoke. Almost as though he blamed the weapon for his own imagined inadequacy.

“Superstitious hogwash!” My father blustered, having just had his chair put down on the floor. “Your fat Bavarian and his Yankee catamite are jumping at their own shadows!”

“Herr Kingsley, I hardly think...” Helmut sputtered.

“Now hold your damn horses you crazy old goat...” Jack bellowed at the same moment.

I waved them both to silence. “Professor Rutherford, what do you say? You were next on the scene, were you not?”

“Ah! Well,” he seemed to be chewing the idea over in his hideously toothless maw. “Many cultures have legends of shadow-people of one sort or another, but two or three times out of ten, you’ll find, it’s nothing more than a trick of the light.”

“There you have it, then,” I said, satisfied. “You two were likely just rendered cowardly and panicked at the sudden noise. I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“Reginald!” Helmut blurted out, plainly agitated and forgetting himself in the moment. “I beg you to see reason, just this once! This is plainly an act of sabotage, and just as plainly Cyrus Blackhawk is to blame. I beg you to send him away, no matter how impolite it may seem...”

“And I beg you to kiss the Kaiser’s backside, no matter how impolite that may seem! There are limits, Eisenbarth! And you are fast-approaching yours!”

“Herr Kingsley,” he pleaded, shifting his tone, appropriately, “You know full well that he intends you nothing but harm. Surely you do not think that he is incapable of such an act...”

“Herr Eisenbarth, you wound me,” came a voice from the top of the stairs. All eyes turned towards Blackhawk, who stood at the doorway, leering down at the scene. “What could I possibly stand to gain from sabotaging a boat I full well planned to set sail on myself this very day? You embarrass yourself with these wild speculations. You embarrass yourself and all of your colleagues.”

Beside me, I noted Captain Guinee drawing her cutlass from its sheath, and I sensed that the air of acrimony in the room was about to become explosive. Seeking to distract her, I pretended for the moment not to notice her blade as I asked her forcefully “Captain! How long do you imagine it will be before you can have this mess cleaned up and the Swine upon the waves?”

“A week!” she snarled, barely glancing at me, glaring balefully at Blackhawk, whose smirk I could practically feel through the back of my scalp.

“At least,” Professor Rutherford added. “And that assumes that this is all of the damage that’s been done. I’m afraid we’d best retrieve our belongings from our cabins, my dear boy. We’re going nowhere for a while yet.”

“How unfortunate!” Blackhawk exclaimed. “And I had so hoped to see this mysterious island nation for myself! But wait!” he stopped, placing a finger to his lips thoughtfully. “A thought occurs. My own vessel, the Buzzard’s Feast, is berthed a few hundred meters away, and could be made ready to set out by this evening. It is perhaps less ostentatiously grand than The Regal Swine, in its own tawdry way is, but quite equal to the task. That is...” he said, cocking his head towards me, parrot-like, “if you are not too proud to accept my help, Mister Kingsley.”

I decided then and there that I was too proud to admit to being too proud to accept his help. “Nonsense! We shall set out as you suggest aboard the Buzzard’s Feast, re-christened ‘The Regal Swine II (provisional)’, and we shall...”

“It shall not be re-christened!” Blackhawk interjected hotly.

“We shall set out aboard the The Regal Swine II (provisional), and we shall carry on precisely as planned, undaunted by this poor turn of fate!” I proclaimed, determined that, if I were to be forced to rely upon Blackhawk’s hospitality, I could at least impose upon his hospitality and good graces to the best of my ability while I was depending upon his good will for the success of my venture.

There was, at this, a certain amount of dis-satisfied grumbling, which I attempted to wave off, when Jack stepped up and pointed at Blackhawk accusingly, whilst looking me in the eyes. “You know he’s just doin’ this so that HE can get called ‘Lord High Admiral’ while we’re out there, don’t you? He’s playin’ you, boss!”

My head snapped around and I glared at Blackhawk, accusingly. He was already shaking his head, though. “I would never presume,” he insisted. “This remains very much your expedition, Lord High Admiral Kingsley...”

“He says that now!” Helmut shouted. “But aboard his ship, what is to keep him from giving himself a field promotion? Lord Commodore, perhaps?” Jack glanced over at him and nodded vigorously. I had to admit, privately, that it was not an impossibility that Blackhawk had such a betrayal within his character. Before I could respond, though, Captain Guinee took advantage of my distraction, surging forwards, her sword in hand. I could barely follow her movement as she slammed Blackhawk to the bulkhead and hissed at him like an animal, pressing her sword to his throat. Blackhawk looked as surprised as I felt at that moment, his eyes going wide with shock.

“Bad enough you have to fire at my ship from across the water, but now you think you can blow her up from inside? I’ll gut you like a fish, you damned son of a bitch!”

“Ivan!” I shouted, and in a moment, the massive Cossack had grabbed hold of his lover’s wrist in one massive hand and, not unapologetically, I thought, pulled it away from the villain’s throat. She shot him a look which was both rife with fury and betrayal, but I knew that she would soon enough forget the matter. This was not the first time I had had to rely upon Ivan’s loyalty to me to reel the Welsh madwoman in.

“First of all, Captain,” I said, snatching the sword from her captive hand, “The Regal Swine is not your ship: It is mine. And secondly”, I waggled my finger at her reprovingly, “I have told you before not to make your professional disputes with the man personal. While I understand entirely your loathing for Blackhawk, he is my adversary, not yours, and I will not see you attempting to eclipse my rivalry with him with your own.” I looked down my nose at her with what I hoped was sufficient hautiness to convey my point effectively. “Get your own arch-nemesis.”

She wrestled her hand free of Ivan’s grasp and stepped back, a look of barely-contained fury distorting her features. She glanced about, as though reassessing the situation. Whatever she was looking for, it seemed it was not there to be found, and she expressed her opinion of this by spitting upon the deck plate at my feet. “Bollocks to you, Kingsley! And to all of you, as well!” She shot dirty looks about the room, and for nobody present more than for Ivan, who looked abashed by the stink-eye he was receiving. “At least he’s too bloody daft to know any better, but the rest of you oughtn’t be so quick to follow him into your graves!” She was by this time stalking furiously up the stairs to the above deck, and nobody present made any move to stop her. “Well I’ll have no part in it!” She bellowed as she reached the door. “You go ahead and set sail for the River Styx for all I care! I’ll be right here, and see if I shed any tears when you never come back!” She turned on her heel at this and could be heard for some seconds later as her thunderous footfalls echoed down the corridor in her wake.

I looked at Ivan, curiously, as indeed were many of those present. The Russian goliath was rather inscrutable much of the time, and never more so where matters of the heart were concerned. Professor Rutherford, the only one among us fully capable of speaking Ivan’s heathen tongue, stepped up and asked him something or other in his own language, to which Ivan responded, imperturbably, with a single word and a shrug.

I turned to the professor and asked him “What was that, then, Baldy?”

Archibald glowered at me impotently, as he tended to when I used my favoured diminutive of his name, but replied without comment upon it, as was his habit. “I’d asked Ivan Ivonovich here if he was going to be alright.” He adjusted his thick glasses absent-mindedly upon his nose, chuckling softly as he did so. “And he said to me, ‘Eh. Women.’”

And with that, the tension was broken. We all laughed, and I slapped Ivan affectionately on the shoulder, taking care to wipe my hand clean on a handkerchief immediately thereafter. “Well, then! Let us gather our belongings, gentlemen. If we’re brisk about our business, we can be off before nightfall.”

(to be continued!)

Fine Asian Cuisine

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 15:17:14 GMT

An historic act

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 14:55:40 GMT

This morning, Angela Merkel, the chancellor of Germany, took part in the Armistice Day ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Paris, France. This is the first time a German Chancellor has done so since the practice began after WW2. France's president, Nicolas Sarkozy, called this an "historic act", and indeed it was.

Think about this for a moment. This is the sitting leader of Germany, going and honouring those fallen French soldiers who died in the process of defending their country against the evil German hordes. To put that in context, try to imagine - really try to imagine - a time some sixty years from now when a sitting American president visits Iraq and lays a wreath at a memorial commemorating the Iraqi soldiers and insurgents who fought and died in the process of defending their country against the evil American aggressors.

Pretty hard to imagine it ever happening, isn't it?

I would love to know, to really understand, what this means to the average German. This is a country - and a person, in Chancellor Merkel, in particular - which has really, really seriously come to terms with their history and made their peace with the fact that they fucked up bad. No illusions. No excuses. No false bravado. They admit and acknowledge that they have, in living memory, been unimaginably screwed-up as a society, and have come to the point where they can be mature and genuine enough to be utterly contrite about it. How many countries have ever reached this point? Germany is certainly one of the worst and most notorious of the various nations who have, in the history of mankind, decided to destroy everyone and everything in their path of destruction, but they're by no means the only ones, and I can think of few that are willing to make a gesture like this.

I would love to be able to understand this cultural experience better. I really would.

The legacy of Vince: The drama continues to unfold.

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 14:40:22 GMT

As I had mentioned a month or so prior, as a consequence of the various misdeeds of Vince, the Parasite King, I’m being evicted from my home of six and a half years. The process is going... less smoothly than I might like.

For the past ten years, I have, over and over again, been forced to move, quite against my will, as a result of the actions or decisions of others. Each time, I have found myself thrust into a new living situation without very much control over where or in what situation I would end up. This time, though, I had thought? This time could be different.

I had spoken to a friend of mine who was in a similarly horrible living situation. While not wishing to air his dirty laundry, even anonymously, suffice it to say that at around the same time, it became plain that he would also be needing to move. He and I spoke, and agreed we would get a two bedroom place together for December 1st, and indeed, had begun looking at a number of prospective apartments together. Things were looking quite promising! And then, abruptly, he went silent on me. No phone calls, no e-mails, and no response to any of the same from me. Finally, on the night of November 1st, I learned from his mother that he had decided to get a place on his own.

This did not sit too well with me.

For starters, it meant that I had no room-mate, and insufficient time to find a replacement. And housing costs in the greater Vancouver area make a one bedroom apartment of the sort of size I would be comfortable living in prohibitively expensive. To say nothing of the personal offense, of which – again, out of a desire not to air his dirty laundry in public – I will not here speak. Secondarily, there was the creeping horror at the realization that there was a very real possibility that I would need to put out an ad on Craigslist or somesuch in order to find a replacement. This was the very dark path which led me to live with Vince in the first place, and there is no joy whatsoever in the notion of opening the door to that sort of horror once again.

I can afford a two bedroom place on my own for a month or two, though, and I hope that in that time, I can find someone stable and secure enough that I could in good conscience allow them to live with me, but this still represents a significant risk and significant inconvenience, relative to the “clear sailing” state I had looked forwards to existing in by now as of this time last month. And so I’m actively apartment hunting, hoping to secure something worthwhile by this weekend.

I figure I might just as well toss this out there, on the off chance that the fates might yet conspire to redeem this situation for me with nothing more than a few lines of text: Is there anyone among my readership who is in need or in want of a new home in the Burnaby/Vancouver area in the next two months? I find that I prefer the notion of finding someone with whom I stand the chance of having some degree of familiarity with prior to cohabitation to that of living with a complete stranger whose only connection to me is the quirk of happenstance which would have them reading my ad before I happen to accept someone else who does likewise.

Share the Wealth Wednesday #3

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 14:39:03 GMT

Wednesday morning is upon us once more, and so with it comes that most sacred of traditions: Share the Wealth Wednesday!

For those of you who are new here, and for those whose memories do not extend back as far as the murky depths of pre-history from which this practice emerges (by which I mean two weeks ago), every Wednesday, we post some neat thing that we’ve found in our journeys through the internet, which others can enjoy with but the click of a mouse. It can be anything – a YouTube video, a webcomic, a video game, etc – so long as it is freely and instantly accessible to anyone who cares to enjoy it. Theoretically, as more and more links accrue during the course of the day, this post, and posts from previous Wednesdays will become a repository of awesome distractions and oddities. New stuff is always preferred, since stuff you haven’t seen before is that much less likely to be something anyone else has seen, but the wealth of links you share need not necessarily be as fresh as all that; it need only be NEAT.

For my own contribution, allow me to direct you to Venture Bros Online. A website which makes the dubious claim to legality (which I nevertheless choose for the sake of argument to believe is valid) in presenting every episode of Venture Bros to date for your free online viewing.

I’ve spoken of Venture Bros a time or two, and the show has been on the air long enough that it shouldn’t be an enigma to most media savvy people, but it bears, for the sake of this post, a short description. Venture Bros started off as a parody of a number of “boy adventurer” cartoons; primarily Johnny Quest, with a bit of Scooby-Doo and Hardy Boys thrown in there for good measure, but has fairly swiftly matured and mutated into its own distinct entity. The humour is very much intended for an adult audience, and indeed by season three, there’s a certain amount of swearing an nudity which, though censored in the televised version, is on full display on the DVDs.

My personal favourite episode of the series to date, which I feel really captures the essence of what makes this show great, is a second season episode entitled “Escape to the House of Mummies, Part 2”.

A scene from Escape to the House of Mummies, Part II, in which things get bizarre and complicated.

This is the middle part of a ridiculously complex adventure involving a high-tech ancient Egyptian cult, time travel, mummies and death traps. There is no part one and there is no part three; you’re literally only getting the middle part of the adventure, with no setup and no resolution. What’s even better is that the bulk of the episode has Rusty Venture – a washed-up, embittered middle-aged former boy adventurer-turned failed mad scientist – getting into an absurd, petty and meaningless dispute with Doctor Orpheus – a necromancer and single parent who rents out a suite of rooms from Rusty – over a point of personal pride, which results in them becoming so completely distracted and side-tracked that they utterly forget about the adventure at hand, leaving the rest of the cast to their fates, which we occasionally see in a series of increasingly bizarre cut-aways as their adventure continues. It’s absolute comedy gold.

Anyways! There’s my contribution. What’ve you got to share, my friends? It’s time to share the wealth!

The Curse of the Rhino King - Chapter 12 (in astonishing Audio-Rama Format!)

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 01:07:06 GMT

And lo! Chapter 12 cometh!

I wish to extend my sincere thanks to Paula West, who responded admirably to my request for a female voice actor some days ago, the first fruits of whose labours can be heard here.

People sometimes ask me how I can get through some of my lines without laughing, and I'm usually rather blase about this; I laugh out loud when I think of the lines in the first place, but usually by the time it comes to actually recording them, I'm familiar enough with them that I'm no longer that effected by them.

This is the first chapter I really had difficulty getting through some of the lines; they were funny enough that I kept on laughing as I was delivering them. Take that for what it's worth.

A bit of historical esoterica here: The Charles Kingsley referenced in this chapter was a real person, though he did not have a seditious brother named Frederick. I learned of this man as I was researching the life and times of King Edward, and knew immediately how I wanted to incorporate him into the story.

Download Chapter 12 directly here

Download Chapter 11 directly here

Download Chapter 10 directly here

Download Chapter 9 directly here

Download Chapter 8 directly here

Download Chapter 7 directly here

Download Chapter 6 directly here

Download Chapter 5 directly here

Download Chapter 4 directly here

Download Chapter 3 directly here

Download Chapter 2 directly here

Download Chapter 1 directly here

Chapter 12

June 10, 1912, Inner Oxfordfordshirewhittington, England.

When I arose from my bed the following morning, it was to the sound of thunderous rainfall pounding against my windowsill, and equally thunderous thunder at some indeterminate-but-greater distance. A good omen, I thought to myself: Mighty Jupiter salutes me on the embarkation of my journey. As I set about my morning constitutional, I could not help but feel quite optimistic about the day to come.

I set off down the hall to my father’s room to ensure that he had roused himself for the day. A few short raps upon his door, and I heard – muffled though it may have been by the pounding rain on the roof above – his gruff voice shouting “Enter!” from within. I opened the door to his bedroom, hoping to find him decent, and, as was all-too-commonly the case, finding my hopes dashed against the rocks of my father’s lack of self-consciousness.

He lay across his bed, Margarida straddling him at his waist in a hideous inversion of the natural order of things, apparently attending to his gentlemanly needs. In the bare moment before I averted my eyes embarrassedly, I caught sight of him fairly leering at me from his place on his bed.

“By Jehovah’s toes, father!” I muttered. “You could have asked me to wait a moment or two whilst you made yourself presentable! I would have been happy to wait.” I shuddered invoulentarily. “More than happy! Jubilant, indeed!”

“What’s the matter?” He grunted from behind me, evidently having decided not to allow my presence to deter him from his own morning exercise. “Can’t stand to see your own father happy? Admit it!” he chortled. “You’re jealous! Jealous that you’ll never be half the man that I am, even today!”

“Yes, father”, I dissembled, “That is precisely the nature of my present discomfort. You have cut directly to the heart of the matter. Bully for you.”

“You can’t stand to see your father with a beautiful woman!” he continued, between gasps and grunts, “Not like your mother! She was a whore! Not like Margarida here!” he said with respect to the woman who he paid to take part in carnal acts with him such as those which presently occupied her.

“I’m sure she was, father.” As it was, I was in a poor position to defend my mother’s virtue. I had few memories of the woman; she had unaccountably drunk herself to death, I am told, by the time that my sister and I were four years old. My primary recollection of her was of a woman who was being shouted-at a great deal of the time. “Now if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me...”

“Don’t you tell me what to do!” he shrieked from the bed as I moved to leave his room.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, pa-pa! But breakfast shall be ready if you wish it!” With that, I swiftly closed the door behind me and hastened down the hall, hoping to put both the sound and the memory of this event well behind me in the shortest possible of orders. God love my father, but he did have these occasional moments of selfish indulgence which made living with him challenging.

The rest of the morning was in large part uneventful; Pansie was given strict instructions on the managing of my home and matters in my absence, and, once I had contacted Helmut at his alehouse, The Lazy Eye, to make certain that provisioning was proceeding apace, I spoke briefly to his nephew and employee, Joseph, and gave him strict instructions with regards to managing Pansie. This arrangement, though on the surface it may have appeared somewhat redundant, had proven necessary after a short journey to London had ended in humiliation, when I arrived home to find Pansie had tragically misinterpreted my orders to speak to my peers in Camblee University about my inability to attend a seminar where I was to have been a speaker on the topic of the economic threat to the United Kingdom by the peoples of the Hollow Earth, as a command to go and speak in my place at said seminar. To this day, I still received cruel japes on the topic from my peers, and so to this day, during every day of my absence, Joseph would visit her briefly and ask her how she planned on going about her daily business. The dear woman seemed to believe that she and Joseph had some sort of secret friendship that I somehow wasn’t supposed to know about, and so took some perverse delight in it, and Joseph, for his part, was paid five pounds per visit.

By eleven o’clock, we had in large part congregated at the dock of the Regal Swine, where my delight at seeing Miss Elliot, dressed in a warm overcoat and a bouquet of twenty roses pinned tastefully over the stump of her missing arm (which I felt complimented her eyes beautifully), was leavened somewhat by the sight of her speaking already to Blackhawk, whose noxious presence I still struggled to resign myself to the inevitability of.

Nevertheless, there were practical matters to attend to, and so in short order, I located my ship’s captain, Gwenhwyvac, who was at that moment attending to the smoking of a cigarette under an awning where she was in large part avoiding both the hard rain and any hard work, and glowering meaningfully at nothing in particular. “Captain!” I hailed her, my voice full of what I hoped would be taken as jovial affection, in case anyone should happen to overhear me, “I trust everything is meeting with your satisfaction this fine day?”

She turned her glower upon me, frowning with a distaste which I knew was indeed a mark of her personal assessment of myself, but which I knew not to take personally, as it was but an echo of her negative personal assessment of virtually everything. “Then you’re a damned fool, Kingsley,” she responded. “and no less so for bringing that Blackhawk bloke aboard. I’ll never fathom how your daft brain works, that you think brining that blighter along is a good idea.”

“Well, then it’s fortunate that I am the employer and you merely my employee, so that I do not need to justify my actions to you, my good woman,” I replied mildly. “I am naturally no more fond of his presence on this expedition than I am of the man generally, but there is a form which needs to be observed. And observed it shall be.”

“If you had any sense in that empty skull of yours”, she stabbed her cigarette towards me for emphasis, “You’d let me do away with him whilst we’re well out to sea an’ then feed ‘im to the fishes. Save us all a world of trouble.”

I recoiled internally for a moment at the very suggestion of it. Blackhawk? Killed? By someone other than myself? Had the woman not heard a word I had said about observation of form? The thought of the man dying as a product of anything other than a man-to-man duel with myself, wherein I humbled him both as a combattant and as a gentleman before ridding the world of his sinister presence with my own two hands filled me with revulsion. And besides which, there were more practical considerations: “Madness. I’m certain he’s already bribed someone on-board to inform the world should I have him killed whilst in my company. Indeed,” I narrowed my eyes at her, “For all I know, you could very well be in his pay even now, and should I accept your suggestion, I would pay dearly for the decision.”

She seemed to take no special offense at the suggestion, either. She shrugged. “I’d do it in a minute if her offered.” She inhaled deeply from her cigarette before tossing it overboard into the water below, and reached into her pocket for a second one, “but he hasn’t made the offer. Frankly, I don’t think he cares for me very much since I stabbed him in the leg that one time.”

“I can’t imagine why he would bear you any ill will over that. God knows he’s fond enough of that cane he’s been walking with ever since that he should very well thank you for it. Nevertheless, your point it taken.” Beckoning her to follow me to the railing, which she did with no more than the necessary amount of cursing and grumbling, I pointed to the docks below, where even now a cart containing one overly-excited Irelander, his homely wife and innumerable squealing mongrel children was being unloaded. I pointed them out to her.

“I’ve arranged a guide who ought to be able to guide the ship to the Irish coast, and then guide those of us going ashore through the dark interior of the land. I’ve already forgotten his name, but have decided simply to call him ‘Mick’, for ease of reference. I expect you to follow his instructions to the letter.”

She looked at me, gallingly, as though I’d gone mad. “You think I can’t navigate The Pig through fifty miles of well-charted water?”

“Don’t you dare call the Swine a pig, you sow!” I exploded at her, “And you think you can?” I asked sharply, jabbing my finger at her. “Captain Guinee, it is precisely that sort of hubris which necessitates my having to bring on additional help. If you but had the humility to admit that you didn’t know the way, I would be all too happy to allow – Nay, Insist! – that you navigate your way there on your own. Pride such as yours, though, but comes before the fall, and I will not see my men imperiled by your mad recklessness. No, I met this drunkard in an alehouse last night, and his wild and improbable tale of exile and loss were sufficient for me to see that he was the right man for the job.” I emphasized the word ‘man’ as I spoke, so as to allow no room for doubt as to what I thought of her qualification for the job ahead.

“Good god almighty,” she muttered frustratedly as she stormed off back into the ship. I presumed that this was a reference on her part of the Almighty’s admonishment against women holding authority over men, and thus a tacit admission on her part that I was correct. I only hoped that she appreciated the small indulgence I granted her in allowing her to issue orders on my behalf as captain over the rest of the crew.

For my own part, I made my way down to the master stateroom of the ship which I kept to myself, and where I kept the bulk of my nautical gear. I changed out of the greatcoat I traditionally wore on land into the peacoat which I kept on-board for weather like this, as well as the great, if somewhat antiquated plumed hat I so liked to wear while at sea. While I allowed Gwenhwyvac the conceit to call herself “Captain” and be referred to as such by others, including myself, I wished there to be no doubts as to where ultimate authority under god on my ship rested, and so I dressed the part, claiming for myself the title “Lord High Admiral.” While this title was traditionally held exclusively by the reigning king or queen, Jolly old King Edward had been dead for over a month and a successor had yet to claim his throne (though the talk in society circles held it likely that his son, His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales George Albert would handily defeat the various other would-be successors in the ritual trial-by-combat which secretly took place subsequent to the death of every monarch and which had its historical roots in the legendary bare-knuckle brawl which had ended Mary, Queen of Scot’s efforts to dethrone Queen Elizabeth I), leaving the title vacant. Besides which, as a man who owned a boat, I felt that I was entitled to this small indulgence.

As I exited my stateroom, feeling quite dandy in my nautical accoutrements, I encountered Miss Elliot in the hallway, looking rather lost and befuddled, evidently searching for her own quarters.

“Mister Kingsley!” She exclaimed. “I had wondered when I should see you today, and thank goodness I have finally had the good fortune to do so. It seems I have got myself rather turned-around on this magnificent vessel of yours.”

“Not to worry, my good woman,” I replied, smilingly, “If you allow me the honour, I shall gladly serve as your ersatz ship’s steward and guide you to your quarters.” She smiled warmly as I led the way down the corridor.

“I had meant to ask you earlier, Mister Kingsley,” Miss Elliot asked me, “Your famous nautical vessel, the Regal Swine... how does it come upon such an unconventional name?”

“Ah, well!” I said, rubbing my hands together thoughtfully, “Therein hangs something of a tale in and of itself. I gestured for her to follow me as I led her to the door of my private stateroom, above which was an elabourately-etched wooden carving, brightly painted, of a fanciful-looking pig who had somehow managed to get a king’s crown upon his head, and who was busily devouring the entrails of a still-living king who lay upon the ground, thrashing about and screaming as he struggled vainly against his porcine attacker. Below it, in finely-rendered letters, lay the legend ‘Someday Soon’.

“As you may know, there is a proud literary tradition within my family. My paternal great uncle, Charles Kingsley, was a famous novelist and indeed a private tutor to King Edward VII, in his youth. His brother, my grandfather, Frederick Kingsley, though somewhat less celebrated an author, nevertheless made a name for himself as an author of children’s books. The ship was built by my father’s commission when I was a young boy, and he had wished that it should be merrily decorated with images from the children’s story-books which his father had written for him when he was himself but a boy, and during the same time that his uncle was tutoring the one-day King. This image in particular”, I gestured at it once more, “was given a place of honour above the master stateroom, and it is after it that the ship itself is named. It is made in the likeness of an illustration which my grandfather himself first produced by hand, and for which he was ultimately hanged.”

“It does seem a trifle... seditious, doesn’t it?” Miss Elliot asked, uncertainly.

I was taken aback by the effrontery of the suggestion, and turned my gaze back to the carving I had seen so many times since I was a boy, scrutinizing it, attempting to see what Miss Elliot could possibly be talking about. “I can’t see that at all, I’m afraid,” I ultimately said, shaking my head at the suggestion. The mind of a woman was a baffling tissue of strange fancies and peculiar misunderstandings, and I would ever be at a loss to comprehend its workings, I feared.

It was at this moment that I felt the subtle vibrations of the deck below my feet which told me that the engine had been engaged, and that our departure was close at hand. I led Miss Elliot the few doors further down the corridor to her quarters, where her belongings had already been delivered by the porters. I was just about to ask her if she would care to join me on the ship’s bridge for the launch when I felt, as much as heard, a sort of shrieking thump somewhere down below, at which the engine abruptly came to a stop.

“If you’ll excuse my boldness, mister Kingsley, I daresay that doesn’t sound terribly promising.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense, my dear. No, ship’s engines make all sorts of sounds which may sound pretty funny to the untrained ear. I’m sure this is nothing.” Privately however, I was raging at whoever it was that was responsible for this travesty. I had set off down the hall to have a look when I heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots down below. I quickened my pace, and within a minute was intercepted by Jack Cartwright, who was barreling down the corridor towards me, the spurs on his boots jingling rhythmically with each long stride.

“Sir!” he shouted at me as he spotted me. I scowled at the ignorant yankee crossly, and he quickly corrected himself. “Uh, Lord High Admiral!” My expression softened by a bare matter of degrees as I nodded for him to continue. “Looks like the engines’re fucked, your Lordship. You’d best come have a look. The professor’s already on his way down, and so’s the Captain.”

I grumbled unhappily, and followed after him at a brisk pace. All the same, there was some comfort in the knowledge that with this disaster befalling us before we even set out, the worst thing that could possibly happen to us during the course of the expedition had already taken place, and it would therefore be clear sailing from here on out.

A good omen, I decided.

The Curse of the Rhino King - Chapter 11 (in astonishing Audio-Rama Format!)

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 16:11:44 GMT

Tremble, ye mortals! For chapter 11 is upon you!

I spoke about this a bit in the comments section of chapter 10, but it bears pointing out here, as well, that I put a good deal of work into the audio positioning in each of these chapters, which is something I'm pretty proud of; placing different characters' voices in different speakers, in the hopes of creating a certain illusion of three dimensionality. The hope is that it gives the impression of two people speaking to each other from across a certain amount of space. I think that it works rather well, especially if one listens via a pair of headphones.

Anyways! Enjoy!

Download Chapter 11 directly here

Download Chapter 10 directly here

Download Chapter 9 directly here

Download Chapter 8 directly here

Download Chapter 7 directly here

Download Chapter 6 directly here

Download Chapter 5 directly here

Download Chapter 4 directly here

Download Chapter 3 directly here

Download Chapter 2 directly here

Download Chapter 1 directly here

Chapter 11

The place was thick, indeed, with foul aromas and raucous noise; perhaps fifty patrons sat huddled around a third as many tables, all of them deep in their cups. Even as I watched, a fight broke out in the corner of the room over the issue of which of two mens’ wives were more worthy of the others’ adulterous lusts. A pianist, whose demeanour suggested a certain habitual drunkenness itself, crudely plunked away in the opposite corner, producing an energetically unrecognizable rendition of what I’m sure he believed was a popular song, while inebriated patrons, foolishly, encouraged him in his illusions of talent by dropping coins in a cup placed upon a filthy napkin atop his instrument.

It took a few brief minutes to locate the man we sought.

“Seamus Michael O’Tool at your service, sir”, he said, thrusting out a grubby hand towards me for a handshake he must have been mad to have believed he would ever receive. He was a scruffy-looking young man of middling height, with sandy brown hair and broad mutton-chops creeping down his cheeks. Though he appeared not to be unhealthy per se, he nevertheless looked lean and slightly on the malnourished side, which I decided was ultimately to my favour. What stood out most about him, however, was the faint but exotic accent with which he pronounced the unutterably alien syllables of his name. There was that about him which was nearly otherworldly in nature.

“Yes, well.” I sat down across the table. “I am Doctor Sir Reginald Kingsley II. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I lied.

He nodded, apparently neither shocked nor especially hurt at my refusal to befoul my hand with contact with his own. “And who’s this lad? Your son?”

I laughed heartily. “Nothing of the sort. This is my young ward, Barty. I took him in some three years ago, when, after a month or two spent sleeping under an awning in my backyard and eating table scraps my maid was feeding him, he managed to earn his keep by murdering a burglar who was attempting to steal a rake from my woodshed out in the back lot.” I ruffled his hair with my hand, affectionately.

“The blighter took over two ours to die after I stuck him with my shiv!” Barty said proudly. “I watched every second of it!”

“There’s a good lad!” I chuckled at his boyish enthusiasm. “He’s been a part of my household ever since.”

“Funny. He looks just like you...” Seamus said, cocking his head curiously.

“Well, I’m sure I wouldn’t know. They all look the same to me at that age,” I chuckled. “But enough about that. I’ve been told that you’re a man to speak to about a planned expedition to the dark continent of Ireland.”

His eyes positively lit up at this. “Ireland, sir? Are you serious?”

“Indeed I am. Have you some knowledge of the place?”

“Knowledge? I was born there, sir! I’ve spent the past twelve years trying to find a way back there, but I’ve had no luck finding work aboard any ship that comes within twenty nautical miles of it! The things I’ve done, sir”, he said, desperation and longing evident in his eyes. “You’ve no notion of the things I’ve done trying to get onto a ship that would take me home...”

“Nor any interest in knowing!” I asserted firmly.

“I once stowed away in the bilge of a fishing ship, hoping to hijack a lifeboat and paddle the rest of the way home,” he interrupted me, “Only to find the ship was bound for Norway! I nearly froze to death!”

“Sounds like a fine time you had...”

“There was a time!” He blathered on, “When the Catholic Church was plannin’ on sending missionaries to Ireland. I joined the church and went to Seminary school, hopin’ to become a priest and be sent there!”

“A noble deception...” I allowed.

“But then Pope Pious X was elected, and the day I was to have been ordained, he declared Ireland a Satanic myth, and when I pushed the matter, I was excommunicated and declared anathema!”

“Happens to the best of us...” I attempted to cut him off. To no avail, though!

“I once spent three years scrimping and saving,” he pressed on, indefatigable, “living off of bread crusts and rotten fish, so as to pay a ship’s captain three hundred pounds to transport me to Ireland, only to learn - too late! - that he was not in fact a captain at all, but merely an actor in a play entitled ‘I own a Boat and will Sail you to Ireland for Three Hundred Pounds!’”

“I heard that was a grand production,” I offered.

“It was! But the ticket remained the worst three hundred pounds I ever spent!”

“Your own bloomin’ fault for not keepin’ up with modern theatre!” Barty shouted and threw an unidentifiable lump of food he’d picked up from a neighboring table at the man.

“Quite right!” I concurred.

“I suppose that’s true...” he said, miserably, as he wiped the clump of foodstuff from his face, leaving dark, greasy streaks in its place. “But it’s just been poor luck each time, I think. It’s always been that way. Blast this luck of the Irish I’m afflicted with!” He moaned loudly, placing his head against the table and his hands atop his head. He began to sob weakly.

In spite of this womanly display, I was guardedly hopeful. His claim was outlandish, but if it were true, then this could be a significant blessing indeed. It would certainly go a ways towards explaining his bizarre accent and inhuman-sounding name. “Tell me: How came you to civilized lands?” I wasn’t quite ready to accept his story on face value just yet. Let him spin a yarn for me, I thought, and let us see where it leads.

“Not much to say, good sir”, he sighed. “I was fishing in the shallow waters off the coast one day when I was but a boy of seven, when a great storm brewed up. Fool that I was, I stayed out too long, and soon found myself swept out to sea. If I hadn’t found a bit of flotsam to cling to in the storm, sure’n I’d have been done for then and there. As fate would have it, I was spotted by an english fishing ship a day or so later, though, who took me aboard, cleaned me up and fed me. I wound up serving aboard that boat for the next four years, gradually learnin’ the language, all the while tryin’ to explain to them that I wanted to go home.” he sighed miserably again at this. “They was havin’ none of it, though, sir. They kept on sayin’ ‘Maybe next year, maybe next year’. N xt year never seemed to come though. It wouldn’t be until years later that I learned that a year was just three hundred-odd days long, and it’d actually been next year for ages, the bastards!”

“Facinating story!” I lied. “Well, how does tomorrow sound to you? We plan to set out at high noon, and are in need of a man knowledgeable of that land of hideous and blighted savages, and who better in that respect than one of those self-same beasts in mens’ flesh?” e

Seamus beamed at me proudly straightening up in his chair.

“I had been prepared to offer you monetary compensation for the labour, but it seems now that perhaps I can offer you something still more dear than that: Free passage to the island, and no requirement upon you that you should burden me with your presence during the triumphant return trip. I’m sure you’ll find this more than fair.”

“More than more than fair!” He blathered, leaning forward eagerly. “Oh, sir! You won’t regret this, I swear it!”

“Leave the prognostications to the seers of Delphi”, I responded, making reference to something I knew nobody in earshot could possibly be expected to understand, seeking to impress nobody but myself (and succeeding handily in this). “For the nonce, my chief concern is that you should be at the private dock where is moored my ship, The Regal Swine.” I scribbled down the address on a scrap of paper from my pocket. “Find a civilized adult to read this to you tomorrow morning. You may need to travel some miles from here to locate one, and so I suggest you begin your day early.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” he sniveled as he stood up from the table, clutching the note to his chest as one might a sacred relic. He bustled towards the door, bumping into several patrons and spilling several drinks as he went. “Just wait till I tell the wife and children,” he shouted back towards me, before, just as he was about to leave the establishment, he crowed “We’re goin’ home!” This elicited a smattering of cheers from around the taproom and a single isolated ‘Good riddance!’ which itself garnered a smattering of laughs.

Barty and I sat at the table for a few long moments in relative silence.

“Wife an’ kids, huh?” He asked, dryly. “Funny, that.”

“Oh, bother!” I swore.

(To be continued!)

.

I know for a fact that girls like pirates!

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 09:59:48 GMT

So what the fuck is going on here? I’ve given myself about three months of lead time for Chapter 12 of The Curse of the Rhino King, and during that time, I’ve had no fewer than three different women tell me that they would perform the voice of the former pirate, Gwenhwyvac Guinee for the Audio-Rama version of the story, and several more say that they MIGHT.

And yet, I now find myself with four days left before the day when it’s meant to go online, and not one of this multiplicity has delivered!

I find myself in this moment of dark desperation in a position of asking any woman among my readership who is in possession of a microphone and who has the capacity of producing noises with her vocal cords to aid me in this grand and noble endeavour.

For those who missed it, I re-produce the description of the character below the cut. What I need, at the moment, is about ten lines of dialogue. If you can aid me in this, you will earn not only my profound gratitude, but a lump sum of fifteen Reader Points; a currency which I am just now instituting, and which I’m sure will be of some significance or import at some point down the road.

On the far side of the room, Captain Guinee was no more concerned by Blackhawk’s presence for her own reasons; she was – rather obscenely, I thought – seated atop Ivan’s lap, as she so often was, teasing his great, hideous beard with one hand while holding one of her grotesque French “cigarettes” in the other, and quite occupied with her vile, ape-like paramour. The current captain of the Regal Swine, she was a woman whose name I at first had a great deal of difficulty pronouncing. It wasn't until I came to realize that Gwenhwyvac Guinee, like so many Welsh names, was meant to be pronounced as one would a deep-throated moan of otherwise-unutterable anguish that I was so much as able to address her by name. That realization not only made communication with her a great deal easier, but so too did it make understanding of her character.

She had entered into my service some five years prior, when The Swine had come under attack by pirates and the previous captain killed. Though the pirates were soon enough subdued and in large part dispatched, there remained the sticky matter of providing my vessel a new captain. I decided that the best course of action, given the circumstances, was to replace the captain with one of the surviving pirates. The crew were initially quite unhappy with this decision, pointing out that I was in essence not only giving her what she had wanted, I was indeed rewarding her for her part in having murdered so many of their crewmates. This was true, naturally, and indeed it was a part of my plan. It seemed to me that the crew could come together around that shared sense of anger and tension, and that this would make them a more efficient group. Likewise did I feel that playing upon the old nautical superstitious dread regarding women at sea and indeed their moral outrage at needing to obey the orders of a woman might serve as sufficient incentive for them to work harder. The various mutinies which I had to put down in the coming months put paid to that idea, but I would be hanged from a length of piano wire before I would admit it publicly, and as such, I remained, to all appearances, her most vocal supporter, even if privately I prayed each and every night that she be devoured by a mighty kraken, even if it meant the sinking of the Swine itself in order to erase the stain of my tragic miscalculation from this Earth.

As to the woman herself, she was only middlingly-effective as a captain, and her various efforts to make off with my ship over the years were in and of themselves frustrating to me on a professional level. This having been said, I had to admit a certain grudging admiration for her ruthlessness with her underlings and the degree to which she had managed not to be murdered in her sleep by them in spite of - or perhaps because of - the grip of inhuman terror she held the crew in. Though one might, in the ordinary course of events, expect desertions to run rather on the high side aboard the Swine, this was not, after a brief, initial spate of disloyalty on the part of the crew, the case. The cause for this was doubtless a complex one, but of the various elements which contributed to it, the abrupt disappearance of any man who did desert, and Captain Guinee's tendency to ostentatiously wear a bloodied article of their clothing as one might a trophy of war in the weeks and months afterwards had to place highly.

The Antikythera Mechanism

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 16:23:00 GMT

Have you ever heard of the Antikythera Mechanism?

(a modern re-creation of the machine)

This was a clockwork computer which was recovered from an ancient shipwreck off the coast of Greece back in the year 1990. The device is simply amazing in a number of different ways; it seems to have been built some time around the year 100 BCE, and employs the sort of technology which the world would not see again until the 18th century; a complexity and miniaturization of gears that was literally MILLENNIA ahead of its time. What's more, it seems to have been built to keep track of the movements of the earth, moon, sun, stars and planets, presumably in aid of nautical navigation. Whoever designed this beauty seems to have had a solid grasp of the fact that the Earth revolved around the sun, rather then vice versa. In this, too, this inventer was thousands of years ahead of the rest of the world.

Imagine the mind behind this feat. The ancient world contains virtually nothing resembling this. There were other devices which employed gears and even a certain degree of clockwork, so it's not entirely unprecedented, but to sit down and take principles like this and construct a functioning computer capable of working out precise positions and calculations like this in a world where there was simply nothing else of its kind that had ever been conceived... and then subsequently vanished again, not to be seen again for nearly two thousand years? Imagine the loneliness and isolation of an intellect like that in the ancient world. Imagine being able to produce such notions with such primitive tools and resources to draw upon. Who knows what such a mind would be capable of with the technology and accumulated knowledge we have today.

And we don't even know their name. There is some suggestion that this may have been the device mentioned in an account by Cicero, in which he spoke of an instrument "recently constructed by our friend Posidonius, which at each revolution reproduces the same motions of the sun, the moon and the five planets." Certainly, it's difficult to imagine that there could have been two such men at one time in history while all around them they were surrounded by savagery and ignorance, but who knows?

It's at one time depressing to think of society possessing even one person capable of producing a work of genius like this and then utterly losing it, losing even the memory of it for countless centuries, rather than building upon it... and also tantalizing to speculate as to what might have been, if the tradition of this sort of invention had persisted instead of vanishing utterly. I'm frankly shocked that there doesn't seem to be any historical fiction, or indeed ALTERNATE historical fiction based upon this.

Share the Wealth Wednesday #2

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 21:05:36 GMT

Okay, folks, it's wednesday! Time to share the wealth! What neat things have you discovered this week to share with the group?

This week, I discovered a site I genuinely resent not having known about years ago. I speak of a treasure trove of time-wasting whimsy called The Independent Gaming Source.

If I had known about this game years ago, I surely would have discovered gems like Cave Story and Spelunky long, long before I did. This website is basically a regularly-updated blog of small, independent groups of game designers and their output. It's really quite staggering to see just how much neat stuff is being produced all at once outside of the professional mainstream, and just how genuinely good some of it is. A lot of what they link to can be downloaded and/or played online for free, and most of the rest of it can be obtained really cheaply.

I have been particularly entranced by an incredibly silly little game called Runman: Race Around the World.

Deliberately drawn in the style of childlike doodles, with a soundtrack of folk songs from the early 20th century, this game is just so unimaginably cute as to put a big, sloppy grin on my face every time I play it. The fact that the gameplay is fast, clever and well-designed certainly doesn't hurt either. The video above tells the tale rather nicely; if that doesn't make you want to give it a go, nothing I'm going to say is going to get that job done.

I've only gone back about 13 pages in the blog's archives and already downloaded five games, some of which I haven't even gotten around to trying yet. I'm sure I'll be able to fritter away many otherwise-productive hours with what else is to be found here, and so too, I'm sure, can you.

So! What have you got this week, folks?

The Curse of the Rhino King - Chapter 10 (in astonishing Audio-Rama Format!)

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 18:52:05 GMT

This one has one odd little moment which I feel is worth commenting on. There's a minor and nameless character who appears around 3/4 of the way through the chapter, and I was working on this at the time that my friend Heather and her friend Jesse were briefly visiting. I asked Jesse if he'd do the voice of this character for me, and he agreed. There was one line, though, which begins "I suppose there's sense in that, sir...", which, even after twenty or so takes, he just COULD NOT NAIL. Each and every time, he inserted the word "a" between "there's" and "sense", eve though I corrected him after each and every take. Finally, I realized that there was simply something mis-wired in his head, and he would never get the line right, even if we did a thousand takes, and left it alone.

True story.

Anyways! I put a ton of work into this one, for reasons which will become clear at around the half-way mark. So, while I always appreciate those two or three people who regularly comment on new chapters, I would LOVE to hear from a couple of the others out there who are listening to and enjoying this work.

Chapter 10

Download Chapter 10 directly here

Download Chapter 9 directly here

Download Chapter 8 directly here

Download Chapter 7 directly here

Download Chapter 6 directly here

Download Chapter 5 directly here

Download Chapter 4 directly here

Download Chapter 3 directly here

Download Chapter 2 directly here

Download Chapter 1 directly here

Chapter 10

As I donned my greatcoat and made ready to set out for the docks, Barty, my young ward, gave me a sharp tug at the sleeve.

“Doc,” he said, his face adorably grave with concern, “You oughtn’t go down to th’ docks alone. A fancy swell like you’ll get nobbled by a mug-hunter in a moment!”

I was certain that the boy was trying to say something to me, but in that moment, he was about as sensible to me as was Ivan. I took a stab at his meaning and replied “There’s a good boy. I’ll be sure to purchase you some sweetmeats while I’m out.” I tousled his hair roughly with my hand.

Scowling furiously, Barty responded “Take Ivan along with you! That great beast’ll frighten away any cove that has a notion to stick you with a shiv for your purse!”

“My dear boy!” I exclaimed, taken aback by what I presumed was his concern for my well-being. “I am Doctor Sir Reginald Kingsley II! Do you honestly imagine, after the innumerable perils that I have faced in my many journeys, that a mere jaunt down to the quay will be the trip which I will not return from? At what point did you cease to be a young boy and become an old woman?” I laughed good-naturedly and leaned down towards him. “If you wish so badly to come along with me, all you have to do is say so. Some fresh air will do you good, at any event.”

This seemed to mollify the boy somewhat, though I could not but notice that he was fingering his concealed pistol and pocket knife nervously as he dressed himself. What fanciful tales had he been told about the docks to put such a terror in him, I wondered? I would need to speak to Pansie when I returned and ask her where he went during the thirteen to sixteen hours a day that I found other, more pressing matters to attend to than raising the boy. I couldn’t but imagine what mischief he must be getting up to!

As we set out onto the late afternoon street, I hailed a passing cabriolet, whose driver I ordered to carry us to the quay. As I did so, he enviced a curiously dread-stricken look, glancing at the sun’s place in the sky before asking me if I were sure.

“Now, now, young man! You can save your theatrics for visiting squires!” I reprimanded him. “I simply wish to be transported down to the waterfront this night, where I hope to find a down-on-his luck foreigner who will be happy to take my money from me. I can see no reason why this prospect needs cause so much alarm!”

The cab driver stared at me for another slack-jawed moment before insisting that he be paid up-front, and moreover that he would be carrying us no further than a furlong from our intended destination. I agreed, rather grumpily, but decided then and there that his timidity would be reflected in the gratuity that I would under ordinary circumstances have paid the man.

- - -

We arrived as the sun was setting, whereupon the cab driver ushered us out of his cabriolet and onto the street and fled with a single backwards, horrified glance in our direction. I could not manage to stifle a disbelieving laugh at the man’s cowardice as I watched him retreat with maximal haste. “Mark my words, Barty”, I intoned, still watching the fleeing coward, “A spirit like his will take him nowhere in life but where he is.”

I turned to see if Barty was listening to me, but I could see he was already distracted and inattentive; he was rough-housing with a scruffy, poorly-dressed man in the alleyway behind where I stood, both of them holding their knives in their hands. As much as I adored the boy’s high spirits, he had been warned before about associating with the lower-class whom I had spent so long attempting to uplift him from amongst. Shaking my head dejectedly, I opened up my greatcoat and withdrew from within its confines my custom-built triple-barreled hunting shotgun, Cleopatra, and pointed it at the ruffian who my ward had so swiftly befriended.

“Step away, my good man,” I intoned, my voice grave and full of menace. “I shan’t have you passing on your fleas and lice to this upstanding young boy.”

His eyes went wide, and he immediately ceased his joshing about with Barty and sought to extricate himself from his playful grappling with the lad. Barty, plainly less than pleased to lose his newfound playmate so easily, expressed his frustration with a playful stab to the flank of the fleeing man with his knife. The man shrieked, rather girlishly, I thought to myself disapprovingly, before clutching at his side and staggering down the alley.

“And don’t come back, you bleedin’ mandrake!” the boy shouted after him, wiping the blood from his blade with a dirty handkerchief he had withdrawn from his pocket.

“Now, now, boy. No call for what I presume to be name-calling”, I chided him. “Inner Oxfordfordshirewhittington is a civilized place. We must hold ourselves to certain standards. Do you imagine I do not wish to cast imprecations upon the nature and odour of the reproductive organs of the mothers of those who displease me? Naturally I do! But I keep such keen inferences to myself. And you know why? Because I am a gentleman!”

Barty had been veritably hopping from one foot to the other with barely-contained anxiety from virtually the moment I had begun to speak, but had been trained not to interrupt me over the years since the day I had taken him in, and was loath to act against that training. Even so, his enthusiasm was plainly now threatening to burst the dam of his good manners. “Oh, good lord, boy! What is it? Spit it out!”

“That’s just it, doc!” he shouted at me, red in the face. “Ain’t you never seen a map of this place? We ain’t in INNER Oxfordfordshirewhittin’ton no more! We’re in OUTER Oxfordfordshirewhittin’ton now!” He pointed across the street to a sign by the side of the road which had somehow managed to elude my attention, which spoke to the very same effect that my keen young ward had just made.

My blood ran cold in my veins. What had I done? What unspeakable peril had I led this boy into? I was not a man who sought out danger, save for on those occasions on which I did (which were, it must be said, frequent), but all too often, it seemed that danger sought me out, as so it had here. As I cast about in the growing darkness, the flickering light of the gaslights which illuminated the evening murk seemed to take on a sinister aspect, less like unto the warm and jolly fires of hell which I looked forwards to someday watching my enemies burn in from my place in heaven, and more like unto the baleful, hateful light of a baker’s oven, giving comfort and sustenance to the very underclass which even now lurked in every shadow about me, ready to pounce like the degenerate animals that I knew in my heart of hearts every Outer Oxforfordshirewhittingtonian to be.

Keeping the boy close at my side and Cleopatra clutched tightly in both hands, I began down the road. Though I was more keenly aware of the perils which awaited us, neither the nature of our task nor the its urgency had been in any way altered or diminished. I stalked down streets which, though I had walked them a thousand times before on my way to and from my vessel, seemed to have taken on terrible new character. The very air itself, which I had once greeted for its bracing sea-breeze aroma, now seemed a vile miasma in my nose. The many figures which surrounded us on all sides as we entered the main drag, which I had previously assessed as hearty, salt-of-the-earth sorts, now seemed to be fairly reaching out for my change purse with grasping, desperate hands with every gesture.

How innocent I had previously been! How innocent I wished, vainly, I could be once more!

In short order, we arrived in the region of the quay, where lay many a tavern and taproom which were even now bustling with drunkard sailors, whose noise and personal aromas spilled out into the street in equal measure. It seemed like to me that if we were to find a mariner who had personal experience with the dread secrets of Ireland, it would be here among those lot so desperate for work that they would risk their lives and perhaps even their immortal souls by approaching that island of nightmares made real. Not knowing precisely where to begin, I settled upon a burly-looking man who had about him what I considered a nautical look. I pointed my shotgun at him so as to gain his attention and shouted at him from across the street. “You there! Stand where you are!”

His eyes went wide with dread and he went pale in the face at the sight of me. At first I was flattered, thinking he was simply overawed by the experience of being addressed by a man so manifestly his social better, before I realized, with a chuckle, that perhaps he had misapprehended my intent towards him as hostile. One likes to hope that men of the sea would be made of sterner stuff than that, but if wishes were fishes, we should surely all have long ago drowned in a vast and limitless sea of rotting fish carcasses. Nevertheless, I advanced upon him, somewhat more personably, I hoped, with Cleopatra lowered to my side.

“I wish to find a man familiar with Ireland”, I said without introduction or preamble. “for the purposes of an expedition I have planned. Do you happen to know a man who has sailed those waters?”

“Ireland, sir? The Dark Continent?” He stammered. “You won’t find a man who’s willing to take you there, I daresay. The island is cursed!”

“Oh, nonsense”, I said, waving my shotgun about carelessly in an expression of contempt for the man’s cowardice. “I myself am presently subject to no fewer than three curses, and am embarking on a mission to break a fourth. Honestly, you need not be so squeamish about the matter!”

He seemed to chew this over for a moment before responding. “I suppose there’s sense in that, sir. Why, the street we stand on is said to be cursed, and there’s a separate curse for those who speak of the first curse...” he stopped at this, blanching with horror at his own words. I was having none of this, though.

“Yes, yes. It’s just the way of the world. Let me be the one to worry about it, and I shall let you go on about whatever degenerate business has brought you down here. Indeed,” I fished about in my pocket and withdrew the five pound note I had earlier been given by Helmut. “I shall be willing to finance it.”

His eyes lit up at this. “Is that one of them rhino notes?”

“How in god’s green earth does everyone.... Yes, blast your eyes, it is!” I raged, mortified by this abiding fascination the common folk had seemed to have acquired for outlandish and obscure animals. Barty insolently laughed into his sleeve at my side, earning him a sharp look from me. “Now should you be willing to earn it, you’ll tell me what I need to know!”

“Fine, then, sir! Go down the drag to a tavern called ‘The Seasick Mare’, and ask for a mouth named Seamus. If anyone in these parts can help you it’ll be he.” With this, he reached out for his payment, which I dropped into his grubby hands. Within moments, I was on my way down the street, Barty in tow.

It took a few short minutes to locate the establishment in question. It was a one-story affair, of simple wooden construction. Out in front hung a wooden sign which, appropriate enough to its name, pictured a horse standing on the poop-deck of an old-fashioned sailing ship, its head hanging over the railing. It was vomiting an arc of brightly-painted green sick into a mug held at the end of the outstretched arm of an inexplicably-happy-looking and inebriated sailor.

“That’s a pretty complicated sign for a taproom”, Barty observed, squinting at the affair.

“Yes, rather. Curiously so, really.” I shook my head in confusion and then shrugged it off. “Well, no matter. This is definitely the place we’re looking for. Watch yourself. The place is likely thick with pickpockets and trade unionists.” I spat upon the walk before entering the tavern.

.

An open letter to Ray Comfort

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 14:53:52 GMT

This morning I wrote a letter to christian super-evangelist, Ray Comfort, with regards to a point he has made a few hundred million times before, and which I felt I needed some clarification on. I thus present the complete text of the e-mail I sent him below.

***

Dear Mr. Comfort.

Earlier today, I read an interview with you on the topic of your abridged version of The Origin of the Species, and specifically your introduction to the book. In it, you made reference to the science of evolution's “undeniable connection” to the holocaust. This is not a new claim, and not one that I am not unfamiliar with, but on this occasion, I felt motivated to investigate the claim for myself. I found that, broadly speaking, there is some truth to what you say; some of Hitler’s stated justifications for the holocaust do indeed include his misinterpretations and misapplications of the science of evolution.

This says nothing whatsoever about whether or not the science of evolution is valid or true, though; merely whether or not it is of benefit to society that people be aware of it. Assuming, for the sake of argument, then, that you are correct, and that without having this body of knowledge to misinterpret and misapply as Hitler did, the holocaust would not have taken place (which I am dubious about; it seems to me that he would have found some other justification to hang his irrational hatred of “the other” on, just as so many creeds, philosophies and religions have been abused for the purposes of over the course of human history), I wonder if you will then apply this same standard to other bodies of knowledge without which he also could not have accomplished the horrible deeds that he did?

For example, will I hear a similar denouncement of the science of metallurgy for its undeniable connection to the holocaust? Without access to this body of knowledge, Hitler’s forces would have had no train tracks, no trains, no bullets, no gas chambers, no metal fences, among many, many other implements which were critical to his execution of the many “undesirables” during the holocaust.

Will I be hearing of your outrage at the science of masonry, and its undeniable connection to the holocaust? Without the ability to produce bricks and construct buildings of them, the nazis would have been unable to house the infrastructure of their murderous war machine, and their death camps would surely not have been the inescapable prisons that they were. Nobody will claim that masonry is not a valid field of knowledge, but neither can the claim be made that without it, the nazis would have been all but powerless to carry out their extermination regime.

Indeed, even the body of knowledge of language itself has the very same undeniable connection to the holocaust that the science of evolution does. Indeed, it has an even deeper and more fundamental connection; without knowledge of language, Hitler would never even have had access to the ideas that he did, would never have been able to convey them to the German people, and would never have been able to conduct his orders to the countless thousands of devout Christians who worked as death camp guards and operators*, without whose enthusiastic support, Hitler’s will could never have been executed. Will I therefore be hearing you tar language itself with the same brush that you apply to evolution? And if so, how do you plan on doing so without employing the Nazi-related science of language?

I ask these questions because I know that as a man of god and as a man of learning such as yourself, honesty, integrity and consistency are indispensable and invaluable, and that your condemnation of these bodies of knowledge must surely be merely waiting in the wings alongside your condemnation of the body of knowledge which is the science of evolution, and that you have simply not found the time or opportunity to make clear your moral outrage that these knowledges should be allowed to be taught, given their shared history of nazism. If this is the case, I am more than prepared not only to hear this condemnation from you, but to tell all who would listen that you are indeed a man of conviction, of principle and of integrity, and that you are willing to apply the same standards to all of the sciences which Hitler and his forces made use of in the same manner and to the same extent, and indeed for the same reasons.

I thank you for your time and attention, sir, and eagerly await your reply.

• I realize that a lesser man than yourself might be tempted into falling prey to a “no true Scotsman” fallacy in responding to this point, but I have every confidence in your ability to rise above such obvious traps.

The Curse of the Rhino King - Chapter 9 (in astonishing Audio-Rama Format!)

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 12:56:33 GMT

This chapter contains not only my single favourite line of exposition in the entire series, and the birth of not one, not two, but three of my favourite running gags. Enjoy!

Chapter 9

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Download Chapter 6 directly here

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Download Chapter 4 directly here

Download Chapter 3 directly here

Download Chapter 2 directly here

Download Chapter 1 directly here

Chapter 9

“And that is the moment at which a most curious animal burst into my study...”

I had re-told the story in considerable detail, adding my own embellishments where I thought doing so might make the tale more interesting. Not to demean Miss Elliot any more than she deserved, but she had precious little grasp of the art of oratory, and it seemed to me that the story could benefit from the addition of a train robbery and perhaps some romantic tension between Professor Elliot and his captured princess. Miss Elliot had initially seemed somewhat distressed by my improvements upon her original narrative, but was soon as enthralled as any of the other listeners, and content merely to listen in rapt attention, bless her heart.

“This is the rhino whose carcass now rots in your basement, ja?”

This was Helmut Eisenbarth, my barman. A German man I had taken on two years earlier when I decided I would prefer not to go out exploring without the creature comforts of having an alehouse to visit. Though his contributions to my adventures were otherwise somewhat minimal in value, I found the drinks he mixed for me while abroad and his sage advice to be invaluable in times when the stress of the present adventure became too much to bear, even for my own fierce spirit. I had briefly employed a tobacconist in a complimentary position, before he was stabbed and killed in an otherwise-uneventful voyage to the Netherlands last winter, and had yet to find a qualified replacement for the man. Nevertheless, I could not help but frown at this interruption.

“How is it that you are all so familiar with this animal?” I asked crossly. “Have you been attending classes of zoological esoterica behind my back, perhaps?”

“How can you not be aware of this, you great simpering ninny”, Blackhawk chuckled from his place in my armchair, his throaty ejaculation of hilarity reminding me as always of the croaking of a ghastly crow. “It is hardly an obscure animal. I begin to think that your famous reputation for woodcraft is undeserved!”

In retort, I picked up a crystal goblet which I had emptied of brandy while I had been speaking and hurled it at his head, causing it to shatter against his scalp. He screamed furiously as blood began to flow freely down his face. Content that I had won the argument, I was prepared to move on when Helmut interrupted me once again, fussily picking up the shattered bits of glass from the floor as he spoke, to my irritation.

“Have you perhaps not seen the new five pound note that was issued last year?” He held in his pudgy hands a promissory note of the five pound denomination, which he extended to me for my inspection. I leaned in to look at it.

Pictured upon its surface was an outlandish animal which stood on four great, thick legs, with a leathery hide and two enormous, fanciful horns upon its almost equine head, Beneath it was a finely-rendered scroll, seemingly in the act of being unfurled, which bore the legend ‘This is a Rhino’ upon it. I peered at it for a few long moments before glancing back at Helmut. He was staring at me with an almost expectant look upon his thick, sweaty face. I peered back at the note in his hands, attempting to discern his intent. Ultimately, irritated with the ongoing interruption of my talk, I snatched the note from his hands and swiftly pocketed it.

“If nobody has anything else to say...” I cast about the room, offering a warning glance at one and all, making it as plain as possible that I had no intention of allowing anything further to be said even if they wished to, “... Given what Miss Elliot has told me, I believe our best course is to set out for Ireland tomorrow in the forenoon. I intend to spend this evening canvassing the docks in the hopes of finding someone capable of fashioning us with a map of the land, or, god willing, even guiding us to and through that forsaken land. Helmut, I should like for you to provision The Regal Swine, which I intend to use to transport us across the Atlantic to our destination.”

Helmut nodded, screwing up his brow in thought as he drew a notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket. “Jawohl. What do you imagine we should need?”

“Difficult to say. Several months’ worth of food, I should think. We shouldn’t want to be caught at sea with too few provisions to last the duration and be forced to resort to cannibalism again, eh wot?” I chuckled grimly at the memory, but noted that there seemed little humour in the reactions of those who were present for that fateful expedition from Dover to France.

“And drink?”

“Well, naturally!” I scoffed. “An uncivilized land such as this? I doubt they’ve ever so much as heard of whiskey! Several barrels, at least. And spare no expense. Miss Elliot shall naturally be financing the expedition, so I see no reason why we ought to deprive ourselves of the finest spirits on her behalf.” I smiled warmly at the woman, who, I noted to my annoyance, was tending Blackhawk’s head wound with a white napkin which was even now nearly soaked-through with his sanguineous humor. My smile froze on my face, which Blackhawk, damn his filthy bones, instantly took note of. He leered at me for a bare but telling moment before returning his attentions to Miss Elliot, whom he whispered something to, eliciting a delighted giggle from her. I felt a moment of irrational rage, and briefly considered additionally hurling a glass bottle at his face before deciding that it would be poor sport of me to do so with him pinned to my chair by Miss Elliot’s ministrations, to say nothing of the damage I might do to my beloved chair. How it galled me to see him sitting in it! For that alone I might have allowed Barty to do away with the insufferable buzzard! It was time to see him away.

“If nobody has aught else to add...”, I asked, rhetorically, looking around the room and then carrying on before anyone could call my bluff and add aught else, “...I believe we will adjourn for the evening and meet at the Regal Swine in the morning. Set your affairs in order, gentlemen,” I intoned. “We tread into terrible, primeval darkness, from which none of us, save naturally myself, can guarantee safe egress. Father,” I began, already stepping towards the exit of the drawing room peremptorily, “wish me luck in this latest and most daring of exploits...”

“Luck?” He bellowed, “Luck? How dare you impose upon me to wish you luck when you are already forcing the imposition of dragging me along on another of your confounded gallivants?” He became so agitated that he very nearly rose from the wheelchair which he had lately taken to being pushed about in out of a desire to illicit sympathy from the gullible and ignorant.

“You are free to stay at home for this one if you wish, papa,” I said over my shoulder, still inching my way out of the door, hoping against hope this would be the one time he would choose to let the matter go without emasculating me in front of my crew.

“Don’t you tell me what I am free to do”, he very nearly screamed at me, waving his cane at me as one might a sword. “By holy mother Mary’s menstruation, boy! The day I require you to determine what freedoms I am entitled to is the day I have Margarida here wheel me into the shallow grave I know you already have dug for me in the back lot!” Margarida flinched at the sound of her name, plainly afraid that she was to be given another of my father’s incomprehensible commands, the dear girl. “He plans to kill me, you know! My own son!” he glared around the room, vainly attempting to meet the gaze of all in attendance.

“Very well, then, papa! Do as you will! If you’re so bound and determined to join us, I will not stop you, and indeed would be privileged to count you among our number!”

“Another precious month STOLEN from me!” he bellowed, as if by rote, “while death bears down upon me like...”

“...A raging bull”, I finished along with him, helpfully.

“Don’t you disrespect me in my own home, damn you!” At this he did rise from his wheelchair, strode across the room and belted me across the face with his walking stick, painfully. “Now look what you’ve done! You’ve bloodied up my stick!” He whirled about, pointing the blood-spattered cane at Margarida, who shrank in horror from him. “Margarida! Clean my stick!” The poor woman sputtered something in her native Portuguese, seeming to indicate she did not understand his words. My father, not understanding her words, bellowed at her in incoheent rage, which itself drew more confused and horrified words from the woman. Knowing that this could keep him busy for the better part of the hour, I quietly made my escape from the room, followed closely by everyone else. I firmly but quietly closed the door behind me and hastened towards the front hall.

- - -

As Blackhawk passed by me on his way out of the room, his top-hat cradled under one arm, awkwardly, while the other pressed his bloodied handkerchief to his scalp, he leaned in towards me, a sinister scowl marring his already-unsightly features.

“I shall have her, Kingsley”, he hissed. “I shall make her mine and take her for my bride. She shall bear me children, who shall carry on my legacy long after I have ground you into the dust and you are forgotten by history itself. Mark my words.”

Before I could so much as reason out who he was speaking about, he surged out of the room and was well down the hallway. It then dawned upon me that he spoke of Miss Elliot, who I supposed he must have assumed I had feelings for.

Well, did I? If I had asked myself this question a moment before, I suspect that my answer would be a horrified and emphatic ‘no’, as I visualized a gaggle of one-armed children, each having inherited their mother’s presumably-congenital curse. But in that moment, when I considered the idea of Blackhawk deriving satisfaction from the deluded belief that he had taken something I wanted from me, my blood fairly boiled with rage. By what right did he presume to attempt to stand athwart my admittedly-nonexistent romantic pursuit? I swore, then and there, that I would never allow him to have her. I would move heaven and earth themselves, if need be, to deny him the pleasure of the mistaken belief that he had bested me, even if it meant I should need to marry a cripple and an invalid in order to do so.

As if guided by the cold, clammy hand of fate, Miss Elliot at that very moment came about from behind me, looking as radiant as I had abruptly decided she had always looked. “Mister Kingsley”, she said, “I’m dreadfully sorry to have had my own family difficulties result in such strife between your father and you...”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” I guffawed. “No, Miss Elliot, that’s merely my father’s way of expressing affection towards me. He can’t stand to see me stride into danger without his being there by my side to aid me. Despite his bluster, he is in some respects no different than a vicious, bloodthirsty mother hen.”

Her eyes lit up at this. “Well, of course! How could I have not seen it before?” she withdrew a handkerchief from her purse, with some difficulty, and dabbed at the blood still flowing freely from my nose from my father’s most recent physical act of affection. “I must have been blind not to have seen his manifest concern for you earlier.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear woman”, I said, accepting her assistance indulgently. “The ways of men are often as mysterious to women as the ways of women are to any rational mind.”

I led her to the front door and assisted her with the placing of her cloak about her shoulders as she made ready to go. “I pray you. rest well this evening, Miss Elliot”, I intoned. “for tomorrow we set about restoring peace and order to your family. I swear, even if I should need to sacrifice my entire crew in order to see your father and brother safely returned to you, it shall be done.” I bent at the waist and kissed her gloved hand lightly upon the knuckles.

She blushed deeply, and seemed as though she were about to reply when she rushed from my home, plainly aflutter from my gallantry. I smiled warmly as I watched her go, thinking of how this would gall Blackhawk if he were but here to see it.

God how I hated him.

(To be continued!)

.

Casting call!

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 08:44:57 GMT

Men!

Do you have some modicum of vocal talent? Do you own a microphone? If so, you may be in a position to aid me in that grandest of ambitions: the Audio-Rama component of The Curse of the Rhino King.

There's a couple of parts to be filled, the details of which I'll go into in private, for the moment. I'm open to broad interpretations of the characters, so feel free to let your creative impulses run wild on this.

Let me know ASAP, for time waits for no man!

Oh, and also: There's a small part coming up in a while for a female voice actor, if there are any women interested in making a contribution.

Share the Wealth Wednesday #1

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 13:48:20 GMT

So here's something I've been meaning to do for some time now. I want to see if I can start a little tradition here which I would like to call "Share the Wealth Wednesdays."

No sharing of material wealth is implied here, though; fear not! But rather, your wealth of experience, knowledge, and LINKS. Throughout the week, we all accumulate this vast pile of neat stuff we've found on the web, which we share with our friends and stuff, but otherwise mostly just sit on. What I propose is that each wednesday, I start a post like this one, where I share something neat I've found, and all of you do likewise.

Theoretically, by Wednesday night, there should be thirty or so NEAT THINGS to check out, and thus this and previous Share the Wealth Wednesdays will serve as a repository of awesomeness to be referred back to during times of boredom or pique.

And naturally, discussion of these neat things can also occur.

I do not intend that there be any specificity in what constitutes a neat thing. It can be anything at all that can be shared with the click of a mouse. Music. A flash video. A webcomic. Whatever. Go nuts. Just provide a name, a link, and a brief description. Allow me to begin thus:

This is Oglaf. A sporadically-updated but always-hillarious webcomic which deals with fantasy settings, usually - though not always - with some sexual element (to the extent that some of it could practically constitute pornography) in a consistently clever way. That's a rare fucking combination right there; fantasy, sex and comedy which is actually GOOD. And as you can see in the above strip, the author doesn't rely upon cheap thrills to sell the comic, which speaks volumes to his skills. Or hers. I'm not actually sure; the author of this site is a little more anonymous than most webcomic artists, honestly.

But anyways ! There's my contribution! Let's see yours!

Share the wealth!

The Curse of the Rhino King - Chapter 8 (in astonishing Audio-Rama Format!)

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 02:59:31 GMT

Oh, I have been eagerly awaiting this chapter's release.

It's a longer one than usual - both longer than previous chapters and longer than future ones - because I needed to introduce most of the remaining main cast in this chapter, and I didn't want to give any of them short shrift. There's also, as a consequence, a considerably larger voice cast than usual for this one, including a memorable if brief performance by Reginald's soft-headed trollop of a maid, Pansie, by izuma_yaki , who responded to a post here some time ago in which I cryptically asked for a female voice actor with a british accent.

Anyways, without further ado...

Chapter 8

Download Chapter 8 directly here

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Download Chapter 6 directly here

Download Chapter 5 directly here

Download Chapter 4 directly here

Download Chapter 3 directly here

Download Chapter 2 directly here

Download Chapter 1 directly here

Chapter 8

Miss Elliot had gone to tidy herself up, promising to return shortly in order that she might attend the meeting at which my associates and I would construct a plan of action as pertained her family’s curse, when Pansie arrived in my study, a mop and bucket tucked untidily beneath her thick arms.

Pansie had been in the service of the family for some three decades, ever since we had purchased her as an indentured servant from her father, a friend of the family who did not wish it to be known that he had fathered her upon one of his own servants. Rumour had it that Pansie’s mother herself had been the illegitimate daughter of yet another lord and HIS maid. It was a proud lineage of bastards and shame that, legend had it, went back clear to the time of King Henry VIII. Were she not such an unsightly and obviously-simple woman, I would have almost regretted not playing my own part in this grand legacy, but I did have my standards. Perhaps some day I would hire a more appealing serving girl, father a bastard on her, have her sacked and then force Pansie to raise the child as though it were her own, just for form’s sake.

After a few brief words about the cleaning of my study and the removal of this “rhino” carcass, I turned to the matter of the larger task I had at hand. “Pansie, we're to mount an expedition. Once you’re done in here, I shall need you to fetch everyone for me.”

“Everyone, sir?” She replied, a look of mounting distress worn on her dull, cow-like face, “Everyone on earth?”

I considered it for a moment. It hadn't been what I meant, but certainly this arrangement would provide us a sound numerical advantage. But in such dangerous lands, did I dare trust everyone on earth to watch my back? And what of the logistics of the thing? Providing transportation alone would be a daunting challenge, and this journey promised to be difficult enough on its own. After a moment’s thought, I decided against it. "No", I ultimately replied. "Just... everyone that’s normally involved in this sort of thing.” I waved my hand around vaguely. “But I’m glad you’re thinking. Bully for you. Now, go and let them know that I’m mounting an expedition and that their involvement shall be required.”

- - -

Some hours later, I had cleaned and changed my clothes, and greeted Miss Elliot as she returned. I complimented her on the bouquet of flowers she had crudely pinned over her left shoulder, and feigned surprise when she made reference to the loss of her arm, pretending neither to remember nor to have noticed her monstrous disfigurement.

“Well! You flatter me, Mister Kingsley”, she smiled demurely at me, evidently having correctly determined the nature of my praise.

“Naturally I do, Miss Elliot. You women are by your nature prone to accepting nearly any flattery, no matter how idle or baseless as merely your due. What sort of man would I be should I not capitalize upon such a well-known weakness of your sex?”

“Why, you silver tongued-devil, you!” She blushed deeply, and then offered me her sole remaining arm. I took it, and led her down the hall towards my den. Along the way, I shared with her a number of photographs and momentos from past exploits which adorned my walls. Here, a photograph of myself at the lip of a crater overlooking the Earth during my all-too-brief voyage to the Moon last spring. Here, an artist’s rendition of my third and most perilous voyage into the Hollow Earth. Here, the skull of Queen Victoria, which she had left me in her will after I had complimented her on her bone structure at a dinner I attended in my youth, during a time in which I was quite enthused with the science of Phrenology. Miss Elliot listened to the stories with rapt attention, gasping with astonishment at all of the right places. Her attention to the form and protocol was most admirable.

As we approached the door to my drawing room, I could hear a number of voices inside already. It seemed that most or all of my associates had already gathered. I smiled at the thought of them. An assembly of heroes such as the world had seldom seen, added by ones and twos over the course of some twenty years of adventuring, and bound together not only by experience, but by a sense of common cause. There wasn't a one of them I wasn't confident would gladly take a bullet for me, and for my own part, I would gladly allow any one of them to do so. Such was the trust we shared.

Rounding the corner, however, I felt a nearly-physical shock at the sight of what awaited me. Amidst my usual retinue of retainers and companions sat a man I was all too familiar with, though I had never expected to encounter him in my own home. A slender figure, which might perhaps be called tall if not for his perpetually stooped posture, dressed head to toe in a suit whose every stitch and seam bespoke the malignancy of the being which they clothed, complimented by a black bow tie whose knot was as twisted and colour as dark as the vile heart which beat so close beneath it. A cape tossed almost carelessly about his shoulders, and a stovepipe hat atop his head. And oh, that head. What loathing its features inspired in me. Its shrewd, calculating eyes, its long, beak-like nose, its thin, greasy moustache and sharply angled chin and cheekbones, upon the right of which sat perched a monocle which seemed to gleam with near as much sinister intent as the eye behind it. I knew them all all too well, from the many occasions on which I had had cause to curse them from across a battlefield.

"Cyrus Blackhawk!" I bellowed at the sight of him. "By Buddha's balls, man! What in the world are you doing in my home?"

"I'm as surprised to find myself here as you are yourself, dear chap", he sneered at me from his place in my favourite leather armchair. He stroked the eagle's skull which adorned the top of his cane as he spoke; an odious affectation which I believe he thought made him look sophisticated. "But after your charming maid extended your invitation, there was nothing on earth which would have stopped me from joining this august body."

"Pansie!" I roared, the blood rushing to my face with rage. "What possessed you, you soft-headed trollop?"

"You..." she stammered, her eyes instantly near-filled with tears, "You... you said!"

"What did I say? Be plain, damn you!"

"You said! All of the people normally involved in... in this sort of thing!" She was wringing her hands in her apron with a plain distress which I was ill-disposed towards indulging her in. The rest of those in the room had by this point gone quiet, observing the altercation with a sort of morbid fascination. "And Mr. Blackhawk... he's always in your stories!"

"As an antagonist!" I shouted, "A ne'erdowell! A fiend and scoundrel, set forever at cross-purposes to me!"

"But he's involved! And you... you said!"

"Hoisted by your own petard, boy!" my father cackled from his own chair. Though well into his autumn years, he had yet to entirely give up the adventuring lifestyle, and continued to attend meetings at which we discussed our plans. Age, however, has had no impact upon his irascible wit and witticism. "That's what you get for taking on help that believes themselves entitled to speak the king's tongue. Sometimes they speak out of turn!" Behind him, his Portuguese nursemaid, Margarida, reached around with a handkerchief and wiped the spittle from his chin. It was a point he and I had argued many times over the years; the value of a servant which you could berate in a tongue they could understand, set against the value of one which could not disobey or misinterpret your instructions due to their inability to comprehend them. Papa's insistence was that no servant worthy of the name had the intellect necessary to understand orders given by a man of education anyways, and the evidence of the moment seemed to support him, loath though I was to admit it.

“You want I should do him in, Doc?” Barty asked, drawing his pistol from his pocket, his eyes alight with precious and innocent boyhood enthusiasm. I struck him crossly in the face with the back of my hand.

“No, you fool!” I informed him. “I dare not allow him to be harmed in my own home!” I scowled at Blackhawk as he leaned back in my chair, grinning contentedly as he continued to stroke his blasted bird's skull cane. “He’s a member of the Audubon society, and I have an already all-too-fragile truce with them at the moment. I dare not provoke them with such an act of aggression. It would be blood in the streets if I did so, and Inner Oxfordfordshirewhittington would surely burn.”

“The Audubon society?” Miss Elliot asked. “The bird-watchers? From the colonies? I was unaware that they were operating in England.”

“No surprise there, ma’am. They’re cagey devils, and if they had their way, we’d never have knowed they existed in the first place.” This was Jack Cartwright, the sole Yankee among my associates, who had joined us during a harrowing misadventures in the colonies some three years prior. A man of uniquely low moral character and breeding, he had nevertheless endeared himself to me through his naked contempt for the “lawmen” employed by the insurgent so-called government in Washington; the enemies of the enemies of the British Empire, I reasoned, must therefore be my friends. And so he had proved to be on countless occasions since I had rescued him from that jail cell in the dusty frontier town in New Jersey where he had been unjustly imprisoned for nothing more substantial than murdering a sheriff during the commission of a bank robbery. He spat a mouthful of chewing tobacco into the spittoon I had purchased with him in mind some years prior, and fixed Blackhawk with his steely glare. “Whatever it is they got in mind here, it can’t be no good. Fairly makes my skin crawl to think of it.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed”, Blackhawk smirked, twirling his moustache in one white-gloved hand. “But have no fear. You’ll learn what that purpose is soon enough, all of you. And by the time you do, I think you’ll find it is far, far too late to do anything about it.” He leaned back in my chair and laughed long and hard, though I’d be dashed if I could discern the precise nature of the comedy. I presumed he had simply thought of some unrelated and amusing thought, and resolved not to give the matter any further consideration.
I took that moment to survey the room as I had not had opportunity to since my rude surprise upon arriving. I spied Professor Archibald Rutherford dozing peacefully in his own chair by the window, as had become increasingly common with the onset of his old age. I decided to leave him be; were he to be awakened, he would likely as not assault Blackhawk, which, though pleasing in its own right, would be disruptive and potentially embarrassing. His martial skills, which to be honest were never more than modest to begin with, had been rather greatly diminished in recent years, though he would have hotly this if it were put to him, and indeed did not appear cognizant of his own decrepitude, and indeed still fancied himself quite the deadly combatant. We were all quite fond of the aged linguist, and so were loath to disabuse dear old Uncle Baldy of his delusions of relevance. While leaving him asleep would technically mean he would be striking out into danger with us without any clear notion of where we were going or what we were doing, I resolved that this was acceptable; he would be greatly insulted at the suggestion that he had slept through my talk and claim to have heard every word of the meeting regardless. Besides which, his once-keen mind remained marginally sharp enough that I was mostly confident that he would be able to pick up the important bits as we went along.

On the far side of the room, Captain Guinee was no more concerned by Blackhawk’s presence for her own reasons; she was – rather obscenely, I thought – seated atop Ivan’s lap, as she so often was, teasing his great, hideous beard with one hand while holding one of her grotesque French “cigarettes” in the other, and quite occupied with her vile, ape-like paramour. The current captain of the Regal Swine, she was a woman whose name I at first had a great deal of difficulty pronouncing. It wasn't until I came to realize that Gwenhwyvac Guinee, like so many Welsh names, was meant to be pronounced as one would a deep-throated moan of otherwise-unutterable anguish that I was so much as able to address her by name. That realization not only made communication with her a great deal easier, but so too did it make understanding of her character.

She had entered into my service some five years prior, when The Swine had come under attack by pirates and the previous captain killed. Though the pirates were soon enough subdued and in large part dispatched, there remained the sticky matter of providing my vessel a new captain. I decided that the best course of action, given the circumstances, was to replace the captain with one of the surviving pirates. The crew were initially quite unhappy with this decision, pointing out that I was in essence not only giving her what she had wanted, I was indeed rewarding her for her part in having murdered so many of their crewmates. This was true, naturally, and indeed it was a part of my plan. It seemed to me that the crew could come together around that shared sense of anger and tension, and that this would make them a more efficient group. Likewise did I feel that playing upon the old nautical superstitious dread regarding women at sea and indeed their moral outrage at needing to obey the orders of a woman might serve as sufficient incentive for them to work harder. The various mutinies which I had to put down in the coming months put paid to that idea, but I would be hanged from a length of piano wire before I would admit it publicly, and as such, I remained, to all appearances, her most vocal supporter, even if privately I prayed each and every night that she be devoured by a mighty kraken, even if it meant the sinking of the Swine itself in order to erase the stain of my tragic miscalculation from this Earth.

As to the woman herself, she was only middlingly-effective as a captain, and her various efforts to make off with my ship over the years were in and of themselves frustrating to me on a professional level. This having been said, I had to admit a certain grudging admiration for her ruthlessness with her underlings and the degree to which she had managed not to be murdered in her sleep by them in spite of - or perhaps because of - the grip of inhuman terror she held the crew in. Though one might, in the ordinary course of events, expect desertions to run rather on the high side aboard the Swine, this was not, after a brief, initial spate of disloyalty on the part of the crew, the case. The cause for this was doubtless a complex one, but of the various elements which contributed to it, the abrupt disappearance of any man who did desert, and Captain Guinee's tendency to ostentatiously wear a bloodied article of their clothing as one might a trophy of war in the weeks and months afterwards had to place highly.

Content that everyone, was, at the very minimum, physically present for the meeting, I resolved to at least make some effort to call it to a semblance of order. “Yes, yes, very good. The point is,” I asserted, now addressing the entire room, “that like it or not....” I scowled at Blackhawk furiously, “... which I do NOT... he has been invited here by my proxy, and we are therefore stuck with him. We have no choice but to include him in this expedition.”

There followed a certain amount of muttering around the chamber, much of it disbelieving. It was cut off a moment later as Blackhawk, smirking from ear to ear, tapped one index finger against his cane and proclaimed “That’s right, my dear nemesis. You DO have no choice but to bring me along. And do so knowing full-well that I shall thwart your ambitions at the earliest opportunity.”

“You may attempt it, Blackhawk”, I proclaimed, “But I shall thwart your attempts to do so, as I so often have before.”

“Pah! Every time you have thwarted me has been naught buy a fluke!” he spat.

“As indeed has every time you have thwarted ME been a fluke,” I replied coolly.

We stared at each other silently for a long moment, radiating hatred and malice at one another, our battle of wits having momentarily ended in stalemate.

“Get on with it, damn you” my father interjected with characteristically measured tones. “I haven’t the time to spend wasting my life away watching you two young bucks lock antlers over a fleeting nothing! Or perhaps you’re unconcerned with the fact that death is bearing down upon me...”

“Like a raging bull. Yes, yes. Well aware, papa”, I interrupted. But he was right. “Very well, then. Let us call this meeting to order. Pansie, fetch us some tea, if you would be so kind, and do try not to urinate into the teapot this time. I won’t warn you a ninth time this year, you understand?” This sent the still-weeping woman from the room, where I hoped to god she would heed my words for once. If I believed for a moment that she had the wits to produce the thought to do so, I might almost have believed she was doing it on purpose. Heaven knew it was difficult enough to deduce how she could be making the same mistake over and over again otherwise.

“Now, then, ladies and gentlemen. How many of you have heard of a place called ‘Africa?’”

(To be continued!).

Militant Vegetarianism and Cats

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 19:18:23 GMT

Yesterday, I saw this cheery little video which really got me thinking:

Thinking so hard, in fact, that I felt the need to produce a response.

King Clickety-Clack

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 02:30:43 GMT

So, my regular gaming group has decided to give this new game Pathfinder a try. Pathfinder, for those who haven't heard of it, is a reaction to Dungeons& Dragons 4th edition, which is more than a little controversial; it's a pretty substantial departure from 3rd edition, which we'd been playing for around a decade and for the most part enjoying quite a bit. Pathfinder is basically the product of a number of 3rd edition developers saying "fuck this childish, simplistic bullshit new edition. We're going to create our own version of 3rd edition and carry on the tradition." I'm all with them, at least in principle. I got to play 4th edition for seven or eight sessions and ultimately just grew bored and frustrated with it. Pathfinder, on the other hand, looks like a fine movement in the right direction.

So! I had a character I played in that 4th edition game, a wonderful little hunchbacked wizard who called himself "Tremo the Mighty!" he was, in spite of the system, one of my favourite characters I've ever played or created. An utter misanthrope with 3 Charisma (which is mathematically the lowest charisma a character can have) who is vile, abrasive, and an absolute glory hog who just constantly works to tear down everyone and everything around him to his level. I always wanted to take this character to a system that I would actually enjoy and try to play him there.

So! Pathfinder. I've created him as a 9th level Transmuter, and I've discovered that it was possible to give him the ability to create wooden golems. Immediately I knew what I wanted to do: Give him a wood golem which looks like a twisted, ridiculous, scowling and dour caricature of a king (I have it in my head that it's modeled after some particular king Tremo doesn't care for), which of course mindlessly serves Tremo, and which he calls "King Clickety-Clack." Immediately, I also knew I needed to draw this golem. And thus...

"King Clickety-Clack! Dance for Tremo's amusement! Dance like you are doing a jig! Yes! Yes! Frown at me while you dance! Oh, that is right! Tremo forgets! You cannot do other than frown! Haha! You make Tremo laugh!"