A small continuance of my We Are Coming For You series. I hope you enjoy it. Standing in front of a platoon of soldiers General Drulle gave his men an appraising look before turning to the tall Praxian standing beside me. “What do you think Captain? These are the finest soldiers in the Praxian military.” he boasted proudly. “More than a match for the humans you’ve been working for, eh?” “I’m sure they’re a credit to the Conglomeration, General.” he replied diplomatically, his bright golden eyes gleaming as he examined the soldiers before them. Puffing out his chest Drulle turned back to his men and loudly said “As you all know we are here as part of a Joint Training Exercise proposed by our human allies. The purpose of this exercise is for us to learn from one another; we aim foster a deeper understanding of each others strengths, share our strategies and tactics. The humans believe that developing coordination between our two militaries will strengthen both our nations.” he paused for a moment before continuing “You are the pride of the Praxian army and as such your performance represents that of our entire species. The humans undoubtedly feel they have the superior military after the incident in the Niol system but you all shall show them that the Praxian military is second to none!” he declared. “Yes Sir!” the Praxian soldiers shouted in response. Satisfied with their fervour Drulle gestured to the Praxian standing beside him “This is Captain Artum, the first non-human to join the United Terran Army. He has more experience working with humans than any Praxian alive and so he will be in charge of your unit for the duration of the exercise. You are to show him every respect and follow his orders as if they came from my own lips, is that clear?” “Yes Sir!” they repeated. Giving them an approving nod Drulle turned back to Artum and said “I’ll leave them in your hands Captain.” “Thank you General.” he nodded as the general walked away leaving Artum alone in front of the troops. Looking out over the stonefaced soldiers he started “As General Drulle said, I am Captain Artum of the United Terran Army. I enlisted in the humans army almost two years ago and in that time I’ve learned a great many things from them, chief among them is that their soldiers are unmatched in the entire galaxy.” he declared making even the most disciplined soldier bristle with agitation. Smirking at their reaction Artum continued “How many of you have seen a human before?” getting a few affirmations Artum pointed to one of the soldiers and asked “And what was your impression of them?” Thinking for a moment the Praxian replied “Small.” he grunted out “Don’t see why the Lizards had such a hard time with them.” Letting out a laugh Artum replied “Yes they don’t seem very impressive at first glance do they? And yet they stood against the full might of the Union armada and did not waver, a feat which has never been accomplished since the founding of the Union. Could the Conglomeration do the same?” he asked. Getting silence in response Artum smirked and said “I though not. I have fought along side many humans in my time with them and I can personally attest to their military prowess. You will all learn a lot from them.” “I’ve certainly taught him a few things over the years.” a familiar voice called out behind him. Turning, Artums golden eyes glowed as he spied the woman sauntering towards him. “Asami! What are you doing here?!” “The guys and I just finished a job a few systems over and I heard you were out here so I decided to take some shore leave and pay my favourite kittycat a visit.” she said as she peered up at him over the dark sunglasses she wore with a playful smile on her face. Drinking in the sight of his lover Artum let out a hungry growl. She was wearing a dark green tank top which fit snugly enough to show off the contours of her chest and a pair of shorts which ended mid-thigh showing off her slender, toned legs. “Are the others here too?” he asked as his eyes roamed her body. “Just me I’m afraid.” she said huskily as she pressed herself against him and ran her hand over his chest “mmm, have I mentioned how good you look in our uniform?” she asked as she reached up to scratch him beneath his chin. Letting out a throaty purr Artum wrapped his arms around her body and pulled her into a kiss, one hand sliding down to grasp her shapely rear and lift her higher as their tongues played together. As the platoon of soldiers watched their new commanding officer reacquaint himself with his lover one of the soldiers muttered under his breath “If that’s what the humans are offering, it’s no wonder he joined up with them.” setting off a series of poorly suppressed laughs from his cohorts. Breaking the kiss Arum rounded on them with a snarl and stalked over to them to glare into the eyes of the soldier who spoke. “Care to say that again?” he growled. When the soldier remained silent and stared ahead blankly Artum sneered and said “You see that human there?” he said gesturing to Asami who gave a cheery wave “She could tear her way through the lot of you without even breaking a sweat. They are the best warriors in the galaxy which is why we are doing this exercise; so that You can learn from Them.” he said as he poked the soldier in the chest causing him to frown slightly but otherwise not react. “When the Niol system was overrun with pirates what did the Praxian military do? Went running to the Union for help. And who answered their call? The humans.” seeing a scowl start to form on the soldiers face Artum smirked and continued “The Conglomeration threw their entire fleet at Niol and were beaten back by a bunch of self proclaimed Pirate Lords. A squad of four humans could retake an entire system-” “Ahem.” Asami cleared her throat with a pointed look cutting him off. Quickly discarding that line of thought Artum instead said “If I had to choose between having an entire battalion of Praxia’s finest at my back or her I wouldn’t hesitate to choose her.” “You’re so sweet.” Asami smiled as she wrapped her arms around his. Finally having enough of Artum disparaging him and his fellow soldiers, the Praxian Artum had been haranguing spat out “Then perhaps she should give us a demonstration of her prowess.” “With you? Sure, sounds like fun.” Asami grinned before Artum could say anything. “You sure?” Artum asked, giving his lover a sidelong glance. “Don’t worry, I won’t rough up her pretty face.” the Praxian smirked. “See, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s going to go easy on little old me.” Asami smiled innocently up at Artum. Holding up his hands in defeat Artum said “Just don’t cause too much damage.” “If she’s as good as you say she is that shouldn’t be a problem.” The soldier retorted. “He wasn’t talking to you.” Asami smiled “How about we make this interesting?” she suggested. “What did you have in mind?” he asked. “If you win I’ll let you take me out for dinner tonight.” she said with a sultry smile. Looking her up and down the soldiers lips curled up in a smirking leer as he eyed her slender body “Never had a human before, usually prefer females with more fur but I suppose I could make an exception this once.” “Lucky me.” Asami said dryly before looking up at Artum. “Are all you Praxians such Lotharios?” “I have no idea what that means.” Artum replied. “I’ll explain it to you later.” she said with a wink. “And what do you get if you win?” the soldier interrupted their conversation. “Then Artum will buying me dinner.” she said nudging her lover in the side with her elbow. “Seems like I’ve got nothing to lose then.” he said as he agreed to her bet. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in a few minutes.” Asami smiled sweetly. Snorting at her bravado the Praxian soldier said “I am Captain Mendril, commander of this cohort.” he declared pompously. “You are?” “You can just call me Asami.” the woman replied with an easy smile. “What is your rank?” Mendril asked with a frown. “Oh, I don’t really exist within the command structure but it’s probably best if you assume that I outrank you.” she said pleasantly making Mendril scowl at her “So how do you want to do this? Unarmed or with weapons?” “You can use whatever you want, I’ll use my own claws.” he replied as he held out his hand with his sharp claws extended. “You sure? I can use anything?” Asami asked. “Anything you want.” he smirked condescendingly at her. “Alright, if you’re sure.” she said as she grabbed the gun holstered at Artums waist and shot the soldier in the foot. As Mendril fell to the floor screaming in pain and clutching at his bleeding foot Asami smiled brightly and said “Well, that was fun. I guess you’re going to treating me to dinner tonight.” she said to Artum as she leaned in close to him and rested her hand against his chest. “By the way I’ll be wearing my leather coat and boots tonight so you’ll have that to look forward to.” she purred breathily as she scratched him beneath his chin causing him to let out a throaty growl. “Will you be wearing anything else?” he asked with a grin. “You’ll just have to wait and find out.” she said teasingly as she stepped away from him. “You boys have fun playing soldier.” she said with a lazy wave as she sauntered away without returning his gun. Staring hungrily after her for a moment Artum turned back to the assembled soldiers who were in such a state of shock that they hadn’t even moved to help their injured comrade yet. Stepping towards them Artum squatted next to the still wailing soldier and said “You got off lucky. I’ve seen that woman kill a Draastrekian with her bare hands. Snapped his neck like a twig.” he smirked at the horrified look on Mendril’s face. Getting to his feet Artum addressed the other soldiers “I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories about what the humans did during the war and I’m sure you’ve discounted most of them as exaggerations. I thought so as well, after all Praxian space was far from the front lines and the humans never penetrated deep enough into Union space for us to experience the brunt of their wrath but let me assure you; every rumour, every horror story you’ve heard whispered, they’re all true.” he said making the Praxian soldiers gulp. “Humans soldiers are the most deadly fighters in the galaxy, even the Lizards fear getting into another scrap with them because they know they wouldn’t survive another war. You wouldn’t know it just by looking at them; they don’t have any claws or any other manner of natural defence but what they do have is a willingness to go to any lengths to achieve victory.” Seeing the troubled looks on their faces Artum smirked as he pulled a small, thick book from his pocket and held it out to them “Any of you know what this is?” getting blank looks from them Artum continued “This is the humans ‘Rules of War’ that they made every Union member agree to follow. I trust that as a prominent member of the Union the Conglomeration requires its soldiers to know these rules, correct? No? I imagine most of you laughed at the thought of rules for warfare; I don’t blame you. The idea seems ludicrous doesn’t it? After all the point of war is to defeat your enemies through any mean necessary. Why should we care how they are treated?” “Well to humans these rules are doctrine, they are sacrosanct. Their military and their soldiers won’t break these rules so long as they are fighting against someone who also abides by them. They will operate within these bounds but do not believe they will be constrained by them. If something is not expressly covered by these laws the humans won’t hesitate to do it. Take our friend here.” he said gesturing to the still groaning Mendril on the ground. “He picked a fight with a human but didn’t have the forethought to restrict the use of firearms. And so she chose the most efficient way to beat him completely within the rules that he set.” he smirked and waved the book in the air. “When I joined the human military these rules were drilled into me and every other recruit. The same shall happen to you during the course of this joint training exercise and as you’re memorising them I want you to all to remember something. Every rule in this book was put in place to protect the humans from themselves, every rule was written in direct response to the horrors that they at some point in their history unleashed upon one another. And I want you all to realise how lucky the galaxy is that the humans are allowing us to be protected by their rules.” he said gravely before clapping his hands together. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get him to the infirmary before he bleeds to death! I don’t care if they end up amputating your foot, I expect you to be ready to start your training first thing tomorrow morning is that clear?” he said looking down at the injured Praxian. “Yes Sir.” Mendril said through gritted teeth. “Good. You’re all dismissed. I’ve got a date to get ready for.” he grinned.
We have NEW Cover Art! Teaser: Timur attempts to bring Frances out of the castle so he can extricate himself and his traitors all safely, whilst leaving her behind. It doesn't go to plan. Story Summary: After years of beatings and neglect from her parents, 13-year old Frances was summoned with her entire class to the fantastical world of Durannon to fight the monsters invading the human kingdoms and defeat the "Demon King." If she succeeds, she might have the home she never had. But if she can't overcome the trauma and self-loathing inflicted on her by her abusive parents, Frances will die, and be summoned back to the home she escaped, on the day that she left. [The Beginning] [<=Chapter 61] [Chapter Index and Blurb] [Chapter 63=>] [Map of Durannon] This chapter was pre-read byu/totallyundescript. Want to hang? Join the Discord Community! To disguise that they were carrying a tied up human girl, Timur and the traitors had put Frances in a sack. Since Timur was disguised as a burly servant, he could easily carry the sack containing Frances. He tried to carry Frances in what he hoped was comfortable. She didn’t seem to make any noise. Then again, the traitors—which is to say, Selena—had threatened to hurt Frances if she made a noise. Timur’s solution to get out of Conthwaite castle, which was locked down, was a dangerous, but in his view, intelligent one. The castle had two sally ports, doors in the fortifications that would allow defenders to come out and harass enemy besiegers. They were guarded and exposed to view from the walls of the fortress. However, Timur knew that everybody was focused on looking into the castle grounds, not looking outward. They just needed to knock out the guards. The sally port they chose was the northern sally port. It overlooked a craggy path that snaked down from the hill Conthwaite Castle stood on and to the meeting point. Inside the castle, it was located in a remote corner of one of the castle's courtyards, isolated from the rest of the castle. There were two guards by it. Timur took out the guards quickly by using two words of power that smashed them into the wall and knocked them down. They were so stunned that Claudia, Russell, Selena and Renfrey had a lot of time to rush the pair and tie them up. After pocketing the key to the sally port, they left, leaving the two guards on the outside. As an extra precaution, Timur cast a heating spell that melted the lock and rendered the sally port completely inoperable. “Next?” Renfrey asked. Timur put the sack where Frances was in down and started to undo it. “We get down the path. No torches, though. So I’ll have to untie the blasted mage’s legs.” Russell frowned. “She might escape.” “We’ll make a rope tie around her waist then. If she tries to escape, she’ll fall to her death. I can see the path. She, and you all can’t. You need to follow me.” He unearthed Frances’s head and glanced at her. “Do you understand me, mage?” Frances nodded and the humans quickly pulled the sack off her and undid her ankle bindings. Once they tied another rope around her waist, the group was off. Although Timur could see the path as well as it was day, he picked his steps carefully and didn’t rush, often pausing to see how Frances and the other humans were doing. The path was almost like a goat’s track, littered with rocks that pressed up against boots, with one side constantly faced with sharp half-eroded stone. The darkness didn’t help. As they picked their way down the trail, one of the humans would lose their footing and slip on occasion, and they all had staves for both balance and defence. With her hands tied behind her back, Frances fell several times. Only a quick grab or tug of the rope around her waist would keep her head from slamming into the ground. Timur had to mutter curses to play his part, but he felt they were getting less convincing. He was honest to Galena, the Alavari’s god, terrified of her hurting herself, and of the possibility of their escape going to hell. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, rattling his nerves, making him watch every edge in the dark with fear that she might slip. He had no idea how Frances wasn’t just doing more than occasionally whimper or gasp. At least, he had no idea until he had to catch her by her arm one time when a rock shifted under her feet and she nearly went right over the edge. That was when he realized that she was drenched with cold sweat, and trembling. She was horrified, which reassured him, and also drove that dagger of shame he felt deeper into his stomach. The party heard the alarm bells ringing sometime after that fall. “Shit,” Claudia muttered. “Don’t worry. We’re almost there,” said Timur. He could see the flat ground at the bottom of the slope and the orchard that was their destination. It was an apple orchard, and since it was fall, he could hear his boots crunching leaves as he stepped to the last part of the path. And just like that, they were off the trail and in the orchard and their rendezvous point. Timur could even see the horses too, tied to the trees and saddled for a long ride. “Ignis! We are here, where are you?” Timur yelled. There was no reply. Timur suddenly felt his tail stiffen and his ears stiffen. Something was wrong. Where was his troll— Two glinting objects flew out from the trees. He followed them to see them smash against the narrow path they’d just gone down and burst into familiar red-orangey flames. Vials of Crownfire. They would go out soon without much to burn on the rock, but until then they couldn’t escape back up. The orchard was now bathed with a strange crimson glow. The Alavari prince had already turned his attention back to the direction the fire had been thrown from to see two figures charge at them. One had a shield and was unnaturally fast. She leapt at Timur, hammer raised. The prince didn’t have time to take his wand out. He had to cry out a word of power to throw his attacker backward into a tree. The effort made him wince as he felt the drain on his reserves. To his shock, his attacker hit the tree with a cry, but instead of sliding down unconscious, leapt back to her feet and charged again, forcing Timur to draw the sword he’d borrowed from the Conthwaite armoury. The other, an armoured knight, from the way fire glinted off of him, was going after Renfrey. The man blocked his sword with a staff, but the knight drove a gauntleted fist into the man’s face, knocking him down. He was immediately beset however by Claudia and Russell, who came at him from two sides, beating at him with their staves. “Let her go now!” screamed the female. Her hammer scythed toward Timur. The angel forced the trogre to let go of the rope around Frances’s waist and parry the blow. Only his skill and agility let him deflect the constant flurry of hammer strikes. “Martin, get Frances out of here!” screamed the girl, who had to be Elizabeth. The knight had to be Martin. Timur grimaced, this was bad, but maybe it was for the best. Ignis was either dead or wounded, but Frances was safe. If he could extricate himself from this situation without hurting Frances’s friends, everything would be fine— “All of you drop your weapons or I’ll slit her throat!” Everybody froe and Timur spun to see Selena, one arm around Frances’s shoulder, the other holding a knife to her throat. Timur forced himself not to grimace and instead smiled. “Well done Selena—” “You drop your weapons too, Timur.” The maid’s voice had dropped to a raspy growl. “I know you care about this mage.” The prince felt his breath catch in his throat, and the sword in his hand drop limply to the ground. The maid’s lips were twisted up in a nasty leer. The edge of her knife was touching the side of Frances’s neck. “Timur what are you— Oh damn, you were trying to leave her with us,” Elizabeth stammered. The trogre nodded, glancing at Claudia and Russell, who were staring at their friend in shock. “Selena, what are you doing. We have a deal. Unless you don’t want to escape to Alavaria?” Timur asked. Selena snorted. “You, an Alavari prince, care for this mage. We can’t trust you.” “I beat her up! Besides she is our only ticket out of here! Are you crazy—” And that was when Selena drove the knife into Frances’s thigh and gave it a twist. The worst part for Frances was that she expected something like this to happen, and so all her senses were honed in on the pain she was going to feel. Only, nothing could prepare her for how cold the steel felt as it entered her thigh. Neither could anything prepare for the agony that rattled up her leg as Selena’s knife churned her flesh. Frances felt her eyes flare wide and her muffled, unrecognizable scream filled the night air. Timur lunged toward them, but the knife, now bloody, was suddenly up against her cheek again. “You care about her.” The maid glided what was now the knife’s wet and warm edge against Frances’s face. “If you really hated her you’d have hit her face and broken her nose. Yet the only bruise I see is the one you gave her when you fought. You must not have recognized her.” Frances shivered even as she lamented her misstep. Of course, she should have asked Timur to give her a bruise. She just didn’t think to do so because her own parents had been so careful not to show marks on her face. Now Timur, a desperate, panicked look on his features was stammering, “Look yes, I have a deal with her but that doesn’t affect us! We can’t take her with us anyway so I thought we should just keep her for a bit then leave her! Remember, she’s Edana Firehand’s dearest student. Do you really want to enrage Lady Skinmelter more than you already have?” “He’s right.” The woman that Frances recalled was Claudia said, looking increasingly horrified by Selena’s actions. “Look Selena, we need this. We need to get out. We can’t escape the war in the Human Kingdoms, especially soldiers like Russell and I. Only in Alavaria we might stand a chance of leaving it all behind us.” Frances held her breath as her captor frowned. She could barely stand. Her leg was throbbing with pain, and there was a growing wetness trickling down her right leg. She knew that it was her own blood flowing out of her. But Selena was in no rush. She frowned and relaxed the knife against Frances’s neck almost casually. There was nothing casual to the gesture for Frances, though. She could see the mad light in the woman’s eyes. Everybody waited with bated breath. “Oh, we will. Just one more thing.” Selene pointed to Martin. “You, Otherworlder girl, kill my dear former lord.” Timur blinked. “We have no time for this we need to leave—” “You’re not calling the shots anymore, Fae-kin.” Selena sneered at Elizabeth. “Kill Martin, girl. Or I will kill your friend.” Frances shook her head on instinct and for her trouble, got the knife pressed further into her cheek. She could feel the edge cutting the skin and she froze once more. All she wanted to do was to scream and fight this madwoman. But if she did… she was going to die, and she knew what that meant. As Elizabeth blinked back tears, Martin swallowed. “If I am going to die, I want to know why. Did I offend you in some way?” he demanded. Selena laughed, a harsh, grating laugh that shook even her own comrades. “Your mothers sent my son and daughter into battle under your sister, Maria’s, command. Your sister got them killed. I think it’s only reasonable that they pay for that with your death. That I get to stick it to some prissy Otherworlders just makes it better.” “It was you… you leaked the plan to the orcs. You almost got us all killed!” Elizabeth glared at Selena. “We are trying to defend your homes and you repay us like this?” Selena snorted. “It was a joint effort, but yes, we got the plans to Alavaria. And you, Otherworders, defend our homes? How can you defend our homes when you have nothing to lose. When you have no attachment to Durannon? And what do we have to give up so you defend our homes? Our food, our iron, our animals and our lives!” Frances sniffled as the knife began to cut into her cheek, slicing open skin. She had to do something. Elizabeth was going to be forced to make an impossible choice. “This war will take and take and take until those prissy nobles just work it out! At least Alavaria is offering us an out from this war,” Selena hissed. “Now do it!” Frances watched Elizabeth tremble, staring at Martin. Her friends were looking at each other, poleaxed by the situation they were in. She had to do something. Her hands were loose enough, but the knife was at her neck. She could die if she tried to escape, and if she died, she’d return home, back to her parents. Only, that didn’t seem to be so scary to her. Frances was horrified by the prospect, but the option didn’t seem to paralyze her. She wondered why. It didn’t make sense. She didn’t want to be hit by her parents or see them ever again. So why… why did she dread her friend dying more than seeing her parents? Because you know what you deserve, what you need. You know you deserve good things. You know you deserved nothing of what your parents did to you. They may scare you, but you can fight that fear and win. As the answer hit Frances, she made her decision Across from Frances, Timur frowned as he noticed his friend’s eyes widen in what seemed like some kind of epiphany. He was confused as to why she seemed to brace herself, however, but chalked it up to the pain she felt in her leg. Martin suspected something different. He could tell that Frances was going to make a move, but he wasn’t sure what she could do. He thought she saw some weakness in their enemy and was getting ready to exploit it, or send him a signal. Elizabeth saw her friend’s eyes widen too. She also noticed Frances tense her shoulders. Unlike the boys, however, she instantly realized what her friend was going to do. “Frances, no!” she screamed. It was too late. Frances slipped the loosened ties at her wrists and grabbed Selena’s knife arm, stepping backward into her. The pair fell over, grappling with one another, Selena shrieking like a banshee, Frances crying out a note to try to keep the knife away from her. Never one to miss an opportunity, Martin raced for Russell, blocking the hit from a stave with his armoured arms, he tackled the man to the ground. Elizabeth easily dodged Claudia’s wild swing and began to wrestle for control of her staff. Timur, having finally remembered that he’d loosened Frances’s ropes, only had eyes for Frances as she and Selena rolled over. Even as he raced toward the pair, though, he saw Selena flip his exhausted and battered friend over, and straddle her. Frances raised her arms in a defensive block and cried out, trying to force Selena away from her with her magic. She managed to throw the woman away, but not before the knife colored red by the still glowing Crownfire, plunged her in the chest. Then the traitorous maid hit the ground. But she quickly sprang up, charging. Timur froze, wondering whether to get to Frances or attack Selena. Elizabeth sprinted by Timur, and in a textbook sweep, took Selena’s legs from out under her, before slamming the staff on her head for good measure. The maid crumpled, knocked out cold. Timur spared the madwoman only a glance before racing to Frances’s side. Blood was already pooling underneath her body. It poured out from her thigh, from the deep wound in her chest that soaked her cream white dress, and from a cut along the side of her throat. He hadn’t seen that. It looked like it had happened when Frances initially tried to break out from Selena’s grasp. He immediately pressed his hands against the neck wound trying to staunch the blood that bubbled up. “Oh no, nononono. Elizabeth! Martin! Help!” he bellowed. Elizabeth was by his side in an instant. Martin, who was tying up Russell, was a hair slower, but not far behind. They immediately pressed their hands against the wounds. “Magic. Timur! You know healing spells don’t you?” Martin demanded, his tone shrill. The trogre shook his head. “Yes, but I’m almost flat out. I can’t… it’s so deep! I’ll try—” “Wait!” Elizabeth with bloody hands whipped out a wand from her belt. “Use Frances’s wand, it’s a Named Wand. I’ll hold her neck.” She pressed her shaking hands against the wound. “Oh, God. Frances, why?” she cried. “It’s alright… I… I’ll see you soon at school. I’ll find you.” Frances didn’t want to cry, but it hurt too much. She couldn’t remember feeling so weak before, but she fought it. There was too much on her mind. “I… I’m only a little scared. Please, tell Edana I love her. She’s the mother I never knew I could have, and that I’m sorry.” Frances hiccuped, she felt so weak, like she wanted to just fall asleep. “Timur, I’m sorry. I hope you find someone to help you. Martin, don’t f-f-feel bad…” “No! You aren’t going back to your parents!” Timur grabbed Ivy’s Sting, yelled out several phrases and touched Frances’s neck. Sensing its beloved master was close to death, the wand was all too eager to lend its power and Timur found it incredibly easy to cast his healing spell. The stab wound started to knit together, but slowly, and the cut on the side of the neck slower still. Timur swallowed and drew everything he had, every last bit of magic and thrust it into the dying mage. “Come on! Don’t give up! You can’t!” Martin begged. The knight was crying now, tears pouring down his cheeks Frances sniffled. “Please don’t cry. I…I was so happy in Durannon—” “And you’re going to be fine damnit!” Elizabeth screamed. Frances blinked as Elizabeth took her hands off of the now-vanished stab wound she’d been trying to cover with her bloody hands. She felt her friend touch her neck with a wet hand. The wound on her neck was also gone. “Oh God, you’re going to be fine,” she wheezed and sat back. Frances blinked again, suddenly feeling… oddly alert and while exhausted, not so sleepy. Timur stood up groggily, Martin steadying him. “I… I sealed the bleeding. She needs to see a doctor immediately, but… Galena that was too close.” Frances blinked again and tried to lever herself up, but Elizabeth immediately pushed her back on the ground. “You stay quiet. Timur, you need to get out of here.” The trogre stared at Elizabeth but handed Ivy’s Sting back to the Otherworlder. “You’re… letting me go?” Martin nodded. He briefly considered demanding Timur to stay, but a quick glance at Frances and he decided to get her help was far more important than getting into another fight. The knight pointed to the orchard. “You saved her life and you never wanted this to happen. The traitors stay, but your troll, Ignis, he’s just over there. We just knocked him out. Take two horses and get away before Edana arrives. I doubt she’ll be as merciful.” “I doubt it too.” Timur levered himself off of Martin and smiled. “To an actually peaceful meeting next time?” “I’m not betting on it,” muttered Martin, but he shook the prince’s hand. Elizabeth just gave the trogre a nod. “Timur, thank you,” Frances rasped. The Alavari prince managed an exhausted and relieved smile, with none of his usual cockiness. “Until next time then, my lady.” Frances felt her cheeks flush, and Timur quickly averted his eyes before turning around. Soon he was jogging into the night, leaving the trio of friends surrounded by unconscious or groaning traitors. Author's Note: OOOOF wow that was a chapter. Reminder to everybody that if you would like advance chapters, you can check out my patreon. I'm also going to run a Patreon Q and A with questions due on October 4th. The Q and A will be made available a week after chapter 64 is published and will signal the end to my weeklong 'end of book 1' break. All Patreons have four questions they can ask to myself, or any character. You can ask spoilery questions, I just won't post them. The break for non-patron folks will only take place after their chapter 64. The non-patron folks Q and A will be published instead of a regular chapter update after Chapter 64 is regularly updated and will signal back to regular updates... the see start of book 2 of A Fractured Song. Okay now if you didn't bother reading all of that, the update question is: Favourite action characters or stars?: Donnnie Yen (IP Man), Jackie Chan and Keanu Reeves (John Wick) are mine.
Dwarf Fortress Gladiator Tournament V Finale fight!
Welcome, our dearest spectators, to the Grand Arena once again. Today is the great day: the day of the Finale! Two brave fighters, the best of the best, will finally show us who of them is worthy of a title of Champion of the Arena, and the tournament will come to a close - until the next year at least. But, before that, let us remember those who did not make it, those who gave their bloody due to Armok and who managed to entertain the public, no matter how far they made it in. Gilbert “Crazy Legs”, the toad bard giving us the Ballad of the Pits. Adrinna Catastor, the dimension travelling fighter for a new home. Anyola the Obscured, Grekk the Deranged, Shendau Goldpeak, Urist McGladiator. They and more brave fighters have given their lives today for the glory and for the public. And so let it be known that their sacrifice will not be forgotten, and they live still in the Arena through the blood they have spilled on the cold floor of the Arena. But enough about those who were lost, for we have our two finalists, the most glorious of them all! The Finale: City Guard NPC vs. Molurus And so, let us introduce the two mighty warriors who have made it this far, in spite of all the odds and to the expectations of few. In the upper corner, standing proudly, his pike rising up into the sky like a mighty oak, his expression unwavering as steel, the hero of the common folk, the Relatable One, the slayer of favorites and an all-around great guy… BOB, the City Guard NPC (managed by u/CalamarRojo)! A man seemingly born into his profession, he might not have a grand goal in mind; he might not have backstory which could be written ballads about; he might not have a quirky character; but what he does have is ultimate relatability and undoubtable skill in weaponry, which he has proven time and again. In his very first round, he defeated a murderous environmentalist, a penguin who could have become the next Paul, Flipper Gut-Ripper, through the strength of his armour and his indomitable will alone. The next round, he has made cheese out of Ipetynalzo Toothbreaker without breaking a sweat. But these achievements pale in comparison to what he managed to do next. The third round had him face off against Zip Zop, a goblin who was thought unbreakable due to her spectacular performance in her first two rounds: winning with a WOODEN dagger against Mephisopheles the Foul Blendec, and then outwrestling a troll - Van the Dungeon Master, to be precise! Still, her luck has run out against the staunch Guard, allowing him to move to the next opponent. Kosak Stormclaw, the Polar Bear Man Adventurer who was one step away from becoming a legend, from his help in defending the Fortress of Stonegleam from yeti invasion. Known best as the slayer of Shendau Goldpeak, this polar bear man as well could not hold against Bob in the quarter-finals. And, at last, the most surprising victory of all: one against Anyola the Obscured, the kinslayer in hiding, who seemingly was on the track to finally reconciling with her family. Her skills, proven by her one-hit kill of Beul the Executioner in the Quarter-finale, have earned her many followers, and some rumours even started that she was merely holding back and that she could beat Paul himself. But she too was felled by the City Guard’s pike, shocking many. Now, he stands truly ready for the Quarter-finale: new finely-made steel armour glinting in the sun, pike raised high up to the sky. Bob seems more confident than ever before, and even his pose, while still completely compliant with one of the common guard, has been filled with something more than boredom of one. It has been filled with determination and strength, and soon, the pike is pointed at his opponent, and the confident smirk appears on his face. Today, we will find out whether this human will become our first champion of the Civilized Races. His job will not be easy, because… His opponent is standing no less stalwartly, shining in the summer sun like a glorious star himself. His scales and his steel armour blending in a great bling, almost reflecting the warm that is filling the arena. This is a no-less beloved champion of the reptilekind with a grand purpose… Molurus, the Python Man (managed by u/Rowsdower11)! The crusader of the Global Warming, he has deduced that the increased temperature of the world is going to help every cold-blooded creature in the world; as such, he has decided to participate in the Great Tournament to gather funds to start a charity promoting the climate change. Whatever you think of his policies, one thing cannot be denied: he is a force to be reckoned with. He has cut a bloody swath through Crowemurphy the game developer and Little Tooth the Troll with his scimitar, not facing much resistance from either of them. Then he killed an interdimensional traveler, Lucius Postimus Corvus, the slayer of Gilbert “Crazy Legs” the Toadman Bard and Frostquake the Polar Bear Man, in a quick and efficient display of swordsmanship. After that, he continued onto the Quarter-Finals, where he faced a fan favorite, a dwarven elf by the name of Dak Vagush, the inheritor of the dwarven hopes and avenger of Urist McGladiator. The brave woman stood her ground in a long and gruesome duel, but eventually had to give to her larger opponent, extinguishing the last hope of the dwarves to win this tournament. And in the semi-finale he faced yet another fan favourite, She Intends To Stab You the Axolotl Woman. The cold-blooded killer in all senses, her abyssal eyes could send shivers down anyone’s spine, and her gruesome methods of dealing with her opponents, involving slowly bleeding them out, were surely entertaining for some of our more bloodthirsty patrons. Still, even though she had her adamantine dagger, the snakeman’s choice of ditching his armour for the fight against her proved a good decision, and he managed to survive the axolotl woman’s deadly assault. And, surprisingly enough, he has dropped his faithful scimitar, instead opting for a set of armour. His only means of offense is now his own natural arsenal. He looks extremely confident, as the crowds of reptile men are cheering him up. His snake eyes are shining with determination and readiness. Today, his idea will finally get due funds for its realization… or will have to be delayed because of his death. Which will it be?Take your deepest breaths, bring out your merchandise, for in a few seconds… The Horn Sounds! Combat Log; Video The two fighters are moving towards each other slowly, carefully, calculation and anticipation in their eyes. There is little room for mistake, and it is all or nothing: either the eternal glory and achievement of their goals - or death and dust. Both fighters know this, and look at each other intently. Still, Molurus gives Bob a courteous hiss, and Bob nods his head back, as a sign of mutual respect. And then Molurus lunges, quick like a viper striking its prey. But still, combat reflexes of the City Guard allow him to step away just in time, with Molurus flying right by him. The pike is quickly turned and strikes at the python man, tearing right through his leather robe and making a scratch on the arm. The hiss of the snakeman increases, and he jumps right at his opponent, making him fall over and directing his fist towards him - but the Guardsman manages to roll away just in time and jump right back on his feet with little difficulty, before sending his pike in his direction - the strike to be dodged by an agile body of a snakeman.The fighters enter a dance, pike and armours shining in the sun, neither opponent giving a single inch. The strikes are evaded as deftly as they are sent, and this is no small feat. The eyes sparkle with concentration and confidence, a small scratch not dissuading Molurus from his seemingly certain victory. With half the tribunes chanting Bob’s name - or moniker, and the other half cheering for Molurus - many hissing even despite not being reptiles - the atmosphere gives off a tensity only the Finale can provide. Soon, another wild fist is thrown in the air, whizzing past the pike already breaking through to stab at Molurus’ arm, leaving a serious wound on the snakeman’s bicep! Still, the snakeman does not seem too unfazed by this, quickly grabbing the pike and once again moving in, pushing the Guardsman over with his shoulder! He is quickly pushed away when he tries to impale his fangs on Bob, and the fighters move a few steps back once again. Still, this time Molurus manages to follow up on the momentum, as his fist flies into the guard/s armored leg - not dealing too much damage. Then another hook follows, to the other leg, and Molurus is pushed away by the shaft of the pike. City Guard’s eyes start to glow with fury, and he goes on the offensive once again. A few stabs whizz past the snakeman’s scales, and he does knock over Bob the third, then the fourth time! Bob’s fans become more and more anxious, calling for their favourite to get himself together. And it does not take him long to do so, for, from the ground, he stabs right in Molurus’ right arm, and, after a few attempts by Molurus to get back at his rival, another stab follows, managing to hit the same spot, and a bone-chipping sound is heard loudly. For the first time, some resemblance of fear appears in the pained eyes of the python man - but it is extremely brief, and he immediately lashes out at Bob’s arm, the fangs sliding off the steel.The City Guard has the advantage, and he understands it, easily pressing his advantage by making two more holes in the snakeman’s unprotected arm, seemingly trying to mangle it far beyond any recognition. And, in a desperate move, Molurus once again pushes his opponent to the ground, his teeth now trying to bite through his opponent’s leg - and failing yet again. Once more, City Guard rses up, plunging his pike right into his opponent’s hand. Quickly retrieving his pike from his opponent’s hand, Bob moves out of the grappling distance, and braces his pike yet again. After evading a few more stabs from the pike of the City Guard, the bleeding snakeman quickly takes a look around him, seeing as the hopes of the reptile men around the arena seem to dampen, their faces in desperation. He takes a look at the shining sun, feels the warmth upon his scales, and turns his gaze back to the City Guard, determination renewed in his eyes. He quickly charges once more, and starts to bite the City Guard - first in his hand, trying to get through the gaps in the gauntlets, before biting right on his opponent’s face and starting to shake his around by his head!The City Guard starts to bleed from his mouth, and the snakeman bites off his ear, then impales his teeth through the joints on the gauntlet, sinking them deep into his opponent’s forearm. He starts shaking the human around by his arm, and a pained scream erupts from his opponent’s mouth. As the bleeding intensifies, he bites through the other arm, shaking it around as well, and the trusty pike is dropped from Bob’s hands! Still, the heat of battle has taken its toll on both fighters, and they both tumble to ground, where Molurus continues biting at his opponent, still trying to kick his opponent off him. Still, soon enough a hand is ripped right off from the rest of his body. This, combined with the continued biting, about does it for the City Guard. With his last breath, he mutters one thing: “Someone… help… please...” With that, brave guardsman Bob’s head drops on the ground, and Molurus slowly, exhaustedly, rises up to standing, roaring ovations of the public. The python man looks at his warm-blooded opponent, giving him a solemn, respectful bow. After that, he manages to break out a smile, and bathes in the sun and the cheers of the spectators. He has done it. Congratulations, Molurus! You have prevailed in the tournament despite everything, and you are the winner of the Fifth Gladiator Tournament! But wait a moment… ----- The crowds shake as the gates are knocked on heavily. A deep, wrathful roar resounds through the tense air of the Arena. The people start to whisper among themselves, and some even start to leave in a hurry. And soon enough, the door opens, revealing a terrifying figure of a harp seal man, dressed in full adamantine armour, a blue hood over his head. He raises his morningstar far up in the air and smirks malevolently. He cannot be mistaken for anyone. Paul the Pulverizer is here to defend his title. And so, the Arena staff quickly patches up Molurus for the newest fight, as Paul stretches and swings the morningstar around, warming his muscles. The two stare off for a long time, hatred soaring through their eyes, and the two of them square off in the Arena again. Another match is in order… The Title Match: Molurus vs. Paul the Pulverizer The contender for the title has already been introduced, so let us reintroduce the current holder of the title of the Champion of the Arena - though everyone knows him already. Paul the Pulverizer (managed by u/LegalPusher), the infamous environmentalist crusader, has been driven away from his home by the Global Warming and has departed on a quest to cull the world in order to slow it down the previous year; and in the name of the ice caps everywhere, he has murdered his way through many. First, it was an unnoticeable kobold, Sneekris. Then, in a fit of brutal strength, he has killed Shakkan D’armignan with his own teeth after being disarmed of his morningstar. After that, he brutalized one of the fan favourites of the Tournament, Glovely Graypelt the bravest of opossum women. In the quarter-finals he destroyed lovable Kisat Dur Panda. In the semi-finals, Cowlvin the Cowvalier, a minotaur with a starving family, fell to his vicious morningstar. And finally, in the Finale he defeated the tough guy batman En Yaw Ecurb, before wrestling the title away from Notorious Breakfast and commencing the Massacre of the Arena. But do not worry, the Arena Officials have ensured that there will be no second one even if the sealman wins. Weirdly enough, a few of the previous tournament’s fans have turned out, flying the ‘Seal the Deal’ banners from the previous year. Paul’s expression is one of unrivalled confidence - after all, in the eyes of the many he has become something akin to a demigod of slaughter. How could Molurus possibly stand up to such a force of nature?.. Molurus himself for a moment seems a bit insecure, but his commitment to his cause soon overpowers whatever dread his heart holds. This harp seal man is the antithesis to all he stands for. It is either his awful vision of a cold hellish world, or the hot paradise. He will fight for his dream, whatever the cost. He straightens up, looking at Paul and hissing through his teeth. One thing is absolutely certain. We are in for one hell of a title match. The Horn Sounds once again! Combat Log; Video Paul moves straight to his opponent, as quickly as a harp seal man can, his posture exerting supreme assurance. After all, he has defeated all his opponent without much struggle, and this puny, disgusting snakeman will be an easy pulverizing target. In a few moments, Molurus attempts to lash out at his opponent, but his head is slapped away, and the deadly morningstar rams itself into the snakeman’s hand, the force tearing the scale on the snakeman. Still, the response from Molurus comes immediately, as he punches his opponent’s arm, the force enough to slightly tear the skin higher up the seal man’s arm. Slight confusion briefly appears on the seal man’s face, before he decides to charge at the snakeman, and the two of them tangle and fall to the ground together. Molurus manages to push his opponent down, and stand up before him, but the grounded harp seal man manages to drive his morningstar into the python man’s hand. In response, another punch follows, striking Paul’s arm, though most of the force is dissipated by the armour. Soon after, Molurus manages to grab Paul, in hopes of making him an easy target for his fist - but the head moves away just in time, and Molurus is forced to release his opponent. He quickly manages to get behind the seal man and punch him in his flipper - once again, without significant consequences, and Paul retaliates by bashing his opponent’s tail. Then, a punch to the seal man’s arm is met by a morningstar flying right into the snakeman’s mouth, pushing him quite a bit back! Molurus spits some blood on the floor of the arena, before getting back to the fight, The two fighters are quick to get back at fighting, the glint of the sun reflecting from the python man’s armor contrasting with the blue adamantine like flame and ice. A wild lunge from Molurus - and he is bashed in his tail once again. The follow-up, however, is evaded quite deftly by the snakeman, and he tries to sink his teeth into his opponent’s flipper - but the fangs slide off the armour yet again. Molurus continues his assault, and two out of many punches land, failing to cause significant damage yet again - before his jaw finally grabs the sealman’s head!Just as with the Guard, he manages to shake Paul around by the mouth for a bit, before he is thrown off by a morningstar’s jab in the gut. Blood starts to pour from Paul’s mouth, giving him a decidedly sinister look, as the duel continues on. And yet, the sight of blood covering Paul is a sign that even in all his armoured and brutal glory, he is not immortal. The scared fans start to perk up just a bit… Molurus continues punching his opponent, with predictable results, and some of the public simply starts to shout for Molurus to “bite the hell out of that bastard”, and soon enough Molurus knocks his opponent’s teeth out and uses the distraction to bite the sealman’s finger! Even the two morningstar strikes, with the spikes of the weapon stuck in snakeman's flesh after the second one, do not prevent the snakeman from viciously ripping the finger off!Another bite to the head quickly follows, and once again shakes the seal man around to the best of his ability, before Paul again takes them both down to the ground. Molurus once again rises up over his opponent - but not before receiving a morningstar strike to the head. he delivers three punches to his opponent, but the morningstar to the tails throws him a bit back, allowing Paul to get back to his feet.And right afterwards, snakeman’s fangs sink into Paul’s secondary arm, and Molurus shakes it around with an audible sound of tearing flesh. Afterwards, he delivers a left hook to the sealman’s head, his head slightly turning, and he attempts to deliver another strike to the arm, but the force is deflected by the adamantine. The retaliation is quick, and the offending hand is quickly proven the target of the morningstar. Still, the snakeman quickly grabs the sealman’s gauntlet and starts punching his opponent again and again. But the battle has been going for long now, and the strain of tiredness finally gets to the fighters, who collapse on the floor, breathing heavily. As soon as Paul tries to get back up, the snake fangs slide across his flipper, force not enough to break through but enough to send the seal man back to the ground. With the shaft of the morningstar, Paul immediately knocks out one of the snakeman’s fangs! But this does not stop Molurus. With both fighters too exhausted to evade attacks, the final test of toughness starts. The snakeman bites at his opponent, the armour deflecting less and less force from the desperate bites of the snakeman, as the morningstar bashes him time and again. Sooner or later, someone will have to give, and the crowds start to cheer more desperately for their chosen gladiators… After a bit of this, Molurus plunges his teeth into the hand of the sealman, shaking it around again, before managing to get straight to the sealman’s throat! In a desperate attempt to throw the snakeman off before it’s too late, he drives the morningstar into his arm - but when Molurus starts to shake his opponent around, Paul finds his body quickly paralyzed, and the morningstar - the weapon of slaughter - drops to the ground! Molurus bites on his defenseless opponent’s head, shaking him around violently - and for the first time, the pain makes the dreaded, undefeatable Paul lose his consciousness. Molurus continues to wrathfully shake around his opponent’s head, almost as if trying to drain every single drop of blood from Paul - or rip his head off. And he succeeds in the first part soon after. The crowds stand in shock, as they watch the seal man finally take his last breath… before erupting in cheer perhaps unheard in the Arena ever before. The Slaughterer is gone, and Molurus is the hero of the day. Bathing in all the attention and the rays of the sun once more, he gives the world a true, genuine, wide smile. Now, he will not be stopped in his goals of making the world embrace Global Warming. At least, until the next year comes. Congratulations, Molurus! Despite all odds, all expectations, all fears, you have managed to defeat Paul, who once seemed absolutely invincible, just a year after he went up on his throne, and now you are officially the Champion of the Arena! ----- And so concludes the Fifth Dwarf Fortress Gladiator Tournament, our dearest spectators. It has been a great honour having you all here, watching, cheering, booing, weeping. We really hope that all of you will come back to the next tournament, at this Crucible of Legends. The Arena will await you in a year. Farewell, and may Armok be with all of you. u/ERR40 wins the betting, with good a margin! ----- Written by u/Black_Griffin23 Edited by u/Morpheus_Darkwater Tournament run by u/Morpheus_Darkwater
A/N: Shout out to Raging Potato, whose exquisite series The New Students inspired me to link to silly gifs with the NEXT button. PREVIOUS | NEXT ->>>- Red King, I hate garrison duty, Zm'var'Gaawk thought resignedly as he watched the wind stir whirling devils across the dusty tarmac. He picked idly at a scrap of meat caught in his teeth with a curved claw, and then checked his chronometer. My shift hasn't even properly started and I'm already bored to death. I should have waited a bit before relieving those lucky sods. He leaned across his desk and keyed the gunmetal puck of its in-built communicator. "Where the Hell is Krag'vro'Wargh? Our watch has nearly begun." The shift's lead comissionaire took a moment to reply, his voice tinny thanks to the communicator's low-quality speaker. "Didn't you hear? He commed in sick this morning." We've subjugated the stars for the Skryrn. Ground up whole civilizations and shoveled them like hydrocarbon to stoke the furnace of their Empire's glory, and we can't build a decent speaker that is cheap enough for the spendthrifts at Imperial Procurement to issue to its guards? The wiry Vraaawk swallowed the urge to speak such seditious thoughts over an open channel. "He comms in sick every time he takes more than a single day off. When is his substance problem going to become a dischargeable offense?" "I suspect not until there are no positions in high command filled by soldiers with substance problems of their own, which will be never. Deal with it. It's not like anything ever happens this deep inside the Empire anyway." Zm'var growled before depressing the 'send' stud again. "I dislike being undermanned in the middle of the Contest, you know how agitated the revs get when it is running." "So let them bomb another civilian market or hijack a tithe-carrier. They haven't the gonads to hit hardened targets. Certainly not in the inner sphere." "That is easy for you to say at your padded couch, behind walls of steel and batteries of surveillance equipment." "Quit whining you big whelpling. You have a communicator, if you see something you don't like just use it. That's your entire job." "That's your entire job, blehh," the Vraaawk repeated sarcastically before pressing 'send' again. "Fine. Don't be too heavy-handed with your reprimands should I request the attention of one of the roving sentries." "So long as that means the end of this conversation." He rolled his eyes. "I shall try my best not to burden you any further." Zm'var leaned back in his seat, finshed with the communicator puck. "Bah, go back to watching that stupid contest on your mobile, you old fart." ->>>- Boom Pain. Good Lord the pain. I thought it was bad when I got casually slapped 15 feet through the air by a hand the size and consistency of a barbell plate, but being snatched by a living skyscraper and impaled on its tonguelike web of hooks is much worse. Every time this Godforsaken monster takes a step is a new lesson on how completely my train of thought can be obliterated by agony and panic signals. On the plus side, this thing is so Goddamned massive that I have about 45 seconds of comparative relief in between strides. Celebrate the small victories, as my therapist would tell me. The aforementioned slappy alien died a little while ago. I don't know if it was a sign of admirably brave defiance, or just plain stupidity, but after we were grabbed from that rooftop and deposited on the fall-safety net from Hell it tried to fight Cthulhu's pet dog. I thought it might have been doing OK at first, too, until a tentacle the size of a tree trunk punched a gaping hole in its torso. Tough bastard didn't give up, either. It just kept on tearing at the net, until a different monstrous appendage came and scrambled its insides at high speed. Boom ... Let me just reiterate that the ancestral environment didn't really allow for a context where we experience this sort of pain for this long. I know primitive Homo sapiens died in all sorts of harrowing ways, but being dragged away from your family in the middle of the night by a hungry cat implies a sort of sudden onset of trauma and pain that soon ends in a sharp crescendo of fanged savagery. This cyclical sawtooth-wave of agony is more like being subjected to a Dark Ages torture chamber that eventually wants to eat me rather than simply make an example of me. Sorry, where was I? Ah yes, the tripod alien mercenary. It now dangled limply a few metres above my head. Tantalizingly, there was a little device clipped to what I would call its waist that clinked against its body armour with each of the giant creature's steps. It looked very much like the - presumed - gun that its partner was beginning to point in my direction before I hit it with the beam-shotgun. I was very thoroughly pinned in place. Next time I meet a lepidopterist (technically also the first time I'll have met one) I'm punching them in the face on principle. Without the absurd pain tolerance of a grizzly-sized alien bounty hunter there was no way I was dragging myself up to steal its gun. I was left watching it clink, clink, clink away above me and hoping that one of these strides dislodged it without also hurting me so badly that I'm unable to try and catch it. Low probability, I'll admit, but giving up and waiting to die looked mechanically identical to holding on and waiting for the gun to fall. I'm not brave or stupid enough to try and convince this thing to kill me, and for that matter not strong enough to rip off any part of its food-storage net. Boom I miss Skleex. I was starting to get used to the idea of not dying alone. If I see her again I'm going to kiss her right on her horrifying little mouth for trying to warn me about going into that building. ->>>- Gur'kra'Mzoff lounged contentedly in his crash-couch. The skies were mostly clear, the sun was shining overhead, and he was the best damn pilot stationed in New Vraaawk City. Not that it wasn't great to be any pilot in the home guard. The food was orders of magnitude better than the slop they served the muck-loving infantry, and - unlike the puffed-up self-tuggers in the space navy - air force personnel didn't have to pay for their tail. It's just that, when you were as good as he was, the tail was top quality. He was practically a celebrity, and his roster of dates mostly were celebrities. Or at least datamesh social site influencers. Whatever the gloryhounds might tell you about the joys of wasting pre-FTL primitives and revolutionaries out on the frontiers, flying for the home guard was easy too. Case in point, some office-building-sized bag of guts was giving the poor incompetents that comprised the Arena's so-called army of bounty hunters a tough time. He got to waltz in, copulatory appendage swinging, and blast the thing back to whatever disgusting backwater they plucked it off of. He couldn't have gotten it any easier if he was devising his own assignments. Just set the engines to 'hover' and let the ACs chew it up. Get some. His wingmate's smug voice crackled over his helmet-comm. "Race you there, you coolblood slug." Gur'kra scoffed. "It would only be a race if you had a chance of winning, you chubby whelp. Last one to put a round on target is buying the drinks back at mess." "Hah! I'll drink you so broke you'll have to sign up for the contest next cycle." He cranked the throttle and the acceleration threw him back into his couch, hard. Relaxing was nice, but winning was everything. ->>>- This was interesting. Not in the good way. It was interesting in that it demanded immediate and serious consideration. [18Hz:2.5s-31Hz:1.7s-24Hz:2s] had encountered several circumstances without precedent over the course of the current lightspan, but generally they had been more along the lines of trivial curiousities and annoyances rather than genuine causes for concern. Far off, barely visible even to its vision discs, but approaching faster than soundwaves - unless some strange phenomenon was stilling the noise they made - was a pair of metal hunks. They'd been smoothed and shaped, as though some force had started with molten metal and aspired to mock the artificial beauty of organic systems. It was starting to think it was the preythings' doing. A lot of this curious, mildly-stressful lightspan seemed to be attributable to the little dirtscratchers. It certainly hadn't moved itself here, and it doubted one of its competitors would have either. If they'd caught it napping they'd have simply killed it and consumed the impossibly nutrient-rich selfseed gestating deep within its armoured recesses. Not that it was possible for something as vast as another competitor to ever sneak up on it. At any rate the shining hunks were peculiar for more reasons than simply existing, though it did consider that the root from which the rest of the hunks' mystique proceeded. The myriad beams and fields the speeding metal shells emitted were practically evidence enough to consider them alive. It would certainly be odd for them to so thoroughly taste their environment if there wasn't at least some spark of intelligence behind their odd, glistening faceplates. [18Hz:2.5s-31Hz:1.7s-24Hz:2s] was not very comfortable with the interest they seemed to be showing it, either. It thought of the little metal box that had accompanied the herd it had ambushed earlier, grumbling internally about the annoying dark spot on one of its flank vision discs. If the stings these newcomers carried were proportional to that they'd be able to inflict more than just surface damage. It was growing more sure by the saccade-cycle that this hunch was correct. It had awoken this antezenith within some sort of preything hive, and as it crushed and consumed the hive's chaff-caste drones it was beginning to draw the attention of more fearsome and important caste-morphs. Not an ideal situation. It would have preferred at *least* a few thousand lightspan-darkspans to observe the prey, to devise strategies and tactics for the thorough annihilation of the hive and the consumption of its progenitor-caste. It was rare to get out of such a destruction what one put into it, and thus hive-smashing was rarely its first choice when presented with one. For some of the larger hives it knew of it would be preferable to do battle with a competitor than weather the mindless, suicidal ferocity of legions of assault-caste drones. It hoped dearly that this hive was not so mighty. [18Hz:2.5s-31Hz:1.7s-24Hz:2s] made up its mind. As the course of thought diffused among the practically-independent subnetworks of its neural complex it began to turn its thick anterior armour plates in the direction of the approaching curiousities. Eyestalks devoured its nearby surroundings and whiplimbs sought appropriately-sized hunks of ground and bits of metal. It is time I demonstrated, it thought with a sort of contented malevolence, why we call ourselves the Apex. ->>>- Saviour Mark, must you seek to eternally outdo yourself with each new maw you fall prey to? she thought miserably as she bounded along yet another debris-strewn rooftop. She wasn't sure why she yet followed. It was a near-certainty that the fool being was dead, and anyway there was no way she could could kill a living God to free him. Nonetheless, she felt compelled not to lose track of her unlucky companion. Perhaps she felt that he would do the same, in her position, and felt too guilty to give up on him until she was sure he had perished. Her Kinmother would have called it soft sentimentality, with that special tone of derision she reserved for things that were not the old way and therefore obviously inferior. I'd like to see old Kinmother slay a sky-monster, she thought with just a hint of scandal to tinge the self-vindication. The wound to her hindbody pained her with each bounding step, but she had taken precious time to pluck the spine-fragments and irritating hairs from her injuries after the battle with the alien hunter. As far as she could tell the tender flesh was not getting any worse for the wear she was putting on it. Such a blessing, she mused wryly. She was too injured to glide properly, her fletch-membranes too ravaged by combat to hold her weight without tearing further. That meant climbing each of the great stone edifices that rose peglike out of the alien Arena. It was as though some unfathomably large herbivore had died when the world was new and the sky-monsters' lackeys had used its fossilized mandible for the foundation. She wondered what her intentions were when she did catch up with saviour Mark. Perhaps she would just slay him to save him the trouble of finding some new danger to put them both in. She laughed briefly to herself, but her mood was dampened when she realized that the mercy of death might be all she could offer him. With renewed determination she leapt from a wrought stone corner onto a long, tall building and began another arduous climb to the top. Not far off, another of the vast Godbeing's steps boomed across the Arena grounds. ->>>- Boom I'm not going to play broken record here. It hurts, a lot, but I'm sure we're all getting sick of the 'woe is me I'm stabbed in half a dozen places and slowly bleeding out' pity party. Once I got over horror of being trapped in a living abattoir-cum-charnel-house things got sort of boring. I didn't want to bask in the horror for too long though, as my sanity is starting to fray enough as it is. It offends the sensibilities that I'm surrounded by dead and dying aliens of every shape and size, yes, but this is no worse than what lots of insects and other small critters end up living on a daily basis in the wild. I'll just thank my lucky stars that this thing hasn't tried to lay any eggs in my torso yet. Where I'm situated I don't have much of a view. I'm high up enough on the web that my view of the ground is half obstructed by more of the monster, and if I look up most of the sky is blocked by a vast armoured ridge and a dangling jungle of raveled tentacles and other limbs. It is technically nice and protected from the rest of the world, but it's hard to take comfort when I'm pinned here. Boom The big bastard started to change direction, and then a deafening bellow split the air. Over the ringing in my ears I heard the growing roar of aircraft engines. They're sending fighters after this thing? Damn, I don't feel quite so bad about getting snatched now. If the military is willing to bust out the expensive hardware I bet little ol' me never had a chance. The furious drone of an autocannon spinning up was drowned out by my massive captor growling, a sound I would be quite glad to never experience again. I heard a noise not unlike a car crash, if car crashes occurred at or around the sound barrier, followed by a weighty secondary impact. There goes who knows how many taxpayers' dollars, I thought wryly. Another autocannon roared, and I could see writhing limbs being torn loose from the creature's bulk and tumbling to the ground. The monster bellowed again, and this time it was a primal, sustained phrase. It passed in and out of audible range for me, but the buzzing feeling in my chest never went away. I couldn't help but feel like it was cursing whatever aircraft was still trying to tussle with it. I do not envy the poor bastard in the cockpit. ->>>- Gur'kra'Mzoff took it all back. This thing was not a gimme assignment. It had nearly put him down with a barrage of debris while he and his now-deceased wingmate were on the approach. It had connected, while he was just getting into autocannon range, and by some cruel twist of fate the projectile had torn free the incredibly expensive sensor suite that told his missiles and free-aiming weapons where to point. Angrily-shouted orders had crackled over his headset not to try his weapons unguided when an errant warhead had punched through the apparently-thin skin of the Arena's retaining wall and killed a command centre's worth of administrative staff. Now his bird was constantly fighting him to fly directly into the ground, and only through sheer bad-pater skill and the Vraaawk Prime Heavy Industries mk12 gunship's extremely generous distribution of thrusters was he able to stay aloft at all. The nose AC was still performing admirably, but he could only ever keep it on-target for long enough to drive a quick burst of hi-pen rounds into the beast. Then it was back to wrangling an obstinate flying tank and dodging hurled stones and signposts. He stamped one of the rudder pedals and it slapped rhythmically back against his foot as though in protest. The whole flaming rig of the gunship slid sideways through the air and he cleared a building. The display's crosshair raked across the monster's bulging, lumpen upper dome and he squeezed the AC's trigger savagely. An unfortunate amount of the computerized aim assist features had been damged or destroyed, but from this close he didn't need a glowing line on his HUD to show the cannon's trajectory. Flakes of broken carapace and gouts of dark fluid sprayed out from the creature's vast bulk. "Come on, you gutterfuck ugly bastard, die for me." Dead set on finally causing some appreciable damage to the giant demon-being, he held the gun on-target for longer than was safe or prudent. It did finally chew a satisfying hole in the damn thing, and he was rewarded with a howl of pain that was audible even within the roaring confines of his dying aircraft's cockpit. Gur'kra immediately realized the cost, and fought desperately to peel himself away from the collision course he was set upon. He sent so much power to the thrusters that he could feel one of them blow out as it struggled to keep pace with its siblings. The nose of the stricken gunship finally cleared the titanic shape in front of him, and he whooped as he prepared to shoot straight over the monstrosity's head. Then he lurched forward in his seat as scores of muscled tendrils and sturdy claws seized the limping craft. The wind was driven from his respiratory tract with a grunt when his restraints punched him in the torso. Flecks of spittle dotted the inside of his visor. The pilot closed his eyes reflexively as the impact rippled through his frame, and his blood froze in his veins when he opened them again. "Oh shit." A bulbous, yellowed eye at the end of a spiny tendril peered through the canopy at him, pupil dilating with predatory interest. Yet more hideous tentacles groped blindly across the transparent surface, and he knew that most of the gunship would be covered in the slithering, seeking appendages. He froze, signals in his brain from long before the Vraaawk had vanquished the last of their natural predators shooting across his nervous system in a biochemical fireworks of terror. His flightsuit darkened around his cloaca as he involuntarily prepared to flee on a biological level. Paralyzed with fear, Gur'kra noticed too late the sturdy horned claw rearing back above the rest. He fumbled for his sidearm, and as his digits tightened around its grip the vicious spike punched through the hardened composite of the canopy with contemptuous ease. The fearsome appendage flexed once, twice, and then with a shriek the pilot's protective covering was torn away, tossed to the ground like unwanted fruit rind. He made to draw his weapon and fire into the slitted pupil of the monster's searching eyestalk, and not until he noticed numbing cold in his shoulder and the spurt of blood decorating his instrument panel did he realize the vast being's claw had sheared his arm off. That was when the screaming began. Before long it had stopped again. ->>>- "What do you want, you effete windbag?" "I want you to check up on your gunships so you know what I already do." "What, did they take too long to kill the big, scary monster, and it ate some more of your precious bounty hunters in the interim?" "It fucking killed them, you arrogant, minimizing fool. It knocked one down with a bloody rock, and it plucked the other out of the sky and ate the fucking pilot!." It was unseemly of him to allow the panic to seep into his voice, but this was getting entirely out of control. The announcer hadn't survived and thrived for this long as a subjugate species in the Empire by leaving things to chance. He luxuriated in the sound of the Baron choking on his surprise for a moment before recovering. "Well, erm, so it did. I... didn't expect it to prove so resilient." "I guess you fucking didn't!" "Calm down, you puffed up little serfstock weakling." "I'll pretend you didn't just insinuate that your token puppet nobility supercedes my actual status to remind you what an unrestrained debacle this could all devolve into. This thing taught itself ballistics, Satrap. Our glorious Emperor, long and bloody be his reign, is currently floating gently overtop the Arena in a gold-leafed zeppelin." The Baron snarled in his earpiece. "How dare you insult the Satrap of Vraaawk! Who do you think you are?" "A loyal and beloved servant of the Skryrn Empire who, unlike you, is not liable to be deposed by his own court or assassinated by revolutionaries at the first sign of weakness. Can we please stop pretending it matters and focus on keeping this Gouadforsaken monster from killing the Emperor and earning both of us the Royal Interrogators' most exquisite tortures?" "What do you propose then, oh glorified flesh-balloon of vastly inflated self-importance?" Oh, and you could just tell he thought that one was brilliant. "Open your line to the Imperial Guard and warn them of the danger. Tell them the Royal Academy witheld crucial information about the beast, and that the Emperor's life is now at risk. We'll pay for our failure after all this is over, but the Guard take their job deadly serious. They will task the pair of strike-fighters accompanying the Airship of Imperial Entertainments with ending the beast's life before it makes things even worse. Then we will graciously offer the bounty reward for the megabiota to the two Imperial heroes who brought it down and protected the irreplaceable Lord Pha'Gouad, so that the people will not clamour quite so loudly for our heads when this makes the news." "This is nonsense! I will simply scramble a larger wing from the home guard!" "Do you really want to spend an instant more than is necessary with the Emperor's life in danger? I've heard that death by chemicals, the torture of choice for seditionists and those who would seek to endanger our Lord, is many dozens of times worse than neural scouring. The inquisitors have drugs that slow the perception of time such that you can feel individual neurons dying, Baron. I know you have fewer than I, but neither of us want that fate." "Red King I hate you." "Well, the Empire hates your silly little religion too, Vraaawk. It's a star, not a God. Now call the Guard before you sentence the both of us to the worst death imaginable." "Fine. We know it's a star." "I don't care, don't make me call you again or I will not hesitate to toss you under the keel in the post-disaster inquisition." With a shaking tentacle the announcer closed the comm-channel. He took a deep, deep breath, ballooning to twice his average size for a moment, before settling back into his grav-couch. unmute "Welcome back, Ambling fans! I hope we didn't shed too many viewers during that advertising break but to the ones we did, your loss! We're still marshalling fighters for phase two of the megabiota hunt, and while we wait we're going to go into the weeds with a thrilling best-of-cycle recap to see a selection of the team's favourite kills so far! But first, let's jump live to the fate of Grah'Dounakh, notorious white-collar criminal, as a pair of our hunters close in. This is why we don't try to defraud the Empire, folks!" ->>>- "Acknowledged, wing lead. Beginning my descent." Features set in grim determination, Gho'Louan angled the nose of her craft down towards the textured grey of the Arena. The Emperor was going to be incredibly disappointed in the premature end of the hunt, but if this megabiota could threaten Vraaawk HG craft it was more than dangerous enough to pop Lord Pha'Gouad's party blimp. A series of indicators on her fighter's display tracked the warming plasma and charging mag-capacitors in its array of ordnance chambers, and underslung missiles across the length of the aerofoil unlatched their safety clamps. It was guaranteed to be overkill, but then, that was the only variety of kill the Imperial Guard dealt in. Threats to the Emperor more than warranted as much. A warning beeped over her helmet's earpiece as the altimetre registered the potentially-dangerous loss of height, and with a flick of one of her auxiliary manipulators she dismissed it. She knew what she was doing. A secondary display tracked her and her lead's progress across the landscape isometrically, and she noted with satisfaction that both of them were perfectly tracing the flight computer's recommended course. It was almost worth pitying the poor beast. It would have no idea what hit it. Atmospherics were generally less advanced than starfighters, but between the two craft of her wing they carried enough firepower to punch through the bridge plating of a Vraaawk battlecruiser. They didn't have the shielding or built-in redundancies that a space-navy interceptor might, but then it wasn't as though their target had point defences or anti-air batteries growing out of its hide. The first of her ordnance chambers registered as primed, and a predatory look graced Gho's features. Another microcycle and she'd be within firing range, half a microcycle after that her wing lead would be unleashing his load of primal destruction upon the bastard thing too. She realized she was holding her breath in anticipation, and forced herself to exhale. Everything happened as though in slow motion. She flipped the secondary safety off on her flight stick, and then depressed the 'full salvo' stud it had been covering. She could feel the craft rock around her as the full fury of a Skryrn Imperial strike fighter surged ahead of the speeding machine. She was already hauling back on the stick, but the rocking only grew more intense. She immediately noticed her fighter's sluggish response to the command. What the- "Eject, wing second. I repeat, eject NOW-" The urgency in her lead's voice was not lost on her, and reflexively she reached for the safety lever. Bolts blew, the canopy shot away, and the roar of open air greeted her aural membranes, only slightly muffled by her helmet. Then a deafening bellow washed out the rest of the clamor. Well, at least I hit the damn thing, she thought vengefully. She felt her couch's primary chute deploy, the sound of it still utterly drowned out by the pained roar of the megabiote. Then finally something cut through the frightful noise, the sharp roar of another large explosion. My fighter. How good with ballistics is this thing? She shuddered despite herself. I wonder what it hit. She craned about to get a look at the ground. Then she wished she hadn't. Though obviously very badly wounded, the monster below her was still alive. The finest of all the Emperor's troops, the Imperial Guard are trained from the moment of their recruitment to show steel in the face of pain, defiance in the face of fear. As she drifted into the vengeful press of wounded tentacles and many-jointed claw-limbs, she forgot her training very quickly indeed. ->>>- "G-Gro'magh? I mean, Sir?" sigh "Don't worry about military discpline, we're rebels. " "Uh, right. You're going to want to see this." The grizzled Vraaawk left his perch to approach the console of the worst soldier - and best systems cracker - he'd ever worked with. "So I um, I noticed they were losing an absurd number of camera drones this broadcast. For the uh, the contest." The veteran general nodded impatiently. "...Right. You knew what I meant. Well I uh, I finally found a way into the mesh server that all their feeds pass through, and well... You're going to want to see this." "What, does this give us a vector to get at other networks? Can we hijack a broadcast?" The pasty little subjugate looked like he'd caught it off-guard. "Uh, probably. I just, look." His console screen switched from dozens of incomprehensible text readouts to playback from a camera drone. It was circling a smoking crash site, of what looked like but couldn't possibly be an Imperial Guard strike fighter. "What did this?" "That's not even the crazy part. See that hole in the retaining wall? That's the command centre." "Did some administrative staff die?" "No, the Command Centre, where the Baron manages the Arena's forces. That's the Arena terminus for their mesh connection to New Vraaawk's Home Guard base." "Fuck me, are you sure?" "Absolutely. Unless they've started decorating the rank-and-file CCs with gold and marble." "Did the Baron die?" "I uh, I don't think so. You can... see the guards inside begin setting up a defensive perimeter around the hole right about... now." "Red King. I've got to find a way to exploit this! Get a readiness signal out to every cell in New Vraaawk City, prep level 3." "Are... are you sure? That might mean exposing some of them if we don't uh, don't follow up on it." "Yes I'm sure. We couldn't engineer an opportunity like this with twenty orbits of lead time! They know what to do if we have to call off the preparations. It will cost us a lot of built up base here, but we can't risk missing our chance to use this." "Of course, Sir. I mean uh, Gro'magh." ->>>- CONTINUED IN COMMENTS
So...Since I have nothing to do, I decided to rank every single Fall Out Boy song (I only did the ones from the official albums, the bonus tracks and Believers Never Die, since I'm not that familiar with the EPs and Evening Out). It was way harder than I thought, because there's no song I really hate, and there are lot that I absolutely adore, and so most songs could probably be swapped with each other. Don't kill me if you're done reading my list please, it's just my opinion and I'm sure I ranked some of your favourite songs low. (0 Lullabye because it's fucking adorable and you can't possibly rank it.) 1 The Phoenix (Nostalgia bumped it up that high. It's the song that introduced me to Fall Out Boy, and I still love everything about it. Every time someone mentions Fall Out Boy, I think of that song. I couldn't not put it on the first place.)
What a Catch, Donnie
G.I.N.A.S.F.S
The Carpal Tunnel of Love
You're Crashing But You're No Wave
6 Beat It 7 From Now On We Are Enemies 8 Just One Yesterday 9 Miss Missing You 10 West Coast Smoker 11 Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown On A Bad Bet 12 Save Rock and Roll 13 I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me 14 A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More Touch Me 15 Alpha Dog 16 Pavlove 17 Bishops Knife Trick 18 Disloyal Order Of Water Buffaloes 19 (Coffee’s For Closers) 20 27 21 w.a.m.s 22 Thriller 23 Twin Skeletons 24 The Kids Aren't Alright 25 Novocaine 26 Jet Pack Blues 27 Tell That Mick He Just Made My List of Things To Do Today 28 She's My Winona 29 Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued 30 Thnks Fr Th Mmrs 31 Hum Hallelujah 32 Chicago Is So Two Years Ago 33 Fourth of July 34 Tiffany Blews 35 The Last of The Real Ones 36 The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes 37 The (After) Life of The Party 38 Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends 39 Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying 40 The Take Over The Breaks Over 41 I've Got A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth 42 7 Minutes In Heaven 43 Sugar, We're Going Down 44 Of All The Gin Joints In All The World 45 Saturday 46 Young Volcanoes 47 Dead On Arrival 48 I Don't Care 49 Where Did The Party Go 50 Bob Dylan 51 It's Hard To Say I Do When I Don't 52 Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea 53 20 Dollar Nosebleed 54 Music or Misery 55 I've Got All This Ringing In My Ears And None On My Fingers 56 Dance, Dance 57 Grand Theft Autumn 58 XO 59 The (Shipped) Gold Standard 60 Bang The Doldrums 61 Death Valley 62 This Ain't A Scene It's An Arms Race 63 Fame < Infamy 64 Golden 65 Snitches And Talkers Get Stitches and Walkers 66 Calm Before The Storm 67 The Pros and Cons Of Breathing 68 Wilson 69 Hold Me Tight or Don't 70 Dear Future Self 71 Alone Together 72 I'm Like A Lawyer With The Way I’m Always Trying To Get You Off 73 Sophomore Slump Or Comeback of The Year 74 Immortals 75 Young and Menace 76 Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner 77 Don't You Know Who I Think I Am? 78 Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash 79 Homesick At Space Camp 80 Reinventing The Wheel To Run Myself Over 81 Grenade Jumper 82 Irresistible 83 Heaven's Gate 84 America's Suitehearts 85 Centuries 86 My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark 87 Rat a Tat 88 The Mighty Fall 89 Favorite Record 90 Champion 91 Church 92 Uma Thurman 93 American Beauty/American Psycho 94 Sunshine Riptide
After reading the book, I watched "Came a Hot Friday"
Widely regarded as one of the greatest of New Zealand's films (and rightly so, I think), this is a comic romp set in post WWII rural New Zealand. It's directed by Ian Mune, whose name should ring a bell to anyone who knows the NZ film scene. Wes and Cryil (Peter Bland and Philip Gordon) are a pair of chancers trying to make money on a scam called "Past Posting" where a bet is placed on a horse race that has already run. This worked in 1949 when few races were broadcast. One watches the race live and phones the pub where his accomplice is and relays a coded message, who places a big bet with the resident bookmaker (I think every pub had one in those days). The problem is that it needs a third accomplice to make it realistic due to the timing of the phone calls. The opening scene is one such bookie seeing through it and Wes having to make a quick getaway. They head to the coastal Taranaki town of Tainuia (based on Hawera) where they hook up with Don Jackson, who is stuck in a dead-end car sales job and willing to get some excitement into his life. Their scam is successful - for a time. Jackson makes two profitable bets but the bookie (Norm Cray) is suspect and forces him to blind bet on the third race - which he also wins through blind luck. There are other plots just as important, but the big new character is The Tainuia Kid, played by the late Billy T. James. He's Maori but affects a Spanish accent (must confess that when I read the book I thought it was French). In the book I didn't think this character worked at all, but in the film he is key. The other plot is the town's big crim who has someone burn down a snooker hall as he's in up to his neck. The problem is the supposedly empty building wasn't and an innocent man dies in the fire. The other plot concerns an illegal gambling den in a wool-shed, where Crown and Anchor is the game played. The trio retire there to parlay their winnings into even more. This joint is run by Sel Bishop, the man who had the billiard hall burned down. And Norm Cray suspects foul play in the winning bets. It doesn't go well on the table and they lose most all they won on the gee-gees. Wes's last big bet comes in (three anchors) but the rozzers raid the joint and he doesn't get the winnings. Even worse, Sel sets Norm Cray onto a helpless Wes. In one my favourite scenes, the Crown and Anchor table flips over to become the wool classing table that was its original usage. In the morning, Wes meets "The Tainuia Kid" who is no fan of Sel. The last third of the film is Wes trying to get revenge on Sel. This is my least favourite part of both book and film as the jokey tone turns serious. It's based on the classic book of the same name by Ronald Hugh Morrieson, and it is well worth seeking out. It is of its time with outdated language and mores but I don't care about that. You can't and shouldn't rewrite history. He lived in Hawera his whole life. This adaptation is more comic than the book but quite close to the meaning. The actors playing Wes and Cyril are older than I imagined the characters from the book, but that might just be me. And there's little room in the film for Don's dad, a veteran of Gallipoli who lost a leg there and is finding his old digger mates are dying off and he's turning old and sour, though he's trying hard not to. He was my favourite character in the book, but I can see how he's not suitable for a big part in what is essentially a comic adaptation. A final mention to the wonderful rural New Zealand locations that were shot. I love the small towns and landscapes from back then.
HFLC.Rom.8893Eyd.8958 - Captain Rom of the Firstborn.
There were Yinglets all over the tunnels. At first, seeing them had confused Rom. The little stilt rats were flighty, easily confused and physically weak. It didn’t make sense that Nob’s Thirteenth was using them for deliveries. Until Rom realized there were essentially no Prisk left in the whole place. Not until Rom arrived with the hardlight shield carrying drones. Then Nob had prevented the Feraylsen engineers from taking those drones for their own use, he liked the Prisk doing what Rom had them doing. Rom opened her eyes to look at Nob sitting across from her at the table, happily enjoying his ration bar. “Hey Nob.” “Mmhmm?” he replied, mouth full of food. “What happened to the Prisk? Why are you using the Yinglets?” “Wheff! Whmf weff mmm, mmen theff anm-” “How about in dataspace?” “MMM!” Nob nodded energetically, [that’s a much better plan!] [I thought so,] Rom replied dryly. [So anyways it took us awhile to notice that-] [From the beginning, Nob.] Nob blinked at her. [Right. So, the loss of the Prisk was a slow burn, it took us a while to even notice we were losing them.] [The Scrrsk were picking them off slowly?] Rom let her mind sink back into the shared space as she spoke, going back to watching a smaller than usual brown Yinglet scurrying through one of the deeper tunnels to one of her squads. [Yeah, turns out, the Scrrsk have some way of tricking the Prisk into not noticing them. I don’t have direct confirmation from any Prisk, don’t have the hardware you know, but watching it happen I could tell the Prisk didn’t have a clue either.] Nob’s mouth was empty by this point, but now that he was talking in dataspace, he wasn’t interested in stopping his meal. As he spoke, he pulled another orange bar and peeled the thin wrapping off it before taking a bite. [The Scrrsk were playing hide and sneak, snatching your Prisk workers?] [Yeah, pretty much. I understand the Scrrsk like them for food. It makes more sense when you say the Scrrsk can actually absorb what the Prisk know.] [Apparently, Prisk and Scrrsk are from the same home planet,] Rom volunteered. The little brown Yinglet stopped at an intersection, his long pointed ears twitching back and forth. He was tugging along a small hoverpad, little more than a floating storage box full of thermal cores and ammo blocks and maybe some rations for deep tunnel crews. The tunnels went so far into the rock that centralized locations still needed runners to carry supplies. It was a constant irritation that the worst maze of tunnels was located after the best choke points. [Same home? Hunh, well anyways, we were still using Prisk but with Human escorts for awhile,] Nobs eyes drifted up and to his left while he chewed on the bar. [Whatever the Scrrsk were using to trick the Prisk, it didn’t have the same effect on us. Even I felt it at one point. I swear, whatever they were doing, it made the hair on the back of my neck rise and I could feel a shiver crawl up my spine.] Rom nodded along, [Okay, but since there are so few Prisk left, it didn’t help in the long run?] [Weeeellll, it did actually, we managed to save some Prisk for use in the core areas and it served as an early attack warning.] Nob gave her a crooked smile, [the real problem was the constant waves so any early warning was nice. The Scrrsk kept picking different spots and directions to invade, trying to catch us off guard. It’s been a slow attrition thing, and if you know the Prisk, you know they don’t handle injuries well.] Rom nodded. Once you blooded a Prisk, they didn’t take much time at all to weaken and even die if not treated. [Yeah, they’re nice and durable, until you nick them.] Nob sighed, his smile dropping away, [Yeah, I wish it was easier to save them, but a few angry bugs make the prospect kinda difficult, you know?] [So you made do with Yinglets?] The little brown Yinglet lifted his nose, testing the air this way and that. He scurried over to a mound of rubble and found something… organic to munch on. He picked it up, tossed it in his mouth and swallowed the gooey thing in one long gulp. Rom shuddered as she watched, only just barely avoiding seeing what he’d eaten. The Yinglets acted like dirty little scavengers if they had the chance. He took a long moment after the thing the little yinglet had found hit his gullet, but soon he was off, long legs a blur as he ran. The hoverpad trailed after him loyally, kept close by an elastic tether. [So we made do with Yinglets!] Nob agreed as Rom watched the little guy. [We felt bad for the little guys, so the Thirteenth kept picking up Yinglets as we travelled. You know you can hear a Yinglet scream for leagues around if they’re motivated enough?] Rom didn’t know and she didn’t want to know. Nob raised his hand and pointed vaguely into the air with his index finger, [You know, that high pitched “EEEEEEEEEE”.] Rom cringed as Nob literally played back a grating Yinglet scream from his memory. Rom hadn’t realized a person could do that. The scream cut off and Nob resumed talking, [so it turns out they aren’t bad with tunnels either. I mean, they get lost easy, but the tunnels don’t bother them. Load their BIPU with an area map and they’re pretty good at getting around.] [And you aren’t worried about the Scrrsk finding them?] [Well, we are, but it turns out those little buggers can run like the devil! And they’re surprisingly brave if they know there’s a group looking out for them.] Rom blinked. [Brave?] [Oh yes, they make excellent lures. Just brave enough to go throw a rock at the Scrrsk, then collected enough to run in the correct direction while running, screaming, for their lives.] [Thats… terrible.] [Honestly, wouldn’t make them do it if I didn’t have-] A pulse of alarm shuddered through the shared space. The little brown Yinglet tucked his head low and ran hard. There was no time to waste and safety was straight ahead.
Noodle
He slurped up the bug eyeball, happily swallowing the gooey treat with a single gulp. It slid down his throat for a long moment and then landed in his now happy feeling stomach. A lucky find, the eyeballs were the best part! Although much of the Scrrsk made for a good meal. Noodle’s eyes spaced out as he teased at the map loaded onto his BIPU, his mouth hanging open slightly. Having something extra in his head was a totally new experience for Noodle. So was getting to wear a real harness with glowing bits! They’d told him the glowing bits were to help him do extra brain stuff, and now he was doing extra brain stuff all the time! It was pretty neat. The map of the tunnels spread out around him, the quiet areas he didn’t need going dark and fading away. A trail laid itself before him in his mind and a glowing light appeared in his vision to follow. It blinked at him, drawing his attention as he followed the path. Noodle tested the air as he ran, most scents in the tunnel dull at best. He was really just hoping for more Scrrsk snack parts. There was also little air movement to tease his eye whiskers. The really important thing was his ears. Every moment in the tunnels his ears were up, mostly facing forwards, sometimes pivoting towards the dark tunnels next to him. The brain stuff and the neat thing on his head made it so he could see in the dark, but it only worked directly in front of him. All he saw from the side tunnels splitting off was gaping, tail-wilting darkness. Occasionally he’d point the tube thing on his head at a tunnel just to be sure there was nothing there. It was nice having neat brain stuff. Normally the only brain stuff was the head hurts or the twitch and shakes when Noodle did something bad. But the Humans didn’t do that mean stuff. Noodle caught a whiff of something that might be tasty, the scent wafting from one of the dark tunnels. It smelled a couple days old- The blinking light drew his attention back and he ran a little faster to make up for getting distracted. He felt the tug of the tether on his harness as he picked up speed. The hoverthing knew which direction Noodle wanted to go, and it tried to stay close with the little thrusters on the sides, but Noodle was faster! If he ran too fast too quickly and then stopped, it would bonk him in the head. It was funny when it happened to Pecker or Wizzy, but Noodle made sure to pick up speed evenly so it didn’t bounce around. It wasn’t funny when the hoverthing bonked him. The alarm sounded in his head. It wasn’t so much a sound as it was a general feeling of ‘Oh no! Bad!’ that Noodle could suddenly feel. Not nearly so terrifying as when the pretty Oola yelled really loud. It always made him really jumpy when she yelled. Noodle picked up speed, following that blinking light as fast as he could. Noodle was really happy he could feel that alarm. It was scary, but having a warning made it less scary. The tunnel wandered left and right ahead of him, his harness tugged by the pull of the tether when he went around corners or jumped some rubble. With the alarm he couldn’t even stop to inspect another good smell. He still wanted to check, but Noodle knew better. They were depending on him! No one had ever depended on him before! The sound of screaming sounded out, echoing through the tunnels. That always screaming the angry bugs always did. Soon Noodle could hear the plasma guns and the hurting sounds of the Scrrsk. Noodle felt his legs slow down as it got real loud. He was afraid to go further. He’d already seen lots of friends get eaten by the angry bugs, he was afraid to see Human friends be eaten too. The blinking light kept blinking, reminding him that he had a thing to do! But he didn’t want to go… Noodle’s ears perked as he remembered he had another brain thing! He closed his big eyes and looked in the everyone space. His attention was jerked around at all the motion and activity, the shooting and the yelling. He was used to seeing almost all the way around his head, looking at the whole battlefield wasn’t that much harder. The real problem was concentrating on one spot. He could see the whole battle going on but Noodle’s eyes kept getting pulled to those people moving over there and these bugs moving over towards here. The worst was all the different tunnel fights between the Humans and the angry bugs. He could see the surface and across the big crack where that ship had jammed its snoot into the rock, but since it was all moving at once above ground didn’t tug at him the same way. Most importantly, he could see the group he was going for was perfectly safe! But they wouldn’t be if he didn’t get them their ammunition! Noodle dropped his head low and scurried forth. The tether tugged at him as he ran. Around one corner, and then one more, and Noodle spotted his favourite Humans! There was Qen quietly complaining at Pom who was doing all the listening. There was Fuy who wouldn’t let anyone else close but gave Noodle special hugging rights. And there was Ben laughing. He was laughing because he was shooting his gun. He always laughed when he got to shoot his gun at the bugs. Oh, and there was those other people, there was one, two, three… a bunch more here with Noodle’s favourite people. “Fuy!” Noodle called out. “I got ze zhings!” Fuy stood right behind Ben, letting her lights protect Ben from the angry bugs. She turned her head when she heard Noodle call and waved him over. She couldn’t turn much around because her light shields were stuck in place, so Noodle ran up and crawled his way up into her arms. Fuy grabbed the tether so it wouldn’t yank him, but sadly her hugs just weren’t as nice when she had the armour on. “Haha! Good job Noodle, we’re gonna need that real quick!” “I brought it for you!” “I know you did Noodle, I appreciate it,” Fuy gave Noodle some good rump scritches as a reward. She was his most favourite. Fuy is the one who gave him his new name. Nghff! Noodle let himself enjoy the attention for a moment but hopped down right after. He had to give out the ammo and core things! And the food! His friends were depending on him! Noodle had never been so happy.
HMHC.Ced.3374Uhk.5698 - Ced
He stood on the command town, one of several new unadorned structures dotting the surface of Teservi. Ced watched the giant structure shudder as it began to move. The six legs release their hold on the ground in opposite pairs. Clamps releasing so the bare frames could rise up and away from the city. Drawing up slowly, careful due to the nature of their size and bare nature, the legs pulled in tight until the six joints all came together in a point, resting together above the main body. The machine just wasn’t as robust as any of the military equipment. Ced could see the slight distortion of the gravity drive holding the whole thing aloft. He was impressed that the craft didn’t make a sound, but he could see how that would be important to the Feraylsen. The legs were little more than frames filled in with support struts built in a triangular pattern Ced assumed was for strength. The tops of the legs were polished silver with gold edging, but further down the structure was coated with the dust of collapsed buildings and scorching fire. The main body of the thing was a massive orb with a wide railed walkway around its circumference and four evenly spaced docking points. On the top of the orb, just under where the upper leg joints met was a platform with an observation dome set up if anyone saw a need. A Feraylsen was in there right now. No one he knew, but Ced had been nearby when Tec had sent a soldier down to the shelter to find the pilot. Multiple thrusters lit up and the giant craft pushed itself to the east side of Teservi. Two supply transports, little more than glorified boxes, followed along in its wake. “Wuzzat?” asked a high pitched voice, accompanied by a sharp nail in his leg. “That is a really big maker,” Ced replied as he looked down at Bod. “Oh, ish really big,’ the Yinglet replied as he squished his snoot against the glass surface of the railing Ced was leaning on, “Do zhey use for tower making? More food?” Food? No, seems they only use it for stuff in Teservi,” Ced replied reaching down to scratch around Bod’s ears. “The Feraylsen aren’t terribly inventive.” Bod pushed up into Ced’s hand, humming happily under the attention. “And why do you think that is?” Bod jumped as an unfamiliar voice spoke up. Ced turned to see a man with olive skin, brown eyes and hair, and no armour. He wore the undersuit still, with the chestpiece full of support hardware much like Ced’s. Ced narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, “Hello? Sorry, I was expecting someone else.” “Yes, your friend is down a level with the other five Yinglets and a handful of snacks.” “Snacks?!” Bod’s ears popped up as he looked at the new arrival. “Why yes, I have one for you too,” the man handed Bod a purple shelled clam, only to have Bod smile wide before snatching it up. He opened his mouth wide until Ced brought him up short. “Bod.” Bod flinched, then dropped his hands slightly. “Zhanks for zhe snack sir!” “You’re welcome! Enjoy.” Ced finally discovered what that odd pointed tooth at the end of Bod’s snout was for when the Yinglet jammed that tooth into the edge of the clam, bit deep into the shell and then twisted sideways to wrench it open. He then surprised Ced by snapping the meat out with his tongue humming with pleasure. “You are Ced Uhk, yes?” Ced looked back to the man and nodded. “And you’re Laz Ura, a pleasure to meet you.” Ced offered his hand and Laz didn’t hesitate to return the gesture. They clasped wrists and shook. Laz seemed strange, but not in a way that bothered Ced. Which tickled at his mind in a different way. “So what do you think?” Ced blinked and looked out over the city. He hadn’t missed the question. “Why do I think that is? Because they were made that way.” “Without hesitation!” Laz almost laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “What are you looking for Laz?” Ced asked, “Tec and Mof both seem to have a clear and visible purpose. What are you here for?” Ced was aware of the three generals and Laz Ura’s apparent lack of activity. He wasn’t going to miss the chance to ask. “Starting off with hard questions! Well, that’s fine,”Laz smiled. “I think I’m here for the hard questions.” “Hard questions?” Ced frowned as he asked, “Like what?” “Hard questions like this; Are we taking the Feraylsen with us when we go?” Ced opened his mouth, ready to give an answer. Instead, his jaw snapped closed. He opened his mouth again, but still had no answer. “Tec, Mof and myself, we don’t really know what you are, which is very unusual,” Laz Ura admitted. “The other two haven’t realized just how unusual the anomaly that is Ced Uhk really is. They can’t be blamed, this whole situation is understandably new to everyone. But you’re the only Human I’ve run into that’s undesignated and unattached.” “Hmm, well, that wasn’t entirely on purpose,” Ced admitted, “I was redesignated when my company was wiped out before waking up.” “Oh, by who?” Ced took a deep breath. He’d actually managed to forget that over issues of anatomy and personal autonomy, but mostly Moss’s anatomy. “Actually… there’s a question I want to ask.” Before Laz could respond, Ced marched back into the tower and off the balcony from which he and Bod had watched the departing maker. Laz followed patiently, having quickly realized by Ced’s purposeful march that it was someone else who had the answer he was looking for. Bod padded after them quietly, his nails softly tapping on the hard floor. The room inside was little more than a lounge with a small set of chairs and a small maker tooled for creating food. It was well adorned in greens, golds and browns and had likely served as a private retreat of someone wealthy. Ced stepped into the grav lift at the other side of the room, it wasn’t long until he stepped off to find Moss with the ground of happy snacking Yinglets. She’d never made it away from the private rooms before Laz had found her. Moss had crouched to give the smallest orange Yinglet and belly scratch. Oose seemed to be having a great time with the attention. When Ced stepped off the lift into the hallway Moss looked up and blinked at him, then at Laz. “You are done speaking with your General?” She’d stayed back to be polite. Ced could appreciate that. “Almost, but I have a question for you actually.” “For me?” Moss’s head perked up and she tilted her head slightly to the right. She’d had that subtle habit since Ced had meter her, but none of the other Feraylsen did the same. He was pretty sure it was to balance the single antler on her head. “If you have a question for me, then it must be about the Feraylsen!” “Indeed,” Ced’s eyes drifted as he recalled the message he’d received at the Library, “What does it mean when a Feraylsen has a number in front of their name?” “A number?” “Yes, suppose you were ‘Second Thinks of Gathering Moss,’ what would that mean?” Moss’s ears flattened and he could see her tail flip back and forth a couple times. “Oh, the likes of me would never earn such an honour.” “An honour? What does it mean? With a Human that would mean a child had the same name as their parent. It means something else to Feraylsen?” “Oh, yes,” Moss reached up with an index finger and scratched her nose. “If a Feraylsen is important enough, accomplished enough, they are given the right to rebirth!” Ced was saved from trying to come up with a reply by Moss happily continuing her explanation. “What does it mean to earn the right of rebirth? Well, In the case that a Feraylsen is able to greatly advance the knowledge or influence of the Adamant empire or a general is highly successful against invading fleets, they are given the name ‘First’!” “Name?” Laz asked, “Not number?” “Well, it is a number of course,” Moss happily explained, “But it’s as much a title and a marker.” “And when they die, they are brought back as ‘Second’?” Ced asked. “With all their memories and experiences intact!” Moss gushed, her hands clenched in front of her. “Okay then,” Ced asked, interrupting the excited young woman with a hand on her shoulder. The thought of being reborn endlessly was fascinating, but considering how this new life had gone, not all that surprising. “To be a First is impressive, but what does it mean if they are called ‘Sixth’ but they claim to be ‘First’?” Moss halted, her face scrunching up with confusion. “That’s impossible.” “Why?” “Because that’s like saying they’ve faked their deaths.” “Well,” Ced sighed, “If what she said was even half true, faking her death is the least of the things she’s done.” “She?” Moss asked with confusion. “Who?” Ced Looked at Laz Ura and considered. “The decisions we have to make aren’t easy ones. But to leave anyone on Si’Tsunit is a death sentence.” The General gave Ced a nod, closing his eyes momentarily with respect. “I agree, but it is not I you have to convince. And your companion here is engaged and lively, but can you say the same for the rest? Moss has almost certainly had her life mostly plotted out for her, are we going to take that role for the rest of the Feraylsen here?” “What do you mean?” Moss asked, confusion flattening her ears as she looked between Ced and Laz with crystal blue eyes. Ced frowned. He hadn’t even considered the Feraylsen as a problem… but they were a problem. Laz had figured out something that had stared Ced in the face without acknowledgement. Humanity was a creation made outside of common knowledge, of both civilian and military Feraylsen. Just what was waiting for them when they achieved the final goal of ‘escape’ was a question only Laz seemed to recognize. And now Ced realized it too. Ced sighed then looked Laz in the eyes. “I… see your point,” he shook his head as he spoke, “But I don’t have any answers for you right now.” “Fair enough!” Laz reached over and clapped Ced on the shoulder. “I have given you lots to think about! I’ll give you some space and time to consider.” Laz pushed down and scratched the snuffling nose of Yinglet Fike. “Sorry friend, I’m all out, all you’re smelling is the scent stuck to my hands.” “Awh.” Laz nodded to Ced and then to Moss. “Thank you both for your time.” After Ced and Moss nodded back, he turned and headed down the grav lift.
Thinks of Gathering Moss
The thump of bombardment hitting the city shields reverberated in the distance. A sound that had started soon after the shields were up and the one ship had moved. She’d gathered through some conversation that the fleet in orbit had moved at the same time, leaving them open to attack from the sky. The sky crafter had finished the backup city shield and moved on while that Laz Ura spoke to Ced, but she was happy the Human generals had seen fit to make a couple backup emitter towers. “So who is it?” Moss asked, annoyed with Ced. “And what else aren’t you telling me?” They were up in the observation tower where Laz had gone to find Ced in the first place. They weren’t out on the balcony though, instead having made themselves comfortable in the lounge chairs. Moss now had little Oose and jet-black Cab in her lap while Ced had somehow ended up with Fike, Norf, Foon and Bod all crammed into the chair with him. That the Yinglets trusted Ced and so many Humans so easily constantly dropped her guard. “She called herself ‘First Deep Look into the Void’,” Ced admitted, “and she claimed to be the Geneticist of the Paras cluster.” “...” “Moss?” “That’s, but…” Moss shook her head. “I don’t know her specifically, but if that name is accurate, it does make sense that she could do this.” Moss squinted at Ced. “Why didn’t you mention this sooner?” Ced frowned. “---, is one reason, or perhaps ----------, maybe -------- in general. And… other reasons that don’t matter in this context” The world buzzed around her, and she felt the thudding of her heart pumping chemicals through her system. “What,” Moss had to shake her head just to try and hold onto the waking world. “What was that? What are you doing.” His expression was pinched, with furrowed eyebrows and closed mouth. He hadn’t enjoyed that. Ced sat with his shoulders drooping slightly and his hands collapsed before him, a posture unlike what Moss commonly saw from the Human. He breathed in and slowly let it go. “Three different words, the second one has just about knocked you out before.” “The second word?” Moss asked, her right ear flicking, “I didn’t hear a- a word.” “What did you hear? Not the word, what did you hear instead of the word?” The slight shift in Ced’s focus worked, a little. Moss still felt dizzy, as if the world was trying to slide away from whatever it was Ced had told her. But she could work with it “It was… it was like all sound blanked out,” Moss said carefully. “Like I couldn’t hear anything at all.” “So… I understand Feraylsen keep slaves yes?” Ced asked, going off on a tangent. Moss nodded, unsure of where he was going, “Yes, we have Prisk for infrastructure, Zawess as officers, Gerlen as rank and file soldiers and independent infrastructure workers. Then we have Ye- we have Yinglets as companions.” “How do you control them? Do they ever run away?” Ced’s eyes wandered up and to his right. “I’ve never seen a market or slave-drivers moving individuals around. How are they acquired? Is it all like… like the place we saw in the shelter?” The Echo pools Moss realized. He was thinking of the Echo Pools but didn’t want to mention them around the Yinglets. “Yes, it is much like that for general slaves. For Gerlen in particular,” Moss explained. “Zawess come from specific hive nursery planets and are purchased remotely. I recall some notes about the owned Sapient populations of other cultures being much larger, but the Feraylsen only keep a few races.” “And to control them?” “Well the BIPU of course!” Moss answered, it was obvious after all, “Individuals that need to be controlled have a package loaded into their implants that will heavily punish undesired behaviour.” “And more I bet,” Ced nodded, sighed, then continued, “But the problem I have is this…” Ced hesitated and Moss found herself leaning in, curious, but dreading what he was going to say. “You say punished, but the only thing I’ve seen resembling ‘punishment’ is when you happened to overhear a ‘bad word.’ Obviously, the BIPU is capable of much quieter manipulation than you’re mentioning.” Moss felt the fur along her spine start to rise with fear, she hadn’t forgotten that day in the Library. What he was saying was… “How do you know, Moss, that you too aren’t being kept?”
Today we are going to take a dive into a Michigan Trailer Park. I know, I know -- I can sense your excitement. Who doesn’t like going to a trailer park? It is here that we can find the archetypal artist who will lose themself in the music, the moment, they own it, they had better never let it go. No, no, no….the trailer park is not on 8 Mile Road (though if I found Kim Basinger in a trailer park I would probably want to stay for some of that legendary spaghetti.) And no, we are not looking for some guy in a feather boa who somehow pretends to be an American Badass. We are not visiting that guy who vociferously noted that he wasn’t straight out of Compton -- and he only dresses like he’s straight out the trailer. That guy (and presumably his weird fedora) grew up on a 6-Acre estate in a 5,000 square foot home. Our hero really did come out of the trailer park. He has walked the stage with giants, and has stood bare-chested and leather-like among them. Today, we will focus on someone who seems to have developed a lifelong t-shirt allergy. A man that is accustomed to breaking the mold, forging something new, and of course, showing some skin. That's right. You could say this one’s got a real Lust for Life. You guessed it, today’s artist is the one and only IGGY POP About Them I am willing to bet that there has never been a rock star named “James Newell Osterberg Jr”. It really doesn’t roll off the tongue. Good thing young Jimmy realized this too. Born in 1947 and raised in that aforementioned tornado bowling alley, Iggy Pop was fortunate to have had exceptionally supportive parents, Louella Christensen and James Newell Osterberg Sr., who encouraged his forays into drumming and the music scene. After playing in a number of high school bands, Iggy adopted his trademark moniker after one of the first bands he recorded with, The Iguanas. Yep. Now you are gonna look at him and think “Iguana Pop”. You’re welcome. Iguana’s parents knew that their little reptile was exceptional from a young age. Though there was overwhelming societal pressure for him to live a normal life (and he did go to the University of Michigan before dropping out) they always supported him in his choices - no matter how weird they were. They went so far as to move out of their master bedroom to give him the space so that he could practice the drums. In contrast to this, Kid Rock had his own studio at age 13. (Side note: I may be completely making that up for dramatic contrast, but we all know that dude is a Chad). When Iggy dropped out to go to Chicago, his parents - while they worried - supported him. Let’s not forget that his teenage years were the 1960’s, after all. In a time when the world was going absolutely crazy, many families were completely torn apart by conflict. Not the Osterbergs. But one must imagine that Iggy gave his parents plenty of reason to worry by his legendary on-stage antics, his self-destructive drug use, his multiple arrests, and his fuck-you punk attitude. The transformative moment in Iggy’s musical career came when he moved off of the drum kit and out to the microphone. Iggy attributes this in part to seeing The Doors play live. Jim Morrison was high or drunk or both. He was rude and antagonistic and confrontational and pissed off everyone who came to the concert...and yet had a music career. Iggy knew he could do that. And so, the legendary punk band The Stooges was born. Joined by fellow Michigan natives guitarist Ron Asheton, Drummer Scott Asheton and bassist Dave Alexander, Iggy decided to do everything he could on stage to antagonize and fight his audience. In concerts, Iggy would bring out a blender or a vacuum cleaner just to increase the volume and the feedback from his mic. The concerts were wild. They were primitive. They were outrageous. Iggy, bare chested, would cut himself with broken glass. He would smear peanut butter and ground meat on his chest. He threw watermelons at the audience, once concussing a fan. He snorted PCP and was immobilized and was only able to mumble the lyrics. He would expose his genitals. He was one of the first front men to go stage diving and crowd surfing. Yeah, I know that this all sounds tame today. Hell, this is probably nothing compared to your last Tinder date. But in the late 1960’s, it was absolutely groundbreaking. The Stooges are widely considered to be one of the very first Punk Rock bands. The music did not matter so much as the attitude and the performance. They were the ultimate underground band and they lived the underground band life - absolute blowouts on stage, fueled by alcohol and drugs and addiction. As you might expect, The Stooges’ antics drew a lot of attention. They got a record deal with Elektra (the same label that signed The Doors) and all kinds of attention from other artists. The most important connection for Iggy during this time was from the Thin White Duke himself, David Bowie. The Stooges released two albums - The Stooges and Fun House; toured; broke up; re-formed, released another album (Raw Power, produced by Bowie) and then broke up again. Our favourite Iguana’s drug use got to the point where he was dancing with heroin. (Side note: who knew that broken glass, ground beef, and peanut butter use could lead to a heroin addiction? I mean, aside from being the worst possible version of PB&J, of course.) Iggy’s continued drug use would lead to the breakup of The Stooges. But it also launched his solo career. As a solo artist, he completely changed his act and began singing Gospel music and hymns. Nah, just kidding. When your night life involves snorting PCP and hurling melons, you are headed down a path of rock and roll debauchery. (Side note: if you are snorting melons and hurling PCP, you are doing it wrong.) His antics continued, and amplified. He allowed himself to be whipped until he bled on stage. He fought biker gangs at concerts. He dove off the stage and face planted when an angry audience refused to let him crowd surf. Iggy checked himself into a mental hospital to clean up. Allegedly, Ziggy Stardust himself went to visit our saddle-skinned hero, and brought him some c-c-c-c-c-cocaine. I suppose that some people beat their addiction to one drug by becoming addicted to a different one...but replacing heroin with cocaine (though it might reduce your needle tracks) is gonna be hell on the nose. Bowie would recall the incident: “He wasn’t well; that’s all we knew. We thought we should bring him some drugs, because he probably hadn’t had any for days!” Coke-toting Bowie proved to be one of the only visitors that Iggy received during his stay at the psyche ward. However, Major Tom’s continuing support soon saw Iggy joining him as a companion for the Station to Station tour. This was the Iguana’s first real experience in professional touring, and he was thoroughly impressed. That is, until both of them got caught handling the devils lettuce in Rochester, NY. Yeah, the drug addiction was still a problem - so what was the obvious solution? Moving to West Berlin of course! Yes, the pair went out to grand old, Soviet-surrounded free Germany. Berlin was a long way away from his Michigan trailer park, and Aladdin Sane wasn’t exactly a guy you’d meet in Muskegon. But Berlin - and Bowie - were just what he needed. See, Iggy was a bonafide performer, but Bowie and Berlin made him a songwriter. This collaboration - and a new deal with RCA records - led the leathery reptilian to create two amazing albums. The Idiot features Bowie as a producer, on backing vocals, and on multiple instruments. It also has the first version of China Girl, a song they co-wrote. Bowie would famously re-record it for his multi-platinum album Let’s Dance. Admit it, that’s the version you know. The Idiot was released in March of 1977. Bowie and Iggy went immediately back into the studio and recorded Lust for Life between April and June of 1977. This would prove to be his most iconic and enduring album, featuring the now quintessential title track and the Doors-inspired melodic song, The Passenger. While you may have heard these timeless tracks on car commercials, they represented an artist coming to a brand new stage of his career. Critics hated it. Not because they weren’t great songs, but because the music was so completely different from anything he had done. Rolling Stone complained that his “...new stance is so utterly unchallenging and cautious.” But Iggy did not care. When everyone else was into stadium rock, he fought his audience. Like, physically, with his fists. With the rise of Punk, he did the opposite, and became an actual singer. He is a walking, talking, peanut butter sandwich of contradiction. When music went left, he went right. When everyone was going in one direction, he refused to move (perhaps because of the PCP). When synth-pop and Culture Club were big in the ‘80s, he recorded Real Wild Child. Somewhere along the way, the kid from upstate Michigan became more than anyone could have imagined. He has 20 different solo albums and has collaborated on various projects with the B-52s,Bootsy Collins,Andy Warhol,Ridley Scott,Wes Craven,Nickelodeon,Debbie Harry,Guns ‘n’ Roses,Marilyn Manson,White Zombie, and has appeared as a mother-fucking-Vorta on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. He reunited with The Stooges and recorded and released two more albums. He has won a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award. Hell, he probably filled in on drums with your Great Uncle’s bar band for a week back in the 60s. He’s seen it all, and has done even more. He defines what it means to be an icon. So it is not surprising that his discography is like a visit to a BDSM dungeon: it takes you to uncomfortable places, but might just awaken something in you. Seriously, he has gone in every direction you can imagine -- plus some that you can’t, you uncreative clod. That’s why she left you, you know! You need to up your game in the bedroom! Fuck. I might be projecting a bit there. Anyway, we know that his music career led him to film, television, radio, guest appearances, and cruise line ads. But for our purposes, we also know that Iggy Pop was an absolute inspiration for a young and impressionable Joshua Michael Homme. When he had the opportunity, Josh cut an album with Iggy (Post Pop Depression 2016), shot a documentary with him (American Valhalla, 2017), and went on a world wide tour. Or, well, a tour of the US and Europe (plus one show in Canada). Suck it, rest of the world. And if that kind of endorsement is not enough for you to take a dive into his back catalogue, I am going to hit you with a fucking melon. No, not just a melon - a melon in the middle of a carnal act. And those are goddam hard to find, I don’t mind telling you. Links to QOTSA Man, if you haven't seen American Valhalla, then what are you even doing here? Trust me, that movie makes every connection pretty clear. But for those without a spare hour and a half, here’s a quick rundown. Josh and Iggy, Rock Gods that they are, blessed us in 2016 with the album Post Pop Depression. This joint effort, which also included Matt Helders (Arctic Monkeys) and Dean Fertita (You should already know what band this guy is in), was recorded at the legendary Rancho de la Luna. They even set out on a tour across the US and Europe in support of it. There’s a lot more to talk about considering all the thought and effort that the two put into the record, but I’ll leave that to you and your movie watching habits. Trust me, it’s worth your time. But before we go, it's worth mentioning again that Josh grew up listening to Iggy Pop, and, well, everyone and their mom has been influenced by this guy. He just exudes and embodies that kind of pure rock-star power. I’d bet that the Godfather of Punk has been a pretty important influence on our boy Josh, just for stage antics alone. To quote Josh: “What I thought (punk rock) was, was a total lie. And then I heard Iggy Pop’s Lust for Life and The Idiot for the first time”. Their Music SOLO STUFF BY IGGY: Gardenia - From Post Pop Depression, the lead single from the record American Valhalla - Also from Post Pop Depression, I swear the link goes to the song and not the full hour and a half long movie, trust me Lust For Life - You’ve got some Royal Caribbean coming. Nightclubbing - We’re an ice machine The Passenger - I ride through the city’s back side China Girl - Ooo Baby, just you shut your mouth. Real Wild Child (Wild One) - wild one wild one wild one wild one wild one wild one wild one wild one wild one….just in case you made it this far, in the video, that’s not a coat, that’s just his skin Candy - I just can’t seem to let this one go Kill City - You know you want to turn that boy loose I’m Bored - I’m the Chairman of the Bored. STUFF BY THE STOOGES: Search and Destroy - Iggy’s hardly a forgotten boy now, but boy is he still searching’ to destroy T.V. Eye - LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD I Wanna Be Your Dog - Everyone’s favourite Christmas Song Gimme Danger - This one is a “”Little Stranger”” than the rest (Ba dum tsss) 1969 - Its 1969 today, all across the USA Show Them Some Love /IggyPop -- it is absolutely criminal that this sub has so few members. Consider joining and adding content. 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Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 <-- You are here. I awoke to a world without women. I rolled off the bed into sore thighs and guilt, got up to emptiness that echoed the slightest noise, and left my wife’s clothes on the sheets without thinking that eventually I’d have to pack them into a plastic bag and slide them down the garbage chute. I felt magnified and hollow. In the kitchen, I used the stove top as a table because the actual table had my wife’s tablet on it, and spilled instant coffee. What I didn’t spill I drank in a few gulps, the way I used to drink ice cold milk as a boy. I stood in front of the living room window for a while before realizing I was naked, then realizing that it didn’t matter because men changed in front of each other at the pool and peed next to one another into urinals in public restrooms, and there weren’t any women to hide from, no one to offend. The world, I told myself, was now a sprawling men’s pisser, so I slammed the window open and pissed. I wanted to call someone—to tell them that my wife was dead, because that’s a duty owed by the living—but whom could I call: her sister, her parents? Her sister was dead. Her father had a dead wife and two dead daughters. There was nothing to say. Everyone knew. I called my wife’s father anyway. Was he still my father-in-law now that I was a widower? He didn’t accept the connection. Widower: a word loses all but historical meaning when there are no alternatives. If all animals were dogs, we’d purge one of those words from our vocabulary. We were all widowers. It was synonymous with man. I switched on the television and stared, crying, at a montage of photographs showing the bloody landscapes of cities, hospitals, retirement homes, schools and churches, all under the tasteless headline: “International Pop”. Would we clean it up, these remnants of the people we loved? Could we even use the same buildings, knowing what had happened in them? The illusion of practical thinking pushed my feeling of emptiness away. I missed arms wrapping around me from behind while I stared through rain streaked windows. I missed barking and a wagging tail that hit my leg whenever I was standing too close. Happiness seemed impossible. I called Bakshi because I needed confirmation that I still had a voice. “They’re the lucky ones,” he said right after I’d introduced myself. “They’re out. We’re the fools still locked in, and now we’re all alone.” For three weeks, I expected my wife to show up at the apartment door. I removed her clothes from the bed and stuffed them into a garbage bag, but kept the garbage bag in the small space between the fridge and the kitchen wall. I probably would have kept a dead body in the freezer if I had one and it fit. As a city and as a world, those were grim, disorganized weeks for us. Nobody worked. I don’t know what we did. Sat around and drank, smoked. And we called each other, often out of the blue. Every day, I received a call from someone I knew but hadn’t spoken to in years. The conversations all followed a pattern. There was no catching up and no explanation of lost time, just a question like “How are you holding up?” followed by a thoughtless answer (“Fine, I guess. And you?”) followed by an exchange of details about the women we’d lost. Mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, girlfriends, friends, cousins, aunts, teachers, students, co-workers. We talked about the colour of their hair, their senses of humour, their favourite movies. We said nothing about ourselves, choosing instead to inhabit the personas of those whom we’d loved. In the hallway, I would put on my wife’s coats but never look at myself in the mirror. I wore her winter hats in the middle of July. Facebook became a graveyard, with the gender field separating the mourners from the dead. The World Health Organization issued a communique stating that based on the available data it was reasonable to assume that all the women in the world were dead, but it called for any woman still alive to come forward immediately. The language of the communique was as sterile as the Earth. Nobody came forward. The World Wildlife Fund created an inventory of all mammalian species that listed in ascending order how long each species would exist. Humans were on the bottom. Both the World Health Organization and the World Wildlife Fund predicted that unless significant technological progress occurred in the field of fertility within the next fifty years, the last human, a theoretical boy named Philip born into a theoretical developed country on March 26, 2025, would die in 93 years. On the day of his death, Philip would be the last remaining mammal—although not necessarily animal—on Earth. No organization or government has ever officially stated that July 4, 2025, was the most destructive day in recorded history, on the morning of which, Eastern Time, four billion out of a total of eight billion people ceased to exist as anything more than memories. What killed them was neither an act of war nor an act of terrorism. Neither was it human negligence. There was no one to blame and no one to prosecute. In the western countries, where the majority of people no longer believed in any religion, we could not even call it an act of God. So we responded by calling it nothing at all. And, like nothing, our lives persisted. We ate, we slept and we adapted. After the first wave of suicides ended, we hosed off what the rain hadn’t already washed away and began to reorganize the systems on which our societies ran. It was a challenge tempered only slightly in countries where women had not made up a significant portion of the workforce. We held new elections, formed me boards of directors and slowed down the assembly lines and bus schedules to make it possible for our communities to keep running. There was less food in the supermarkets, but we also needed less food. Instead of two trains we ran one, but one sufficed. I don’t remember the day when I finally took the black garbage bag from its resting place and walked it to the chute. “How are you holding up?” a male voice would say on the street. “Fine, I guess. And you?” I’d answer. ##!! wrote a piece of Python code to predict the box office profitability of new movies, in which real actors played alongside computer-generated actresses. The code was only partially successful. Because while it did accurately predict the success of new movies in relation to one other, it failed to include the overwhelming popularity of re-releases of films from the past—films starring Bette Davis, Giulietta Masina, Meryl Streep: women who at least on screen were still flesh and blood. Theatres played retrospectives. On Amazon, books by female authors topped the charts. Sales of albums by women vocalists surged. We thirsted for another sex. I watched, read and listened like everyone else, and in between I cherished any media on which I found images or recordings of my wife. I was angry for not having made more. I looked at the same photos and watched the same clips over and over again. I memorized my wife’s Facebook timeline and tagged all her Tweets by date, theme and my own rating. When I went out, I would talk to the air as if she was walking beside me, sometimes quoting her actual words as answers to my questions and sometimes inventing my own as if she was a beloved character in an imagined novel. When people looked at me like I was crazy, I didn’t care. I wasn’t the only one. But, more importantly, my wife meant more to me than they did. I remembered times when we’d stroll through the park or down downtown sidewalks and I would be too ashamed to kiss her in the presence of strangers. Now, I would tell her that I love her in the densest crowd. I would ask her whether I should buy ketchup or mustard in the condiments aisle. She helped me pick out my clothes in the morning. She convinced me to eat healthy and exercise. In November, I was in Bakshi’s apartment for the first time, waiting for a pizza delivery boy, when one of Bakshi’s friends who was browsing Reddit told us that the Tribe of Akna was starting a Kickstarter campaign in an attempt to buy the Republic of Suriname, rename it Xibalba and close its borders for all except the enlightened. Xibalba would have no laws, Salvador Abaroa said in a message on the site. He was banging his gong as he did. Everything would be legal, and anyone who pledged $100 would receive a two-week visa to this new "Mayan Buddhist Eden". If you pledged over $10,000, you would receive citizenship. “Everything in life is destroyed by energy,” Abaroa said. “But let the energy enlighten you before it consumes your body. Xibalba is finite life unbound.” Bakshi’s phone buzzed. The pizza boy had sent an email. He couldn’t get upstairs, so Bakshi and I took the elevator to the building’s front entrance. The boy’s face was so white that I saw it as soon as the elevator doors slid open. Walking closer, I saw that he was powdered. His cheeks were also rouged, and he was wearing cranberry coloured lipstick, a Marilyn Monroe wig and a short black skirt. Compared to his face, his thin legs looked like incongruously dark popsicle sticks. Bakshi paid for the pizza and added another five dollars for the tip. The boy batted his fake eyelashes and asked if maybe he could do something to earn a little more. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I could come upstairs and clean the place up a little. You two live alone?” Bakshi passed me the two pizza boxes—They felt hot in my hands.—and dug around in his wallet. “It’s not just the two of us,” I said. The boy smiled. “That’s OK. I’ve done parties before if that’s what you’re into.” I saw the reaction on Bakshi’s face, and I saw the boy’s grotesque caricature of a woman. “There’s condoms and lube in the car,” the boy said, pointing to a sedan with a pizza spray-painted across its side parked by the curb. “My boss says I can take up to two hours but it’s not like he uses a stopwatch.” I stepped on Bakshi’s foot and shouldered him away. He was still fiddling with his wallet. “We’re not interested,” I said to the boy. He just shrugged. “Suit yourselves. If you change your mind, order another pizza and ask for Ruby.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened. As we shuffled inside, I saw Bakshi’s cheeks turn red. “I’m not actually—” he mumbled, but I didn’t let him finish. What had bothered me so much about the boy wasn’t the way he looked or acted; in fact, it wasn’t really the boy at all. He was just trying to make a buck. What bothered me was how ruthlessly we’d already begun to exploit each other. For those of us who were heterosexual, sex was a definite weakness. I missed it. I would never have it with a woman again. The closest substitute was pornography, whose price rose with its popularity, but which, at least for me, now came scented with the unpleasantness of historicity and nostalgia. Videos and photos, not to mention physical magazines, were collector’s items in the same way that we once collected coins or action figures. The richest men bought up the exclusive rights to their favourite porn stars and guarded them by law with a viciousness once reserved for the RIAA and MPAA. Perhaps exclusivity gave them a possessive satisfaction. In response, we pirated whatever we could and fought for a pornographic public domain. Although new pornography was still being produced, either with the help of the same virtual technology they used for mainstream movies or with the participation of young men in costume, it lacked the taste of the originals. It was like eating chocolate made without cocoa. The best pornography, and therefore the best sex, became the pornography of the mind. The Tribe of Akna reached its Kickstarter goal in early December. On December 20, I went to church for the first time since getting married because that was the theoretical date that my wife—along with every other woman—was supposed to have given birth. I wanted to be alone with others. Someone posted a video on TikTok from Elia Kazan’s On The Waterfront, dubbing over Marlon Brando’s speech to say: “You don’t understand. I could’a had a piece of ass. I could’a been a school board member. I could’a been a son’s daddy”. It was juvenile and heartbreaking. By Christmas, the Surinamese government was already expelling its citizens, each of whom had theoretically been given a fraction of the funds paid to the government from the Tribe of Akna’s Kickstarter pool, and Salvador Abaroa’s lawyers were petitioning for international recognition of the new state of Xibalba. Neither Canada nor the United States opened diplomatic relations, but others did. I knew people who had pledged money, and when in January they disappeared on trips, I had no doubt to where. Infamy spread in the form of stories and urban legends. There’s no need for details. People disappeared, and ethicists wrote about the ethical neutrality of murder, arguing that because we were all slated to die, leaving the Earth barren in a century, destruction was a human inevitability, and what is inevitable can never be bad, even when it comes earlier than expected—even when it comes by force. Because, as a species, we hadn’t chosen destruction for ourselves, neither should any individual member of our species be able to choose now for himself. To the ethicists of what became known as the New Inevitability School, suicide was a greater evil than murder because it implied choice and inequality. If the ship was going down, no one should be allowed to get off. A second wave of suicides coincided with the debate, leading many governments to pass laws making suicide illegal. But how do you punish someone who already wants to die? In China: by keeping him alive and selling him to Xibalba, where he becomes the physical plaything of its citizens and visa-holders. The Chinese was the first embassy to open in Xibalban Paramaribo. The men working on Kurt Schwaller’s theory of everything continued working, steadily adding new variables to their equations, complicating their calculations in the hopes that someday the variable they added would be the final one and the equation would yield an answer. “It’s pointless,” Bakshi would comment after reading about one of the small breakthroughs they periodically announced. “Even if they do manage to predict something, anything, it won’t amount to anything more than the painfully obvious. And after decades of adding and subtracting their beans, they’ll come out of their Los Alamos datalabs like groundhogs into a world blanketed by storm clouds and conclude, finally and with plenty of self-congratulations, that it’s about to fucking rain.” It rained a lot in February. It was one of the warmest Februaries in Toronto’s history. Sometimes I went for walks along the waterfront, talking to my wife, listening to Billie Holiday and trying to recall as many female faces as I could. Ones from the distant past: my mother, my grandmothers. Ones from the recent past: the woman whose life my wife saved on the way to the hospital, the Armenian woman with the film magazine and the injured son, the Jamaican woman, Bakshi’s wife. I focused on their faces, then zoomed out to see their bodies. I carried an umbrella but seldom opened it because the pounding of the raindrops against the material distorted my mental images. I saw people rush across the street holding newspapers above their heads while dogs roamed the alleyways wearing nothing at all. Of the two, it was dogs that had the shorter time left on Earth, and if they could let the rain soak their fur and drip off their bodies, I could surely let it run down my face. It was first my mother and later my wife who told me to always cover up in the rain, “because moisture causes colds,” but I was alone now and I didn’t want to be separated from the falling water by a sheet of glass anymore. I already was cold. I saw a man sit down on a bench, open his briefcase, pack rocks into it, then close it, tie it to his wrist, check his watch and start to walk into the polluted waters of Lake Ontario. Another man took out his phone and tapped his screen a few times. The man in the lake walked slowly, savouring each step. When the police arrived, sirens blaring, the water was up to his neck. I felt guilty for watching the three officers splash into the lake after him. I don’t know what happened after that because I turned my back and walked away. I hope they didn’t stop him. I hope he got to do what he wanted to do. “Screw the police.” Bakshi passed me a book. “You should read this,” he said. It was by a professor of film and media studies at a small university in Texas. There was a stage on the cover, flanked by two red curtains. The photo had been taken from the actors’ side, looking out at an audience that the stage lights made too dark to see. The title was Hiding Behind The Curtains. I flipped the book over. There was no photo of the author. “It’s a theory,” Bakshi said, “that undercuts what Abaroa and the Inevitabilists are saying. It’s a little too poetic in parts but—listen, you ever read Atlas Shrugged?” I said I hadn’t. “Well, anyway, what this guy says is that what if instead of our situation letting us do anything we want, it’s actually the opposite, a test to see how we act when we only think that we’re doomed. I mean what if the women who died in March, what if they’re just—” “Hiding behind the curtains,” I said. He bit his lower lip. “It sounds stupid when you say it like that but, as a metaphor, it has a kind of elegance, right?” I flipped through the book, reading a few sentences at random. It struck me as neo-Christian. “Isn’t this a little too spiritual for you? I thought we were all locked into one path,” I said. “I thought that, too, but lately I’ve been able to do things—things that I didn’t really want to do.” For a second I was concerned. “Nothing bad,” he said. “I mean I’ve felt like I’m locked into doing one thing, say having a drink of water, but I resist and pour myself a glass of orange juice instead.” I shook my head. “It’s hard to explain,” he said. That’s how most theories ended, I thought: reason and evidence up to a crucial point, and then it gets so personal that it’s hard to explain. You either make the jump or you don’t. “Just read it,” he said. “Please read it. You don’t have to agree with it, I just want to get your opinion, an objective opinion.” I never did read the book, and Bakshi forgot about it, too, but that day he was excited and happy, and those were rare feelings. I was simultaneously glad for him and jealous. Afterwards, we went out onto the balcony and drank Czech beer until morning. When it got cool, we put on our coats. It started to drizzle so we wore blue plastic suits like the ones they used to give you on boat rides in Niagara Falls. When it was time to go home, I was so drunk I couldn’t see straight. I almost got into a fight, the first one of my life, because I bumped into a man on the street and told him to get the fuck out of my way. I don’t remember much more of my walk home. The only reason I remember Behind The Curtains at all is because when I woke up in the afternoon it was the first thing that my hung over brain recognized. It was lying on the floor beside the bed. Then I opened the blinds covering my bedroom window and, through my spread fingers that I’d meant to use as a shield from the first blast of daylight, I saw the pincers for the first time. They’d appeared while I was asleep. I turned on the television and checked my phone. The media and the internet were feverish, but nobody knew what the thing was, just a massive, vaguely rectangular shape blotting out a strip of the sky. NASA stated that it had received no extraterrestrial messages to coincide with the appearance. Every government claimed ignorance. The panel discussions on television only worsened my headache. Bakshi emailed me links to photos from Mumbai, Cape Town, Sydney and Mexico City, all showing the same shape; or rather one of a pair of shapes, for there were two of them, one on each side of the Earth, and they’d trapped our planet between themselves like gargantuan fingers clutching an equally gargantuan ping-pong ball. That’s why somebody came up with the term “the pincers”. It stuck. Because I’d slept in last night’s clothes I was already dressed, so I ran down the stairs and out of my apartment building to get a better look at them from the parking lot. You’re not supposed to look at the sun, but I wasn’t the only one breaking that rule. There were entire crowds with upturned faces in the streets. If the pincers, too, could see, they would perhaps be as baffled by us as we were of them: billions of tiny specks all over the surface of this ping-pong ball gathering in points on a grid, coagulating into large puddles that vanished overnight only to reassemble in the morning. In the following days, scientists scrambled to study the pincers and their potential effects on us, but they discovered nothing. The pincers did nothing. They emitted nothing, consumed nothing. They simply were. And they could not be measured or detected in any way other than by eyesight. When we shot rays at them, the rays continued on their paths unaffected, as if nothing was there. The pincers did, however, affect the sun’s rays coming towards us. They cut up our days. The sun would rise, travel over the sky, hide behind a pincer—enveloping us in a second night—before revealing itself again as a second day. But if the pincers’ physical effect on us was limited to its blockage of light, their mental effects on us were astoundingly severe. For many, this was the sign they’d been waiting for. It brought hope. It brought gloom. It broke and confirmed ideas that were hard to explain. In their ambiguity, the pincers could be anything, but in their strangeness they at least reassured us of the reality of the strange times in which we were living. Men walked away from the theory of everything, citing the pincers as the ultimate variable that proved the futility of prognostication. Others took up the calculations because if the pincers could appear, what else was out there in our future? However, ambiguity can only last for a certain period. Information narrows possibilities. On April 1, 2026, every Twitter account in the world received the following message: as you can see this message is longer than the allowed one hundred forty characters time and space are malleable you thought you had one hundred years but prepare for the plucking The sender was @. The message appeared in each user’s feed at exactly the same time and in his first language, without punctuation. Because of the date most of us thought it was a hoax, but the developers of Twitter denied this vehemently. It wasn’t until a court forced them to reveal their code, which proved that a message of that length and sent by a blank user was impossible, that our doubts ceased. ##!! took bets on what the message meant. Salvador Abaroa broadcast a response into space in a language he called Bodhi Mayan, then addressed the rest of us in English, saying that in the pincers he had identified an all-powerful prehistoric fire deity, described in an old Sanskrit text as having the resemblance of mirrored black fangs, whose appearance signified the end of time. “All of us will burn,” he said, “but paradise shall be known only to those who burn willingly.” Two days later, The Tribe of Akna announced that in one month it would seal Xibalba from the world and set fire to everything and everyone in it. For the first time, its spokesman said, an entire nation would commit suicide as one. Jonestown was but a blip. As a gesture of goodwill, he said that Xibalba was offering free immolation visas to anyone who applied within the next week. The New Inevitability School condemned the plan as “offensively unethical” and inequalitist and urged an international Xibalban boycott. Nothing came of it. When the date arrived, we watched with rapt attention on live streams and from the vantage points of circling news planes as Salvador Abaroa struck flint against steel, creating the spark that caught the char cloth, starting a fire that blossomed bright crimson and in the next weeks consumed all 163,821 square kilometres of the former Republic of Suriname and all 2,500,000 of its estimated Xibalban inhabitants. Despite concerns that the fire would spread beyond Xibalba’s borders, The Tribe of Akna had been careful. There were no accidental casualties and no unplanned property damage. No borders were crossed. Once the fire burned out, reporters competed to be first to capture the mood on the ground. Paramaribo resembled the smouldering darkness of a fire pit. It was a few days later while sitting on Bakshi’s balcony, looking up at the pincers and rereading a reproduction of @’s message—someone had spray-painted it across the wall of a building opposite Bakshi’s—that I remembered Iris. The memory was so absorbing that I didn’t notice when Bakshi slid open the balcony door and sat down beside me, but I must have been smiling because he said, “I don’t mean this the wrong way, but you look a little loony tonight. Seriously, man, you do not look sufficiently freaked out.” I’d remembered Iris before, swirling elements of her plain face, but now I also remembered her words and her theory. I turned to Bakshi, who seemed to be waiting for an answer to his question, and said, “Let’s get up on the roof of this place.” He grabbed my arm and held on tightly. “I’m not going to jump, if that’s what you mean.” It wasn’t what I meant, but I asked, “why not?” He said, “I don’t know. I know we’re fucked as a species and all that, but I figure if I’m still alive I might as well see what happens next, like in a bad movie you want to see through to the end.” I promised him that I wasn’t going to jump, either. Then I scrambled inside his apartment, grabbed my hat and jacket from the closet by the front door and put them on while speed walking down the hall, toward the fire escape. I realized I’d been spending a lot of time here. The alarm went off as soon I pushed open the door with my hip but I didn’t care. When Bakshi caught up with me, I was already outside, leaping up two stairs at a time. The metal construction was rusted. The treads wobbled. On the roof, the wind nearly blew my hat off and it was so loud I could have screamed and no one would have heard me. Holding my hat in my hands, I crouched and looked out over the twinkling city spread out in front of me. It looked alive in spite of the pincers in the sky. “Let’s do something crazy,” I yelled. Bakshi was still catching his breath behind me. “What, like this isn’t crazy enough?” The NHL may have been gone but my hat still bore the Maple Leafs logo, as quaint and obsolete by then as the Weimar Republic in the summer of 1945. “When’s the last time you played ball hockey?” I asked. Bakshi crouched beside me. “You’re acting weird. And I haven’t played ball hockey in ages.” I stood up so suddenly that Bakshi almost fell over. This time I knew I was smiling. “So call your buddies,” I said. “Tell them to bring their sticks and their gear and to meet us in front of the ACC in one hour.” Bakshi patted me on the back. Toronto shone like jewels scattered over black velvet. “The ACC’s been closed for years, buddy. I think you’re really starting to lose it.” I knew it was closed. “Lose what?” I asked. “It’s closed and we’re going to break in.” The chains broke apart like shortbread. The electricity worked. The clouds of dust made me sneeze. We used duffel bags to mark out the goals. We raced up and down the stands and bent over, wheezing at imaginary finish lines. We got into the announcer’s booth and called each other cunts through the microphone. We ran, fell and shot rubber pucks for hours. We didn’t keep score. We didn’t worry. “What about the police?” someone asked. The rest of us answered: “Screw the fucking police!” And when everybody packed up and went home, I stayed behind. “Are you sure you’re fine?” Bakshi asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Because I have to get back so that I can shower, get changed and get to work.” “Yeah, I know,” I said. “And you promise me you’ll catch a cab?” “I’m not suicidal.” He fixed his grip on his duffel bag. “I didn’t say you were. I was just checking.” “I want to see the end of the movie, too,” I said. He saluted. I watched him leave. When he was gone, my wife walked down from the nosebleeds and took a seat beside me. “There’s someone I want to tell you about,” I said. She lifted her chin like she always does when something unexpected catches her interest, and scooted closer. I put my arm across the back of her beautiful shoulders. She always liked that, even though the position drives me crazy because I tend to talk a lot with my hands. “Stuck at Leafs-Wings snorefest,” she said. “Game sucks but I love the man sitting beside me.” (January 15, 2019. Themes: hockey, love, me. Rating: 5/5). “Her name was Iris,” I said.
Iris
“What if the whole universe was a giant garden—like a hydroponics thing, like how they grow tomatoes and marijuana, so there wouldn’t need to be any soil, all the nutrients would just get injected straight into the seeds or however they do it—or, even better, space itself was the soil, you know how they talk about dark matter being this invisible and mysterious thing that exists out there and we don’t know what it does, if it actually affect anything, gravity…” She blew a cloud of pot smoke my way that made me cough and probably gave her time to think. She said, “So dark matter is like the soil, and in this space garden of course they don’t grow plants but something else.” “Galaxies?” “Eyes.” “Just eyes, or body parts in general?” I asked. “Just eyes.” The music from the party thumped. “But the eyes are our planets, like Mars is an eye, Neptune is an eye, and the Earth is an eye, maybe even the best eye.” “The best for what? Who’s growing them?” “God,” she said. I took the joint from her and took a long drag. “I didn’t know you believed in God.” “I don’t, I guess—except when I’m on dope. Anyway, you’ve got to understand me because when I say God I don’t mean like the old man with muscles and a beard. This God, the one I’m talking about, it’s more like a one-eyed monster.” “Like a cyclops?” I asked. “Yeah, like that, like a cyclops. So it’s growing these eyes in the dark matter in space—I mean right now, you and me, we’re literally sitting on one of these eyes and we’re contributing to its being grown because the nutrients the cyclops God injected into them, that’s us.” “Why does God need so many extra eyes?” “It’s not a question of having so many of them, but more about having the right one, like growing the perfect tomato.” I gave her back the joint and leaned back, looking at the stars. “Because every once in a while the cyclops God goes blind, its eye stops working—not in the same way we go blind, because the cyclops God doesn’t see reality in the same way we see reality—but more like we see through our brains and our eyes put together.” “Like x-ray vision?” I asked. “No, not like that at all,” she said. “A glass eye?” “Glass eyes are fake.” “OK,” I said, “so maybe try something else. Give me a different angle. Tell me what role we’re playing in all of this because right now it seems that we’re pretty insignificant. I mean, you said we’re nutrients but what’s the difference between, say, Mars and Earth in terms of being eyes?” She looked over at me. “Are you absolutely sure you want to hear about this?” “I am,” I said. “You don’t think it’s stupid?” “Compared to what?” “I don’t know, just stupid in general.” “I don’t.” “I like you,” she said. “Because I don’t think you’re stupid?” I asked. “That’s just a bonus. I mean more that you’re up here with me instead of being down there with everyone, and we’re talking and even though we’re not in love I know somehow we’ll never forget each other for as long as we live.” “It’s hard to forget being on the surface of a giant floating eyeball.” “You’re scared that you won’t find anyone to love,” she said suddenly, causing me to nearly choke on my own saliva. “Don’t ask me how I know—I just do. But before I go any further about the cyclops God, I want you to know that you’ll find someone to love and who’ll love you back, and whatever happens you’ll always have that because no one can take away the past.” “You’re scared of going blind,” I said. “I am going blind.” “Not yet.” “And I’m learning not to be scared because everything I see until that day will always belong to me.” “The doctors said it would be gradual,” I reminded her. “That’s horrible.” “Why?” “Because you wouldn’t want to find someone to love and then know that every day you wake up the love between you grows dimmer and dimmer, would you?” “I guess not,” I said. “Wouldn’t you much rather feel the full strength of that love up to and including in the final second before the world goes black?” “It would probably be painful to lose it all at once like that.” “Painful because you actually had something to lose. For me, I know I can’t wish away blindness, but I sure wish that the last image I ever see—in that final second before my world goes black—is the most vivid and beautiful image of all.” Because I didn’t know what to say to that, I mumbled: “I’m sorry.” “That I’m going blind?” “Yeah, and that we can’t grow eyes.” This time I looked over, and she was the one gazing at the stars. “Before, you asked if we were insignificant,” she said. “But because you’re sorry—that’s kind of why we’re the most significant of all, why Earth is better than the other planets.” “For the cyclops God?” “Yes.” “He cares about my feelings?” “Not in the way you’re probably thinking, but in a different way that’s exactly what the cyclops God cares about most because that’s what it’s looking for in an eye. All the amazing stuff we’ve ever built, all our ancient civilizations and supercomputers and cities you can see from the Moon—that’s just useless cosmetics to the cyclops God, except in how all of it has made us feel about things that aren’t us.” “I think you’re talking about morality.” “I think so, too.” “So by feeling sorry for you I’m showing compassion, and the cyclops God likes compassion?” “That’s not totally wrong but it’s a little upside down. We have this black matter garden and these planets the cyclops God has grown as potential eyes to replace its own eye once it stops working, but its own eye is like an eye and a brain mixed together. Wait—” she said. I waited. “Imagine a pair of tinted sunglasses.” I imagined green-tinted ones. “Now imagine that instead of the lenses being a certain colour, they’re a certain morality, and if you wear the glasses you see the world tinted according to that morality.” I was kind of able to imagine that. I supposed it would help show who was good and who was bad. “But the eye and the tinted glasses are the same thing in this case.” “Exactly, there’s no one without the other, and what makes the tint special is us—not that the cyclops God cares at all about individuals any more than we care about individual honey bees. That’s why he’s kind of a monster.” “Isn’t people’s morality always changing, though?” “Only up to a point. Green is green even when you have a bunch of shades of it, and a laptop screen still works fine even with a few dead pixels, right? And the more globalized and connected we get, the smoother our morality gets, but if you’re asking more about how our changing morals work when the cyclops God finally comes to take its eye, I assume it has a way to freeze our progress. To cut our roots. Then it makes some kind of final evaluation. If it’s satisfied it takes the planet and sticks it into its eye socket, and if it doesn’t like us then it lets us alone, although because we’re frozen and possibly rootless I suppose we die—maybe that’s what the other planets are, so many of them in space without any sort of life. Cold, rejected eyes.” From sunglasses to bees to monitors in three metaphors, and now we were back to space. This was getting confusing. The stars twinkled, some of them dead, too: their light still arriving at our eyes from sources that no longer existed. “That’s kind of depressing,” I said to end the silence. “What about it?” “Being bees,” I said, “that work for so long at tinting a pair of glasses just so that a cyclops God can try them on.” “I don’t think it’s any more depressing than being a tomato.” “I’ve never thought about that.” “You should. It’s beautiful, like love,” she said. “Because if you think about it, being a tomato and being a person are really quite similar. They’re both about growing and existing for the enjoyment of someone else. As a tomato you’re planted, you grow and mature and then an animal comes along and eats you. The juicier you look and the nicer you smell, the greater the chance that you’ll get plucked but also the more pleasure the animal will get from you. As a person, you’re also born and you grow up and you mature into a one of a kind personality with a one of a kind face, and then someone comes along and makes you fall in love with them and all the growing you did was really just for their enjoyment of your love.” “Except love lasts longer than chewing a tomato.” “Sometimes,” she said. “And you have to admit that two tomatoes can’t eat each other the way two people can love each other mutually.” “I admit that’s a good point,” she said. “And what happens to someone who never gets fallen in love with?” “The same thing that happens to a tomato that never gets eaten or an eye that the cyclops God never takes. They die and they rot, and they darken and harden, decomposing until they don’t look like tomatoes anymore. It’s not a nice fate. I’d rather live awhile and get eaten, to be honest.” “As a tomato or person?” “Both.” I thought for a few seconds. “That explanation works for things on Earth, but nothing actually decomposes in space.” “That’s why there are so many dead planets,” she said.
The fifth favourite was the only one that was profitable under all circumstances. Its best performance was in races with 10, 11 or 12 runners. That covers betting to win. What about betting for a place? Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings but place betting was not profitable for any one of the favourites in any one of the angles. By Mr ... The favourite is the shortest priced selection in an event, but when two selections share this position they are named 'Joint-Favourites'. If you back a successful joint-favourite you need to halve your stake to calculate the returns. If three or more participants share this position they are named Co-favourites. Different academic and recreational research from gamblers has found that backing favourites generally allows you to lose more slowly. Of course, this is a one-way ticket to the poor house as a long-term betting strategy, but as a starting point it at least shows that betting the favourite is rarely a terrible decision. Joint favourite If two horses have the shortest odds in the betting, they are described as joint-favourites; if three or more horses have the shortest odds, they are co-favourites. L. Lucky 15 A multiple bet consisting of 15 bets (4 singles, 6 doubles, 4 trebles and an accumulator) involving four selections in different events. Lucky 31 Jose Mourinho has had his odds decisively cut to return to the Premier League and is now the joint-favourite to take over at struggling Spurs.. The Special One has had his odds decisively cut from 10/1 into as short as 7/2 with two major bookmakers, and is joint-favourite with every bookie offering odds on the market.. Paddy Power’s new Games Ambassado r joins Leicester City’s Brendan ...
This video shows you how to use Betfair's in-play feature to really take control of your betting, including how to trade your position throughout an event How To Win at Sports Betting: Money Line Favorites Everyone has struggles with betting sports whether you are a serious bettor or just wager recreationally. In Mitch's series, How to WIn at Sports ... Betting on heavy favorites and trading your position to guarantee a profit. This goes hand in hand with this video here: - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QgD0mElPxc When talking betting tips, there is only one way you can win long-... #horseracing #bettingonhorses #handicapping #horseracingtips #horseracingbetting #horseracingterms #weekendhandicapper Are you looking for a way to consisten...
![[UK] - Yvette Cooper for Labour leader? Bets pour in as MP becomes joint favourite](https://b.thumbs.redditmedia.com/EWiANG5x0x9OwqefQKgkavJtg1Z7mzBB1g3rivoFe5o.jpg "[UK] - Yvette Cooper for Labour leader? Bets pour in as MP becomes joint favourite")
