Daftwager Twitter – Day 4

March 30, 2009

normal_1-cruccu-143264

Day 4:

07:00; Finally came down on the rooftop of local rascal, Pirate Pete Pequod. Couldn’t miss it; only house with a rooftop mocked up to appear like the deck of a seventeenth century galleon, including decking, rigging, sails, captain’s wheel and full set of six cannon and ball.

It is creepily like the set of the ‘Crimson Assurance’.

08:00; You can tell Pete is rich, yes? Oh, its not just the frivolous expense. It is the fact that Pequod applied for and received planning permission build the house around a ship land becalmed by a storm. And he still got a seaworthy rating from the Navy. And he gets to fire the cannons at noon and six pm, which cause sundry damage, death and disturbation of my . . . meditations.

AND I still can’t enough consent for my idyllic skylight/industrial photon shunt.

09:00; Originally intended just to ditch the balloon here, as the only rooftop in town where convenient sails can conceal a parade balloon, and shin down the drainpipes. However, using the netting, rigging, lanterns, furnace and one of the lifeboats, I have converted the parade balloon into a fully-functional hot-air dirigible with extremely rudimentary propulsion and steering, and a gondola affixed underneath. I assure you – this theft is not out of spite for his planning permission pride. The man is a multi-millionaire from his pirate-themed ‘Plunderwear’ TM lingerie line alone – he can afford some more ropes.

Taking his antique Admiral Nelson hat, that was spite.

10:00; Managed to take off just before I was discovered. I had to ditch the plan to steal a cannon – couldn’t sufficient secure it to the gondola, and the gondola to the balloon. Without that, a loose cannon would rock the boat. In retrospect, I was lucky to get as much as I did done. I was just over the adjacent building by the time Pete, distressed and dishabille, came out of the Captain’s cabin.

Good news– he didn’t appear to be a zombie – that would have added a serious reprimand to capture.

Annoying news– either the underwear models (wearing Plunderwear TM) that came out of the Captain’s cabin after him were giving a private, early morning showing, or Pete Pequod wouldn’t be overly preoccupied with the minor matter of my robbery.

Not that his distraction is bad news, but his being distracted due to, say, falling off the roof into a horde of zombies, would have been preferable.

11:00; Found prized golden fishing rod and collapsible telescope in the gondola. Now Pequod Pete and I are even.

12:00; Clouds came in over night – I’m staying in the nimbus layer for now.

13:00; Street level activities at a minimum, or so my telescope tells me. Those few on the move have a definite Romero-shuffle going on.

14:00; I see the occassional lich-soldier rounding up new recruits. Typical – zombies acting like zombees; swarming together, never eating each other – unless desperate.

15:00; Can’t descend sufficiently to confirm, but it seems like the zombies are being herded to ‘Les Pantalon Rouge’.

16:00; Ipod – Jonathan Coulton; “Re: Your Brains”.

If Hollywood has taught us anything, it’s that being trapped in a mall surrounded by a million zombies would be really troublesome. But how much more annoying would it be if the head zombie used to be your co-worker, and he was kind of a prick even before he got infected? And now he’s right outside and he just keeps talking and talking – still the same jackass, only now he wants to eat your brains?

“Heya Tom, it’s Bob from the office down the hall
Good to see you buddy, how’ve you been?
Thing have been OK for me except that I’m a zombie now
I really wish you’d let us in
I think I speak for all of us when I say I understand
Why you folks might hesitate to submit to our demand
But here’s an FYI: you’re all gonna die screaming
I’ve never had a song so applicable to me.

All we want to do is eat your brains
We’re not unreasonable, I mean, no one’s gonna eat your eyes
All we want to do is eat your brains
We’re at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise:
If you open up the doors
We’ll all come inside and eat your brains

I don’t want to nitpick, Tom, but is this really your plan?
To spend your whole life locked inside a mall?
Maybe that’s OK for now but someday you’ll be out of food and guns
And then you’ll have to make the call
I’m not surprised to see you haven’t thought it through enough
You never had the head for all that bigger picture stuff
But Tom, that’s what I do, and I plan on eating you slowly

All we want to do is eat your brains
We’re not unreasonable, I mean, no one’s gonna eat your eyes
All we want to do is eat your brains
We’re at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise:
If you open up the doors
We’ll all come inside and eat your brains

I’d like to help you Tom, in any way I can
I sure appreciate the way you’re working with me
I’m not a monster Tom, well, technically I am
I guess I am

I’ve got another meeting Tom, maybe we could wrap it up
I know we’ll get to common ground somehow
Meanwhile I’ll report back to my colleagues who were chewing on the doors
I guess we’ll table this for now
I’m glad to see you take constructive criticism well
Thank you for your time I know we’re all busy as hell
And we’ll put this thing to bed
When I bash your head open

All we want to do is eat your brains
We’re not unreasonable, I mean, no one’s gonna eat your eyes
All we want to do is eat your brains
We’re at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise:
If you open up the doors
We’ll all come inside and eat your brains”

 

17:00; Ah, reality now depresses me. Dreamtime.

I-pod: Jonathan Coulton; “Millionaire Girlfriend”“I will wait a lifetime if it takes that long
I know she’s out there for I have heard her song
In dreams she sings to me
Her angel’s voice a symphony
Is she in a garden or a meadow fair
Does the dappled sunlight shine ribbons in her hair?
Does she sit patiently smiling as she waits for me?

She’s my millionaire girlfriend and she’s my life
Once I finally find her I’ll get permission from the wife
We will all live in our castle high
My beloved and my millionaire girlfriend and I

She’s a stolen secret from a pirate’s chest
I will wear an ascot and a suit that has a vest
And I will put it on as I watch gardener mow the lawn
She’s a fairy princess from a song of old
I will have a toothbrush that is made of solid gold
And I will watch TV as my manservant flosses me

She’s my millionaire girlfriend and she’s my life
Once I finally find her I’ll get permission from the wife
We will all live in our castle high
My beloved and my millionaire girlfriend and I

It does not matter to me if she’s pretty
All that counts is what she’s got at Citibank

Chase Manhattan or even Washington Mutual

When my search is ended I will cherish her
She will sign some papers, give me power of attorney
And what’s hers will be mine in perpetuity

She’s my millionaire girlfriend and she’s my life
Once I finally find her I’ll get permission from the wife
We will all live in our castle high
My beloved and my millionaire girlfriend and I
My beloved and my millionaire girlfriend and I
My beloved and my millionaire girlfriend and I ”

18:00; Experiment 1: Roof level descent in the dark. Nailed an undead with a penny from eight stories up. Headwound. The others didn’t help it, but they didn’t finish it off either.

19:00; I see a lot of window curtains being twitched. There are far more alive than undead.

20:00; Successfully fished a roasted chicken out of a third floor window. Requisite risk; I can survive on the lifeboat’s rations for a while, but none of them are meat.

21:00; Experiment 2: Attempting to lead a zombie away from the others with chickenbait attracts notice, but doesn’t work. Senses of smell & motion intact.

22:00; *gasp* LITTLE. *gasp* FELLOW. *gasp* DOESN’T. *gasp* WANT. *gasp* TO. *gasp* LET. *gasp* GO. *gasp*

23:00; Fair enough then. Where is that rigging pulley and galley netting?

00:00; Heh. And I thought the ability to operate on a dead corpse would never come in useful. Not quite like evil med school. Just a very blunt saw instead of a scalpel and a hammer instead of anesthesia. Hope my impatient patient will be patient with me . . .

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Day 3: Twitter of Daftwager

March 24, 2009

drh_white

Day 3:

07:00; Bite has almost entirely healed. Odd.

08:00; Doctor Nation returns to check on his patient. Seems decidedly eager for a man whose job entails the inspection of pustules and boils – particularly as, due to the emergency nature of my malady, I don’t have to pay him. Eager, yet shows no overreaction to my abbreviated & acclerated recuperation. Suspicious.

09:00; The Good Doctor spilled under an interrobanging () . Apparently my condition was sufficiently serious as to prompt practical application of a super-serum that had until been extremely experimental. ‘Universal & Natural: Discovered Ectopic Additive Derivitive’ Serum is Doctor Nation’s latest creation. This barely causes me to pause in my interrogation from the bedstead – nobody uses such a winding name if it doesn’t End The Earth (!) and are intending to hide behind boredom. That was how my ‘Perfectly “You-Reasoned” Aim of Mutual Industry Demonstration’ Scheme (Pyramid Scheme) worked.

10:00; Apparently, the serum is a high-powered revitalising tonic, available as ingestable potion & administratable lotion. It regenerates cellular tissue at the level of the repetitive telemear chromosones. My God. That sounds even more boring and mystifying than the name. Genius!

11:00; The Good Doctor has also consulted on my mutant stoat notes. He seems well versed with fantastic biology. Compliments my innovations. I am flattered, and defer sufficiently that he doesn’t notice my palming his serum. Should make good study material. Hmmm. Needs more depleted uranium.

12:00; . . .

13;00; . . .

14:00; . . .

15:00; Okay, the bounder did spot me palming his solution. There probably was more to that trick than that cockney pickpocket taught me – remaining untaught when I had his hand cut off. The ‘good’ Doctor Gave me the wooden cudgel treatment to the back of the head. Apparently Butler believed the Doctor carrying my unconscious body down the backstairs to his pox ridden conveyance was due to my ‘having a relapse’. When I get out of this, I’m having Butler chemically castrated for the good of the species. Sterilisation is a good first offence reprimand.

16:00; Doctor Nation has lectured for an hour on the creation of his U.N.D.E.A.D. serum. Word is that the serum can turn on and off the mitochrondrial apeptosis reaction of the body’s cells. If you went to a real school (i.e. one which was not free), you would know that apeptosis is the death of individual cells. Control over it is the power of life and death.

Cancer cells are cells in which the apeptosis function has ceased – those cells, useless, harmful, (like Butler’s brain) don’t die and reproduce more just like them to kill the host (like Butler in general).

If you could turn their apeptotic function on at will . . . Cancer-be-gone.

When a body goes into shock and ‘dies’, all the cells turn off – there isn’t even the oxygen to trigger apeptosis, leaving the body in stasis. Preserved. Its when the raging snot med students flood the body with oxygen like the oversexed teens they are, that is what gives the body the one last burst it needs to die.

If you could turn their apeptotic function off at will . . . Shock-death-off.

He laughs too much between speeches to be a good doctor. A competent evil one, certainly, he fixed my arm after all, but …

Oh Great Satan, my arm.

17:00; Okay, I’m not a zombie. He treated my arm with a weakened form of the serum, keeping back the infection. It’ll do it again apparently, but it seems I’m vaccinated against its full effects. Oh yes, as mentioned, the full effect is full-blown zombiism. Seems Dr. Nation learned the technique on the front lines. When he observed that the infantry left out in the cold and slowly warmed survived, where the officers immediately by the fire died. He saved the infantry he loved and he saved the officer he hated . . . later. He shows one of them. Which is more horrible? That the officer seems young, or that the maggot in his ears seems old?

18:00; It appears the good Doctor is something of a socialist. Well that explains everything. Helping the sick, treating the elderly, working pro bono publico! I will not deny a man those pathways so twisted in science and nature, so reviled by God and Satan, so cataclysmically insane that the morality of its effects can be judged only by the survivors – but socialism, the pinky upon the red fist of Communism! Never! Unless I was being paid, of course.

19:00; The town is surrounded by undead soldiers, ostensibly being billeted unto us by military furlough. To get past customs the rotting flesh and pustulating sores were put down to a new virus picked up by the entire crew on Dutch shore leave. Most of the bodies are hidden the bordello known as ‘La Pantalon Rouge’. When they strike and the entire town is turned with his voodoo perfume, a Zombie City shall rise to march on London. Is wrong to say I wish I had thought of this first. Yes? Then I wish I had thought of this first. He expects to be sipping tea with the royals by dinner time tomorrow. All of the royals, excepting those that were beheaded – seems it would be in poor taste. No larynx, apparently makes an underconversationalist of even Charles the First.

20:00; He asks if I will join him. He knows I am of like mind and intellect. He was tempted to turn me when treating me, but upon seeing my notes and hearing my demented cries of fury and revenge, he knew we could work together. ‘For Science!’ he cries, offering me a mug of the solution to make me immune to even the full-scale oncoming attack. I ask him what exactly it is. Ah. Thats ironic. The good Doctor was being praised for his work with the community. With a parade. At noon today. He slowly released the aerosol version of the serum from his own celebratory balloon. My Beezlebub, that is ironic evil. I don’t do as much of it as I should. He prompts the offer again. The entire town is dead already. Tomorrow will see a zombie dawn, with or without me. ‘Hopefully you will see sense’. Well that settles it. ‘For Science!’, I reply. Bottoms up, I swallow.

21:00; I talk with Nation concerning the future. Rule by Science, Science by Perfection, Perfection by Zombies. Excellent, excellent. Nationgrad and Quatloopolis (Moscow and London respectively), shall become new centres of learning in an increasingly ordered world. No mating for genetic cretins like Butler, mating every seven years for the useful but untidy gene pools, and lots of propagation by the mental and physical elite. For genetic diversity within in such an elite there shall be a triple as opposed to a couple (two women to each man for optimal progeny). Colonisation of Mars (with a crew of beautiful women, as necesary to populate a new planet). Social release for pent up urges of the mob will be the ritualised hunting, killing and eating of the people who bullied Nation and I in school. And so on. Good thing we men of science are not hampered by the emotional drives of petty sex and violent vengeance that so many other world leaders are.

22:00; Smoking cigars. Had my dirigible brought around to fuel for a second pass with the serum.

23:00; Finally, the prototype mutant stoat fetus I swallowed (when Nation was distracting himself with his plan) has finally been activated by the super-growth properties of the swallowed serum. Fully grown stoat leapt from my throat and ate half of Nation’s face. Distracted him sufficiently for me to leap to my stolen dirigible.

00:00; Side with him? Never! Dear Azarael, the man said ‘Hopefully you will see sense’. . . . He used an adverb at the start of a sentence, you bile worm. Intellectual utopia indeed. One can only imagine he said he ‘graduated medical school’ rather than ‘graduated from medical school’! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a dirigible to steal . . . again.


Daftwager Twitter

March 15, 2009

veryminorenvy

Day 2:

07:00; Self-portrait Dirigible claimed by illicit night-time activity. Modesty and self-disgust forbids me to elaborate, but sufficed to say that the keeper of the parade ballons is (a) a hereditary position which, given its dullness, promotes in-breeding, (b) a warehouse with very, very low outer walls and (c) has a very, very homely daughter/sister.

08:00; Dirigible moored on tennis lawn until I think of something to do with it. If anyone asks, present from the parade balloon keeper on conception of new grandson/nephew.

09:00; Well I am tired. That’ll teach me to seduce a keeper’s daughter before dawn. A brief rest to restore my mental energies.

10:00; . . . .

11:00; . . . .

12:00; Dear Lord Lucifer, take me now! What fresh cacophany is this? The parade? But, that was at noon wasn’t it? Wait, it is noon! Why did I sleep on so long? Why am I sweating? Why is my arm throbbing –

…..

Oh, yes – the gangrenous infecti-!

13:00; . . . .

14:00; . . . Now, despite rumors to the contrary, I did not just buy a crown at the costume palace and ask people to start calling me the King of Town. I earned my title the same way I earned a free combo meal: by purchasing one of equal or lesser value. I also did not ever try to eat my own mustache . . .

15:00; . . . For example, there’s a spell listed entitled Against every Wild Animal, Aquatic Creature and Robbers. In the event that you are simultaneously attacked by a wild bear, Aquaman and the Hamburglar, this spell will have your back . . .

17:00; . . . “Now becomes the the past in an instant — and everyone will eventually die! Destiny triumphs over human knowledge and goes mad! That is the way of things! I spit upon this frail, crazed, world! I spit upon the Second Law of Thermodynamics!”

18:00;“‘Blasphemy’? Before what, ‘God’? A God repulsed by the miserable humanity he created in his own image? I will not be shackled by the failures of your God. The only ‘blasphemy’ is to wallow in insignificance! I have taken the refuse of your God’s failures, and I have triumphed!”

19:00; “Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence- whether much that is glorious- whether all that is profound- does not spring from disease of thought – from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.”

20:00; “Everyone’s always in favor of saving Hitler’s brain, but when you put it in the body of a great white shark, ooooh, suddenly you’ve gone too far!”

21:00; “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?”

22:00; . . .

23:00; Ah, yes, that is under control now good. Grew a tad delirious from infection. Butler summoned the good Doctor Ingot Nation. After I had raving for some hours. He claimed it was hard to distinguish my demented ramblings from my usual self-addressed speeches. Being of such a lower education than I. Cute. Very cute.

I throttled him lightly on the throat, or some other such insignificant place. Quite weak as a kitten of course, so damage was minimal. The brief apoplexy was merely a cry for attention, I maintain.

00:00; On the mend apparently. My juvenile and senile benefactors sent me a bevy of healthy fruits to my sickbed, my promised parade attendance – absence alerted their attentions. Grateful actually – not that their inquiries prompted Butler from his homicide by negligence, (he is far too much of a coward to have carried it much further, that panty-waist), but it did give me something to throw at him when he stood outside throttling reach.


Twitter: Fitzwilly-Flannelcat Daftwager Von Quatloo the Third

March 11, 2009

Have to say, coming to admire Twitter. Not online these days enough to justify starting own account – blog sufficient for time being

Therefore, will honour with imitation of style:

Twitter: Fitzwilly Flannelcat Daftwager Von Quatloo the Third!

Happy V-Day!

Happy V-Day!

Day 1:

07:00; Day 1 of Evil. Arose early and dispersed vapors of hope and love that congeal nightly. Good results; finally nailed that bluebird with the under-the-pillow revolver.

08:00; Note to self from yesterday: “Don’t forget, you have a helpless widow to tie to a railroad track at 9:30, and an orphanage to rob at 10:15.”

I like how I stink.

09:45; Unfortunately, my butler confuzzled my Timetable of Terror and I did them in the wrong order. I did the orphanage at 09:30, relying on the 10:15 post-cartoons crash that would be typical of their generation. Alas, at 9:30 I found them to be all hepped up on sugar and anime.

10:00; One of them bit me early on – has turned green in course of the chase. Might have been well-advised to contribute to the ‘Mothers Against Waifish Gangrene’ weeks ago, rather than shooting that charitable maunt in the face.

10:30; Orphans chased me to the tying of the widow, a scheme which had relied upon the timely nature of the 9:30 from Birmingham to Shropshire. Said scheme was undone by the fact that it was now 10:15, and the next express would tarry until 11:00, thus providing the orphans ample time to untie the widow.

10:45; Previously agoraphobic, youth-fearing, old narcoleptic billionaire widow subsequently adopted her orphan saviours.

Well thats just phantasmagorical!

12:00; As I was murdering her to augment my own inheritance, one which will now go to her new heirs, this dastardly scheme has backfired somewhat.

Zounds.

13:00; Wondered why the constabs were not hot on my heels. Apparently, the children believe they mistook my alerting them to the widow’s endangered situation as the robbery I actually committed. She was unconscious the entire caper until rescue.

There is a parade in my honour at noon tomorrow.

14:00; What was I thinking, robbing an oprhanage! What do orphans have to steal?

I hate yesterdays.

15:00; My parade balloon looks awfully similar to Bluff from Popeye. Like the balloon from last year’s parade!

16:00; My parade dirigible makes me look fat.

17:00; No monetary reward with my parade. Widow knows ”I’d never accept it”. I wish she wouldn’t smile when she says that. Painful reminder, yes, but also, her teeth are wooden. Must be like kissing Pinnochio.

18:00; Good has no anti-rewards. Gross admiration – from the elderly, the young, and the ugly middle aged. Gross indeed.

19:00; Party in my honour finally ended. It was the bedtime for everyone but me, and projectile vomiting time for me.

20:00; Two small successes; One: injesting gelignite in small doses over the course of the day does lead to literal projectile vomiting. Two: Punished butler. Two birds, one throw.

21:00; Butler replaces drapes to my satisfaction. The same cannot be said for his replacement toupee. Stoat fur, I’m almost certain.

22:00; Draw up notes on stoat mutant possibilities. I see them depositing newborn live young into steaks, being eaten, eating the host’s food before emerging fully grown either bursting through the chest, or leaving burrow style through host orifices.

23:00; In last ditch effort to perk up spirits, concisely lay down notes on the means to cure influenza conclusively. Roll notes into a cigarillo, then smoke to destruction.

I certainly feel better.

00:00; Now if you will excuse me, I have a namesake-dirigible to detain. Good day to you sir!