Daftwager Twitter: Day 8

April 25, 2009

Day 8:

07:00; Waking in a curtained bed not my own, I find myself competently injected intravenously and cleverly cathered for my . . . comfort. Disabusing myself of these interesting abuses, I go to the ground floor to be surrounded by acetylene torches, munitions scorches and electrical plans for the building.

08:00; The house’s grand dame, Ms. Open Palm, explains. Almost all of the girls here are working their way through university, or did so in the past. As nobody dances naked for a degree in sociology (an STD of the mind, as I think of it) all of the girls and most of the boys are grads in as many aspects of the sciences one cares to name.

My team of engineers, I presume.

08:10; Barbie Bay-Bee, M.D. in physics, tells me the application of my design to the larger scale they proposing is mathematically sound. I would question this, but as I used her paper on helium density(written as Dr. Maturnina Ken) to devise my own airship design, I concede the point.

Density of what helium, though?

08:20; Daisy Bloomers, who makes her own make-up, perfume and experimental Noble Gases, says that La Pantalon Rouge was a main target during the days of love of the Helium Princess and they still have a tank of industrial-grade helium. When I ask why, she states client confientiality. Helium and make-up – I suspect a coulrophelia fetish.

She puts me in mind of Paradigm, and I resolve not to take my eyes off of her. But can this clown-love contraption actually fly?

08:30; Lulu Lollypop, whose interests were listed in her Page 3 spread as ‘boys, animals and experimental aviation design, with an emphasis on (but not exclusive to) alternative means of flight – rocket science and airship design a double major – tells me that a low-level rocket launch followed by a high-altitude expanding gasbag with an affixed propeller should see us through.

Rocket launch with what?

08:40; ViVi LaBoom, vital statistics 36-32-36 measurements and 156 IQ, has discovered and repurposed the cache of heavy explosives kept in the basement. With placed charges detonated in precisely calculated sequential bursts, she believes the building can be launched free from the foundations.

ViVi has the same crazy eyes Dinahmight did in the WW1 newsreels. But won’t the conflagration compromise the structure?

08:50; Big Mama Mammary, beautiful and aged well, is the kind of lady whose age would scare off an arrogant baby of a man from being treated as such, would attract an older man to the concept of being treated like a baby, and has a perfect grasp of Euclidean geometry as pertaining to architecture. She is slow-speaking and oddly hypnotic.

This place will hold.

09:00; Ms. Palm tells me to call her Open, that I am free to go and that she thanks me for helping to save their home.Open, Free, Thanks and Home. There are a few aphorisms I haven’t heard in some time. Who would ordain a demimondain to get me so sentimental? Appropriate, though.

09:15; Doorstep again. I draw a few zombie wards on the doorframe. La Pantalon Rouge doesn’t usually have them, given that the Day of the Dead is one of their busiest days – another reason to order a shroud with pockets and take your money with you when you die. The girls are proud of that their reputation raises the dead, who are often a sweet bunch of older men, with one part of them raised more than others. Those dead fellows flatteringly compare the ladies to heaven, whereas Nation’s zombie deadbeats reminded these scarlet women of hell.

Interesting. Open tells me the elohim letters I draw are like a series of quantum symbols she is devising in an approach to, if not unified field theory, then a way to interpret its existence in nature.

Oh, talk nerdy to me.

09:30; The Milk Maids arrive down this end of town. Well, they can’t be everywhere at eight-thirty (not since the time machine regressed and progressed the milk to cud & cheese respectively, though Lady Jane tells me she is repurposing it now). They, of course, aren’t going to Eldritch Bill’s, and there is a marked lack of milk deliveries on Cemetary Road, but they will get me close enough.

10:00; Apparently everybody got an anti-zombie dose this morning with their milk. Full city immunity. I congratulate them, but inform them that unless they have a serum for breathing underwater, immunisation may be in vain. I fill them in on the dam-blow plan. I remind them that their float will float on water. The ‘something all natural’ antigrav underneath it will not fear water.

10:30; Knowing that I’m blowing a town with these two in it leaves me feeling conflicted. With a bottle, I brain a braindead Australian, while screaming “Got Milk? I got your milk right here!”.

Derivative, yes, but it takes a figuratrive load off of my mind and a literal load off the ghoul’s mind.

11:00; Walking the last few streets to Eldritch’s, with a milk pint in one hand, valise in the other and a harpoon gun strapped to my back, I spot the local landmarks. The pillory where we stoned the adulteress. The gallows where we hung the mime. The pond where we drowned the midget arsonist. He did so love to burn things.

Ah, happy childhood days.

12:00; To Eldritch I give an anti-zombie serum. He laughs it off with “Science is naught but the illegitimate dog-faced boy of Magic!” With a surprising lack of malice, I confront him with the revelation that his ‘language of the angels’ can also be interpreted as a mathematical symbology which can truly describe an objects place in space and time, without a requirement for reference! A revelation revolution that Marshall Lore, aka the Masther, is leading. Apparently Angelic immateriality can be explained as function of the geometry of spacetime, as much as the force gravity is and the force of electromagnetism might be.

To the tune of twelve cannon, I declare ‘Magic is naught but the pederast rat-uncle of Science’s long lineage’.

12:30; Eldritch admits this. Lore visited Eldritch on my suggestion, scientifically analysing and refining Eldritch’s sorcerous symbology. Meanwhile Eldritch imparted the parables and legends related to these rare runes, thaumaturge’s tales which, while still a mystery to Lore, seem to metaphorically describe the higher, as-yet-unknown relationships between these symbols. I concede there are bonds between the two methodologies beyond our comprehension, then genially kick him in the crotch for Isaac Newton, John Dee and the audacity for lying to me earlier.

I advise the now crotch-clutching, floorbound and foetal Eldritch to bunk down in the watertight necropolis the dead demanded, and depart in my airship.

13:00; I can see my house from here. The zombies are attempting to trample my man-eating plants, with little success.

14:00; I can’t escape the military until the town floods. A few strategic explosives will take out some of the dykes. The three mighty Atlantean Water Engines, discovered in the bay during the smaller, original, reclamation, will do the rest at winged-sandal pace. They aren’t really Atlantean. They have R’LYEH stamped on one side and CTHULHU on the other.

Eldritch never did divulge what the squid pictographs meant.

15:00; Former boy wonder sidekick, Mayor Burt Ward, appears to be attempting negotiations with the zombie insurgents in a bid to escape town. Great minds. The amount of planning permission swindles and construction bribes he has gotten away with, he must have a small island somewhere.

Unfortunately, he has run into some grunts greener than the money he is offering them. By the way they ate his assistants, talks seem to have hit a standstill . . .

16:00; Do I dare do something truly heroic? Truly idiotic? Well, if I save him and we both die, then nobody will never know. But if we get out, I’ll just have to kill him later, and take his money. Oh, wait, that works. Time to be a hero!

Oh lord, sorry, thought I could say that with a straight face.

16:30; He is semi-consumed and I cannot keep my hands from shaking with fits of the giggles . . .

I shoot Mayor Ward in the posterior with the harpoon gun. A medal winning shot, one would imagine.

17:00; After a brief giggle by twisting the harpoon out and splashing the wound with iodine, I focus; The town is zombie-infested, militarily-surrounded and on the precipice of an Old Testament flood. I have only one question – why the hell did Pequod get planning permission for a battleship ballroom and not me my photon shunt skylight?

I may have gestured with the harpoon at this point. Vigorously. Mayor Ward is a pathological liar, and I myself would crumble under nothing less. A vague threat is nobody’s friend.

18:00; Apparently it was all perfectly legal. That is an actual ship Pequod lives in afterall. It was found on the bay bed during the reclamation, as stated, and such conversions are legal by town charter. So long as it passes a maritime maintenance test and a building safety surveyor’s exam, it is both and neither a house and boat, which gives Pequod an extremely enviable tax loophole to found his business empires on. Several of the rich and famous of the town have followed this theme for their own purposes of tax evasion.

I remind him that my house is not so constructed. He reminds me I am neither rich nor famous.

As mine and the mayor’s statements will testify later, my harpoon slipped out of excitement. He does have another foot after all.

19:00; Such civic, criminal corruption. As every bad man says in such a situation, I am obviously in the wrong business. I can hardly be blamed, can I? Most of the town’s politicians hold hereditarily inherited positions. The only way to enter the ranks of that inbred and batrachian bunch is to part the ribs with a rusty blade, or to part the legs of their ugly young maids-

Sweet Tartarus, that is it!

20:00; I hold the Mayor close, twirling him around until his screams of pain bring me too much happiness to dance further. I declare, like a good little hero, I intend to save the townsfolk, defeat my nemesis and outrun the swirling vultures of army and navy alike. Fearful and cynical, the Mayor compliments me on my hope for the future, but he reminds me that the situation is quite dire. I laugh merrily, then cuff him to the floor.

20:30; I remind him that he maybe a hereditary middleclassman, but I am an aristocrat, though not inbred. I remind him that he may be a convivial political criminal, but that I am a bad, bad man, though not a vaudevillain. I remind him that the situation may be dire, but that I am going to make it much, much worse. For fun and profit.

For expediency, the Mayor goes overboard. His old acrobatic training allows him to keep his life, but lose his feet.

21:00; Crossing the low walls of the parade balloon enclosure, I tie up my dirigible among his fellow inflatables of Bluto, Olive Oil, and others. Descending the rope, I call out to Ailface Boonkeeper and his daughter/sister Incestua. Coming trotting up on their hind legs like a couple of humans, I see their surprise – but not at the balloon. They were expecting it, but with someone else riding it.

The daughter’s belly, full as gibbous moon, is not merely her fat frame, but a foetus fermenting. This is how Nation altered the balloons so secretly.

22:00; One of the sweetest parts of playing the hero is telling the truth, and seeing its disasterous consequences on those involved. I lay out, simply, for their eager, dull little minds that Nation has raised a zombie army by killing the tourists, the only ones to attend their dreary parades, and intends to drown the town for fresh bodies. Twisting my testicles gently beneath the table to keep the giggles from arising, I congratulate them on their masterly plan devising.

21:00; After all, they must have been part of this plot, because Nation has taken to Incestua so dear, and the concept that he might callously kill them and the unborn babe would seem quite queer. Just about able not to roll my eyes, I throughly enjoy the craven twos mutual looks of surprise.

Ah truth, you terrible, beautiful, bitch goddess. Though I do tell Incestua that Nation said her hair smelled like poo, just to stay in practice.

23:00; Amid their cursing of Nation, I remind them that their fellow fecund famous and rotten regal rich are about to drown also. Ailface clicks his congenitally claw-like digits in terror, while Incestua flaps her flipperish fingers in frustration. I present them with plans for the marvellous airships. Far too late for a full conversion, and only for the elite. But the illitterati glitterati may still be saved by a few modifications . . . and a great many balloons.

Phase One complete.

00:00; Departing my grateful grotesques in giggling glee, I can’t wait for Phases Two and Three, where the Dear Dr. Quatloo does more harm in the guise of good, and the loud Lord Daftwager makes himself heard in the neighbourhood. Like the Helium Princess from above, I shall spread the love, accepting the mantle of peaceful, deceitful dove, which fits me clawed-hand to iron-glove.


Daftwager Twitter: Day 7

April 18, 2009

zombie-pinup-art-rachel-02Day 7:

07:00; Why, these muffins are just delightful! I restock my valise in the pantry to the sound of grown men crying.

Oh, yes, my escape. Child’s play really. No, really. And no gloating before nine in the morning, I promised myself.

08:00; I’m quite alone at the Pequod breakfast buffet here. The staff defers to my orders for the time being while their master and his cohorts suffers some . . . food poisoning. The smell grows counter-productive to digestion. Taking the breakfast from the butler and a first aid kit from one of the many, frantic nurses, I sit on the doorstep, eat, read the paper and await the Milk Maids.

08:30; Eight-Thirty on the dot and the only two milkmaids who would risk, nay, enjoy delivering milk in a zombie infested town arrive. The milk float (anti-gravity, on the promise my milk would be neither shaken nor stirred) roars down the street, electric engine augmented by something . . . all natural, the bespectacled blonde-brunette wheel woman driving with the confidence of one who has no wheel wells to worry about as she pitches the pavement. Her wing woman, the shady-faced wrench-wielding wench wearing the shades, splits spiritless skull with a tightly-gripped three-eights Gripley, a ‘Stop’ sign spinning in the off hand, on the off chance.

08:45; Samantha Lane and Lady Jane Grey make these respective, respectable entrances. They are known as the milk maids in three ways:

1. Literal Milk Maids:

One, of their many town offices and hobbies, is to deliver the milk. In this town milk is primarily a woman’s work, not out of any assumption towards women but out of an assumption against men in the role since the “Many Children of Pat Mustard”. So many hairy babies, like a gang guinea pigs. Which they were very useful as.

2. Metaphorical Milk Maids:

Edward Jenner, discoverer of the vaccine, did so by observing that milk maids, exposed to weaker cross-species strains of the human viruses he was trying to cure, were resistant to the human-specific strains. The office of milk maid here has thus been synonymous with pox doctor and, later, bio-geneticist, another of Lady Jane’s many hobbies.

3. Nerd Reference Milk Maids:

These biogenetic based experiments have lead to the Milk Maids creating some special serums which enhance speed, strength, senses, the basic ubermench ensemble, much like the of character ‘Mother’s Milk’ in ‘The Boys’ series by Garth Ennis.

08:55; I extract a sample of my blood, my immunity, and tell Lady Jane it’s what she needs to break the zombie serum. It may be a vaccine, possibly a cure. Tourists are people too, after all.

I blind a trundling German with syringe shurikens and mummify a morbid Norwegian as Sam and Jane concoct a vaccine in the float’s floating lab.

09:00; How I Did It!1. Oh, you no doubt think I desposited some stoat foetuses in the seafood at this shindig? Well, that was Plan A, but I could not get to my little darlings in my .

2. Perhaps I more mundanely meddled with the molluscs and the dolphin-meat? No, I’m afraid I was quite carefully watched all the while I was here, no time to interfere.

3. Maybe I showed Pequod and his people images of thin, pretty Plunderwear models until a mix of anorexia & bulimia was rampant among the pirate population?

Plunderwear: Skirt Cut with a Lass' Cutlass

Plunderwear: Skirt Cut with a Lass' Cutlass

No. Plunderwear models are realistically buxom in a distinctly healthy campaign Paradigm herself would approve of, and pirates are emotionally resilient about their body image, unless someone reminds them they aren’t actually pirates. And that only works on individuals. Like Steve. You can really make them cry then. Its fun.

Plunderwear - Now With Accessories

Plunderwear - Now With Accessories

Yes, child’s play. I was saved by a school-age Japanese kid over 13,000 miles away.

09:30; My broadcast caught the attention of a Sick Note holder online.Some use Shinigami Death Notes – write a righteous death in a Death Note, simply writing a name and knowing a face. Limited. Sick Note vigilantes turn rapists impotent, adulterers syphilltic and, apparently, verbally abusive pirates into fountains of vomit. Cinematic.

10:00; The Sick Note owner saved me because he is an angel of justice. He was watching PlunderwearPiratePlaymates.com because he is Japanese schoolboy. Or so current speculation trends, given his other targets of (1) those mean cheerleaders (2) that guy on the baseball team (3) public detractors of Pokemon.

11:00; When you wish punish pirates, go to Japan. Its a national pastime. When Pequod recovers, I tell him enough so he knows we can’t use this against Nation and his troops, their being of artificially robust health and all. As with all pirates, to take such a beating is to know, for now, to join me. For now. Will betray at the drop of a hat, particularly Nelson’s.

All the same, I immunise these picaresque peons. The cannon fodder can’t go changing sides, can they?

12:00; Quickly, the land fleet of motor boat roadsters and land yachts are assembled. Mounted harpoon guns and flintlock pistols a feature. Plans converge easily as all pirates have their names on their shirts, and respond well to orders. I miss my toys, and augment an electric trident to take my mind off of it. Cannons salute our exit.

13:00; I ride on the MBR called ‘The Red Sea’. The nets are made of monofilament wires that rend our foes into so many cubes of undead flesh. Occassionally the boat’s figure head (Moses with a serpent-headed staff) comes to life, going Old Testament on their undead asses, by which I mean the Ten Plagues and staff sodomy.

14:00; We reach La Pantalon Rouge. Inclined to watch the bloodbath with a raincoat, my hand is forced when Spaniards of the Samedi variety overturn the boat. I skewer three with the trident, but, misjudging the weight I am pulled forward, turning it into a vault for one of the windmill’s sails.

Oh, FYI, La Pantalon Rouge is a windmill. It doesn’t help that each ‘sail’ is a neon sign resembling fishnetted large lady’s leg.

15:00; Clinging to a flashing stilleto instep, I whip past the windows, looking before I leap.

15:05: Ground floor, zombies fighting pirates. One pirate tears aside trouserleg cloth to reveal a heavy submachine gun-foot. Where does Pequod get such wonderful toys?

15:10; First Floor, zombies racing to fight pirates. Various states of vitality – from the newly dead, the somewhat dead and the grateful-they’re-dead, harpoon-through-chest.

15:15; Second floor, zombies dropping U.N.D.E.A.D. serum on the crowds below – not infecting my immunised pirates, but rejuvenating their decomposing infantry.

15:20; Third Floor, zombies dropping some low grade munitions on the pirates. How much did they get through customs underneath a military banner? Half way to the top!

15:25; Fourth Floor, zombie generals at serious rest and play planning. A lot of red flags around the town. Trying to counter-attack the blockade?


15:30; Fifth floor, a private zombie private trying on pumps, corset and feather boa in private. I tell him what I think of it, because I can see he assembled the ensemble it himself, and catcall to that effect.

How to Look Good Dissected

How to Look Good Dissected

15:35; Sixth Floor, vats of zombie serum lie dangerously right under the window. Immunity is one thing, drowning another.

15:40; Seventh Floor, buxom burlesque dancers and ladies of negotiable virtue in various states of undress and physical restraint. No signs of zombification. Waiting works!

16:00; Apparently these ladies are the sundry dancers, hostesses, maids, cooks and gentleman’s companions of ‘La Pantalon Rouge’. As they are untied, they ask that I go easy on the various handcuffs, elbowcuffs, anklecuffs, ropes, straps, whips, chains, padlocks, strings, sacks, collars, chokers, cables, wires, stockings, feather boas, mock electric chair and, in one case, a rotating wheel of doom that they have been restrained with, as they are house property.

17:00; Don’t mistake me for a Frenchman – I don’t saunter into prisons and free everybody. After an . . . in-depth . . . physical examination of all those restrained, to assure myself that they were in no way zombies, I briefly established their hatred of the freeloading zombies and released enough to release the rest.

Interrogation would have been largely useless, as most of these ladies are more familiar with the instruments of torture on hand than I am, either under or over.

17:30; Accounts of their zombie encounters lead me to believe they are being kept alive rather than undead as a morale booster, a morale move reversed with their theft. Besides, the pirates need something to turn those frowns upside down.

18:00; As the girls (and small selection of rather effeminate men) freed themselves upstairs, I set to work on the vats. I found a perfectly serviceable nurse’s bag under a highly impractical red-and-white naughty-nurse-night number, and proceeded to draw blood. I immunise the sundry dancers and work on converting the rest of the serum.

19:00; Buckets in hand, we raid the downstairs, Wicked-Witching the dead in a ‘de-lich’ tick bath, we beat them back with an array of paddles, whips, chains, bats, branding irons, canes, switches, tennis rackets, field hockey sticks, metal urethral sounds and a copy of the Oxford Dictionary. (Large print, leather cover, mounted on an ergonomic handle and perforated for aerodynamic purposes.)

20:00; La Pantalon Rouge is zombie free. We started to empty the converted anti-serum vats out the windows, which was sufficient to break the deadlock below and allow the pirates to win the day. Thought they’d rush the entertainment, but the itinerant idiots insisted on sweeping the town. Can’t disagree – Nation wasn’t here – but that isn’t why they’re doing it. Adventure. Risks. Derring-do. And rapid healing after the exposure to that anti-serum. Strange – they claim they adventure to get gold, grog and girls – present them with these things and still choose adventure.

This is why I don’t like henchmen. They’re like publicans, republicans, rebels, pirates, police or proctologists; nobody can have a good reason to get into that career.

21:00; Oh, damn. Read the map. Nation is at the dam. His Plan B, since the arrival of the military it appears, is to blow the dykes sky high, flooding the town the day after tomorrow. His minions float. So will the drowned bodies of the townsfolk and regiments, fresh for conversion. Teamed up, they will drift towards the Navy ships drawn in by the whirlpool. One feeding frenzy later, and its off to London, with more munitions than imaginable.

22:00; I must get to my dirigible. I can run when the town floods and glide landward . . . away. Alive. Drats! Monologued aloud there. Dancers ask if there is room in the dirigible gondola for them too. Why, yes of course, I respond.

22:30; Evasion futile. They know when men lie; ‘I’ve never done this before’, ‘I’m not usually into this sort of thing’, ‘I can’t even imagine how one would use such a rubber chicken, but I do happen to have some WD-40 in my briefcase, if that helps . . .’

Another fault with henchmen – they all want personal personnel escape pods.

23:00; They ask me to sketch out how I converted a balloon and a rowboat into an airship, in a way that isn’t really asking at all. Can I apply that method to this the whole of La Pantalon Rouge? All of it! Well . . . Nation has left his ballon here, and there are the windmill sails . . . we’d need some fissionable launch materials to clear the dense air – first stage rocket perhaps . . .

00:00; No, ultimately no. I’d need a team of engineers of the disciplines aerodynamic, aeronautic, lighter-than-air travel, with specialties in propulsion, munitions, extreme maintenance and, yes, rocket science working day and night to launch this proposed topless tower travesty of red brick and mortar bombs made.

Also, I’d have needed to not have given blood twice today and then thrown up after seeing a Samoan sightseer sawn in half, then doused in de-deading dip. I think I’m going to fai-


Daftwager: Have become quite accustomed to Twittering on the half-hour now. Keeps the fingers busy, and keeps me from polishing my cane over often. It is all very well to have a clean cane, but the fumes from polish are liable to turn me blind.

Flannelcrat: Broke up the bigger posts – still ended up overwriting a lot, but it is cut down from the original, such as below:


09:30; “Much mention has been made by the Japanese police of the Death Notes. The Death Notes, books dropped by Death-God Shinigami into the mortal world, are the most perfect instruments of death existing. Should someone simply write the name of the one they wish to kill and the manner of the preferred death, while thinking of the face of the one they wish to kill, that person will die when and how their death is written in the Death Note. The fall of a Death Note is often followed by deaths with an apparent pattern but without any apparent means of co-ordination. The fallout from such instances is brutal, brief and chronicled elsewhere.

But I did not wish to kill Pete Pequod, nor do I know of any Death Notes currently active.

But I had heard a judgemental user of a Sick Note was on the loose.

The Sick Note is a little more light hearted than the Death Note, but has serious applications. With the same knowledge of name and face, the user of a Sick Note can declare a disease upon anyone they wish. Rapists become impotent. Adulterers develop mystery syphyllis. Confidence artists and uncomforting politicians have developed benign-but-inoperable brain tumours that act upon the parts of the cerebellum that allow one to lie. Japan, having an inherent hatred of pirates, have historically been the single greatest source of seaman’s scurvy, via Sick Note, ‘robbing’ the robbers of their limbs.”

Daftwager Twitter: Day 6

April 11, 2009


Day 6:


07:00; Tea with an Elder God has a not too dissimilar etiquette to dining with a Turk; Smoke a cigar to overcome your guest’s foul odour, pay no mind to his heathen sub-vocal ramblings, make him keep his appendages to himself (above and below table) and never look him in his congenitally ugly face. Overall, dread gods are polite but the extra dimensions they bring to peripheral vision are reminiscent of certain Oriental preparations in effect.

I considered fuelling Eldritch’s guilt over a city-wide zombie outbreak to cause him to commit suicide, but the man lives in an abandoned Spiritualist Church whose only worth is its Zombie barrier, which might fade upon his death. There are many jewels, goblets and amulets around here, all dug up from graves and all will be reclaimed by those owners if I steal them. So I tell him about Nation.

Besides, he has no guilt on the matter. A man after my own heart, which is exactly why I haven’t turned my back on him once since arrival.

08:00; I break my fast in a manner befitting a gentlemen for the first time in days, despite this fast being broken in the abandoned vestry of the Spiritualist Church.

Needless to say, Eldritch has no account with the town Milk Maids. I therefore extract from my personal valise: a loaf of bread, a pot of Seville marmalade, a knife, fork, and small spoon or stirring, 2 fresh eggs packed with care in unspun wool, a tomato (or love-apple), a small frying pan, a small saucepan, a spirit burner, a chafing dish, a tin box of salted butter of the Italian type, 2 bone china plates. Also a portion of honey comb as a sweetener, for my breath and coffee.

In the words of Giovanni Jacopo Casanova (1725-1798), famed amourist and literateur, that ‘A true gentleman should always be able to break his fast in the manner of a gentleman, wheresoever he may find himself.’- Volume 12 of his Memoirs.I split it with Eldritch who, while being neither gentle nor, on several technicalities of human biology, a man, is a gentleman nonetheless.

09:00; Repairs progress, but at this time circumstances have explained to me the reasons behind the small patrols and the tarrying of Nation’s plan.

Oh, don’t give me that look. No heroics. But there is more than one blockade around town – one keeping us in with the zombies, and one keeping the zombies in with us.

Something tells me the army has anti-aerial artillery sufficient to shoot me out the sky before asking any questions.

10:00; In brief – info from an Elder God is unreliable at best, but the best of livers were offered in payment, and its all we have.

In essence, our three questions revealed the following:

1. The army and navy have registered an en masse AWOL of members. They’ve surrounded the town on land and at sea, and are prepped for something between a revolution and an epidemic, surprisingly for the oxymorons of Army Intelligence and Naval Co-ordination.

2. Apparently there IS a relation between Nation’s experiments and Eldritch’s rituals; everybody knows about Eldritch – Nation came here to refine his art and to do so in a place where his prototypes would not be overly surprising. This has, like the cheetah chasing the donkey, bitten him in the ass. Everyone does know about Eldritch and, apparently, the standard prep we all have in place to keep his impromptu resurrections back are keeping Nation’s boys back too. Which means that apart from the troops he brought with him, who are rapidly decomposing, all the fresh bodies Nation has are . . .

3. . . the town’s tourists! The tourists are the only ones to ignore the standard zombie prep, thinking our advertised Day of the Dead is nothing but poppycock (Town Day of the Dead! Voodoo is fun for all the family, even – especially – for those members who are dead!). The tourists are the only ones to wander the streets after dark when the zombie alert has gone up, looking for the local nightlife (which they apparently found). The tourists are the only ones who could get so lost wandering the town that three days into this invasion and they still haven’t managed to turn anybody!

11:00; Repairs continue. I query Eldritch as to why his magical zombie-busting preparations are defeating the scientifically reanimated undead. As expected, he gives the non sequiteur “Magic over Science!” response. However, it lacks his typical zeal and seems as if there is a figurative skeleton in his closet his doesn’t wish to bring out.

Figurative, of course, as the man has no end of literal ones he would not only not mind bringing out, but also wiring them down, stringing them up and putting on a show for the kiddies. As he does each Day of the Dead (children half-price, corpses extra).

12:00; Okay then, Nation is defatigable. But I need more. (Cannon Fires) Ninja Bob, aka the Dread Ninja Roberts, is out of the country for an extended period for . . . job retraining. (Cannon Fires) Top Hat has been dead for over a month now and, as much as it pains me to admit, it might be permanent. (Cannon Fires) I assure you, the irony of the previous statement when facing down a horde of zombies hepped up on Jesus juice is not lost on me. (Cannon Fires) Hell Boyle would probably agree with the military on blowing the town to kingdom come. (Cannon Fires) Windsoar probably wouldn’t agree with the military purge, but he wouldn’t act against Her Majesty’s Regiments. (Cannon Fires) Mecha Nick of House Steam Gear would have no such qualms, but is off fighting steampunk Martians of an alternate reality. Besides, he has a para-dimensional regicide in his ancestry. Quite the wrong sort to save the Queen. (Cannon Fires) The Candyman is quite loyal to the royals, but he is, quite literally, Billy Bonkers. What he might do with a vial of U.N.D.E.A.D. in that subterranean potion palace of his . . . (Cannon Fires) As for his somewhat estranged daughter, Paradigm, I see she is in Paris on a new perfume campaign this season. (Cannon Fires 9) If Paradigm is there, her girlfriend’s secret identity is almost certainly there too, given her family’s . . . shady . . . history there. (Cannon Fires) Speaking of girlfriends, my poker-pals Ratman or Atlas are possibles, but they mostly consult on their girlfriends new . . . start-ups these days. These girlfriends themselves would be better options, but I don’t play cards with them. (Cannon Fires) Doc White Horse, while I would value his medical opinion on this greatly, would probably weaponise U.N.D.E.A.D. even more effectively than Nation has, and spread it globally as a matter of course. (Cannon Fires) The Red Lady, on this matter, would be like curing a plague of flies by releasing a legion of cart-horse sized spiders. (Cannon Fires)

Thirteen cannons on a noonday big-gun salute?

Fine, fine, I’ll work with the pirate.

13:00; I’ll require transport though. Even if the dirigible was repaired, that fool pirate would shoot me out of the sky before I even got close. As a sign of his growing desperation, Nation releases his zombie tourists in the daytime now too. The streets are conventionally unpassable.

Time to call for pizza. Eldritch has a haunted telephone.

13:29; My pizza, in a half an hour or my money back, brought by the only two pizza delivery men in town who would consent – nay demand – to be put on the zombie shift. Driving the golf cart (that I improved) at sixty miles an hour, the mustachioed long haired blond works the wheel while the hat-wearing heretic sits shotgun, quite literally, and pumps the undead full of lead. Skidding in an askew semi-circle, they come to a halt beside the Spiritualist Vault. Something undead or undying is trapped under the wheel well and they give it close range hell with golf clubs wielded very well.

Young gentlemen about town, it is Cliff Kent and Peter Barker that knock on the door.

14:00; I pay the young men, congratulate them on their survival so far, and pay them for an additional trip to deliver whatever flattened feast is festering in the back of their cart to Pirate Pete’s, and me along with it.

Making a gift of the first, stale, Italian, throwing discus of a pizza to Bill Eldritch, I tell him I will telephone his rickety rotary dial later. That reminds me, a fourth poker pal of Ratman and Atlas . . . the Mathster . . . good with numbers . . . strange geometries . . . did I give him Eldritch’s number? Possibly. Those consultants have very good brandy. Never mind now.

I make the necessary golf pun and get in the cart.

15:00; Cliff of the hay-hair and Barker the behatted are, among many other things, the Sandmen of the local hotel. This has three distinct meanings:

1. Literal Sandmen:

They salvage and sieve sand from the local beaches to use in the sand traps of the hotel golf course.

This is how I myself met them, modifying their cart for high speed off road travel (golf cart maintenance being a must for underground lairs) on the promise that they would use it for good when the mechanical crabs of Captain Kelp tried to overrun the docklands and seaside dyke walls, and use it for bad when the avian air relief troops of the Helium Princess patronising proposed to spread her hugs and smiles to the landbound.

2. Metaphorical Sandmen:

They supply the guests with all the over-the-counter sleep pills & powders, under-the-table medicinal gin and poetic readings they require to get to sleep. Then, if that fails, beat up whoever is making all that noise outside the hotel.

3. Nerd Reference Sandmen:

Occassionally someone will try to exit the hotel without paying their bill, often under the pretence of taking their no-doubt illegitimate children to the adjacent carousel, or some such thing. When discovered, this will result in a shout of “We have a runner!”, at which Kent and Barker leap into action. As they inevitiably know their way around better than the tourists, have a super-powered golf cart and get a special bounty within town limits, they have yet to lose one single target.

As of yet, they have not become Geek Reference Sandmen by doing something associable with Neil Gaiman’s Dream character, but it is only a matter of time.

16:00; On the backswing I nail a Japanese tourist right in the camera.

17:00; Arriving at the pirate’s, I congratulate the young gentlemen on their services, particularly on the two-wheel stint through the haberdashery. Going by anything but a straight route, it took us the better part of three hours to get here. As night closes in, the streets only fill further with lairy Lazari and if we occassionally stopped to take pot shots,then it was only to stave off shellshock. Unfortunately my house is sieged sufficiently to keep me from my . . . toys that are better suited to this task.

I ring the doorbell, then neatly sidestep the cutlass rudely birthed from the letter box. ‘Scurvy nave’ indeed.

18:00; Pequod consents to sheltering myself for the night, partly out of some conceited pirate arrogance, partly because I know where his Horatio Nelson hat is, and partly because he will of course try to murder myself in my bed tonight. He will not drug the wine of course – a ninja would, which is as much a good reason for him not to do it as anything else. Pete Pequod has a complex complex about ninjas, even moreso than most pirates, and this assures his behaviour.

Tonight my prayers shall thank the Devil I’m bad.

19:00; Over a sumptuous dinner I relate the matters of Nation and necromancy to my heathen host. The decadence of the dinner table is no doubt an invite for me to overfeed in greed. To keep Pete happy, I swallow the cockatrice whole. I stay away from the pig, which was apparently fed on piglets, which were fed dogs, which were fed puppies, which were fed cats, which were fed kittens, which were fed rats, which were fed mice, which were fed lice which were fed a fine pink powder ground from the remains of Fox executives, but that is all I stay away from.

Mostly its seafood, and for man who affably projectile vomits gunpowder and stoats I’m surprisingly wary of shellfish. I mean I once stabbed a man called John Lobster for standing too close to me.

Its a seaside town thing.

20:00; Over brandy, cigars and using the servants as footrests I sketch out a plan to defeat Dr. Nation. It involves escapades, masquerades, mistaken identity and daring-do. I know my audience, so there is a great deal of extraneous swining from ropes, climbing rigging and shooting cannons. This plan has phases, double-crosses and no less than three gypsy switches, and I’m not telling you any of it.

I’m bad yes, but I’m no villain. Or as I think of them, vaude-villains.

21:00; Pete says he will have to sleep on it. I retire to bed, with an exaggeration of staggering.

22:00; Definite nautical theme going on here. Ship’s wheel, Titanic poster, creepy captain-clown doll and a water bed with goldfish inside. Most disturbing is the television studio broadcasting equipment with wireless web broadcast. Apparently Pirate Pete Pequod’s Plunderwear models r-rated live love show does well in Japan. The man is a master of the franchising, I’ll give him that and nothing else.

Ultimately I take the loveseat shaped like the clam from the ‘Birth of Venus’ and leave the water bed with ruffled covers.

23:00; Music blares from below, on picaresque pirate vocals; tonight on Pete-Pod, its ‘The Mariner’s Revenge’ by the Decemberists.

“We are two mariners
Our ships’ sole survivors
In this belly of a whale
Its ribs are ceiling beams
Its guts are carpeting
I guess we have some time to kill

You may not remember me
I was a child of three
And you, a lad of eighteen
But I remember you
And I will relate to you
How our histories interweave

At the time you were a rake and a roustabout
Spending all your money on the whores and hounds, oh oh

You had a charming air
All cheap and debonair
My widowed mother found so sweet
And so she took you in
Her sheets still warm with him
Now filled with filth and foul disease

As time wore on you proved a debt-ridden drunken mess
Leaving my mother a poor consumptive wretch, oh oh

And then you disappeared
Your gambling arrears
The only thing you left behind
And then the magistrate
Reclaimed our small estate
And my poor mother lost her mind

Then one day in spring, my dear sweet mother died
But, before she did I took her hand as she, dying, cried, oh oh

“Find him, bind him
Tie him to a pole and break
His fingers to splinters
Drag him to a hole until he
Wakes up naked
Clawing at the ceiling of his grave”

It took me fifteen years
To swallow all my tears
Among the urchins in the street
Until a priory
Took pity and hired me
To keep their vestry nice and neat

But, never once in the employ of these holy men
Did I ever once turn my mind from the thought of revenge, oh oh

One night I overheard
The prior exchanging words
With a penitent whaler from the sea
The captain of his ship
Who matched you toe to tip
Was known for a wanton cruelty

The following day, I shipped to sea with a privateer
And in the whistle of the wind I could almost hear, oh oh

“Find him, bind him
Tie him to a pole and break
His fingers to splinters
Drag him to a hole until he
Wakes up naked
Clawing at the ceiling of his grave”

There is one thing I must say to you
As you sail across the sea
Always, your mother will watch over you
As you avenge this wicked deed”

And then, that fateful night
We had you in our sight
After twenty months at sea
Your starboard flank abeam
I was getting my muskets cleaned
When came this rumbling from beneath

The ocean shook, the sky went black, and the captain quailed
And before us grew the angry jaws of a giant whale

(whale attack)

Don’t know how I survived
The crew all was chewed alive
I must have slipped between his teeth
But, oh, what providence
What divine intelligence
That you should survive as well as me

It gives my heart great joy to see your eyes fill with fear
So lean in close
And I will whisper
The last words you’ll hear, oh oh.”

Nothing to worry about.

00:00; In Japan, its 8am. I’ve reactivated the web feed as Pete Pequod bursts through the door and drunkenly stabs the bed. I briefly consider stabbing the released water with a raw electrical wire, frying the fellow while I stand high and insulated in the clam, but I need him. Also, he has twenty men in this house ready to kill me while he ‘dealt with me alone’, and the law of averages is against them all being as stupid as he is. I remind him he is on an international internet feed, privy to the eyes of the world – even if many of those countries are former colonies and can judge no true Britain.

He says he doesn’t care. He is fabulously, terribly, incontinently wealthy. His lawyers haven’t had a proper challenge since he starting shooting cannons into midday traffic.

Also, he is wearing traditional pirate rubber boots.

Damn and blast.

Time for Plan B.

I ask him to state his real, full name clearly, and his intent to kill me in cold blood. He does so.

I whisper a prayer to the Father of Lies & the Lord of the Flies, and toss the electrics in a scream of sparks.


Why, yes I did hack my Twitter account to give me more than the mere 140 characters. A meagre measure! Madmen meander, monologue and vent malevolently. Viva evil! – Lord Daftwager

What Would Ash Do?

What Would Ash Do?

I’m very aware the posts ran overmuch in this one. Overwriting is a real bad habit of mine, and I am playing with this style to avoid that trait. Actually, I had a lot more time than usual for this, so that was a contributing factor, but thats no real excuse. Mostly, I had a thousand I ideas I wanted to foreshadow, tie in an old webcomic universe and tie up a few plot points and thus the extra time to think made my hands the devil’s playthings. Will return to normal next soon.

Within the story? Maybe the Elder God put a verbosity curse on Daftwager. I once had to rhyme, all the time, until I was given hope, when my curse was lifted by lunging wildly at the Pope – Flannelcrat.

Rage Makes the Colours Fade Away

Rage Makes the Colours Fade Away

Day 5: Daftwager Twitter

April 5, 2009

Day 5:

07:00; Autopsy complete. Dr Nation has his grunts on a short leash. Kept for a few hours from returning to La Pantalon Rouge, my charge continued to fall apart. While. Still. Alive. These ‘soldiers’ of his on are on high-contrast version of his formula; furious strength, speed, stamina, ’28 Days Later’ Badasses while topped up, decomposing Romeros when they aren’t. Maybe these men were already rotting when Nation found them. Maybe this is the long-term effects of the drug itself, or its early prototypes.


Or maybe Nation just likes to be daddy.

08:00; Head disconnected early. Upon questioning, it is revealing much concerning Nation’s operation. Surprisingly cogent for something with maggots in the brain. Its hatred for Nation seems to be fuelling it.

Ah, a kindred spirit in arms.

Still a gruelling interrobanging though; have had to disconnect the bellows from the furnace and insert and work them in the zombie’s neck so it can talk.

09:00; It seems its one of the original Nation zombie mob. Quite a quiet mad, Nation. They didn’t see anything coming until the combination strychnine/U.N.D.E.A.D. in the stew.

10:00; Majority of the zombie mob are grunts, like this guy; need to eat flesh to stop falling apart & spread infection. A few generals in Nation’s elite inner circle are functionally human.

The good doctor may be socialist in name, but not necessarily in nature.

The docks are blockaded with seized ships, the roads crammed with zombie traffic. Blow town with the balloon? A definite option.

11:00; Well, time to burn this fool. Open furnace & raid the net – hand, foot, torso, forearm, upperarm, pelvis, thigh, foot, upperarm, forearm, thigh, shin, neck, shin . . . that it?

12:00; No, that is not it. Hand rambles about, pure evil. With a knife, it is pivoting quite effectively on its wrist. A leap for my throat, as the noonday cannons roar.

13:00; It crawled spider-like up the rigging to the burner beneath the balloon. Mute, its ultimatum is still clear; I follow it and it destroys the burner, crippling the balloon. A stalemate? Only in that hand belonged to a first mate who is now stale.

14:00; Tore the bellows from the dead man’s neck, shoving the dead head into the furnace, and the bellows into the air valve. Stoked it up over incoherent, airless screams. Mild blood explosion.

Mild disappointment – I wasn’t able to tell whether the burning of the head disabled the hand or whether it continued, blind but independant; the burner flare fried the hand to a crisp. Oh well, these are the pitfalls of science.

15:00; Dinnertime!

16:00; That was a lovely albatross.

17:00; Whoa. More damage than anticipated with the airtop struggle. Not crippled, but a requisite repair requires a bring down.

What bad, completely unanticipated or precipitated, luck.

18:00; Night time landing. Patrols are out again. Still quite small.

19:00; I moored the balloon to the tower of the abandoned Spiritualist Church. Abandoned by the Spiritualists only, of course. The things that go bump in the night get bumped right back by bigger things. With extra dimensions.

I’m there a whole ten minutes when Bill Eldritch tries to bean me with a Buddy Christ statuette.

20:00; Eldritch, Bill. Less magical than the dear departed Top Hat, more magical than the ‘merely mortal’ Hell Boyle. If there was anybody I can trust the zombies to stay the nine hells away from, its him. Lord Azathoth knows he has raised enough of them himself.

21:00; Eldritch asks me if I’m using my balloon to help the town, given that I haven’t used it to skip town.

. . . Uh, yeah, thats why . . .

I respond in the affirmative and, on an unrelated note, ask if I can make my dirigible thermal-worthy again here. To, uh, help.

22:00; Eldritch is fine with it, but asks me to keep it down up to and at midnight, so he can work on reversing the situation.


Oh my, Eldritch says he thinks he caused this.

23:00; I help him prepare his rituals so he can explain. He was trying to resurrect a few choice corpses from the graveyard out the back this place. A very straight revenge plot;

1: Kill the guys who cancelled ‘Pushing Daisies’ by resurrecting the guys who cancelled ‘Dead Like Me’, who were killed by the resurrected guys who cancelled ‘Firefly’, who were killed by a train.

2: Kill Michael Bay and Uwe Boll with the zombies of Hitchcock and Kubrick.

3: Resurrecting Douglas Adams to write the final Hitch-hiker’s book – then kill Eoin Colfer for the audacity.

Can’t fault his aims. I pass him the requisite eyeballs & Cthulu Plushie and I tell him so.

00:00; Could Eldritch be responsible? The zombies have kept away from his elohim wards and heretic calligraphies.

More importantly – how can I use this to further my own ends in a town alive with burning cells.

Ah, here comes Nyarlahotep to our dread tea party. Toodles!