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?
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.
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.
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.”