Nation Twitter: Day 09: So this is Daftwager’s famed dirigible? Very well. How deliciously ironic, that that aristocratic capitalist ass should be so abandoned by his precious, purloined possession. Wait, what is that harpoon-
Day 10: Curses! That fool Daftwager scuppered my scheme at the last instant! No doubt a ‘hero’ such as he will survive the predicament-peril I have placed him in. I have my own troubles to tend, presently.
Day 11: Furnace destroyed. Daftwager, tradesman engineer, could resurrect it no doubt – but my hands were made to resurrect more intelligently designed machines! Still, I evade the Navy patrols for now.
Day 12: Finally pry the furnace from the floor and dump it overboard. Emptied it beforehand and found a deckhand’s skeletal remains and an intact slice of his brains. Sailor’s muscle memory is very strong.
Day 13: No engineer I, but I have hoisted the deflated dirigible gasbag to form a sail. I paid attention in my time in the Navy. My rigging is a tad sub-par perhaps, but I assure you my stitching is immaculate.
Day 14: Daftwager must have forced the Navy well out of Whitby waters for me to get so clear of this place undetected. I hug the coast, then break for deep ocean waters. I do not hunger for humanity – yet.
Day 15: I reconvert the motor boat engine used to power the dirigible propellers to their original purpose. That and the winds should take me south. I’ll stay in the water – the land is a cruel & terrible master.
Day 16: Damn Daftwager for taking the collapsible telescope with him on his harpoon adventure. There appears to be an oncoming raft, but I can’t see who. It can only be fiends, I have no friends – or do I?
Day 17: Why, if it isn’t my minion Lt. MaGreg, missing an arm and a leg. The cost of escape from Whitby. The cost to the rest of the crew was obedience – they are face-down and lashed together as a raft …
Day 18: They couldn’t board any of the town ships due to the wards, and all of the Navy ships stayed clear. They were ‘looking’ for me – lie. I would never have gotten here if I had not eaten that seaman …
Day 19: I reattach Lt. MaGreg an arm and a leg from a pile of ‘spares’ they were carrying as dinner scraps. The otherwise largely legless crew are seated in the lifeboat, rudimentary rows making double-time.
Day 20: Crew concentrate on escape, I on life! Use flask of U.N.D.E.A.D. on my person to further not only my experiments in resurrection and spontaneous regeneration. I (we?) WILL be INVINCIBLE!
Day 21: Lifeboat first aid kit aids my efforts. Little resources on sea, but I was working on regeneration, even before my … encounter with mutant stoats. Eternal life and eternal youth shall be mine (ours?) !
Day 22: Quatloo breeds demon vermin and calls himself a doctor. I possess the doctorly detachment required to detach my own hand and the surgical skill to reattach it myself with a hand-mirror! Cold logic!
Day 23: I possess the commitment to my cause to sacrifice soldiers, sailors and neighbours to bring immortality to the whole world. All I ask of the world is to take the socialist step of all for one – me (us?) !
Day 24: Previous plan ok. Would have taken the throne at the head of a zombie military. My excesses would have been the ultimate satire upon the flaws of monarchy, my mercies a socialist’s dream. Victory!
Day 25: But no victory. Teamwork, on the other, severed, hand is going swimmingly. Daftwager – festering toad – knew when to delegate, even if it was to a bunch of whores. One day I – we – shall succeed.
Day 25: Yes, this is true socialist thought. Oh, I’ll still be putting the ME in team, of course. One day, I will take of the wine that is blood & bread that is flesh, and rule. Messianic? Ultimate satire of religion.
Day 26: And my work does far, far more than satirise religion at large and the ‘hereditary’ nature of monarchy. I intend to provide facilitation for regeneration by that which disturbed Darwin – the wasp virus.
09;00: The parasitic wasp, Botago Bay Brazil. It lays its eggs in some unsuspecting caterpillar larva, and an infection too.
09:20; The ‘infection’ is nothing less than a polydnavirus – it produces proteins which circumvent the caterpillar’s immune system.
09:40; The wasp larva eat the caterpillar larva, become adults and inherit their own polydnaviruses. It is a provirus, a virus written into the wasp’s own DNA and – it has INTRONS! Introns, in a VIRUS! ….
10:00; You don’t know what introns are, you bile worm. No, lower than a bile worm. A bile worm has introns – it is complex eukaryotic organism. And it is probably more grateful for them than you are.
11:00; This is why, while there is ‘room at the top’, I will be occupying all of it, come the revolution. You probably still think RNA is the singular messenger cement in the building of the DNA blocks of life.
12:00; It all very well to read the ‘The Selfish Gene’ in the college coffee shop – but it is thirty years old. It is taught in the capitalist conversion machine these days – school – and it is … inaccurate in points.
13:00; Your biology, your self. I’m not capitalist enough to teach old dogs new tricks. Oh don’t worry, it won’t have any effect on your post-revolution status – unless you didn’t want to be a worker grunt?
14:00; Don’t sob so. Here it is in short; when your DNA codes protein and sets enzymes, it does so via exons (an article in a newspaper you cut out) AND via introns (the all the other bits of the newspaper).
15:00; Yes, I know, you think it is ‘one gene equals one protein’. There are 34,000 genes and 100,000 proteins. You think there is junk, selfish, DNA – some of it is working overtime. Apologise to it. Now.
16:00; So these introns may reorder the mass DNA information. This is why some propose we share 96% of the same DNA of chimps. Though, with your intelligence, there is a much more obvious reason.
17:00; Intronic data – that is herder of the mass genepool’s guppies into one form or another. And there are a couple of things I can do with a very sharp intron stick and some extremely long words. Science!
18:00; Well what is with the parasitic wasps then – it isn’t as if humans have virus built into their very DNA to ‘turn-off’ the body’s immuno-rejection impulses in certain instances. Or do we? The answer is yes!
19:00; Endogenous RetroVirus 3 is in its entirety in the human DNA sequence. Allows a foreign body to grow in the host’s body without attack. Ancient antidote? Perhaps. Current home – the babymaker!
20:00; Baby, being half mummy and half daddy thus survives in mummy’s tummy. ERV-3 is separated safely from the rest of the system by intronic data, manipulation of which could lead to no rejection again.
21:00; And this only the start! By manipulation of DNA I can turn on the regeneration data inherited from our reptile ancestry, turned off for interlocking teeth over regrowing mismatched sets. Rooster teeth!
22:00; I shall create a race of immortal immaculates in the image of gods! Fire shall not break, nor ice halt, my wonderful true-mind gestalt!! I shall be Nation, father of nations in my holy army of humanity!!!
23:00; Of course, once I do that, there will be no more need for children – bothersome really – so I’ll just shut off the intronic babymaker virus ‘Children of Men’ style. Get some peace and quiet around here.
00:00: Apparently, during the course of my atheistical rant, the boat was swallowed whole by a whale. I had wondered why the stars had gone out. My my, I can’t imagine why that happened. Ah, entropy.
Day 27: First day in whale. To keep professional spirits up, have begun to harvest blubber from the still-living whale. To keep morale spirits up, have begun to host nightly shadow-puppets. Headless rabbit!
Day 28: Whale tongue goulash. Whale bone boat struts. Oil. Essentially, we are cannibalising the still-living whale for parts. We’re not taken being eaten lying down, you know. Except when we are sleepy.
Day 29: Intron experimentation continues. Emulating wasp polydnaviruses, I inject MaGreg’s anonymously donated & hastily resown arm & leg with MaGreg’s dna. Arm skin tone and hair colour homogenise.
06:00; Conversion complete – the donor and leg’s dna entirely overwritten by Lt. MaGreg’s. The prospect of restored legs enliven’s the lower-limb lacking lackeys. Why bother? Full regeneration comes next.
09:00; Getting the hang of using ‘we’ rather than ‘me’, which is rather ironic as it is a case of the me versus the we. Zombie soldiers, spare legs in hand, wish to be restored to their former height or they’ll …
12:00; … what, bite me? They should feel like my lab animals – I did kill them all and revivify them with super-serum! I don’t have time to waste wading through limb reattachments. I’ll regenerate them soon …
15:00; … okay, apparently they are quite sick of hearing about my regenerative supplementative. I don’t have any reptiles to mitochrondrially compare where the mammal non-regeneration intron station is.
18:00; The beast swims faster and faster south in an attempt to lose us, its terminal indigestion, swallowing starfish and stars with each great gulp. Hope too. ‘We’ve’ made a whalebone cage, too. All for me. 21:00; A starfish slumped by my feet regrows a limb lost in its loss of liberty, like me. Then it all clicks into place. We were all waterbabies once, after all. I splice the center, then mix with UNDEAD introns.
Day 30: Agree to operate on request. Ask for light to work by, then toss the fat-torch into the bundle of blubber bombs in the corner. Conclusion to failed ‘teamwork’ experiment with termination of contracts.
Day 31: Daftwager very correct; here I am a head unable to breathe, unable to die. I am quite a quiet dead – until the regenerative imperative kicks in and everything below the neck begins to reappear. Cold.
Day 32: Finally float ashore a desert island. My we made that whale run. Half way around the world, by the looks of the biology. Not quite deserted – there is a footprint by my eye. More worried about crab.
Day 33: Rescued from crab by native nomads. Irony – in an attempt to become a god beyond false God, have been reduced to a talking head, worshipped as a god by those who believe in literal communion.
Day 34: Ask how they understand me, and if they eat all their wandering gods. One answer – a skeletal colonist and his collection of instant messenger pigeons, not a one of which sent. Name tag: Montaigne.
Day 35: I play into the local belief that these are the birds of god, scribble a brief note with a pen between my teeth (in exactly my own handwriting) and send it to Daftwager in Paris. He is all that is left now.
Day 36: I’m not afraid of dying, I’m afraid they won’t kill me. I barely regenerate a doll-sized bodypart before it is cut and eaten. Von Quatloo is … competent enough to devise a manner of death if unresisted.
Day 37: Daftwager is the only who hates me enough as an individual to chase me half way around the world. Everyone else just hates me as a concept. Nobody but a bad man finishes off the vaudevilain.
Day 38: The problem with being an atheist god, my blood drunk and my flesh eaten, is that I have nobody to pray to. Well, I’ll just have to hope the gods believe in me sufficiently to kill me. Soon. Now even.