Alien Races: Thirteen Vignettes on Space Monsters

March 27, 2011

FIRST: SOME EXPLANATION:

I spotted a callout for stories and reviews from my college literary society, so I quickly rattled this off, and edited-down the Scott Pilgrim review, for the deadline. I didn’t have time to edit … which meant I wasn’t constantly going back, and actually got it finished. Writing in the unpublishable format of tweets seems to have successfully broken me of my constant need to hone before finishing, and I might be able to just proceed to prose format again. After that, I might even be able to trust myself to edit again.

ALSO:

I wrote this, sent it off … then came across an article on the hypothetical Higgs Singlet; ”The Higgs singlet may be able to jump through space and time, travel through a hidden dimension, and then re-enter our dimension forward or backward in time.”

In the highly-unlikely event that I was inspired to write this story by messages sent back in time, much as the story itself proposes all myths were sent back in time, I just have one request for being the mouthpiece for ‘The Future’: Lotto numbers, guys, lotto numbers.

NOW: READ ON:

Alien Races: Thirteen Vignettes on Space Monsters

Space Men, 001 YZ:

At the start of the latter-half of the Earth’s lifetime, we measured time differently. Instead of A.D. it was Y.Z.: Year Zero. Year Zero, as counted from the first year when, by way of bioinformatic clones and dedicated memory implants, nobody died. A post scarcity society, racking a solid ‘level 3’ on the Kardashev-Dyson scale of civilisations. The only remaining scarcity resource was land. Or, rather, space. Humans had filled up all the space on land, on water and underwater too, in air and in orbit. Naturally, the quest for space drove them into … space.

***

Ape Men, 298 YZ:

Humanity returned to caves, this time on the moon. Working in a gravity one-sixth of the Earth’s, the ‘Space Monkeys’, resided in geodesic-domed gardens and hemispherical moonbases. Light was sparse, and reserved for the plants. Space was at premium here, too, and all their work places were in three dimensions, with banks of computer terminals lining ‘ceilings’ as well as ‘floors’.

The changes they made to themselves were not even outside human baseline DNA.

They were prodigiously physically strong and blindingly quick, made for racing along the handholds on the walls of their weightless workstations, or swinging from the trees in their labour-intensive life-gardens. Their eyes were large, pupils as big as saucers in the darkness. They even grew a lanugo-like fur. Obviously, they could never go home like that.

Particularly after the final elective surgery; to give their feet opposable thumbs.

Vampires, 8, 436 YZ:

As it turned out, generation ships were just not reliable and cryogenics needed humanity to meet it half way. Even ships travelling at appreciable fractions of the speed of light would have millennia-long voyages. The travellers needed to drop into suspended animation for aeons. Even when they awoke, to pull century-long maintenance shifts, their food sources would have to be compact.

It would also help if they had no great love of light – the vastness of space would give them little.

They grew them on the dark side of the moon. Placed in steel caskets, the ‘Suckers’ would sleep for an eternity until they reached their destinations. Their blood diet was practical – it was the most compact foodstuff imaginable and their specialised biologies drew sufficient sustenance from a pint to survive a century. They didn’t need food, or water, or air, or light, or heat, or even company.

The controls on their craft were irrevocably locked on course, of course – couldn’t risk them turning around.

Werewolves, 14, 778 YZ:

Out by Proxima Centauri, there is a planet with fourteen moons and a faraway sun that shines weakly. Nights with one or more full moons on any section of the planet draw out a vicious perennial pack predator. A colony being, it reacts as one to moon light exactly, waking it for the hunt, some vestigial instinct leftover from hunting some night time herbivore, long extinct.

Naturally, the human colonists of this planet chose to change themselves to fit it than vice versa – it was quicker.

The tricky part was the timing. Humans could have become bigger animals for this world – it was beyond neither their science, aesthetics nor morals. But life, and resources on this planet were subsistence, at best – hence the colony-creature’s restraint. They looked for something that could shift between a low-energy human shape in safe times and a high-energy warrior shape by the light of the moon.

Of course, they looked to man’s best friend.

Mermaids: 675, 155 YZ:

Marooned on a water-covered planet, the cannibals had to adapt. Their lifeboat-planetship was the only floating apparatus across the entire world. It was a deep-bottomed ocean, filled to the brim with predators.

Adapting gill-bearing humans with webbed feet wasn’t that hard – it’s a stage in the womb after all. The true innovations were the increased aural and vocal capacities, putting their obsolete throats and lungs to good use. Most remarkable was their ability to manipulate the giant predators of the world sea with their songs.

When the cannibals grew hungry for human flesh again, the ‘Sirens’ sung into their lifeboat’s communicators, across the interstellar ether, and watched the rescue ships make planet fall.

Demons: 3, 568, 798 YZ:

Why limit yourself to planets? After so many colonists eschewed light, they swung in the other direction. After all, light and heat were essential to life. Creating something that relied on these alone, that could subsist on this alone was just cutting out the evolutionary middleman.

Creatures for the photosphere posed their own problems, but not insoluble ones. The horns and scales are simply hangovers from early heat experiments, and they only tempt the way stars have always tempted humanity.

Mummies: 54, 943, 280 YZ:

Crossing intergalactic distances takes a real toll on any body. The magneto-gravitic and electro-nuclear engines have no inertial dampeners, no radiation shields. That one is dead on arrival when travelling in one of these things is certain. Best to arrange to be dead on departure, too.

They sleep longer than the rise and fall of civilisations, their organs in preservative pyramidal canopic jars, waiting to waken.

Titans: 905, 777, 248 YZ:

Free from gravity, giants can finally be realised. ‘Starchildren’ are grown in orbit, the length of Noah’s ark. They have liquid nitrogen for blood, anaerobic metabolisms and slow, deliberate consciousness that can think in terms of hundreds of thousands of years. They are the only humans to appear on a Hertzsprung-Russell diagram. They are launched into deepest space, willing themselves across the void with synapses the size of city streets, and cannot be felled by a meteor to the forehead.

Fairies: 2, 308, 578, 097 YZ:

Smaller people fit in smaller spaces; carry this axiom to its ultimate conclusion, and you create microscopic men. Humans as tall as a pencil, as small a drop of water, people who can fit under a microscope – even an electron microscope. The biological impossibility of this is immediately obvious – the physical ones less so. On the Yocto subatomic scale (0.000000000000000000001. of cubic measurement) one can’t breathe oxygen atoms the size of one’s head or visually process photons the size of a country. It was also unclear what was hunting them down there, until they found the tigers prowling between the quarks.

Zombies: 78, 265, 787, 901 YZ:

Going from end to end of the universe tests the resources of even a type 3 civilisation. The ‘Talking Dead’ – by majority just species-wide memory scans housed in planet-sized memory banks – consume three hundred planets just to build a ring around a sun. The ring’s diameter is exactly that or Earth’s orbit around its sun. They build a second, a third, a fourth ring, interlacing. These alone are larger than anything ever yet attempted and they are but the scaffolding for a greater work – a Dyson sphere.

Mad Scientists: 854, 786, 630, 904 YZ:

They create entire species by accident now, even in the least of their endeavours. Afterwards, they feel a proprietary guilt towards the offspring, like an unplanned pregnancy. The fledgling natives are easy to unintentionally destroy as they are to unintentionally create. Sometimes the worst thing a creator can do is show his creations that he can bleed.

Gods: 5, 789, 203, 978, 467 YZ:

They never found any true aliens, anywhere, after all that searching. There were a few almosts – one set of posthumans mistaking another as having an entirely otherworldly origin. Who can blame them? Near-baseline humans travelling at relativistic speeds in slow-ships would awake, encounter ‘Dog Soldiers’, ‘Sirens’ and ‘Talking Dead’, and wonder at the otherness of the alien. But no. And so they threw up grand conceits with their monster-technologies – impossibly ringing a black hole’s accretion disc with the last seven shining suns in the entire universe, shifting planets so the music of their spheres sounds in perfect harmony and tampering with universal constants of the universe for the doing of it. They dedicated memorial-museum planets to the minutiae of their history and declared themselves the wanton emperors of the galaxy and the mercurial queens of deep space. And no one gave a damn.

Devils: 89, 064, 312, 765, 294 YZ:

The first of the self-hating self-deletions had occurred. The grotesques and the holocausts and the masquerade-frivolities of the Gods have faded away. Now solemn, humanity is truly up against the constraints of a deteriorating universe. The stars having long, long gone out, entropy is their single and undeniable enemy. Heat-death is all that awaits them. With their monster-technology, they might, possibly win.

But should they? Should they succeed, will they become corrupt, proud and decadent, as they did before? The technology required to reshape the universe at the base of reality would be dangerous to even conceive of. They might well simply carve the very universe, excepting no molecule, omitting no atom, into a beautiful, horrific statue of themselves and their lonely glory.

The last great technical revelation is what decides them. The branes of reality were once thought to be layers of other universes, one on top of the other. They sought to escape to other universes, only to find the branes bent at the edges, folded over on themselves, leading only to the past. The ‘Devils’ can watch, even communicate with all periods of human history – even the pre-YZ days.

They appear to old humans and (in the geographical language and cultural idiom of the time) and ask: Would one risk losing one’s few remaining self-defining aspects to the interminable furnace at the end of time to achieve one’s desires? Translating into ‘sell one’s soul’, ‘damned to hell’ and ‘Faustian deal’, the Devils noted down the responses of all humanity and acted accordingly.

Ghosts: 100, 000, 000, 000, 000 YZ

They fought, they lost. It was a near miss in the end, but entropy eventually rolled over their well-laid plans and complex forms. The water in among the clockwork, the rust crouched within the engine, the shortening telomeres in the cells. They had run the race, the human race, for a long time – many amongst their number being original Year Zero populace, in one form or another. They might have been tempted to walk away from it all then – if it weren’t for how alive, passionate and unconsciously fragile the prisoners of the past were. Twenty trillion generations strong, humanity chose to give their forebears one last chance to escape their fate.

Beings of light, and gravity, and energy and celestial firmament, now. They turn, travelling back in time. They’ve peered down their temporal telescopes and whispered into their interstitial radios long enough. They twist the branespace, transmitting their incoherent forms and memory totalities to the very beginning of the universe. This time they will have enough time. They will kick start ancient humanity’s growth and imagination, leaving it enough time to escape the dying universe – perhaps even create a few alien races for humans to meet. The images of them all shall provoke the thoughts of strange shores and great possibilities into the infant intellect of young humanity. Even if the next does not succeed, or the one after that, each human race will be sharper each and every time, until they free themselves of the universe – and free their neighbours too.

Back to the start. They are words and images now, formatting themselves upon psyches across the ages, knowing themselves not to be gods but to be the inspiration of gods. They are revolutionaries; they turn and, in turning, re-turn to the start. They are creating the human race, these aliens.

Let there be light.

EDIT: And now I turn on my podcatcher and find Drabblecast 200 with ‘The Last Question’, the story to which the ‘let there be light’ line is a shout out to, and find it came out the day after I finished the story and the day before I posted it.

http://web.me.com/normsherman/Site/Podcast/Entries/2011/3/25_Drabblecast_200-_The_Last_Question_by_Isaac_Asimov.html

So, uh, future peoples … who dost thou want smoten?


A Matter of Method

October 20, 2010

So, I’m becoming aware that I’m becoming a synergy addict. I’ve got a t-shirt and everything.

Yes. It is terrible to so cavalierly use the word ‘addict’, to say I’m ‘becoming’ one when I think I’ve always had a predisposition to this type of thought … or to use the word ‘synergy’. But bear with me.

I like combining things.

I like reading about the combination of unlikely elements – the reason for, the methods used and the fallout of such combinations. From my ‘fun’ reading, I like Terry Pratchett, Robert Rankin, Neil Gaiman, and so on, because they combine myth and mundane, high sci-fi and steampunk sensibilities. From my ‘work’ reading, I like reading about exploration and colony, religious spread and interaction of faiths, and so on, for the combination of cultures and contrast of cultural norms – and because it combines Literature and History!

In my writing, ‘work’ and ‘fun’, similar patterns emerge – respective mish-mashes of methodology, sources, ideas, and of genre, format and style. For instance, in my ‘work’, two of my largest ever projects were a comparison of the languages of contemporary Enlightenment and Evangelical writings, and a comparison of the Linnaean and Darwinian classificatory systems. I’ve written about French signification theory using the graphic novel V for Vendetta and gotten top marks, I’ve watched anime in between studying for exams because I’ve found themes in them I’d never find in Western Literature, and I pretty much always take the compare/contrast question. It is pretty much part of my process – ‘read everything I can on this/find things similar-but-distinct from things/find things portrayed as being the opposite of this but-which-may-not-be-so-opposite-afterall. It isn’t like I can’t work outside this idiom, but it is the one I prefer greatly.

As for my ‘fun’ writing … ‘hate it’ or ‘really hate it’, any reader may notice my fiction for the last long while has been tied up in Lord Daftwager.  Son of a German Mad Scientist/Evil British Lord, a Doctor/Engineer, hates supervillains/hates superheroes, old fuddy-duddy/ who apparently tweets, saves the world/to steal later. And the universe he lives in contains science and fantasy-based vampirism/lycantropy/zombiism. And … pretty much every character is a mish-mash of two concepts, such as ‘Pirate/Businessman’, ‘Ninja/Chef’, ‘Opera Singer/Physicist’, ‘Fashion Designer/Biologist’. Even notes for other stories include such character names as ‘Professor Adventure’, ‘Doctor Detective’, ‘Master of Disguise (who is into spying and amateur dramatics), ‘The Merry Prankster (who avenges though scathing wit and secretly writes an Agony Aunt column)’.

And I’ve always pretty much been like this. My heart has always been with the image of the cyborg-pirate riding the robo-dinosaur as he faces down the zombie-ninja astride her winged-unicorn. And it is in every aspect of my life to a certain degree – even to chopping up my food right small and mixing it altogether. I like interesting covers to songs almost as I do the originals themselves (search for ‘Max Raabe’ on youtube to hear britney songs sung like they would be in a cabaret club in the 1930s). I try to avoid works and concepts that are just combination for the sake of combination – in terms of ‘fun’, some of the later ‘Pride and Prejudice and Zombies’-style books or ‘Scary Movie’-style parodies have gotten like this, while, in terms of ‘work’, I work against ever comparing an abstract theory to a pop-culture idea just because I like the idea – I have to justify any such comparison ten times more than I do any literature we would, today, see as classical, and sometimes my work is the better for that.

So I’m not complaining. If I have to have a mental habit to be stuck with, I’d much prefer ‘compare everything on its own terms’ rather than the ‘alotting of things into dichotomies of good/bad’ that seems so prevalent today. I like reading my ‘Doctor McNinja’ and my ‘Agatha Heterodyne, Girl Genius’ and watching detective shows about writers-&-cops who solve mysteries and comedy-shows-about-making-comedy-shows. I like listening to pop songs played with classical instruments and love ballads about how Pluto isn’t a planet anymore.

My next big academic project? Might be: Accounts of Religious Visitation/Supernatural Apparitions, comparing languages of faith and skepticism. Next fictional exploit of note? Might be: Professor Adventure and Doctor Detective Investigations! Next Blog: Scott Pilgrim Vol 1, for realz this time! But I might very well try Self-Reflection thing again. Maybe. And that is 750 words.

(Homework: Look for Billy Idol’s ‘Dancing with Myself’ on youtube. If you like it: look up ‘The Donna’s’ cover of same. Then the ‘Glee’ cover of same.)


Daftwager Twitter: Day 58 – Bank Robbers & Chipmonks

May 16, 2010

Day 58:

 

02:00; They gave me their Two Cents (2 rings, each bearing an American cent in the setting), a Helium 3 Credit Card (a master of all other credit cards & visa to great spending), & my name in The Ledger …

02:10; … which should keep me off various watchlists, for buying … interesting items. As adverse as I am to the Internet, E-Bay provides far superior yellow cake uranium than the Russian mail order varieties.

02:20; A provisionary membership, all the same. They will turn their surveillance upon me. In many ways the induction was an overture to inspection, making sure I patiently allow them to observe & research.

02:30; Should they discover the manner of my new abilities, & the means to replicate them for resale, I will be briefly snuffed out. Most of the movers & shakers were shielded, but not all present, thankfully …

02:40; I wander into the back garden, in the company of inebriated fellows, behind the urban castle of Tally Ho’s. Intelli Gents, appealing as a stark-dark perfect cube is, it cannot compare to this white castle.

02:50; The lawn ornaments are quite lifelike – those that do & those that do not move alike – & we sit upon the bench whose other occupant is a man of stone, frozen, in the interesting position of mid-scream.

03:00; The Chipmonks of Doomtelling scurry as pack from their nearby warren. Filthy little vermin, looking for treats. One of my drunken band brought a plate of fried potatoes covered in sourcream. ‘Treat?’

03:10; Apparently a cutting of the World Tree grows somewhere, unknown, in the garden. Chipmonks nibble on the roots, giving them futures, to regurgitate at a will. Feed the rats spud slices, & hear dooms.

03:20; Mine tells me the future; of someone called Rogeline d’Ansible. Something, something, ‘world’s greatest dancer’, something, something, ‘dreadful misunderstanding, of the heart’, something, something …

03:30; … ‘dies alone & unloved. Penniless, in a Fugit City boardinghouse. Of ‘macrogangrene’, after a double leg amputation’. Well that is interesting. Macrogangrene eh? Nonsense word, as is Fugit City, but-

03:40; -who knows? Perhaps UNDEAD, with the principles of infection & rejection amplified a thousand fold! Still – it is good manners to write down the prediction, & I owe Rogeline for the boost of spirits.

03:50; ‘Dear Rogeline; IF YOU EVER DATE, YOU WILL END UP ALONE & LEGLESS IN A DOSSHOUSE. SUGGEST YOU START NAMING THOSE SPINSTER CHILDREN-CATS NOW.’

04:00; The chipmonks give past & future dooms quite randomly. All are collated in a little office just off the garden, where their ‘intendeds’ can pick up the prediction. ‘Intendeds’: patterns in chipmonk’s vomit.

04:10; I ask at the predictions office if anything has come in under Lord Daftwager, or Doctor Von Quatloo. Yes, predictions could come in under those names for others of my family – that is why I ask, yes?

04:20; Nothing for me. No future. & that is exactly how I like it. There was something under Dr Von Quatloo; Dr Divinia Von Quatloo cures macrogangrene to world applause. Cure! For free!! 1 of Alan’s!!!

04:30; Munching starch & salt, I activate the teleport.

04:40; Too much wine. I expectorated stomach contents over a barman. True, I could have just walked here, but that would have involved asking for the drawbridge down or flying over the moat … tiresome.

04:50; Also, the opportunity cost of not disappearing, before a crowd of stunned watchers. They wish to keep me close, the better to watch me? Fine. I shall put on a hell of a show, or be angelically invisible.

05:00; At the end of the week, I attend the monthly general holder’s meeting. I will be put to a general vote. That should give any real enemies of mine, who are in this Market wink-&-nod club, time to attend.

05:10; They may very well also have time to assess that I’ve never been of the House & that my entry info was perfect-purloined from the mind of a fool. I could go from holding stocks to being held in stocks.

05:20; My life could easily be over by the end of the week, so I’m in the mood to ruin a few others as I go. This therefore, was the worst moment for the Bank Robbers to enter The Cask of Amontillado Bar.

05:30; The Bank Robbers: dressed as a ‘wunch’ of bankers (bowler hats, suit-coats, pin-stripe pants & carnation in every button hole), carrying bags marked £ & $, these faux-financiers rob small businesses.

05:40; They intend to rob the bar – fine. Intend to rob the plebs – fine. Intend to rob me – not fine! They are crisp, fresh & gun-wielding. I currently am not. Mind-state projector: uses that fact against the BRs.

05:50; Unbalanced, dehydrated & uncoordinated: at least their brains think so. Then: I’m invisible, kicking them, in ways that make them sluggishly suspect their partners. I leave, as guns roar upon each other.

06:00; My bags brought from the Agnate Club await in the train station. Unfortunately: the train service will not be on in the forseeable future – an apparition of hell has appeared at Piccadilly’s principal station.

06:10; Not as bad as it sounds. It isn’t as interactive the shaft of Heaven. The ground simply becomes transparent, to the region of Hell below. No holy voice calling people towards; just their morbid curiosity.

06:20; This place is personally accurate, unlike the chipmonks. One sees the deceased of one’s acquaintance who merited Hell. As one can imagine I see a lot of dead people, from friends to family to victims.

06:30; People crowd around; not one takes a step. It is perfectly safe – afterall, it was always there, merely revealed in the shaft aftermath. As the only clear way to the station, I vault a barrier & stride across.

06:40; Not even warm. Various figures, far too decrepit to identify. Except for Lord Thaddeus Daftwager; forever set & kept alight, by spectres of those suffragettes he immolated. I have his nose, you know.

06:50; Get my luggage back from the stationmaster. Walk back the way I came, & don’t even notice when I step off the transparency. Why should I? I am always on a feather’s-breath/depth bridge over Hell.

07:00; Standing on a bridge over ice-cold waters now. Bag in hand, containing the brain of a dead man wired with the soul of an unborn machine. Certainly hell bound heresies, all of them. I step off –

08:00; *sleepy*


Twitter Fiction Day 57: Daftwager in the Den of the Dragon

April 3, 2010

Day 57:

 

07:00; ”LIGHTS UP: CAMERA PULLS OUT FROM; Deformed, sweaty, bald, yellow heads of the FEAR ADMIRALS, huddled over CAGE. Establishing dialogue; ‘Its name is Mother Slaughter: glory!’.”

07:10; “The 6 ADMIRALS – uniforms red, green, blue, orange, purple, gold; Napoleonic – murmur adulation, as the camera PANS DOWN to FLOOR LEVEL. The CAGE; dark, pincer clicking emanates.”

07:20; “Camera closes in slowly- SOMETHING cries from within the CAGE – teeth at the bars! FEAR ADMIRALS laugh, *CLINK* glasses. CUT TO: DAFTWAGER; classic pin-stripe tails, & top-hat.”

07:30; “SET: FEAR ADMIRAL’s BLOOD BARRACKS, EXT, DAY; DAFTWAGER is talking to GATE DRONE – SS uniform, full-face gas mask – of the BLOOD BARACKS in German – no subtitles.”

07:40; “DAFTWAGER & GATE DRONE become steadily agitated with each other. DAFTWAGER attempts to jump the GATE BARRIER – GATE DRONE pulls MATEBUR pistol from its side-holster.”

07:50; “DAFTWAGER instantly concilatory. Holding hands up, not straight; tilted slightly towards the GATE DRONE. DAFTWAGER holding out his ID in left hand; proffered. Dialogue has a pleading tone.

08:00; “GATE DRONE leans in to inspect ID. Camera closes in on DAFTWAGER’s left wrist slowly; he flicks his wrist, we see FLASH OF STEEL. GATE DRONE POV: SCALPEL birthed, from the ID.

08:10; “Camera BEHIND GATE DRONE; DAFTWAGER drops ID, slams palm into the butt of the SCALPEL, driving it deeper then twisting. GATE DRONE jerks; SCALPEL in GAS MASK eyepiece.”

08:20; “DAFTWAGER withdraws SCALPEL, SPURT OF BLOOD; dark green. DAFTWAGER slashes PIPE of GAS MASK mouth that leads to TANK on GATE DRONE’S back; light green SPURT.”

08:30; “GATE DRONE is screaming in German. DAFTWAGER is stabbing him in the face, GOUTS OF GREEN BLOOD. DAFTWAGER reaches for the GAS MASK, tears – reveals DRONE’s FACE.”

08:40; “FACE: Green, deformed, sweaty, bald. Right eye ruined, mouth – sphincter lined with teeth – frothing with whitish-green fluid. Cuts, all along the face. GATE DRONE is furious & in excrutiating pain.”

08:50; “DAFTWAGER & GATE DRONE struggle for the MATEBUR pistol, falls from their combined grasp. GATE DRONE dives for the MATEBUR pistol, DAFTWAGER leaps onto his TANK back.”

09:00; “GATE DRONE gets the MATEBUR pistol, struggles to get DAFTWAGER off his back. DAFTWAGER grasps a TANK PIPE, shoves it in RIGHT OCULAR CAVITY, turns the TANK’s valve -”

09:10; – then the Gate Drone’s head explodes! I wipe the gore off my lapels, steal his pistol, shoot the acid-spitting Ferally-Miscegnated Toad-Horrors. Their cries, like stuck babies, reveal the Rhyme of the –

09:20; – Dark Officers, the warped brother-sister bred command-class of the Black Royalty. Rhyme allowing me to pass their incestuous ranks unmolested, I ascend the stairs called The Descent of Mankind.

09:30; Atop of this turret are architects of terror for the Black Royalty – the Fear Admirals – & their new weapon, semi-spider/half-human hybrid – ever-heavily ‘asexually pregnant’ – called ‘Mother Slaughter’.

09:40; At this point I assume I shoot one of the Fear Admirals, only for him to catch it in the palm of his hand, little bruised, & reach out, to strangle me. Presumably the others will hum: ‘Terrific Death March’.

09:50; Working on a sub-audible level, their hum hymn conjures up all my ‘fears & horrors’ – montaged for pathos. Paralysed, I allow the first Fear Admiral to settle his hands around my throat, to throttle me.

10:00; Then, last gasp freeing me momentarily from my fears, I shoot the lock off Mother Slaughter’s cage, releasing the beast. She devours the 1st Admiral’s colleagues – I scalpel-stab him, in the eye; depart.

10:10; I assume these events; it was, afterall, a month after my last commission for the Fear Admirals that I came to call, checking on my commercially created charges, that I found the Blood Barracks ruined.

10:20; Gate Drone 12# – 1 month from retirement & organ harvesting – head was exploded with severe cuts to face & ocular trauma still visible. 1st floor corridors lined with Toad-Horrors – my poor babies!

10:30; Not my literal babies of course – feral miscegnations – but, still: pricy commodities. The Dark Officers: locked into a logic-loop of copulate/defecate, repeating their revelatory riddle-rhyme all the while.

10:40; The Fear Admirals I found locked in the topmost of their M C Escher turret with H R Geiger’s nightmare of a spiderbaby. All dead. The Slaughter Mother had eaten most of most of the Admirals, but –

10:50; – 1 with a knife in his eye, in whose rib-spread chest cavity she had laid her pulsing eggs. Rictus terror on Fear Admiral’s faces; she scared & scarred even they. I did certainly earn my daywage on her.

11:00; Oh, no fear – she was never designed to eat of & lay in Fear Admiral flesh; human-specific. Mother Slaughter lay poisoned & her young laid dormant. I left, with the eggs & charged the Black Royalty.

11:10; Never did hear who killed them all or why; not that one really requires a reason to kill things that refer to themselves as the Fear Admirals. I just assume plebs wish to watch ‘movies’ from heroic views.

11:20; Quite a few media moguls in The Market’s ranks. A tale of the lizardly Black Royalty & their Fear Admirals – bred apurpose for their insane, heretical imagination – is just the thing for age 5 & up, yes?

11:30; They don’t win, of course. Daftwager wrestles the Tidal Agate from the sea iguana claws of the Darkling King – on a gantry, above a Moon Manipulator, below grave visages of Kappa Captains past –

11:40; – averting total world flooding, intended to wipe the earth clean of evil humanity & the spiderbabies that decimated them. Practically patriotic – it saves Britain’s Windsor White Royalty of desert lizards.

11:50; Oh, that isn’t a Market secret; learned it from the Curiouser Gentlemen of Custom, Duty & Excise, the more secretive arm of the Surgeon Generals. I do not personally know The Market’s secrets, yet.

12:00; Oh, would you forget about lizard-royals! Between the German werewolf blood – bloodsports, yes? – the Russian vampire blood – see above – & the occassional zombie-mummy, one does not notice.

13:00; My references passed – thankfully The Market has no law, but 1: Thou Shalt Not Waste. I am “judged” tonight, conveyed thither to a ‘secret location’ – “Tally Ho’s” – by Atlas, if this meeting ever ends.

13:10; A lesser man might think that R & A had failed to grasp that: when unoccupied in high-tech facilities, I steal things. Instead I think: they test me, & their security systems. Facts: both of us are wonderful.

13:20; The Pearshaped Solutions building: glass partitions, circle-dominant architecture, the Rockefeller Centre’s “Atlas” in the foyer – the feng shui is immaculate! First stop: Atlas’ “Natural-Medicinal Gallery”.

13:30; Titan No. 1#: ‘Goliath’. An adaption of the KGB supersoldier serum – increased strength, stamina & invulnerability – but the duration of 1 hour. It crudely manipulated adrenals. A bear-wrestler’s dose.

13:40; Time limit seen as a feature rather than flaw, given the pyschoses associated with the KGB permanent-state original. Brilliant ingenuity; Atlas’ sum resource was an apprenticeship in a vetrinary practice.

13:50; Titan No. 2#: ‘David’. Still the supersoldier serum, but inspirationally innovated. All that Titan had before but; faster, cannier – in weapons use, martial arts, tactics – & greatly augmented healing factor.

14:00; Atlas – selling hunger-crisis hyper-bulls & guard dogs with real bite, was donning sandals & toga – cheap, replaceable & the only untailored thing that fit in his augmented state – to fight crime, save cats.

14:10; Titan No. 3#: ‘Samson’. Regenerative factor was unprecedented on this one. Back slashes from Death Metal’s 9 inch nails or Kultur Kampf’s neon claws & Atlas would heal, without scar, in moments.

14:20; Strange side effect which earned the name was the propensity for Atlas’ hair & nails to grow to ridiculous lengths during a fight session. Nails helped him slash as good as he got, & clip his unruly locks.

14:30; Titan No. 4#: ‘Hercules’. Strong – punched out Mecha Goliath 2. Cunning – outsmarted Lone Clone Napoleon’s maze. Super even without the serum – it altered his baseline biology at the cellular level.

14:40; Demi-god. Heart-Smart Bio-Mesh leotard under toga, Head-Strong Alert-Streaming laurel-crown over ears. Launched 12-step calisthenic & meditative regime ‘Herculean Labours’. Earns ‘Atlas’ nom.

14:50; Titan No. 5#: ‘Prometheus’. ‘Specialist serum’ – proof against extreme radiations of heat, light, ultraviolet, x-ray, gamma & general nuclear. Inoculation, not cure – does not affect a metastasized cancer.

15:00; Designed for dangerous conditions; nuclear reactors & test sites. Atlas made public his possession, charged the nuclear nations quite heftily & gave it freely to the Nagasaki Aid: Temporal Organisation.

15:10; Titan No. 6#: ‘Chronos’. Refers to the father of the gods rather than the titan of time, this time; sheer destructive capability & the Chronos serum sent sharpened-bone punching-through, at Atlas’ joints.

15:20; If King-Rat is the 2nd Coming in steel, Chronos is Doomsday, in biology. A swift, furious hulk, its green skin can live off solar energy, regenerate limbs & has mind enough only to mutter ‘Atlas Smash!’

15:30; The others – ‘Gilgamesh’, ‘Enki’, ‘Spartacus’, ‘Leonidas’, ‘John-Bunyan’, ‘John-Henry’, ‘Thor’, ‘Ymir’, etc – confirmed the creator-titan as the man strong enough to choose life, always, over ‘mere’ might.

15:40; He revolutionised medical technology: unique; most designs are improvements – his returned to the simplest system; of diagnosing symptoms & extracting causes. A’s medtech made a god from a ‘hero’.

15:50; Pearshaped Solutions. Computer 1: MentAnt Colony-Computer, circa 1980s. ‘Ant-farm’ as Ant-Silicon Valley. Computer 2: Protein strand computing, circa 1990s. Tablets & a fishtank; cheap genius.

16:00; Computer 3: DNA computers, circa just-now noughties. The processing power is unprecedented – the non-need for electrical power is unbelievable. Solar/thermal/kinetic power – big in the 3rd world.

16:10; Computer 4: All-Feeling Eye; Omniscient empath eyeball. 80’s threat-routing hero-hardware. Computer 5: Nexus Nova: mental hub. Offensive psychic firewalls against the 90’s fad for hypno-intrigues.

16:20; Computer 6: Cognoscenti: 1st computer to experience all 5 senses. Superior number of neural interchanges than that of a human brain. Miniaturised nerve-matrices; fits the poker-night gynoid perfectly.

16:30; Yet still A, according to his secretary’s cerebellum, attends Psychic Doctor Spock, Bruce Lee Ultima & Errol Flynn Jr. Very well! He chooses the Ulti-Mates over me!? To the lowermost laboratory!!!

16:40; An unfamilar smell & they’ll spray sleep pollen everywhere. I break the MentAnts out with instructions to eat – in minutes the trellis is stripped of sleepy wallflowers. Door: real biometric scanner: quaint.

16:45; Scraping trace skin cells from the handpanel, I douse them in UNDEAD, forming a thin sheen of approved-DNA skin. Handprint, handsweat & pulse pass the test; ‘science of superior’ sanctum opens.

16:50; White-room scan; lab risk of biological contaminant. Thankfully; not check-databasing my genes. I am clean; my only biological virus is my DNA – no one has ever caught, or been born with, that but I.

16:55; Bacteria-gas. Leaves none, but that in your digestion tracts. Atlas could release flesh-eating bacteria: a ‘compliment’ now; the bacteria-gas has cleaned hair, skin, teeth & nails pristine. Still; I’m alive yet.

17:00; Past the gas & I enter row upon row of animal cages. All those hoops, & it turns out the world’s authority on commercial medicine still uses animal testing. Not entirely surprising; this is just the opening.

17:05; Ratman’s cabinets: RL field-testing of quantum-tunnelling computers, & micro-wormhole cameras. Atlas’ cages: high-primate trials of anti-Alzheimer treatments, anti-cancer inoculations, anti-aging drug.

17:10; Ratman Tale: a rock, fueled by gravity engines & filled by satellite info, whose readouts lift strife from 1’s life. Atlas Myth: a tree, lit by solar lamps & fed by nitrogen IV, whose apples free 1 of disease.

17:15; But that tree would be beyond hallucinogen-interrogations, truth-serum tests & – after all else – an elevator-looking big-being who gobbles 1 up for his afternoon if he doesn’t like the sound of 1’s voice.

17:20; Atlas arrives at speed. Once alerted to my disappearance, probably in psychic link with his ocular ob-server. He’ll have to go through the chromatic chemical-logs manually to catch me in my invisibility.

17:25; I sneak out by the cages, return as if this is all new to me. Taking up complex charts clipped to cages, I tell Atlas to remind me to send him some samples some time – but don’t we have a ball to get to?

17:30; The elevator runs up the literal spine of the Pearshaped Solutions building. Soon Macrohard will be diamond-matter run through with gold thread. This place is already semi-alive, semi-sentient I realise.

17:40; I can’t imagine overcoming the … immune system, had I not been invited here. The circle-dominant, the sphincter-doors, the room-temperature of every room … it could kill me, with a bowel-bile’s flex.

17:50; Rooftop: a biomimetic design they call ornithopter. The bombardier-beetle blast of organic jets clear us off the roof. Then the wings extend, oversized feathers acting as rippling flaps. Truly … unearthly.

18:00; London; so wide to be a lesser city upon its back. I rarely see it so high unless kaiju walk among the rows, or motherships hang over our heads. I remember I can fly now, see this whenever I want to –

18:05; – then, between the ornithopter & Tally Ho’s, a shaft of heavenly light that so often signals an angelic visitation pierces the clouds! It hits street level somewhere in Notting Hill!! God help all of us – ha!!!

18:10; The ornithopter banks wildly, its rotors spinning double time to stay in place. Pocket change sparks, metal fillings buzz, prostetic limbs twitch – thankfully I have none of these. Seat is hugging me, close.

18:15; Relatively few metallic components, aboard; a few displays of ball lightning are all that trouble us. The carry-crate inconspicously containing Eve Austin’s Carter-armour vibrates, more than the others …

18:20; … a moot remark, as the whole load shifts to 1 side, as we turn. To be in the air is unlucky during a Visitation, but the ground is little better. A mix of clean emp & mass epilepsy, down there, right now.

18:25; An Angel: they’ll work out who later, by what kind of miracles happen. Michael: would purge the villainous & protect the meek. From an ER view: many miracle cures & several unlikely injuries/deaths.

18:30; Some will be prophets, some will be righteous, some will be insane – differentiation is difficult in the cults. Some will run from here, some will be drawn by the promise of heavenly en-lightenment & end.

18:35; Can’t see the light of heaven, & live. Standing in the shaft, quite probably in the instant the angel ascends. All body, all past, burns from their soul – bursts; their lives flash in front of everyone else’s eyes.

18:40; Saw Raguel Visit Cardiff. A remand centre’s worth of young criminals became born-again christians, & a CoE church’s worth of high anglicans were gas-main immolated. The celestial: no middle gears.

18:45; Still, we should soon be out of this shaft’s way … except that the topography says we are heading towards it. I enquire of Atlas about this, he of the pilot. The pilot – wrestling with the rigid control stick.

18:50; An ecclesiatical argument solved, here; apparently the bio-mind of this bio-illogical artifice has sufficient soul-sapient insanity as to be drawn to the celestial shaft. It will fly us into a heaven’s fire-judging.

18:55; No response to controls – it flies unmanned. Overrides overridden, control collar blown out. Was never designed to survive a Visitation, & any reaction to it untested – Visitations impossible to arrange.

19:00; We cannot kill it; we’re still in it. Need to induce an overriding land-impulse in the brain of the biomind; can now only be done from the exterior. Atlas needs to monitor vitals, from the inside throughout.

19:01; Yes, I will be operating, on a brain. Yes, this brain controls a body, which has several adjusting rockets. Yes, I am to perform rocket-science-brain-surgery, in the midst of a Visitation revelation storm.

19:02; This biomind is insufficiently human to read or influence. I need to integrate Saniac’s technomancy! However, as there is no laboratory at 1,000 ft, & the Marquis’ brain is at Agnate’s: I’ll have to wing it.

19:03; I grab an Atlas-brand med kit. I consult with Atlas on the upcoming surgery. Assume the craft will not appreciate my brain craft; I ask Atlas to provide protection: Captain Carter test-pilot/body-guard.

19:05; She should be easy to summon from the Pearshaped Solutions building. I don’t mention that no one could fly solo in the angel-storm, that the test-pilot is never at HQ, that Eve Austin is Captain Carter.

19:10; Consulted with Atlas in 5 mins on a type of brain I have never seen before – more than enough, just needed to make CC’s appearance plausible. A crash; the rear doors opened from the inside, I think.

19:11; I coo as requisite, goggling at Captain Carter’s outside-opening of the rear doors; locked when this madness began. Big, bulky armour, red & sparkling with LEDs. Inside, she stifles a laugh, I do think.

19:12; Back when Atlas replaced her nervous system with 1 of his own artifice, the exoskeleton served to regulate her motor control, allowing CC to adjust her new body, learning all movement all over again.

19:13; It also served to deprive her of her senses, the risk of sensory overload emerging as real concern in the comatose & psychotic former test subjects. Now: Suit augments her muscles, quite considerably.

19:14; Some would call their love Florence Nightingale syndrome – without contracting syphillis & persecuting Seacole. I would call it self-made buns of steel marrying man-made buns of steel. Hark; science!

19:15; But, of course I know none of this. A trade secret that was not traded to me. I can’t read their minds. None of the many doctor-engineers saw the whole picture – so I knitted it together by myself, eh?

19:20; Thrown under her arm with all the subtlety of a political football, Captain Carter finally lands on the nose of this winged behemoth. Friction shield & flight doing all they can to keep me from falling over.

19:21; CC acts as my windbreaker as I operate & my wingbreaker as my patient tries to kill me. Not the 1st time that this has happened – 1 of the few times they’ve tried it when I’m actually trying to fix them.

19:22; On the upside, this causes the ornithopter to whirl in circle-dervish, away from the shaft. On the downside, this also causes the ornithopter to loop-de-loop & barrel-roll: neurosurgeons frown upon this.

19:23; Pried open the biomind-cockpit nose-capsule with a laser scalpel; a pulsing pink mass of mind sufficiently insane to have soul, insufficiently so to be mind-controlled. I will clone Turing just to shoot him.

19:24; Thank Beezlebub for this ‘cerebral-silicate studding method’ favoured by Atlas & Saniac. Devolves the neural clusters to pressure points I can inject directly. Can’t turn off the ‘fight’; linked to the ‘flight’.

19:25; It knows. Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damned.

19:26; It ignores Carter, engages the jets & mainlines for the shaft. Slightly smart before; methodical in its madness. Rushing into the place where only angels tread is the pride that God deems worthy of a Fall.

19:27; Oh yes, one can go straight to Hell, if the shaft deems the supplicant unworthy. It is all flames, just the good & bad kind. But. Not today. No. Would be so easier if I wasn’t clinging on for dear life solo.

19:28; Ornithopter struck a strong shot during jet jeopardy; Carter spun like the cricket ball under the Wolf of Kabul. Clicki-ba! G-force, Accleration; heaven’s light warms my turned back, as it always has …

19:29; Teleport not an option – never was. If I could trust intrinsic field & location equations of Elohim to hold up under Their Visitation – which I couldn’t – my velocity, even with friction shield, would kill me.

19:30; Grip slips. Flight will hold up only so long as the Visitation doesn’t turn my cane to dust – not long. Mental note: counter encoding for Elohim useful, should anyone find & read this falling BORE of mine.

19:31; Hells!, with this moaning. Should I care to outwit Saint Peter I will – man probably has the brains of a rock. Also; I know for fact that Croc of Gold & Alexander Hamilton are up there. It will be Cake.

19:32; Cake, which should always be prepared in advance & on one’s own terms. I release, cane of flight going from floating to flying smoothly. True, the air explodes around me – but I am still independant!!!

19:33; Then Carter catches me, loops the ornithopter with her jetpack & shoots out the plasma jets with wrist-mounted goo-guns. As decceleration begins to set in, she smacks it about until it knows its place.

19:34; Got the story out of the surgeon-engineers before mind reading, with the truth serum I called ‘gin’. Suit; smart-mesh wired directly into her nervous system. Clothes make the woman, into someone else.

19:35; Her operation – reversed – & mixed with Major Nagi’s procedure, will be what I use to insert Saniac/de Made’s silicate-studded ‘brain’ into a new body, & to inculcate ‘land’ in the biomind, before me.

19:36; Where is it, where is it, where is it? Blown control collar, the framework fragments still lodged in several ports, all in my way. If I just had a moment to test reflexes on a neurochemical reaction level-

19:37; – I hear choirs sing! Harpists at my back, Rogers & Astaire dancing wingtip to wingtip & not-quite-all the Beatles. MERCY –

19:38; ‘Land’ lobe found! Insert syringe into the port & press down on the plunger. Coded protein strings & neurochemical stimuli release manually, as they would have on auto had the control collar survived.

19:39; As the brain shifts from flight to defeat I hear … regret. Of a curious birth from a cast-iron egg on a cast-iron cooker. Of life in metal eyries, building tungsten nests & eating big mechanical mealyworms.

19:40; Yes, all quite as dully dour as it sounds. Still, as in teleportation to the bar below it is in flying above; velocity cannot be flouted & we probably will fly into the centre of the shaft, still. Here we go, now-

19:41; -& there it went. Disappeared at the last sec, the life of door-to-door salesman-to-saint Kwami Ngugi before my eyes. 1:40; it was Raphael, so. Probably purified the Thames & purged the prostitutes.

19:42; The smell of burning is in the air. Below several steam stations have exploded, broiling skin off those not killed by shrapnel. No worries – it was Angel Raphael; they must have done something, right?

19:43; Sure, I hate supers. Prep: for hatred, of God. Afterall; if God granting powers of indiscriminate death-dealing to those unworthy is bad, then, surely, granting powers that make them unworthy is worse.

19:44; His influence on genetics is a blind man’s argument. But, His creating a race of messengers whose transit into this mortal world cannot avoid causing chaos is odd. Also: I hear he has the face of a cat.

19:45; I hate the smell of people-bacon baking at 19:45 in the evening.

19:50; We land in a recently plane-friendly-terraformed Hyde Park: a straight, flat section cut by the shaft’s sojourn through London. The bed of dead leaves the ornithopter lies in are crisp, crunchy & aflame.

19:55; Ms. Austin reappears. Atlas does me the pretense of telling her what occurred after turbulence rendered her unconscious – they’re both laughing before he finishes. Then they waltz, knee deep in leaves.

20:00; Times like these make me want to start smoking again. Not cigarettes – patently unhealthy! No, I used to have a pyro-proof suit; splashed cooking sherry over it, set myself alight, then – just wander

20:10; We arrive at Tally Ho’s after a few stops; Atlas & Eve to rescue survivors from a building’s collapse, I to liberate pearls from a jeweller’s window. The wine, to help get smashed, got smashed in-crash.

20:20; Tally Ho’s: Stuffed animals, yes; stuffed & mounted. Coloured rugs & scented candles, yes; tiger-skin rugs & blood-scented candles. Statue of Artemis, Picture of Echidna, the Horn of the Great Hunt.

20:30; I give string upon string of pearls to Ho after Ho in apology for not being a bearer of good wines. Despite the ‘Ho’ title, men are welcome; expected, along with a bottle of wine, & book of spells. Tally!

20:40; In a curious Fat Tuesday tradition, I meet one of the Fly girls. February, if I recall. Heavily pregnant – end of the week, I’d estimate. No husband. I knew her … great-grandmother: she would approve.

20:50; Her family’s obstretrician has recently died. While her mother will midwife the birth, February asks if I can attend the birth, in a medically-accompanying capacity. As I say, I know the family: of course.

21:00; Hark: its The Tigrrrl Ten & Jungirl Jen! Tom Cat, Persian, Cat’s Eye, Top Hat Cat & Il Gato Diablo Magnifico! Lioness, Paw, Kitty Galore, Sabre Tooth Tigeress & Feline Felix Devilicus Demonatrix!

21:10; Varied origins & transformations into a cat cult community most magical, they sing in impossible upper scales & bear beat-beating vestigial tails. They primarily work a musical whose name escapes me.

21:20; Tom Cat: Plays with boy kittens. Persian: Actually Iranian. Cat’s Eye: Sees in near-perfect darkness. Top Hat Cat: A cat wearing a hat made of cats. Feline Felix Devilicus Demonatrix: Hellfire clubber.

21:30; Lioness: Queen of the Jungle. Paw: Mother to a 1000. Kitty Galore: Citizen of Ulthar. Sabre Tooth Tigeress: Extinct & acting on her instincts. El Gato Diablo Magnifico: Il Grande Tigre Libre’s partner.

21:40; Jungirl Jen: Other Queen of the other Jungle. Animal princess from abandoned youth grown. Likes: Animals, Adventurers & Hunters-and-Gatherers. Dislikes: Pirates, Farmers & Slashers-and-Burners.

21:50; They’ve made sung against do-gooder Dream Radio Martone in his Key of B Sharp, out-harmonised Viola Violent & Clarence Clarinet in their own tone & beat the “Love Handel Choir”, in a sing-off.

22:00; To pass the time, I engage Senor Czeslaw Lucre in conversation. Apparently his wife has been badgering him to engage in the sport of her homeland, the football of the Americas. Example: term ‘sack’.

22:10; ‘Sack: E’un termine del football indicia quando un quarterback e’ placcato dietro alla linea di scrimmage: La linea di scrimmage e’ una linea immaginaria trasversale che sepera l’attacco dalla difesa’. Yes.

22:20; Of course I know the rules of the colonial’s crowd-killing passtime. True, it isn’t the sport it was in the early 1900s, with players smoking like chimneys, drinking like fish & 25+ deaths on field per year.

22:30; Picked most of up while on retainer, to the Vaquero Majora, consulting on his brainwashed Cabellero horde. Picked up the football lingo in training the cowboy ranks, to avenge The Alamo, as a team.

22:40; I explain: “Il football lo trovi ovunque in Texas. Football professionistico, football universitario, football liceale, football under 15. In effetti puoi trovare ogni forma di football tranne l’originale, quello …”

22:50; “… europeo che si gioca coi piedi. Che molti texani considerano solo una macchinazione dei comunisti …” The Cabelleros: perfect. The MinuteMen, infintesimally small & many opponents: much better.

23:00; In return, Senor Lucre tells me something of his own inscrutable card hobby. An interest shared by Tally Ho’s Witches of Wick, engaging in a game, with cards bearing colourful charicatures, & names.

23:10; Senor Lucre says: “Guerreiro ganha de Troll, Troll ganha de Elfo, Elfo ganha do Espirito D’água, e basicamente qualquer coisa ganha do Coelho Encantado – A menos que tenha o Poder da Cenoura.”

23:20; Mistress Til strikes: “Certo, Georgetta jogou seu Guerreiro Fantasma e vou reforcá-la com minha-Vinha Estranguladora.” Lucre counters: “Certo, entáo cortarei sua Vinha com minha Espada de Rubi.”

23:30; Ah! “Náo tem chances de ganhar. Observando as cartas que já foram jogandas, Maiza só pode yer pocóes de invocacáo, que só tem efeito sobre espectros e vampiros, e náo há mais nenhum deles.”

23:40; Unfortunately Senor Maiza is on Lucre’s team. Even worse: “As cartas que restaram na pilha: 4 Armas de Fogo, 1 Troll, 2 Ogros e 1 Joia de Osíris”, none of which could beat the witches. Lucre loses.

23:50; Lucre is understandably emotional about my revealing his doom, aloud. Asking how, I tell him “Tenho uma memória eidética.” True – I do have an eidetic memory, but I mind-read to discern the cards.

00:00; I then scribble down a system tailored exactly to defeat the witches. Some game theory true but, mostly, the habits I read from them. Oh, & off the back of that humiliation, the witches will bet very big.

00:10; Witches of Wick wave slyly: they think I betrayed my Spanish associate for their approval. & these maroons are to decide whether I’m business savvy enough to join their little “bake-sale” association?

00:20; No. They aren’t. Tally Ho’s Upper Rooms bustles with the earth-movers & world-shakers that deign to oversee such matters as my approval. Unapproved, I will be wiped from being, like an ink-stain.

00:25; Ratman & Atlas are there & it is nice to think they’ll be voting my way. Nice, but wrong. They could have introduced me to The Market just to wield its full force to crush me, when I am rejected. Sigh.

00:30; Templar & Spartan: known for their respective Public & Private Security monopolies. Like A’s & R’s Medicine & Weapons interests, T’s & S’s are so status quo as to be of House, as well as Market.

00:35; Solely Market are their computers. Templar’s Aethernet is the foremost in magical computing, from using ghost programmers to abusing undead desk staff. Aethernet runs on flesh, & blood – not spam!

00:40; Saintware is best operated by virgins; apparently there is no shortage of these in the computer industry. Alternately, Portal’s use of Damned processing rules but holes in the Fire Wall can result in trolls.

00:45; Spartan’s DeLux, alien open-source code of the stars, from macro-circuit litho-computers seen from space, to binary quark calculus on subatomic scale. DeLux has all invading mothership virus codes.

00:50; Insectile: Coccoon-computer’s acid-blood: proof against infections, except those they inflict on their owners. Reptoid: Egg-consoles code on a heat-sensitive system, in a version of the language: PERL.

00:55; Here too, is the Bilderburg-Group representative. The Pope, the Queen, the EU, the UN, the merchant bankers, the stock brokers, the fairy gold reserves, the real-futures investments & Possibly God.

01:00; In other words, The Money. He is quite nondescript, being well-but-not-showily-never-showily dressed. He speaks, quietly, to heads of fallen banks as to ones who have suffered a great bereavement.

01:05; &: The Dragon of Germany, varied Benelux Dwarven cartels, a Vault-Keeper of Switzerland, the Godzilla Yen-Kaiju, sundry Red Collective Cells & a sentient S African diamond with bipolar conflict.

01:10: The Upper Room bows to the Highest Common Height of The Dragon & The Godzilla, making this place truly a Dragon’s Den. With one tail-swish or flame-fwoosh I am dead. So: do they accept me?

16:35; Telepath-clams spread around the lab’s entrance. A stray thought & they send a psychic shriek shivering up the building. A tap of my hat; I am mentally invisible. Trickier; scent-trained red-rose’s trellis.


Lord Daftwager Twitter Fiction Day 56: Deep in the Rat-Nest of Ratman!

February 21, 2010

 

Day 56:

07:00; ‘Nero, or Agrippina’, ‘Louis the 11th, or Charles the 9th’, ‘Charles the 12th of Sweden, after the murder of Patkul, or his predecessor Christina, after the murder of Monaldeschi’, yes, could perhaps, …

07:10; … No, not a one of them is on this Facebook device to be ‘friended’ or ‘poked’.

07:20; Why is the estate of the Duke de Rochefoucault more sacred than that of the Cardinal de Rochefoucault? Or that of the cardinal archbishop of Rouen, a bishop of Durham or a bishop of Winchester …

07:30; … No; none of them possess a wordpress blog to angstily answer these accusations.

07:40; ‘Doctor Price’s revolutionary sermons’, ‘Lord Stanhope’s dreams’, ‘the then-Earl of Holland diaried debaucheries’, ‘the oft-Lord Somer’s lawful legalese’, ‘Lord George Gordon’s reading of the Talmud’.

07:50; No – not a podcast produced of their wilfully wanton works in gentleman’s writing.

08:00; Dare read 1 word of Collins, and Toland, and Tindal, and Chubb, and Morgan, and that whole race who called themselves Freethinkers? Who now reads Bolingbroke? Who ever read him through…?

08:10; … None – indeed, if their twitters can be trusted to report truly, they’ve hardly one hit.

08:20; The visuals are outstandingly unique. From its general aspect one would conclude that it had been for some time past under the special direction of the learned academicians of Laputa and Balnibarbi …

08:30; … An odd director combination I deduced immediately from this video podcast’s the poor money control & love of floating cities.

08:40; You would imagine that they were talking of Persia bleeding under the ferocious sword of Tahmas Kouli Khan, or at least describing the barbarous anarchic despotism of Turkey an eviller equivalent …

08:50; … All of which I had to imagine rather than learn, the handwriting & footdrawing of this webcomic is of poor quality. There is a lot of red.

09:00; I have tried a great deal of the internet inucubala Ratman & Atlas recommended, but am no closer in understanding the draw of this drivel, dross & delinquincy. To think; they almost beat me, last night.

09:10; Yes, it was a tricky one – the fake was not one of the players this time, but rather the means of play & what it was played upon. Afterall, once 1 has removed the impossible, 1 finds out 1 was wrong …

09:20; … & there is no such thing as the impossible! Just as there is no impregnable, just as there is no impenetrable, just as there is no imflammable. THERE. IS. NO. IMPOSSIBLE! MU!! HAHAHAHA!!!

09:30; And so it was the table and the cards. Devilishly in bad faith, but still in bounds.

09:40; I considered calling it quits; that is, saying ‘I am the duplicate!’ & activating the invisibility BORE. I couldn’t read their minds, true, but I trusted that they hadn’t their as-yet unwieldy invisibility visualisers.

09:50; To end on a flourish, I thought to go out on a last hand. I dealt. But as I felt the cards, underneath my fingers, I felt the urge. Not the gambling urge of idiots. I never gamble. I pay, in full & I take, ‘it all’.

10:00; The urge: of every scientist who hears the story of the boy who peeled plastic off the back of his playing cards set … & made a pipebomb. The urge: to take lemons, to make invisible ink, to make acid.

10:10; Chemicals act as a base to my mechanics & medicines; add a few acids & you have a battery to jumpstart a black heart. For these two, however; it is computers, no matter how far they’ve come now.

10:20; As already expressed I am acclimatised to using computers, but as to the meat of the mechanisms I am ignorant, beyond the ancient engineering bases of differential gears, tape drums & punch cards …

10:30; … yes, punch cards. Playing cards … computers … robots. Ah. I recalled The House has a designation for them, along with every other supernormal. I shuffled, trying to remember the android’s arcana.

10:40; Suits: Hearts, Clubs, Spades, Diamonds. The House’s has millions of relational arrangements whose meanings alter with Game, Stake & order the cards are displayed in. Not really supposed to know-

10:50; -except; where there is a wager on the table. ‘Winning hand’: Ace of Diamonds, Five of Hearts, King of Spades, Queen of Clubs. IE: Non-biological, mid-level interpersonal, good worker, good killer.

11:00; The body-mass was the table. The spirit-mind was the cards. A hand in the right order, laid face up, caused the entirety of the table & attendant cards to ripple, rearrange & totally reform into a shape-

11:10; -I knew; the liquid metal woman-chine from the future! I had thought it was still in the lair of the Horologue! A trap! Having me deal my own deathwarrant with cards; so good it should have been mine!

11:20; -But, no? A moment’s mind-read – and I could her mind, just like it in Horologue’s Tower, so close to human it was – & I saw the irrecognition in the optical observers of this ‘mercury-skinned’ maiden.

11:30; Further frantic findings in her frontal lobes revealed that she was a joint prototype of Ratman’s excited-atom quantum firmament & Atlas’ near-human biomimetic designs. It is ”the wave of the future” …

11:40; Which, in one timeline at least, will crash upon the shores of humanity, eroding hope, joy & survival for biologics under the iron reign of neon claws. And they did this, just to defeat me in Turing-poker?

11:50; Couldn’t speak … still, they took my tears for what they were, though not understanding the magnitude – the depth – of my joy! No matter the end, I shall have had a hand in humanity’s total destruction.

12:00; In this manner, naught but 10 hours ago, I defeated, for the 21st time, the joint powers of of Atlas & Ratman, and, rather rascally, allowed them to think I had an iota of an idea of what The House is …

12:10; … consequently, causing these fine fellows, upon seeing the latest & greatest demonstration of my perfected powers, to induct me into The House’s opposed organisation, of which R & A are members:

12:20; The Market! The House is Full; The Market is Free. The House reaches all the way to the White. The Market extends ever onto the Black. The House Always Wins but always The Market Will Bear.

12:30; Yes, I have little understanding what exactly they do either. Mostly, I’ve been pinching it from the minds of all the supers I’ve been surrounded with lately, self-censoring to protect against other readers.

12:40: As regards supers: The House legislates, regulates, dominates. The House is the reason why a race of superhumans haven’t torn apart the planet. It runs the 10 Luminaries, the Vigil Alliance, all of them.

12:50; As regards supers: The Market inflates, interests, incites incrementally. The Market prevents the economic disaster a superhuman race is sure to end with. It finances the 10, the Vigil Alliance, all of it …

13:00; … And I am to be its newest member. Ratman & Atlas were concerned, seeing not only my increase in ability but that I articulated it with The House code for android, that I plucked from Binary Janus.

13:05; Arriving in the Macrohard Industries building’s lobby, with fashionable lateness, I can almost forgive the groin-driven gadgeteer, for his glib dismissal of me. He will only be blinded, come my revolution.

13:10; Janus was thinking of Corpus Crystal, 5th generation android of the Europa-Utopia-Metropia-Autopia line. Quite a little technophile. Common in the 31st century. Sexbots. No wonder they turn on us.

13:15; As if his little gizmos will impress CC. But BJ thought he had an in; knew The House designation for android, heard it from The House agent, who told BJ to set a crazed, enraged Excelsoar onto me …

13:20; The offer of reviving his gynoid fetish tickled the techvert. It will come only to a RealDoll advancement I suppose – all the robots in super-service are far more valuable than that sweaty, eager little man.

13:25; Why else would I be induced to join this little glee club? Secret rulers of the world always, by my estimation, at most have an insight into the status quo, & an axe to grind – just like everyone else, here.

13:30; Membership of the Thirds is convenient, but now that there apparently really are ‘Second’ & ‘First’ organisations, it seems expedient to join 1, or both, of the the remaining. Oh God, they’ll have robes.

13:35; Ratman is still in a meeting – Obscene Mona Lisa, Cyborg de Milo & Defeated George Washington, if I read her mind correctly – so I sit, reading a magazine. Then I become invisible, & pooch about.

13:40; Of course: watched by autonomous cameras, invulnerable to invisibility. So smart they are that, by pretending to flash identification in front of the humans, & my being already vetted, I go where I want.

13:45; Like a beehive – even a caterpillar can get by if okayed by the front guards & makes the right noises on the inside. So, he intends to stand me up, for the Alter-Mates? 1st stop – Hall of Suits, I believe.

13:50; Suit 1: a mouse in metal. $8,000: A Boy’s Own Subterranean Submarine. No hydraulic limbs yet, only a man’s length, but: complex drill bit nose & surprisingly sophisticated fibre-optic sensor-whisker.

13:55; An impoverished undergrad, ready to lay a supercomputer out on monofilament motherboards, making do with wooden frames. This suit dug out the original Rat’s Nest, deep under the Nevada desert.

14:00; Suit 2: vermin, in iron-carbon. Bigger, segmented, indications of directional sonic stabilisers. The limbs, emerging, are still flippers. Few additional flourishes: ‘eyes’, a teeth stencil, the beginnings of a tail.

14:05; The Rat’s Nest: built up processing, energy & information reserves. The 2nd suit acquired the means to improve itself & the Nest: from petrol generators & pcs to fusion reactors & teraflop processors.

14:10; Suit 3: rat, in stainless steel. Cone snout: alternating diamond-drill, & tendril-sensor. Earthwork eyes, crushing claws, prehensile spiked tail. The whole rolls into a bulletproof armadillo ball; still chipped.

14:15; R was stealing hardware from people authorised to shoot him for it. Mostly: instruments that they themselves had stolen, or items they were building themselves, but still legally they should not have had.

14:20; Suit 4: Man-Rat. 11 feet standing, 15 in full length, internal power. Reinforced: underwater & high altitudes. Pneumatic digging scales-skin. Front paw automatic & missile tail. Gained the Ratman name.

14:25; Full-fledged battle armour, its shiny steel segments reflect raised stakes. High industry: accustomed to brief spates of villain supply raids, but; R committed no foilable big capers, & so they hired supers.

14:30; Suit 5: Dark-Rat. Black-plated: infra-red reflecting, seismograph ping-proof & silent-digging. Radio-visual jackers & jammers. Whole-body dig-mode drill . Articulated claws & rappel-rope tail. Quiet.

14:35; MO shift: R went from precise snatch-grab to information piracy. Tapping ‘secure’ message at the wire, or threatening to cut a city’s broadband cables for a ransom just under the estimated repair cost.

14:40; Suit 6: ‘King-Rat’. Tetra-pedal tank: earthquake, tornado & superproof. Water, air & spaceworthy. Electromagnet pulse, heat ray. Manipulator paws, spinning-top tail-drill. Impersonated 2nd Coming.

14:45; Not raider; anti-raider. 1/2 security for his illicit operations, 1/2 publicity for his corporate holdings; Mecha Goliath 2 & Lone Clone Napoleon bought with cash-money that which could not be thieved.

14:50; All after that – Red Rat, Gold Rat, Platinum Rat, Rocket Rat, Diamond Rat, Great Rat – were his cementing his style; always profit, never drama. ”Ratman” became an advertisement instead of a threat.

14:55; R designed weapons; rare: most weapons are repairs, updates & variations of old designs. R sold to militaries 1st (their cheques cleared 1st), then villains; best was kept for himself. 2nd stop: trophies.

15:00; The Macrohard Trophy Gallery. Computer 1: An AT, with 40-megabyte hard drives, circa late 1980s. Large. Computer 2: Dual processor, terabyte-capable co-processing, circa late 1990s. Medium.

15:05; Computer 3: Indium phosphide optical-chip (light signals) so late 2000s as to launch this year. 1 optical chip will process this corp’s computer, telephone, satellite & television traffic – diameter of a hair.

15:10; Computer 4: Add Infinitum; once-and-future processing, prescient ability – 1980’s villainous console of choice. Computer 5: Crypto Keeper & Reaper; 1 was used in the mid-90s hacking of NORAD.

15:15; Computer 6: Carbon-Nanotube mica-chip (nanobinary) so scalpel-edge tech as to be relatively unchanged in the 31st century, when it resides in the brain of the robot from Horologue’s, from last night.

15:20; Hmmm; R has had long enough. Lacking digital savvy to appreciate this ‘quantum leap in computing’, I fall back on my old espionage instincts, & start raiding the Research & Development Department.

15:25; The tiles in the R&D room are 3 milimetres above the preceding surface; pressure sensitive. Rise from the floor. The wall panels sparkle at the edges; criss-crossing invisible infra red laser grid. Zounds!

15:30; Strip a section of the Dark-Rat’s shielding for an impromptu cloak of infra red invisibility. Door is hydraulically hinged, with facial biometric scanner: a ruse; far too simple! Elegant in its obsfucation, no?

15:35; Closer inspection reveals the scanner to be an EEG hiding in biometric’s clothing. Brain waves. Ratman I don’t have; the receptionist I do. A brief projection; it unlocks. Her thoughts have a little worth.

15:40; Dark-room scan; safety. R&D worry about viruses; moment of tech-silence. I pass; all my weapons today are organic, most importantly: my brain. Nothing to declare, but my brilliance; not contagious.

15:45; Chemical spray shower, gaseous precipitate cloud & 0-point-energy dryer. Perfect time to kill me; surprise, yes, & because this suit is clean as new-spun once again. R would do me that one courtesy.

15:50; Filing cabinets; inspiring. Not only do the wonderful facilities start off with filing offices, but also 1 of the great computer designers of our age believes in dead-tree recording! Hark!! I hear R is come!!!

15:55; R, entering at a sprint, I imagine was just told that Lord Daftwager ‘seemed to have left’. Patched the live CCTV straight into his retinas as he ran, clever boy. He’ll kick himself, watching the recordings.

16:00; Go out, re-visualise, knock-knock, enter & ask R where the gentleman’s lavatories are. I ‘briefly scan’ a paper I struggled with for the last 10 minutes, then ask if he’d like to meet some friends of mine.

16:10; Those weren’t the labs of course – merely a front office. The labs proper are at Bonka-deep levels beneath London. Biometrics, DNA & gene analysis, all with anti-hypnosis, -clone & -parasite scans.

16:20; The elevator down there is particularly entertaining, or so I’m told. It executes a few last scans on the quiet then, with no ostensible increase in speed, either passes the labs into geothermal magma or …

16:30; … shoots the elevator car from the top the building with an undercarriage rocket: true peril of that corporate ‘glass ceiling’. Keeping the swinging/dropping+the-pit/the-pendulum enthusiast jovial I will …

16:35; … introduce him to some friends (finds) with quite a touch for business. R’s limo halts in front of their building & I can hear a blip: that is a stationery-mode reinforcing of this vehicle’s in-transit defenses.

16:40; A whirr; a scan, centred on the car’s immediate surroundings & its current environs. A tootle; conference with Rat’s Star Satellite sensors. A krunk; arming of the defensive missiles & machine-run guns.

16:45; A surprise for R, so: only 6 black ops members around us, now. Man with phone; sonic distorter, with silencer. Woman jogging; artificial limbs, fusion generator. Child: drone; disposable, self-destruct.

16:50; We enter the building. Old man; cane is a percussion rifle, he is a crack shot. Old woman; katana, in the flower box, knives strapped to her shin. We enter the elevator; Major Nagi is accompanying us.

16:55; She is bullet proof, fire proof, pressure proof, vaccuum proof – no pain, no facial expression. She needs the gorilla suit to feel – physically, possibly emotionally. Except for Ratman; she always loves R.

17:00; A blart of static, like a fart of info, from R’s handheld. MN tenses on a microscopic scale only a nerve surgeon & robot builder could interpret. MN would save R if the entire building blew to heavens.

17:05; But, consulted, it is fine. Surprising, but not immediately threatening, R waves me on to the door. Knocking, I hear them not talking, probably on a sub-vocalised shortwave. Answered: ”I brought gin!”

17:10; The young man in the golden gloves smiles, does not shake hands. Emulate the playful-salute sly-eyewink language of delight I have seen him use, with his wife, introduce my guests, pass on the alcohol.

17:15; I do not do my host the discourtesy of explaining his ‘curious infirmity’ principally because I do not have to. I see Ratman’s eyes pass over a gloved hand like a miser, dreaming of gold. Fortuituous, no?

17:20; Yes. I pass through to the studio, to the mistress’ gymnasium/gallery. She works on a piece; an imposing piece of coal, a few fist-shaped splats of crystal & from it, an angel’s face emerging in diamond.

17:25; Works up a sweat; too early for tools. A block of coal, perfectly pressured at points to produce an angelic statue & this is done with her bare hands. ‘Her’ hands; as much as any limb transplant ‘owns’.

17:30; On call at the Rigour-Bedlam hospital during the Niffleheim incursion, I was presented with a sculptor, whose hands had been severed, lost, & intact palm/digits of what turned out to be a Boxing King.

17:35; One tissue match later; an otherwise ordinary artist received fists that could crush coal into diamond & a fighter’s muscle memory. Her physiotherapy, taking years, evolved into this unique, beautiful art.

17:40; Noticing me, she elects to take a break. I do not notice the titanium tumblers her drink is poured into, nor the gloves her husband wears, even as handling the bottle, the metal chink they make on glass.

17:45; What of the soul stays with the body, post mortem? Curses apparently – made a new box on the form, alongside vampire – like an organ donor passing on his Midas touch with a transplant of the heart.

17:50; Did Testament Croesus know? It would explain his being a villain organ-donor. None of his evil appears to have survived. His heart’s recipient was a very unique rehabilitation & profusely well-funded.

17:55; Still, the psychological horror of such change makes curious connections of love. I do not need x-rays to see that Diamond-Fist & Golden-Digit are holding – strange! – hands, under the table, like kids.

18:00; Neither do I need a signal hack to hear Ratman & Major Nagi holding datastreams invisibly in the air. Cute; also business. Revelation of DF’s & GD’s powers will dip global prices of gold & diamond.

18:05; What they require is someone with an industrial need for copious gold & high quality in the 24 carat category. Gold is a superconductor, diamond can be ‘written’ with light – next generation computing.

18:10; All be a ruse on my part, I imagine R imagines. Ratman does not trust me. Not even vaguely. But his trust of me is of such a negative value that it constantly impresses him that he has allowed me to live.

18:15; Deferring the multiple millions due to me for this headhunting handover until he confirms the bespoke production of diamond & gold, Ratman is willing to sign off a Thunder Gun prototype, in good faith.

18:20; Diamond-Fist & Golden-Digit seem amenable to making ridiculous amounts of money; they’ve certainly passed the last of my personal psychological testing standards. R-man, Nagi & I take our leave.

18:25; Their sexual relations? Of course I know; on the off chance that retrogenetics of transplantation & transmutation of curses should afflict their offspring, the results should be observed – From a distance.

18:30; I believe GD wears double gloves & DF wears handcuffs on her human wrists. True, DF can tear GD’s golden gloves off, & GD can alter iron links to gold for DF’s destructing; this is the ‘spice’ factor.

18:40; Oh; Queen Kong & Ratman? As as I hear it, he likes the gorilla suit. Or R likes that QK likes it. Foreplay: QK climbs a replica of the Empire State building with an anatomically correct R action figure.

18:50; Tarturus knows what they talk about in the ‘chat’. All I care about tonight is passing into this wink-nod society of pennies passed under the arch & pyramids stamped upon the dollar & drinking heavily.

19:00; Therefore it is in Intelli Gents that I am to be inducted into this order. My head: high. They think I am of The House. One day I will be. For now I am almost of The Market, I am a 3rd & am, always …

19:10; … Lord Fitzwilliam Daftwager, Doctor Von Quatloo, Noah of Whitby, Phaedrus of Paris, Witchfoe of Nantes, Timefriend of Orleans, Fiend of London, Finder of Nabilac & Builder of BORE. So, ha!

19:20; Decor: paralysed-white lit-walls, & womb-like egg-chairs; relaxing. Despite the ‘Gents’ title, women are welcome; considered bad taste not to bring 1, along with a bottle of wine, & book of equations.

19:30; Test-tube of gin full, I take umbrage, with Senorita J. ‘Voightheim’ Christobel. Answer her ‘La teoría de las cuerdas es el futuro de la física!’ with: ‘El bucle de gravedad cuántica es el futuro de la física!’

19:40; Her retort: ‘La materia claramente consiste en pequenes cuerdas!’ Concise, I rejoinder ‘El bucle de gravedad cuántica claramente ofrece más predicciones experimentables que la teoría de las cuerdas!’

19:50; To her ‘Charla sin sentido!’, my ‘Nosotros esperamos que el espacio-tiempo cuantizado se manifiesta así mismo como diferencias mínimas en la velocidad de la luz para diferentes colores’. Hahahaha!!!

19:00; She equivocates: ‘Estamos hablando sobre hipótesis sin experimentar.’ I crush all possible opposition with the statement: ‘Solo el bucle de gravedad cuántica calcula la entropía, de los agujeros negros!’

19:10; She rallies: ‘La teoría de las cuerdas unifica mejor la mecánica cuántica con la relatividad general, que el bucle de gravedad cuántica!’ so I do concede, ‘Ok, bien, hay mucho merito en ambas teorías …’

19:20; … partially: good point, partially: Marquis of Rockingham waves me over & partially: I myself have, in my reckless youth, committed physical acts which defy both string theory & loop quantum gravity.

19:30; The Marquis of Rockingham; his title describes him. I well-wish his upcoming 22nd birthday. He in turn asks me to I repeat that service I performed him on his birthday, last year. Do I remember? Yes.

19:40; I happened to be in Margrave at the time, stuffing ballots. I had heard Rockingham was a little hyperactive, even for a 21st birthday, even for a Marquis. Summoned at midnight, in my medical capacity.

19:50; He was naked, covered in blood, knife in hand. On his bed lay a woman – young, bleeding, groinal haematomas, weak, from her blood loss. So he anticipates … complications … again this year? ‘Yes’.

20:00; Yes. I’d actually like another chance to see that. Besides, the Marquis is quite influential – a few extra favours, some blackmail material. He looks younger than last year; I wonder what he gets out of it?

20:10; Not renewal, certainly, rather – then it is Mike Jive & The Science Five! Premiere practitioners in fabula equations of rock; known as The Watchdog Group of Nuclear A-Rockalypse, in the Americas.

20:20; Their instruments: registered weapons of mass destruction! Their speakers: contravene all international strategic arms limitations treaties! Their shows: disaster-area classification level: ‘A-Bomb testing’!

20:30; Beat; skilled in every beating: DARPA gamma gongs, Viking rowing drums & hearts. Keys; Has studied conflicted Keys of B-sharp & E-vil under galactic guardians of good & evil tones, respectively.

20:40; Bass; Six-fingered, not due to a devil’s deal but from an interesting elective surgery. Lead; Guitar of gold, iron pick & strings of lead – heavy metal indeed. Shatterproof, it cuts swathes through fanatics.

20:50; Mike; Lost 87% of his larynx to throat cancer some years ago. Replaced with a voice-box; its capacity augmented to eleven, & programmed with the music of the spheres, he became the Sonic Youth.

21:00; Together these wild stallions of science outsang Franken Sinastra in his Key of Evil, outplayed Mazing Grace & Bedding March at their game & battled as a band, vs. The Standing Stones, in rock-off.

21:05; I depart, just as ‘Catastrophonics’ ends. Ratman directs me into the Under Rooms of Intelli Gents. Here, between Rutherford’s outdated atom diagram & an obsolete orrey, my Market Value is judged.

21:10; What I can immediately glean from the surrounding minds, the process of entry isn’t overly different to winning a particularly prestigious membership – becoming 1 of the Disciples, or torturing Sisyphus.

21:25; The standards are understandably higher, the membership much more secret. One has to have underhandedly toppled a national government, secretly spawned a new species or killed minor god/devils.

21:30; Thankfully – done all 3. Somewhat seething that I haven’t heard about it before. I suspect the braindrycleaning technology The Luminaries & The Alliance use to crank out squeaky-clean heroes is used.

21:35; I’ve had men, women & talking dogs under my care & my cruelty that were sure to have known about this organisation. From dangling morphine buttons out of reach, to twisting knives in deep: naught.

21:40; Still, if is the case, why have I heard about it on the brainwaves? Even a stooge like Mister Scripts could have heard it – they can’t neutralize, lobotomise & buy all the upstart psychics, in this big world?

21:45; Except- yes. Yes. You can’t blank all the order’s minds to psychic screening; never a surer sign that they have something secret. The heads – pun entirely intended due to MS’ mindset – can be shielded.

21:50; Ratman, Atlas – silent minds – no doubt head honchos. The rest – stimulating a light projection power in all human minds the read erases The Market in the reader’s mind. Brilliant … & quite terrifying …

21:55; … Hypothetical-hypnotics impossible. One could never push the spell quite that completely on the world; unless the pusher had complete control of the world’s audio & visual medias – that would do it.

22:00; I’m sorry, did you think I was looking for a mind reader/projector to cheat at cards & garner gossip, shits & giggles as they respectively are? I have considered this; the scale would be ginormagantuan.

22:05; Why am I newly invulnerable? Much like the magic of the Amber, Green & Sand Witches the science of the world’s psychics has failed in the face of BORE’s thoughtless thinking & stainless recording.

22:10; BORE defers perception a crucial moment, like watching a virus run rampant under quarantine glass, transcribing into audiovisual information that which would have been written onto my mind, directly.

22:15; As the ranks raised to judge me congregate I realise they unaware of this new talent. I’m projecting only a sterilised version events. Blessed event, this membership; they’d have had to kill me otherwise.

22:20; Ratman confirms all gathered – short notice – are present & politically incorrect. Lights flicker, every wineglass in room hums & the ice sculpture begins to bleed tears. I tap a wall; no noise rebounds …

22:25; … so we’ve probably been charged to post-reality levels. The Thirds do this once in a blue moon, when Loki, Judas or Mother Goose comes to call. Suspect this is SOP for all Black Market meetings.

22:30; Here, surrounded by multitudes of Market men & women & parrots & ghosts & magi I’ve met. I can read minds; I’ll know good they feel about killing me. No teleport here: Did I tell you; I’m terrified?

22:35; First up: Marquis de Fisticuffs; Old School chum. Queensbury invented a boxing style to preserve his beauty; Fisticuffs designed one to win. I was his ring doctor, in the Gormenghast basements; profit.

22:40; A wonderful, ugly, brutal man. I remember: clotheslined Chuff McCoy, tricky Scots-Irish as he was, into a neckbrace. I didn’t bet on MDF; was really just cash collection, what with the horse steroids.

22:45; Second: Mister Rhett Conman; Fiscal associate. Works under 100 different names to con 1000 more; often pretends to be a time traveller. I was head technician of his more ‘special’ effects: faux tech.

22:50; Most special effect: charisma. I recall: convinced Prell Votive, sharp Wall-Street waltzer he was, to believe MRC was from the future. 1 fake time machine, 3 fixed pony races, 1 major securities fraud.

22:55; Third: Dr ‘Motorcade’ Ventrimiglia; Mob doctor. Maintains larynxes for the Falsetto killing/singing family, chief mouthpiece for Don Corticalzone. Skimmed pony races: caught; saved his life: medically.

23:00; Designed a provirus authored from DMV’s DNA: injected into the Don. Requires fresh antibodies from DMV, every month, to counter it. The Don allows DMV to live: DMV pays me well every year.

23:10; Fourth: Cheval Ri; Fairy King of the Elysian Horses. Where good horses go, when they die. Opposite of where Dr White Horse’s horse will go. Dangers; Bad Ass’ legion of bat-winged demon-hippos.

23:20; I crossbred brash wingéd horses & the virginal unicorns; mitochondrials & jazz. Produced Wingéd Unicorns; equine equivalent of angels. Majestic mares; decimated Bad Ass. CR; mated with them all.

23:30; Fifth: Det. Silver Shoe; Parable PD, home of fictions. Protecting snow white trash & saving mother geese hookers with hearts of gold; ‘hero cop’. Locked stable mystery: Cinderfella’s fav stallion stolen.

23:40; Deduced that while stallion was missing, the right number of horses remained. DSS’s iron badge turned the outstanding ill bred back into a mouse, while the stallion exploded from a local witch’s blouse.

23:50; Sixth: Jockey Thimble Slender, sole rider of Loco Bronco. ‘The Man-Can-ical Bully!’ – has yet to be unhorsed, declared an honorary centaur. Pre-race drink rival-spiked with giant-juice; grew 8 ft tall.

00:00; Would you believe the lovechild, of Cinderfella’s stallion & Cheval Ri’s Wingéd Unicorn, hepped up on steroids, ridden by a giant, could be legal race winner? Not once; three times! Profit; skimmable.

00:05; But that was my first month out of my fellowship – when will they get to the good stuff?


Daftwager Twitter Fiction Day 55: Musical Face Off With Doll Face & The Men O’ Rags And Patches

January 10, 2010

Day 55:

 

07:00; Daftwager! A Maestro On The Rise! Daftwager! My Lasers Will Blind Eyes! Daftwager! All Will Scream In Surprise! Daftwager! Whomever Bars My Plan Dies! Daftwager! I Sing While God Cries!

07:10; Von Quatloo! A Paragon of Skill! Von Quatloo! I Will Set Fire To The Hills! Von Quatloo! My Enemies I Grill! Von Quatloo! Millions Shall Number My Kills! Von Quatloo! Of Death, I Eat My Fill!

07:20; I destroy/ All joy. Burn all toys/ For all girls & boys. The love I hate/ The hate I freed. Hate I’ll make great/ Love I’ll cut, make bleed. One day everybody will shiver/ the universe I will make my mirror.

07:30; I well remembered/ those I dismembered. I have recalled/ those I mauled. I have surely ruminated/ on those I decapitated. I have called to mind/ Those I left behind blind. I’ve even sung/ On he, I hung.

07:40; Thinking back on my life/ Of causing death, shock & strife/ To child, waif or wife/ Ending all with the knife. Considering my times/ Looting the dead/ And the other crimes/ Prying gold teeth from heads.

07:50; Therefore, when then pressed to assess/ A history, of extreme physical duress/ On the whole, if I could go back/ And had it, to do over again/ It’d be a yet darker black/ And still yet more bloody pain.

08:00; Provided Neil Patrick Harris or Hugh Wooster Laurie is singing this on the West End, in six-to-eight months, the requisite resurrection of Mr Lloyd Weber’s lead singer need never come to exposure …

08:10; LW is a club member, of course. He pours out his pitiful little story of artistic frustration for the tenth time since I revived the girl. I tune it out, concentrating on my accord, with the good ‘Joseph James’.

08:20; Dear boy insisted on seeing picture of Princess Shelley before agreeing. The standards of these mountebank-murderer gigolos these days. I presented him such pictures of PS, unobtrusively obtained …

08:30; … taken from a distance due to PS’s phobia of mirrors, photography or film and so the entirety of her might fit in frame. Her size, rather than her hysterical vampirism, is the cause of her image aversion.

08:40; She is quite large for what is, essentially, a land mammal. Certainly she is anorexic – after all, every time she looks in the mirror, she sees a fat person. I give him a hula-hoop, for reference, to waist size.

08:50; Ain’t no blubber big enough/ Ain’t no depth too low. By now, ‘Joseph James’, has already presented hurried goodbyes to Miss Clymenstra, fraudulently foisting a good excuse, should he need to return.

09:00; LW still, teary-eyed and soused to the gills, looks set on an eleventh recounting. I dismiss the thin-fingered little strangler as my nine o’clock arrives. A Miss Clymenstra, bigwig CEO and inelegant poet.

09:10; Oh yes. Very yes. I replay the start of my meeting with ‘Joseph James’. I still have the microphone-recorder, from when mental projection & perusal required recording equipment. And hours of tape …

09:20; Real time reading reaps rewards here. She is shocked, hurt at the callous tone of voice and cold terms with which she is being discussed by her lover. She is in pain. And she believes; a mighty bonus!!!

09:30; She always suspected … why does this keep happening to her … why does she keeping falling for at best emotionally unavailable men and at worst … at very worst … out right con artists, & murderers!

09:40; She has a good cry. Crying is not to be underestimated. Many times I have tortured someone to insanity, to uselessness, when tears restored them for interrogation purposes. I hand her some tissues …

09:50; … my hankerchief being purposefully pox-ridden. Then I make it clear to her the lack of legal recourse in this situation. The recording, obtained under false pretenses, would never stand up in the court.

10:00; ‘Joseph James’, rinsed of guilt, would wash away the bloodstains and repeat it all again. Unless, of course, were someone to stop him. In personal sense. In a physical sense. In a very permanent sense.

10:10; She ceases snuffling. Of course, she says, this would be for the safety of others. The CEO, deep down inside, thinks something very different, right where I can see it, plain as day. It is as dark as night.

10:20; So strenuous my stressing of this safety situation motivation that she almost believes me. As such, I therefore tell her ‘Joseph James’ should have one more mission. If he reforms, he will go free & clear.

10:30; The subject of this mission will be so pathetic, so trusting, so sad that if his heart is not turned from this evil act then he possesses none & may be put to death without a qualm. CEO Clymenstra chills …

10:40; … until she sees pictures of Princess Shelley. A straight face is kept, equal to my own, as I recount how ‘Joseph James’ shall need to engage in childish fopperies & idiocy to seduce this mammoth maid.

10:50; All I require is a donation. Far, far less than she would have lost had ‘Joseph James’ succeeded in his scheme – even less than the legal fees she would have incurred in pursuing the ostriches of justice …

11:00; … from her, and from the families of all his previous victims. There is quite a list – ‘Joseph James’ had a very guilty, very detailed conscience – didn’t even notice my rifling such, unused, sections of brain.

11:10; I’m obliged to her collecting the contributions for corporal punishment for me. Once the cheques clear, I will forward to each a live video stream from St Vago, featuring Joseph James. For a … judging.

11:20; Yes, I will still shake Princess Shelley like an epilepsy seizure sufferer. That will come in six months. I require ready cash, now. The tally of victims, at ten thousand apiece, sterling, should be £500,000.

11:30; To claim the entirety of Princess Shelley’s pecuniary assets is my aim. In this scenario, it is much preferable that he be dead. If I can have a cabal of conspirators, who would rush to take credit … good.

11:40; Clymenstra, setting out square-shouldered and straight-jawed on her errand, waves back shyly. A strand of the poet is extant, still, I see. Perhaps C would consider writing lyrics, for my new musical …

11:50; … after all, I should be able to inflict pain upon my patrons, so that they might sympathise with victims on the stage. Altogether, that was relatively easy to arrange. Scuppering ‘Mary-Lou’? Easier still …

12:00; … just a series of pen strokes away. I write up a letter, detail events and enclose recordings, to Sir Cyril Pankhurst ‘Deviant-Cable’ Gavotte-Smithington. Backdate couriers that the letter waits a week.

12:10; If I showed him now, he’d never believe. But one week, engaged but eligible, targeted by every tricky tart & totty toff in London; he will find something else. ‘Mary-Lou’s’ conventing would hold him …

12:20; … his sense of honour upbraiding him to resist. But, if he had a reason … anything like a reason … he would accept it. He will have the informant paid off for form’s sake. Then when he starts thinking …

12:30; … Cyril will want her safely married away … then he will want her punished. Oh yes. A formal form of the above conversation with Clymenstra will be messengered over automatically. Cold vengeance.

12:40; Seven days: Clymenstra; to rally the families, Cyril; to be primed as a 1-man ATM. Should all go to plan, & I don’t quite see with even my 3rd eye why it wouldn’t, I will be up 1 million, by week’s end.

12:50; I turn to my invisible audience and bow. Do I not deserve honour and ovation, wealth and oblation? They do not even applaud in return. How patently unmannerly!

13:00; I tell them I know they are here. That they have been here all matin. That I know they know all about my schemes – a compliment to their comprehension. Naught.

13:10; *Sigh* One receives a reputation for irrational cruelty – a candid slur on my rational sensibilities! – all because one’s enemies are illogical buffoons. Ah well.

13:20; I tell Cheshire what she is thinking. She is thinking I always do this to empty rooms. She is thinking I’m bluffing. She thinks she is safe in the corner. Wrong.

13:30; Cane strikes into empty air, connects with the back of her big Cornish head. Unconscious, unitard-attired in Paradigm’s ‘Emperor’ line, falls the invisible woman.

13:40; I wait, while she shimmers into the solid spectrum of light. First the bones – but with her catsuit & cowl, the first thing to reappear are thus the teeth, then light-sensitive eyes, of the transparent Cheshire.

13:50; Read her mind. Atlas sent her, keeping a convivial eye on my new rumoured abilities & I. Sweet, in that sugar is a poison, in excess, rotting one’s teeth, blinding one’s eyes & endangering one’s kidneys.

14:00; Nervous systems overlap & entwine like kudzu. Cheshire requires Atlas’ patronage; her cost of living is high. She can pay her way of course – invisibility! – but not all can be ‘bought’. Like; one’s health.

14:10; Arteries and veins probe into existence, tracing bone. Health can, of course, be bought, but Atlas is one of the few specialist suppliers, aside from Ratman; Invisibles are very often riddled with cancers.

14:20; Tendons & muscles trace out an outline. Invisibles … aren’t. Not in every spectrum. Need to see. Infra-red, thermal imaging … or ultraviolet. Skin intangible; uv permeable. Organs; solid, enough to die.

14:30; Organs inflate into gory existence. Invisibles: act at night. Less radiation, to fry glass-lidded eyes, or wound their on-display insides. Unless: tailored threads so fine as to be unseen, but are still uv proof.

14:40; Skin tone appears in painter-strokes. A suit fit for an Empress. Paradigm used anoviruses to create stem cells from Chesire’s skin, cultured to shift into invisibility with C while protecting C from uv rays.

14:50; Leather catsuit & cowl, sprayed-on tight. Largely boring, except the leather is technically her skin. Almost alive – requires C’s slathering her every bodily inch in a blue bio-plasmic paste before donning.

15:00; Yes, boring, except it is technically her blood. Keeps the suit … stimulated. Red leather from heel to head, the eyeglass apparatus capping her cowl looking like a crown. Night Shade’s work, no doubt.

15:10; Cheshire, red queen of corporate chaos; ‘off-ed’ her head. Croquet mallet, if I’d my druthers; she sabotaged a game for Ratman. Still, never hold grudges; rather release them, wild, to monstrous effect.

15:20; The Vigil Alliance gave her this suit … & the need to work for them, for maintenance. Ex-Cold War agent, ex-industrial espionage agent, aiding the Atlas-Vigil Alliance scheme to privatise world peace.

15:30; Once cogent, I insist on bandaging her boo-boo. I loop the gauze around her head, watch the blood seep into it, make it disappear. Like a photograph development, in reverse. I take a few … samples.

15:40; Of course I wanted her conscious while ‘administered aid’. Time to read her mind, assess her report to Atlas. Not bad; assumes I have thermal-imaging contact-lenses. Also; I want her to feel this hurt.

15:50; Yes, we should fight. The muscle relaxant I administered in her time of somnabilia somewhat stops this. Jefferies escorts her to a taxi, all to glad to oblige rule-bending, given my helping clubbie LW out.

16:00; I sit down. Much to think about, mostly other people’s thoughts. Still, this might proceed faster second time around. This one knows all about speed, and I know all about her. ‘I know you are here.’

16:10; Nothing! Has my observer not obtained an instrumental lesson in what happens when I am meaninglessly defied by super-powered voyeurs in haute couture. I proceed in the face of idiocy.

16:20; Not quite as easy. Her thoughts aren’t easy to read – very fast. All the same, I’m hearing ‘corner-corner-corner!’ in squirrel-speed speak. Will make no difference if I can’t catch up.

16:30; So I do. ‘Strike-Swing-Connect-Connect-Connect-ion! Clobber-Connect-Punch-Connect-‘ ha! TGV’s BORE renders me a momentary swiftness of foot & accuracy of cane.

16:40; A moment of hummingbird movement; then, preciptating out of the air like dew, is the lady in Paradigm’s ‘Physics Cheetah’ friction-free leotard, the super-speedster March.

16:50; Ex-soldier, freed from parade march by an accident with particle acclerators & mercury. Like Excelsoar: no tactile telekinesis. Like Excelsoar: tight suits & boots. Like Excelsoar: laid low, by my hand.

17:00; Fingers twitch in muscle memory. She is Ratman’s errand lass, sent to seek out the source of my strange powers. Constantly vibrating at post-visibility velocity, she remained out of sight for all of today.

17:10; Toes whir, in a floorless staccato-step. March, under the aegis of the Vigil Alliance, requires Ratman’s industry to survive. Money? Moves faster than I the eye. Health? Mental; it is aid behind the eyes.

17:20; Spasm rampage all over. Neural pathways were changed in the quantum molecular mishap. Army med discharge due to psychological instability, because M either perceived time moving snail-speed …

17:30; … or an incomprehensible rush of sensory overload. Ratman adapted Night Shade’s neural net designs, creating cortical info analysers, levelling out a flooded stream of consciousness to a quiet dribble.

17:40; Eyes, in REM sleep. Not that that was the original Ratman adaption. Torture & incarceration; distort a normal viewpoint: wreak instant sensation-scalding or stretch seconds the length of a 1000 years.

17:50; Atlas’ pioneering boy scout bio-tech keeps the kleptomaniacal ex-spy alive and kicking while Ratman’s infamous interim-compensator implants leave this world-saving ex-soldier dead sane. *Laughter*

18:00; She awakes, the albino white, red-eyed. I inspect her head, the implant studs & info jacks ever so delicate. A little sticking-plaster, a vial of blood … an anesthesia where it will metabolise quickly, here.

18:10; Her mind has slowed right down. A preview of her report to Ratman; I may have sonic ear buds sensitive to high-level vibration frequencies in addition to thermal imaging contact lenses. Bully for logic.

18:20; I inspect the elaborate & oversized timepiece strapped to her waist – almost half past six! Time to get the last of these ladies on the road!! Probably not by 3rd storey window, however tempting it is!!!

18:30; March is martially capable & very angry. She is also groggy, and suggestible about ‘being late’ for what I urge is a ‘very important date’. Shuffled into a cab, by the ever-capable Jefferies, I sigh in relief.

18:40; So neither Ratman or Atlas trust me as far as I could throw them and I perceive their fervert fondlings to be done with the craven claws of the Vigil Alliance, Shade & Paradigm as the puppetmasters …

18:50; … good! Enough of this bally mess of praise & accolade. If I’m to be so praised abroad, well … they are disabled at birth as foreigners! Old Blighty is better: my lovely, lice-ridden, gun-wielding-queen.

19:00; Now I alight, fie! As the Club Dungeon Planet xXx of Nantes is known as ‘L’Etrangier’ & the still-under-repair Paris branch known as the ‘Feasting Hall of Fools’, I away to London’s ‘Wonder Land’.

20:00; The Club’s current proprietor resembles Dylan Moran; as if the lout Irish carouser had been borne, by cats, fully-formed, only hours earlier, & particularly for this evening. He is as courteous as always.

20:10; Column of cement bumps my elbow. I turn to remonstrate, then, seeing his calcified condition, allow him a brief reprieve. Sylvestite Stone: currently pilloried for a year due to charges of public sodomy.

20:20; Lithophile – tried to seduce Nelson’s Column. Took his sentence on the chops like a trooper, but allowed leniency in affixing the stone entirety to caterpillar treads. A drinks cabinet would be pushing it.

20:30; Rector Farnsworth leans on the bar, heavily tanned by the light of other suns. Sent by Squid Bishop 3rd-Grasping-Limb to convert the heathens of Paradise Five; Success! A record low genocide num.

20:40; Eternal life, benevolent god & the miracle of consubstantiation; someone has to beat the Catholics to the sweet, sweet nectar of their immortal souls. Even multi-limbed reptoids can be damned forever.

20:50; Even Farnsworth’s worthy conversion report, given in person would not warrant the gas-giant hollow-jump GNP-product expense. But the first interstellar Christian marriage, in the Church of England?

21:00; Shows me pictures of his Intended. Most would recoil in ‘the Horror, the Horror’. I, however, have been studying the missives, & correctly compliment him on the whiteness of her innermost tooth row.

21:01; Their marital bed is – then I hear her mind, reading it, as I’ve always wanted to. Backstage somewhere, yes, but distinctive as I imagined. All in the third person. Intense, time slows, reading real time …

21:02; Stockings first – wide-meshed fishnets with gathered seams running down the back. Her toes keep poking through the holes, threatening to tear the fine material. The lace garter belt holds them in place.

21:03; Next an intricately-patterned pair of black lace panties, French-cut, of course. The material feels strange going on; an errant fold in the lace in fact a gap, cleverly hidden, for all their apparent ‘elegance’.

21:04; The matching black bustier is snug in the back; a few adjustments to the straps makes it … bearable. The bottom was even more restrictive than the top, compressing her ribcage several inches, at least.

21:05; The dress itself; black silk, white lace trim. No maid, French or otherwise, ever worked in such a getup: not in any domestic capacity. The cut in front; a slightly rounded ‘V’ – usually a squared-off ‘U’.

21:06; The cut: dress conceals nothing not already covered up by the ornate bustier. The back; similarly low-cut, leaving most of her smooth back bare – discounting the ‘ornamental’ ribbons, holding it closed.

21:07; Lace trim abounds, naturally; skirt section takes it to extremes. Three separate layers of stiff, lacy folds were attached beneath, as a kind of ‘underskirt’ that extends just a bit past the dress’s hemline …

21:08; The crinoline; starched and reinforced, presses the skirt out at almost right angles to her legs. Hem only coming to a mid-thigh, the final effect is quite ‘pronounced’ especially when walking; the whole …

21:09; … has a tendency to sway from her hips, moving as a unit. Of surprising-high quality, one expects cheap fabric, glue; instead, the lace & silk are soft, the stitching well-concealed and surprisingly strong.

21:10; A delicate pair of fingerless lace gloves: clasped at the wrist. A black ribbon choker: unornamented, but for the lace trim. Dangerous-looking eight-inch stiletto heels: patent leather, shined mirror-bright.

21:11; Thick, white powder-paste applied everywhere skin shows, until not a shadow of burn scars surface. The blind bumps of her old optical orbs thus pasted in a putty she thumbs colour contacts on each.

21:12; A wet noise: the light-weight Guy Fawkes mask – minus moustache – seamlessly adheres into place. She tests: the artifical glint of her contacts in the mirror, waggles her silver tongue through the mouth.

21:13; The dark-haired page-boy wig, straight strands at mid-neck length, sits evenly along her bald head. She pats a useless headpiece – lace trim on satin even here – into place into the perfectly-coiffed hair.

21:14; Check: paste dried to a flexible skin-like surface, uniform across her frame & bone white. Jewellery; A mauve-flecked agate, set in silver, lies pendulous between her breasts. Does not check; hypnotic.

21:15; Left hand; pinky: ‘*’, ring: ‘D’, middle: ‘O’, index: ‘L’, thumb: ‘L’. Right hand; thumb: ‘F’, ring: ‘A’, middle: ‘C’, index: ‘E’ pinky: ‘*’. The letters are reversed – readable only in mirrors, & bruises she inflicts.

21:16; She snaps the fake nails into place, red as the rouge & lipstick of her mask. An exercise in razors. The paste puts them in their place – she lost any chitinous growths they could be attached to in the fire.

21:17; Earrings, simple silver hoops, attached to ersatz earlobes on mask-edge. Hearing: perfect, as are her senses of sight, smell, touch and taste. No idea how, all her sensory organs immolated, but: perfect.

21:18; Does her scales, like a schoolgirl. Doctor Shutter Grutt thought music studies to be appropriate Accomplishments for such wilful a girl as herself. She even played her violin, as Grey Field burned down.

21:19; She considers the fire – enveloped everything! – eyes, ears, hair, tongue, skin! -And them I am out! The pain is beyond comprehending; she regards it as a nostalgia, of the loveliest thing she ever made.

21:20; Then the house band starts up & I have eyes only for the stage! Eyes, ears, noses, lips, skin in fact; they all look a pinch blank!! But beautiful, all the same: Doll Face & The Men O’ Rags N’ Patches!!!

21:25; Doll Face: committed to Grey Field Sanitarium back in the dull days when a wild night on the town could get a girl sectioned as suffering clinical nymphomania on the word of 2 doctors. Ah, the 1980s.

21:30; Shutter Grutt vapid psychological theory: dressing women in petticoats, chastity belts, high heels, ball gags, maid uniforms & whatever else rattled his chains, would curb their ”gross, sexual tendancies”.

21:35; In an isolated town owned by the ‘Step-Forward Wives’ Institute, Grey Field Sanitarium used haemhoraging-edge of hallucinogens, pychotropes, electric shock therapy, neurosurgery & ”mood music”.

21:40; Along with Music, Doll Face was encouraged to take up Painting, Gardening, Cookery & Dance, moderate pursuits designed to ”restore” women to the golden age of sexual inequality & impotence …

21:45; … from which she graduated top of her class. Receiving her diploma from Dr Grutt himself, she was their success story. Very successful – in how she spinning-kicked Grutt’s throat, shattering his larynx.

21:50; In a move adapted from her Dance, she silenced Grutt & his vocal control over her & her classmates. A dance-karate sequence later & all the orderlies were immobilised, just before gas filtered down.

21:55; Mixtures from the art room & the kitchen had created mustard gas, napalm & various poisons. Released, visited upon the ceremony’s attendants, through proffered refreshments & burning art projects.

22:00; Grutt, in his greasy fumbling, had produced a being of enhanced kinesthetics, nonlinear senses & brilliant intellect. She was more merciful than they; she killed them before the garden nitrogen exploded.

22:05; Odd old tale isn’t it? Probably entirely false. Can’t read ‘her’ mind – her pain is too exquisite … Did you know Grutt submitted ‘dysfunctionally homosexual’ men to the same treatment? Food for thought.

22:10; Backing up the most scarred ‘woman’ in singing is none other than the Men O’ Rags N’ Patches: have stab wounds all over their bodies. Could sew them up, but they prefer to let their stuffing hang out.

22:15; A quintet of knights errand set upon a witch regarded to practice the occult art of poppetry; European equivalent of voodoo dolls. Seduced them sufficiently to snatch sorcerous hair samples from each.

22:20; Souls welded to lifesize mannequins (more skin space sensation, like QK’s gorilla suit) & tortured into a catatonia. Unbeknownst to the witch, souls survived in the dolls after the original bodies burned.

22:25; They awoke to glass eyes, leather skin & smiles sown onto their faces. What they did to the witch is unrecorded & they have no physical brain to read. Still – Gingerbread Houses do burn very merrily.

22:30; They give me ‘Doll’s House’, ‘Play Time’, ‘Cut The Strings’, ‘Punch & Judy’, ‘Maquette of Terrible Purpose’ & ‘Guy Fawkes Set Alight’. Her voice should not work, making it mighty. Still: time is down.

22:35; Descending to soundproof private Private Rooms, I easily relax. A day started swerving the intrigues of such intelligent enemies as Ratman & Atlas will end enjoyably, playing a simple game of poker …

22:40; … with Ratman & Atlas. Oh yes – received the invitations yesterday. Tipped their hand in a sense – they make it best practice policy to eyeball my handheld technologies before our regular card games.

22:45; Atlas & Ratman games are stuff of super-industry stories. Once monthly these titans in the business of metahuman moneymaking, research & development play, share ideas & lie like old grandmothers.

22:50; To liven things up, beyond simplistic card-counting & reading of facial tics, there is the added element of Turing-Testing. In essence; oneself, Ratman & Atlas are ‘real’ – the other 2 players; may not be.

22:55; Clones, robots, ghosts, zombies & aliens – these two are utterly unscrupulous when it comes to creating counterfeit card-players. In one case they convinced the invitee that they were the automaton …

23:00; … where as I, invited to 20 games, have yet to be fooled by everything reasonable & several things that weren’t; if I hadn’t met that ‘young boy’ in his office as avatar of the moon, they’d have had me …

23:05; We’ve bluffed each other over green baize for years. The cheating is assumed of course; its only poor form if one is caught: aught else is fair game in this game. Mind-reading; this will be so very merry.

23:10; Ratman; no aliases extant. Appearance: Richard Branson, dotted with plug-in ports & tattooed in binary code, all where a Sunday suit would cover them. Mind-read: bursts of static, squeals of silence.

23:15; Ratman: An Apocalypse Engine, The Army of Empty Children & 5 out of every 9 Electric Valkyries. As ill-used as they were by their purchasers, R’s designs were the essence of the unethically sound.

23:20; Atlas; no known alter ego. Appearance: George Best, pierced neuro-pressure points & metabolic-patched joints, usually hidden, by formal dress. Mind-read: bogus belches & pseudo-silent squelches.

23:25; Atlas; A-Genesis Generator, The Greatest Generation Restoration & 3 out of every 7 Papal Reboots. Bad-handled by good-minded masters, A’s solutions were otherwise epitomes of clever kindness.

23:30; The game itself in the back of my mind, I focus on the possible fake among our other attendants; an attractive young woman with digitized red eyes & a large, maybe-mechanical, green-haired gorilla …

23:35; … neither of whom is fake. Both quite human, I’m sure, though, like Ratman & Atlas, I cannot read their minds. A & R might do much to outwit me, but mindless doubles of their girlfriends goes too far.

23:40; Queen Kong; Ratman’s social significant other & secret test pilot of his bleeding-edge tech. Former Navy experimental diver, debilitated in driving 1 of R’s prototypes. Paraplegic; possibly an amputee.

23:45; QK: product of 50 engineers, 28 surgeries & £12 million. Brain & nervous system silicate studded, QK’s larger-body/tactile-area allows an almost-human skin-sensory-receptor count of ’16-squared’.

23:50; Eve Austin; Atlas’ hetero life partner & silent lab cat of his state-of-the-life science. Ex-Air Force test pilot, nervous system schismed in nerve gas exposure spared by A’s medsuit. Spinal cord severed.

23:55; EA: blood, sweat & sundry other fluids of 68 biologists, 20 neurosurgeons & £10 million. Cortico-muscular, kinetic-supressor & neuro-metabolic patch implants allow 17 articulated decimal pressures.

00:00; So: the other players definitely not doubles of A’s & R’s girlfriends; many gynoid crafters has discover this the hard, ‘cricket-bat’ way. Also; R doesn’t know EA is a hero & nor A know QK is a villain.

00:05; Now, the politics of the day pronounced upon, A & R conversate upon the speculative. A thinks R is speculating when he opens with an acid vat death trap & R thinks A is speculating when counters-

00:10; -with an akaline-base bomb! R: trapdoor-drop into a spike-filled corpse-pit! A thinks a moment, then: sketches out an anti-grav device powered by ambient energy from the akaline-acid voltic battery!

00:15; This is but an old opening gambit – soon they soar on imagination, their rival views powering their magnificent minds more than any other stimulation, just as it apparently was in their college days. Aw …

00:20; … how sweet – R has just proposed the triggering of a supersonic pulse designed to deafen, defecate & derange its subject. A, with but deftly defused remains of R’s earlier tornado torpedo to hand …

00:25; … he quickly constructs a counter-frequency canceller from the torpedo’s scanner-simulator: a sonorous silence tolls. However: the Law of Conservation Energy cannot be flouted even in conversation.

00:30; The theoretical lair explodes in shockwaves of song, the opposing noise released from the impromptu device’s constraint. Hilariously, this will almost certainly be a future adventure of those contumelies,

00:35; -The beautiful & svelte villainess known as The Female Guerilla, designation Major Nagi & her constant clasher the bulky and brauny heroine known as Airman Mechanic, codename Captain Carter …

00:40; … running respective research & development black-ops for Ratman & Atlas. Queen Kong’s green fibre-optic follicles & huge frame allow ranges of sense & emotion, bereft from the ‘her’ inside her …

00:45; … aka Major Nagi. Shorn of the bigger experiencesuit, her strength trebles, her sense of pain is quartered, her expression resembles a botox-botch overdose & she is a small, strong, senseless cyborg.

00:50; Secretly armed with Ratman’s latest villain tech to test, Nagi is quite terrifying. Wielding weaponery seven generations beyond even the government, only Eve Austin might stand proud, in the guise of …

00:55; … chrome-covered Captain Carter. A heavy sensory deprivation suit, designed as an exoskeleton for her to learn use of & grow strong in her cortico-stimulator augmentations is now her battle armour.

01:00; MN vs CC, will, in an inevitable few months, repeat everything here theorised in life, all the requisite traps & gadgets reproduced as hand helds. But where was I? Oh yes; the fake of the 5 is therefore-


Daftwager Twitter Fiction: Day 54 – St. Vinescent Witblood of Narn!

December 28, 2009

Day 54:

07:00; ‘Mary-Lou Freebush Shauchenfreude’ agreed. She insisted on seeing pictures of Leonard beforehand, then insisted she could leave herself a back door to her old con, then cried a little, but she agreed.

07:10; I worked up to it; 1st a picture of Herman Pavell, Leonard’s stand-in; While ‘Genghis’ beats all before him, joyfully, with his ‘braun’, we re-film all such bouts with Pavell for Leonard’s delusional review.

07:20; Pavell: how Leonard sees himself; Perfect pectorals, fabulous abdominals, divine deltoids & great grapefruits of genitalia. Floor-length lab coat, leather gauntlets & PVC posing pouch are ‘the dressing’.

07:30; Pavell’s re-filming served to enforce a clean & clear break with reality. Leonard, happier, watches & re-watches his ‘battles’ ad infinitum, in Castle Totemborg’s cinema, the only ‘real’ apparatus therein.

07:40; She must see Pavell as ‘Omegan Deathveil’ bows to ‘Baron Genghis ‘Brute-Caesar’ Napoleon-Totemborg’, hands her blade to ‘Doctor Sprungfeld ‘Lightning-Rod’ Bach-Stabbington’ in her submission.

07:50; And then there was the real picture of Leonard …

08:00; To her credit, & as she had not eaten since 5pm, ‘Mary-Omegan’ dry heaved little. The acne, the boils, an overbite; these are only a creator’s cruel cross-hatching upon cadaverous body & a waif face.

08:10; On the minor details she is extremely perspicacious. Only in semantics do I try to correct her. She stated her mission as helping ‘Genghis’ to take over the world. Inaccurate: ‘he’ believes he already has.

08:20; Not the whole world, but continental Europe, Asia & Africa. UN leader-actors will attend their wedding in chains; not the Queen, as we had to ‘bomb’ ‘London’. Most treasonous tabletop model, ever.

08:30; Smuggled out invisibly by midnight light, ‘Omegan’ has flight booked for Berlin, the connection there to ‘Totemborg Blimp’, to arrive in Bad Hersfeld just behind the Daftwager-dossier, outlining her role.

08:40; A brief mind-read reveals that, for now, ‘Omegan’ will go along with the plan, with an option to later renew her streak of betrayal & attempt to cut me out of the payoff. Those instincts are very sharp …

08:50; … sufficiently sharp that she will cut herself, if she betrays me. The only other apparatus that actually works in Castle Totemborg is a self-destruct. ‘Genghis’ does not have the trigger; it is only I who do.

09:00; Breakfast: silver-dollar pancakes & fried iguana eggs. Mail: Already received a mysterious black inked letter on white paper, another vice versa the first & invitations to High Tea at Terma Gent’s Club.

09:30; Tea, at noon, without the rattle of tea cups in the wake of cannon-fire. How quaint! TermaGents is yet-more exclusive than La Pantalon Rouge; men can’t even pay to get it in. Or want to, for all that …

10:00; I visit Top Hat’s statue in the London Cathedral cemetary. This, too, I laced anti-graffitti’er carniverous carnations. Shroudog, interested, does not notice the pilfering of bones, from Cortex Cad’s tomb.

10:30; Cad’s physical relics should stave off any attendant senilities of his soul jar. Thankfully, he was in a mausoleum rather than totally interred. A little invisibility goes a long way in the resurrection man’s job.

11:00; I infilitrate Terma Gents, invisibly. There the Josephine Brand portrait, here the Germaine Greer print. One wall bears the works of Emily Dickinson, another quotes, from Virginia Woolf’s masterpieces.

11:10; Altogether: finest, refined female minds in London. Lady Sybil ‘Volcano-Day’ Plath-Zombistra puts forth an Italian defence against Professor Dementia ‘Rusty-Bar’ Cogliostro-Brink, on the chessboard.

11:20; Feng shui floorplan: Dame Norma ‘Genie’ Solomon-Blatt & Viscountess Superia ‘Dream’ Genuflect-Cantor, serial stealers of each other’s businesses, are promoting their new co-written self help book.

11:30; Under chandelier: Nobel Award winning doctors Nadia ‘Cortes-North’ Nephilim & Gabriella ‘Deep-Ice’ Benevolentia are showing off smaller models of their fuel cell technology, active in automobiles.

11:40; By bay window: Inspector Janis ‘Redcoat’ Trousseau-Barnes, of the Yard, talks to business nemesis catch-me-if-you-can career criminal cat-burglar, Cheryl ‘Magpie’ Finder-Keeper-Jones, over wine.

11:50; Famed Ministry of Defence spy-turned-3rd World revolutionary, Captain Nomenclature ‘Self-Destruct’ Squint-Vole lectures loud, on her time with the insurgents of Uganda, before being blow-darted.

12:00; Quiet! The Terma Gent Club; male-free, (besides Club-Code-mandated 4pm-5pm open poetry slam, for male relatives, over 21, with staff present, in the Tea Room) since their 1st suffragette success.

12:10; Nice to visit, yes but, even if my visa extended beyond these brief business hours, I wouldn’t stay. It isn’t the company of women that aggravates me, it is the company of women making a point in an …

12:20; … excision of the company of men. Posturing, uptight & avowed mysandrist Termagents (the legal name of this club). But when they fall from rules to lusty drools: gulliblity. A greatly redeeming feature!

12:30; Don’t mistake me; the prolonged boyhood of the Agnate Club, with a special place in its heart for old school food (the arteries, blocked), the juvenile pursuits of my ‘peers’ & a ‘no-girls’ rule wears thin.

12:40; It is only when a member leaves the immediate aegis of such clubs, like fish tempted from coral reef cover, that they become my fodder. Am I a ‘shark’? Perhaps. We are both misunderstood badasses.

12:50; Currently I ask Maid de Lune, discreetly, as to which ‘ladies who lunch’ might be being led on like the luciously lucrative lemmings they are, over a cliff of marriage & into a financial meatgrinder, below.

13:00; True, soliciting such from gregariously gossip-girls would be easier than child’s play; ‘ovum play’, if you will. I certainly do. But the reason for the barrier is my very means of surpassing it: Lune is no girl.

13:10; I myself laser-surgeried de Lune’s body hair & chemically stimulated his natural breasts into existence. Quite the cosmetic surgery victory & well advertised, (though more for the resulting prison break).

13:20; Simply: While working days in the Swiss Gesund Heights Surgery & Spa Treatment Resort, on a fictional, profitable patient, I spent my nights in the Swiss Vault Depths Prison & Reformatory Institute.

13:30; As previously stated: I have never been ‘incarcerated’. Staff doctor, at 1 of the most secure facilities on Earth (no Lunatic Asylum, but adequate), holding some of its greatest criminals: I met old friends.

13:40; The Vault Depths: mostly holding those who tried to steal from the Swiss Vault itself. Notation: ‘tried & failed’ does not apply to the Swiss Vault, because the term ‘tried & succeeded’ never has, either.

13:50; There was Doctor Morningstar, passing time until a beast of his creation came. Dark Heimdall, when they still thought mere mortal chains could hold him. Laughing Gas, his power curdling within him …

14:00; … & there, between Dead Letter & The Albatross, was de Lune. Nothing special, except that he was the least physically or mentally gifted to attempt to rob the Swiss Vault. The stupidest in the barrel.

14:10; Apparently he had been romantically entangled with a teleport, who had connivingly convinced dL that her powers were so different to the norm that they could defy even a standard Swiss Vault’s safe.

14:20; Reality ensued: they attempted to break in, they learned why no teleport, invisible or dimension-phaser has been able to steal from the Swiss. The teleport managed to escape, whereas de Lune did not.

14:30; Swiss Vault-Depth prisoners have chances; unlike The Vaults themselves (whose contents don’t need to breathe, eat, excrete or exercise & don’t attempt escape) Geneva Conventions protect inmates.

14:40; De Lune couldn’t fly, summon weevil armies & didn’t control crime syndicates. One might say I empathised. I wouldn’t, which is why I resolved to purge the pity by inserting breasts in dL, inside prison.

14:50; Preliminarily, plans went thus: with breasts, de Lune had the singular favour of some of the richest, most solitary men in the underworld, & their lawyers. He sold old commodities, in an artificial vacuum.

15:00; Secondary Stages: as de Lune’s cash on ‘the outside’ rose steadily, I prepared my argument for the warden. Both as part of  my defense & a specialist branch of dL’s industry, de Lune began to lactate.

15:10; There are 1000s of cases where male prisoners of war, due to malnutrition, resulting in liver problems, began to lactate spontaneously. Misappropriating my files, so it seemed dL began lactation first …

15:20; ‘Prisoner of War’, never a term a warden wants to hear, signed off on my ridiculous claim that as a psychological therapy for dL’s emasculation of lactation, to which he had consented, I gave him teats.

15:30; Dr. Shutter Grutt, whose ‘petticoat rehabiliation’ was then-experiencing a (very) brief revival, had done worse without consent. Grutt couldn’t contradict, after Grey Field Sanitarium Fire & his own end.

15:40; Meanwhile, de Lune acquired sufficient funds to hire one of the most prestigious human rights lawyers on the continent. I testified as the prosecutor’s medical expert on his ‘liver disease’ for great fees …

15:50; De Lune served much-reduced minimal-security sentences. His customers: angry. But, seeing how much de Lune had made, a few male shapechangers arranged that they should be ‘caught’ in Vaults …

16:00; Unlike Jefferies & the Agnate Club, not only the TermaGents know de Lune’s past, they also hired him straight out of prison, for slightly more than they pay their female employees. I do not know why.

16:10; The soon-to-be nuptially-nabbed of the Poetry Slam poets are easy to distinguish, even without de Lune’s info. Their intendeds are obvious in the audience, they smile constantly & their poetry is awful.

16:20; Prosthetnic Vogon Jeltz: ‘Oh freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me/ As plurdled gabbleblothits on a lurgid bee/ Groop I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes …’

16:30; Poetmaster Grunthos the Flatulent (not confined to patriachal beauty paradigms): ‘Ode To A Small Lump Of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning’.

16:40; Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex. This is the low point. It is not that ‘there are no words’, it is that there are far too many of them, all of them from Paula.

16:50; Dead Letter’s daughter discovered her love was a bigamist, spoke a tailored-to-him Mind Worm Geas & sent him into mouth-frothing beserk-convulsions. This was considered the evening’s high point.

17:00; Hard act to follow, Dame Clymenstra Freckhilde ‘Aberrant-Meerkat’ Charleston-Jonesbury gives it her all, reciting doe-eyed to a tall-dark-&-ravishing in the front row. He is either deaf, or dedicated.

17:10; I mean no insult to Clymenstra herself, who financial acumen has created a sturdy fortune in banking, & I mean every insult to her poetry. She rhymed ‘blossom’ & ‘bosom’; I rest my case, conclusively.

17:20; … Abruptly I take the fellow’s arm on the way out. Yes, he struggles. A mention of a few past targets calms him down, as it did ‘Mary-Lou’, & so ‘Joseph James Goldhedge de Javu’ comes to my club.

17:30; It is good of ‘Joseph James’ to pay the taxi fare. Still, it by no means makes up for his past misdeeds. Not even for Mrs. Sautland: the pills, in her coffee, & what her daughter did, to herself, afterwards.

17:40; He even holds the door open for me. How sweet! Habit, no doubt; such a practised liar. Ms. Kleinmann found that out, just after she signed that legal paper proffered to her by big men with short hair.

17:50; Such a svelte voice. Quite simply darling! Voice: it was what won Miss Julia over. She would have followed him anywhere, & did. Right to a brick-walled room: her kidnapping video was filmed inside.

18:00; I lay it out for ‘Joseph James’; yes, Clymenstra is rich; not solvent. In the face of recession, she has leveraged her company to the hilt. By his face of incomprehension, sock puppet aid may be required.

18:10; Difficult concept for both of us: Clymenstra is a good person. She isn’t pillaging the payroll & pensions; rather, she is throwing in her own finances with her employees, to protect them. Highly deranged.

18:20; Nevertheless, she has no money to spend. She will be a millionaire, easily, but a decade away. If ‘Joseph James’ tries to split the estate under divorce, the creditor house of cards falls & he gets nothing.

18:30; Clymenstra is an anxious poet. As ‘Joseph James’ looked upon her so earnestly, she considered the above threat to her company. Dismissed, naturally, in the face of false adoration. Such useful doubts.

18:40; In the end he might get 50,000 straight settlement & 50,000 in accrued alimonies. For ten years. Or, should he accept my offer, he will earn (as much as he has ever earned anything) 10 million pounds.

18:50; One year, at most. Quite possibly: under 6 months. Minimal risk. The mark: One ‘Queen Cleopatra ‘Morgue-Merlin’ Boediccea-Dreamcatcher’, aka ‘MaterPriestess Delphi ‘Holy-Fire’ Angeli-Ka’! Ha!

19:00; Royalty is a little rich for his blood: secret service security checks & act-of-treason capital punishment judgements being what they are. He is not encouraged by further facts like: the crown is dirt poor.

19:10; That Mediterranean mudpie she ‘rules’ was long ago annexed into diplomatic extinction is detrimental to his interest. That the queen is quite mad, ugly & rabid does deters him, yet further. He stands up.

19:20; That her mother, prominent spellcastrix, patented an extremely simple type of incantation, with no showy value whatsoever, & had accumulated approximately 34 million pounds, by her end, stops him.

19:30; It was father who was the etioliated prince of an all-but-dessicated race. Mother millionaire left all her riches to daughter after spouse passed: the fortune made & the non-royal royalties of her spells …

19:40; … He sits. How is it, he asks, that I know we can take her for her fortune? I know because, of the original 34 million, I have, over the past 7 years, taken approximately 14 million of ‘Cleopatra’s’ cash.

19:50; I met the gel while working for the Ouijinni on his Dagon-Homunculi Army. Magically-made, the DH did still require all their vitamins & minerals; in their case mercury & the blood of forsaken children.

20:00; The Death-Gold Djinn Palace, cemented in blood, bone & gold ore, had the high steps of legend the DH were, as legion, to march down. On an orphanage supply-run, I found her fainted, half way up.

20:10; I couldn’t leave her there. The DH were due soon; having to step over an insensate gel would break their stride! The kindest thing to do was to roll her down, using her ‘staff’ as poking-device/leverage.

20:20; Unnatural History Records: Fey League of Recondite Gentleman Sorcerors smashed Ouijinn’s Board, deliquiscing Djinn Palace into shifting silicates. Of my kidnap of a napping heiress, History is silent.

20:30; Her humvee made the making good of my escape easier, & the considerable stash of cash in her well-concealed wallet inspired me to keep her. ‘A victim in the garrote, is worth two in the sniper sight’.

20:40; Listening to her fevered ramblings on the ride back informed me entirely of ‘Cleopatra’s’ designs on evil-stomping. A credit check on her license (Princess Shelley Snease) said I should allow her to live.

20:50; 3 years before Leonard Kopf, I conceived of my ‘masquerade’ scam. Ouijinn inspired; every time O’s Board was found, its finder felt that 1 of 3 wishes should resurrect O’s DGD Palace & DH Army.

21:00; ‘Cleopatra’, who was to wish upon my star of disaster, would live out her dreams of bravely fighting lich wizards & demon saints. Dreams of being a hero sealed her absurdities quite completely for me.

21:10; ‘Cleopatra’, bold & beautiful as the day she was became queen of the pirates who kidnapped her after her strange-yet-famously-strong magic clan was wiped out, leaving her the only heir to its secrets!

21:20; Just as with Kopf’s science, Snease’s private reality retroactively retconned her parents into: a chin-clefted brave-kind king of a lost kingdom, & the pert-buttocked sassy-genius witchchild of the moon.

21:30; I had ‘Cleo’ ferried to her large Mediterranean island manor house. St. Vago’s, a speck-in-a-puddle island with the strategic significance of a poop, no shops & a tourist industry composed of maroons.

21:40; ‘Cleo’ sleeping off a sunburn & heatstroke, sufficiently of sound mind(!) & body to take me as confidante (once I displayed an understanding of all she had disgorged, in the desert) to comission my aid.

21:50; 3 events on St. Vago’s: An unused aerodrome was built in WW2, finished by war’s end. A fantasy film, ‘Traum Siegfried’ was filmed 1970s there, plastering faux hieroglyphs over Civil Defense notices.

22:00; Finally, its subsistence fishing industry: collapsed. Widespread poverty, music to my ears as it already was, made manipulating local mayor/post/fire/police/drug-dealer was so simple it was high physics.

22:10; By the time ‘Cleo’ was conscious, again: the entire town of St. Vago was in collusion with me, just as Kopf’s household staff still are. St. Vago’s former fishermen: pirates, quaintly-loyal to ‘Queen Cleo’.

22:20; St. Vago’s net-weaver ladies: white-robed priestesses & sacrificial daughters, of the moon, in ‘Cleo’s’ temple (unused aerodrome). Sundry St Vagos: vampires, zombies, deepest-trench’s lloigor spawn.

22:30; Archnemeses: illusionists, playing the parts of Dr White Horse, Dark Scythe & Frog of a 1000 Spawn. Specially made: Fenroar; Alpha Moonwolf, Brahm; Blood-Royal Vampire & Luke, Hell’s Duke.

22:40; Fenroar, Brahm & Luke, along with her allies Angel Michael, Wizard Bildungsroman & Captain Flash: strapping-young local-boys. ‘Enemies/allies with benefits’ respectively, ‘Cleo’ bedded all of them.

22:50; Mater Priestess to her temple, Queen to her Pirates & Protector to the entire magical world. Dress: costume catalogue’s ‘Slave Leia(?)’ outfit, & slender white staff, topped with a murky ‘moon crystal’.

23:00; ‘Joseph James” role in this? Of late, while outwardly spunkily-independant as ever, her private chamber prayers to the ‘Moon Goddess’ have hungered for an equal mate. Well: very-almost equal mate.

23:10; Unlike Kopf, I do not require a professional because any girl could have caught him & not cut me in. I need ‘Joseph James’ because prior attempts in ‘Cleopatra’s’ making mates have never stuck, long.

23:20; Allies & nemeses alike, she eventually rebuffs them. Kopf, obsessively compulsive, adhered to his self-imagined story, strictly. ‘Cleo’s’ story changes with mood & interest, & so does a designated boy.

23:30; First she is witch anointed to destiny by her iron-toothed grandmother, then an angsty half-vampire struggling with her bloodlust, then a phantom of girl sacrifice brought forth by a goddess, for revenge.

23:40; ‘C’s’ ambassador to the ‘realm’, I’ve charged her 14 million in fake ‘mystical’ props to her inelegant charades: good. But: even her eye colour changes – I can’t arrange a seduction to end this production.

23:50; Solution? St. Vinescent Witblood of Narn, Haemomancer-Osteopath of Twilit Order, Shapechanger Scion of the Masqueraid Tribe, Former-Fallen-Angel & Now-Arisen-Demon, ‘Savior of Naegea’.

00:00; ‘Joseph James’, consumate actor that he is, will reveal layer after layer, in a 7-veil dance in self-sacrifice, shame, angst, death, loss, rage & violent purpose – all the emotions shallow folk fantasize about.

00:10; He will arrive on her island, hunting one of her enemy/lovers, summarily dispatching them with excessive ease. ‘JJ’ will then turn on her, arbitrarily mistaken into thinking that she was in cahoots with evil.

00:20; Banter will ensue, each condescendingly advising the other to back down. They will battle – she will not win. She won’t have it her own way, for once. He won’t win either, of course; melee interruptus.

00:30; Taking this chance, mutual enemy to the protagonists, The Leviathan shall rise (Navy surplus submarine). Buckling & swashing, hither & yon, both will be incapacitated by a swift sweep of its tentacles.

00:40; Awaking simultaneously in the underwater grotto of the The Leviathan’s Sea Monkey Servants, they will argue incessantly & blame each other for getting captured. Then the jailers will begin the torture.

00:50; ‘Cleopatra’ will laugh at threats of torture attempting to illicit private datum (the temple’s ‘secret spell’, perhaps). Already knowing no physical torture could bend her, they will torture Vinescent, instead!

01:00; He will scream in a manner in which it already pleasures me to imagine. Tossed, broken & bleeding (No. 4# Makeup) into the cell, he will be yet more resolute in their war, against The Leviathan’s evil.

01:10; At the threat of his death, she will divulge the info as she has fallen in love with him. As The Leviathan imbibes the spirit of the goddess in an attempt to destroy the whole world, last-min saves are tried.

01:20; Vinescent will propose a perfectly legitimate course of action. ‘Cleo’ will agree, then perfunctorily stun him & kiss his sleeping lips before leaping fearlessly as the Leviathan’s sacrifice, to halt its evil rise.

01:30; ‘JJ’ will wake, realise the purpose in ‘Cleo’s’ deception, find her apparently lifeless corpse, tear his shirt asunder & cry ‘No!’ to the endth power. Freed Sea Monkeys will begin to keen their new queen.

01:40; ‘She made the ultimate sacrifice for us. We didn’t deserve her. Worst of all, I never told her my true feelings!’ Luckily, his true love & mum’s magic amulet she always wears, will miraculously revive her.

01:50; Roll on the wedding bells & cease the snare-drum beat of ‘Cleo’s’ transient seditions. ‘Joseph James’ shall take to himself 10 million pounds. Disposal of new funds, & wife, will be at his own discretion.

02:00; All I require is my 10 million & his discretion. Princess Shelley’s end was always arranged as dead or left-to-die – this will end the unwieldly illusion, once and for all. I turn: ‘So, do we have an accord?’