Propaganda Pipeline

Unbearable!

2011-09-18T12:43:00.000-04:00

continued from The Loyal Order

before the Dark Times

Dossaic Realm

Antechamber in the Temple

Bruce pried loose the last fuse and tossed it into the widening portal. He watched it burn off on the event horizon as the twinkling crack stretched into a bear-sized portal. Its pink light reflected in the koala's black eyes. He closed the access hatch and turned to enter the final Send command.

Ling Ling stood between Bruce and the controls. The panda grinned as best a bear could and said something haughty in Mandarin.

Bruce cut him off mid-sentence. "You're not from

China

," he said. "You're a Dossai. You're just in panda form right now."

At this, the panda looked considerably less pleased with itself, but spoke, "I said the rest are dead and you're next."

Bruce believed him, from the sounds of carnage he'd heard and the blood spatter on Ling Ling.

In reply, the normally lethargic koala whipped a boomerang out from under his chainmail vest and hurled the weapon. It streaked past Ling Ling, and the panda barked laughter at the feeble attack.

But Bruce had not missed at all, for his target was the GO button on the controls.

The aperture flexed and hummed behind the koala. "G'day, mate." Bruce stuck his little tongue out at Ling Ling, spun around, and scurried through the waiting portal.

Earth - the mother realm

"Alert Alert! Warp Jump detected!"

Dossey looked up from his work in the Armory. He'd almost forgotten he had that alarm, it hadn't sounded in so long. He pushed away from his workbench and rushed over to a large wooden trunk that looked as old as he felt. Prying it open, he groped through its contents.

"Incursion imminent!" the computery voice chirped another warning.

"Dammit, I heard you the first time," Dossey growled at it, still groping around for the right tool.

"Aperture eminent," it added.

"Oh, ha ha," Dossey muttered at the computer's bad pun.

At last his hand brushed up against the cold metal of his little companion. He freed the device from the mass of mess in the trunk.

Dossey cradled the gadget and prayed it still worked. He brushed off the screen, adjusted the antennae, and flipped the power switch. It stared back blankly at him, so it he gave it a whack and that seemed to do the trick. It whined to life.

Dossey trudged outside and began immediately to sweep for valences. Buies Creek was a Nexus - one of the points where neighboring realms butted up against each other.

But there was no way to predict exactly where an individual portal would open, as arrival points varied with the shifting of dimensions and their moods.

Past the cafeteria, Dossey headed to what was almost but not quite a park. A gateway opening here in plain sight of students shuffling between classes was the last thing he needed.

The sun beat down on him as he looked about for the telltale smoke. Thank the Lord he'd grabbed his fedora on the way out the door - it shielded him from the sun.

There! He spotted the glimmering, warped air and tendrils of smoke. He rushed over as quickly as his sandals would let him.

The portal was a massive, festering, pulsating orb of light and heat. Such a big gateway meant a big visitor, maybe an army. Not good news. Dossey scanned the surroundings, but saw only bewildered and frightened pupils.

Out of the corner of his eye, a glimpse of smoke revealed a slight, smoking shape huddled by a decorative stone. Dave hurried over to what he took to be the traveler, who looked up on his approach.

"Don't let me down," the little guy said.

"Bruce?" Dossey replied, but before the koala could respond, the portal crackled, popped, and smoldered; flexed its unearthly maw; and out of the hot gate lumbered a black and white bear. The portal sputtered shut behind him.

When he spied Dossey hunched over by the rock, the panda reared up on its hind legs. So of course Dossey did the same.

The panda wore one of those conical Asian hats. What were they called? Coolie hats maybe.

Malzuh? More importantly, the panda had a gun strapped to its furry hip.

The Panda said something Dossey couldn't make out. So he just shrugged in reply. It sounded like Chinese and Dossey was allergic to Mandarin.

The panda sighed, but translated, "You must be the Exile."

Dossey frowned at this painful reminder. He'd been cast out of the Dossai and indeed his home realm for violating the Rules of Order. Interpreting the signs before his brothers, he saw conflict coming. And so he'd converted his old cave into an armory and set himself to manufacturing weapons.

Ling Ling shambled over to the brick pathway and slowly but deliberately reloaded his gun. There sure were a lot of bricks, he thought, looking down at the path and over to tangled web of walkways. Must be a brickyard nearby that gives them a deal.

Dossey shook the dark thoughts from his shaggy head and stepped onto the brick sidewalk to face this interdimensional intruder.

At that, Ling Ling holstered his weapon and stared down The Dossey.

Dossey raised his hand near to his own shooter, a custom revolver he'd crafted to only fire deadly, poisonous darts. It hung at his side hanging from a belt loop by a chord of twine.

Across the brick path, Ling Ling tensed, save for his gun hand, which hovered lightly over the pearl handle of his own lethal-looking eight-shooter.

What students still remained, sensing the coming firefight, scattered.

A stub of bamboo stuck out from the corner of the panda's jaws. He worked the bamboo shoot around a bit, before he spat it defiantly into the dirt.

A discarded plastic bag tumbled slowly by in the breeze.

Time stopped.

Quick as lightning, hands plunged for guns, wrists twisted to aim, barrels thundered; Time rushed to catch up with it all and it buffeted reality around them.

It was over as fast as it started. Ultimately, pandas are slow animals and despite Ling Ling's experience, Dossey was quicker on the draw and always shot from the hip, gun or not.

It was actually kind of anticlimactic.

Dossey walked over and checked the panda's pulse. Nothing. Dossey looked down at his own revolver with some pride. A successful field test of his most recent creation!

He was distracted from his revels by a student peeking around a primordial oak trunk. "Mr. Dossey killed an endangered species!" the student wailed. "Oooh, I'm telling!" And off the student ran.

Great. DD had enough difficulty staying out of trouble with the university. The last thing he needed was animal cruelty rumors. Speaking of which:

"Bruce is that you?" Dossey rushed over to the slumped koala. "Are you injured?"

"Huh?" the koala blinked its big black eyes. "No, I must've just dozed off."

DD looked the small bear over. Singed fur and burnt blood. He was in bad shape.

"Might've been one too many slides for you," he told the koala.

You are the Exile no longer," Bruce wheezed. "Our brothers are slain. You are the last Dossai." He stopped to cough, which Dossey thought funny since the guy reeked of cough drops.

"I destroyed the control mechanism," the koala struggled to say. "The aperture will cascade and destroy the machine and the entire Temple cavern. The Dossaic portal will be of no use to the Enemy." He panted with the exertion of so much exposition. "That won't stop 'em, but it will slow 'em down a mite."

"You did good, little buddy," Dossey told him, blinking.

"You ok?" the koala asked.

"Just got something in my eye," DD said dismissively.

"You can never go home," Bruce coughed, "but we will be reunited after the long hibernation…."

"… in the forest of eternal spring…." Dossey completed the quotation.

The koala nodded then clawed at Dossey's vest to pull him closer. "You are Rah now," he said with one final gasp. And then li'l Bruce died right there in Dossey's arms.

Dossey stared at the lifeless furball in silent shock. His revolver fell from his hand to the grass.

But from that day until his dying day, he was called Dossey-Rah.

To be continued!!

The Loyal Order

2011-09-17T15:21:00.001-04:00

before the Dark Times

The Dossaic Realm

The Temple

Ling Ling chewed absentmindedly on a shoot of bamboo, his eyes slowly taking in his new brothers around the Table.

Grizzald finished off his mug of mead and mopped his wet snout with a furry paw. "Why are we here?" he growled. "I thought we agreed to stop congregating, that it was too dangerous."

Around the Table, the substantial shapes of the brotherhood cast odd, hefty shadows in the flickering light, the low ceilinged chamber lit only by a string of lanterns that dotted the cavern like silent sentinels.

"The Exile believes he has located the Chosen One," Kodiak reported, but his attention was on the tin of snuff he was trying to open with his claws.

"I told you it was a mistake to send David," the smaller black bear, Baribal, snarled. "This is too delicate a matter for him."

"He was the only one of us still able to assume human form," Grizzald pointed out. "He was the logical envoy to Earth Realm."

"What other Choice did we have?" added Ephraim, the brown bear, talking with his snout full of salmon.

The Koala said nothing, just sucked on a cough drop. His glazed eyes did not seem to focus on his surroundings.

The Polar Bear's nose curled at the smell of the eucalyptus. Articus did not care for the new additions to their Order. The purring Koala seemed drunk or stoned all the time and the Panda was stupid and lazy. He gave them both an icy stare. It was a sign of the desperate situation that the Dossai had even accepted these poor man's bears into the Order. What was next? he wondered. A Russian-speaking platypus?

Across the Table, Ling Ling noticed Articus giving him the stink-eye. This polar bear looks ridiculous in his Hawaiian shirt, he thought. Are those supposed to be 'retirement' clothes?

Ling Ling could not stand the smell of fish. All around him, the bears gorged and the stench of salmon was pungent. I hate those omnivores, he thought. I hate their guts!

"If Dave has truly tracked down the Foretold One," Baribal chuffed, "the Veranda must not find out."

"Major Ursula," the Grizzly asked, "what news on those enemy troop movements?"

At the one end of the old, wooden Table, a she-bear stood up from her seat. She was the only one of them wearing armor, Ling Ling noticed. Must mean she was in the Dossaic militia, the only warrior among them - the rest were scholars, scientists, monks, and/or drunkards.

"My best agent, Nanook, missed the last check-in on her stealth mission," the major reported. "I fear the worst."

She held up an AIM chat transcript. "Prior to her disappearance," she continued, "our last intel indicated a significant reallocation of manpower and assets by Verandan forces."

"They're up to something," Kodiak growled. "I can smell it." Ling Ling didn't see how Kodiak could smell anything anymore.

Baribal grunted in reply, "And I'd bet my right paw they already know about the Foretold One."

Articus nodded his white head in agreement. "Which means, they'll make a move to intervene on Earth Realm," he said.

"They wouldn't dare!" interjected Ephraim.

"Perhaps not directly?" Articus said. "But clearly they mean to act."

Nods all around the table, so Ling Ling nodded, too.

At the far end of the Table, a faint, scratchy voice spoke for the first time. "Kodiak, warm up the gateway," the old, gray bear instructed. "Prepare for incursion." It was their leader, finally electing to speak. The Decision had been made.

He was Bobo-Rah, the Elder and de facto boss. He was shrunken and gaunt, and had his paw in a honey jar most of the time. This elderly fellow wore a top hat and monocle as if an attempt at some dignity; it just came off as comical, Ling Ling mused. Maybe he was a former circus bear?

"Intervention?" asked Ursula, adjusting her beret.

"What Choice do we have?" Ephraim pointed out.

"You keep saying that," Articus said coldly.

"Set emitters for the mother realm," Grizzald ordered, quickly finishing another mead.

But no one had moved yet. The Panda, silent until now, stood up - and all eyes were on him. The 'bear' growled something in what must've been Chinese. And that's when they noticed he had pulled from under the Table a firearm.

"Bears do not carry guns," Articus barked. "It is against the code. Only Man carries a gun."

The Major was the logical first target and the shot knocked her back. Blood slapped across the cave wall where she hit.

To say that the others were not in the militia was true, but they were still bears. Any one of them alone was an intimidating opponent; Ling Ling now found himself in a small room full of large bears.

(A cave of bears was best left sleeping, but these weren't sleeping. Even the damned Koala was awake now.)

Although quite outnumbered, Ling Ling brandished a shooting iron and he knew that would even up the odds nicely.

The bears shot to their feet, knocking over their chairs. Not one showed the slightest sign of fear - just alarm, alertness, anger. Their snarls and growls filled the room.

Only the cowardly Koala scampered away, quickly retreating up a nearby column.

The Grizzly leapt up onto the large, round Table and roared! All he got for the display was a face full of buck shot.

The urisdae dossai rushed their former brother and, while they put up quite a fight, there was no room to fight; they were in each others' way. The Loyal Order was ultimately no match for the armed panda.

No room to fight. In each others' way.

It was over very quickly.

Ling Ling stepped over the bodies and approached the aged ring leader. "Any famous last words?" he asked.

The gray bear glowered up at Ling Ling. "You're not a Bear," Boborah croaked out, his aged body quaking with fury. "You're nothing but a wannabear!"

BLAM! the old bear slumped to the side of his leather chair.

Ling Ling licked some blood from a paw and looked around at his handiwork. Someone was missing…. Yes, that runt of a bear koala was nowhere to be found.

In no particular hurry, the black and white would-be bear lumbered out of the chamber.

the story continues in Unbearable

Tempest in a Teapot

2011-09-01T10:14:00.001-04:00

RALEIGH - Breaking news in the wake of Hurricane Irene: Chief Diplomat Zachary Attachery announced today that the potentially devastating hurricane was thwarted or warded off when a last minute settlement was finally reached with the infamous fairy hordes.

The sprites had long been seeking official status as 2nd-class citizens, an upgrade from their non-person (3rd-rate minion / persona non grata) status. As you will recall, a rebellion in the cornfields of middle-America resulted in catastrophic battle and very nearly an all-out war.

Therefore, the Pipeline is pleased to report that an accord has been reached in which fairies will be paid wages and even have a designated representative in the Imperium, which the fairy folk will elect to speak for them in the congressional body. Their representative even has a special title, which we're told will be Stenographer.

Although the Diplomatic Corps denies it, sources within the Operations Division tell us this surprise agreement was reached when the fairy bands held hostage Americanadia's east coast with a massive tempest and the fairy queen, Titania, threatened to "unleash hell" last weekend.

"I realize this might on the surface seem to be a defeat for the Empire, but I want to assure you this is all part of the Plan," Operations Chief Nazionale spoke from his private villa in South Carolina. "Minorities and non-humans can't just be given rights. They have to earn those privileges or else they won't appreciate them."

Fairy Wrangler Patterson, however, who hitherto headed up the effort to crush the pixie revolt, left the Pipeline several angry voicemails stating, "Gol durn politicians! Ah'm so mad Ah could spit!"

To the Time Machine! - Part 27

2011-08-29T16:39:00.000-04:00

"Interro-view"

Continued from Part 23

LeTrent was so pleased to be Security Chief, he was practically glowing.

Never mind that a ferocious skyscraper-sized Venus flytrap somehow infiltrated headquarters on his watch and very nearly destroyed this fledgling Empire before it had even begun.

Everyone has bad days. And, besides, those security breaches weren't his fault. That could've happened to anybody.

When the next threat to Imperial security came, LT would be on top of it. He would be ready. He would not be caught off guard. So it was time to move on!

A strut would be the best term to describe LeTrent's stride. There was a particularly proud and self-pleased demeanor to his swagger. Behind the chief, shuffled the sullen, allegedly time-traveling detainee, Lorma Doom. She was cuffed and escorted by two Imperial guards.

This odd quartet reached the end of the corridor. LeTrent's arm jutted out to shove open a door and ran smack into a crowd of WOMEN laughing, chatting, and adjusting their sexy outfits.

The seemingly confident Security Chief might have thought himself ready for any threat. He was sorely mistaken.

On his best day, the prospect of facing a solitary female was enough to send LT into the sweats. An entire mob of misses might cause a complete panic.

At the sight of all those deep cuts and high lines, the strut came to a sharp, screeching stop. Behind him Lorma Doom and her two guards plowed right into him.

What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? Lorma was not just a prisoner of the Empire; she was a prisoner of Physics.

They smashed into the gaggle of girls. The resulting pileup rendered the crowd of chicks to Chaos.

Handcuffed, Lorma tried to break her fall with one of the girls, but was knocked to the hard floor instead. She swore upon impact, causing several of the surrounding girls to blush.

The writhing Whorde was all around her and on top of her, arms and legs entangled and supine bodies intertwined. Lorma struggled to right herself. This was her chance to break free.

For a second, she thought she recognized one of the damsels. But then someone fell on Lorma's face, obscuring her view.

The tangle of women was a hot mess! It took Security Chief LeTrent quite a few minutes to sort it all out, especially since he had difficulty looking the ladies in the eye.

Or talking to them.

Later

in the scorched Theatre

The cuffs cut into Lorma wrists, she could already feel her shoulders aching, and her fingertips tingled from poor circulation. She shifted awkwardly in her chair, unable to sit comfortably.

She was again onstage in the auditorium, but the table and chairs told her she was there to be interrogated. Well, she wasn't going to sing, that was for sure. She set her jaw, ready for tough questions, extensive persuasion, and possibly torture.

"Hello, my dear."

Lorma lifted her head to see who was speaking to her in such an erudite voice.

"I'm Harem Supervisor Doyle," the man said, "naturally." All sophisticated charm, he sat down across the table.

"And according to this, your name is Lorma Doom," he continued, opening a file folder and skimming it. "Lorma Doom, huh, funny...."

"Yes," she sighed. "Like the cookie." A tired old joke.

"Cookie?" Doyle asked, then nodded. "Oh, yes. I suppose. I was alluding to the phonologic Blackmoore novel and its iconic Irish heroine." He looked up from her file. "But the cookie is good, too."

"Why am I here?" she said sourly.

"On my personal recommendation, His Grace has seen fit to reactivate the harem protocols. This interview is to review your application and determine your aptitude and ------."

"Harem?" Lorma recognized that word. "Is this some kind of punishment?"

"Punishment? Hardly," Doyle almost scoffed. "As harem supervisor, I can personally assure you will receive the greatest care and attention. You and your welfare will be in my very capable hands."

None of this made any sense to Lorma Doom. Was this how they always treated prisoners? Or was it just her perpetual bad luck with men? Even in the Past, she couldn't escape her bad fortunes.

"Now, there isn't much info in your file here, which is odd," Doyle noted. "What kind of experience do you have?"

"Experience?" Lorma asked.

"Yes," Doyle answered.

She was terrible at lying, so why not try the truth? Couldn't hurt. "Before I worked on the Brute Squad--" Lorma began.

"The what?" Doyle interjected.

"Brute Squad," repeated Lorma.

"Oh my," Doyle said, and made a note in the file.

"I attended an all-girls school," Lorma continued.

"I don't think you're following," he stopped her. "How many boyfriends would you say you've had?"

"Boyfriends? Let's see," Lorma looked at the ceiling, as if doing the math in her head, "counting high school, college, and my time in the Empire, I'd have to say ... none."

"None?" Doyle asked. "So you're a ...?"

"Yes?" Lorma was confused.

"Excellent," Doyle said, taking her question for an answer. "Surprisingly, not very much of that around here."

He made some more notes in the file.

Great. Just great, Lorma thought. I'm here to witness my File get created, and it's already mucked up.

Meanwhile

In the Interrogation Room

(formerly the music library)

The two guards shoved her roughly down into the chair. "Hey, careful I'm a delicate flower," she said. The guards left the room.

She counted the ceiling tiles. That accomplished, she fiddled with the new dress she'd made.

How long were they going to make her wait?

After cooling her heels for what seemed like an hour, Keena jumped and clutched at her heart when LeTrent finally burst through the door.

"I'm Security Chief LeTrent," he said, and pulled out the chair opposite Keena.

"I know who you are," Keena said. "Why are you here?"

"Don't play dumb with me," he sneered back at her. "We know all about you and your friends," LeTrent said, tossing her file down on the table. "So start talking."

Striking a pose, one foot up on the chair and a hand on his hip, he leaned down to stare at her. "Tell me something good and maybe I won't feed you to the triceratopses."

"Triceratops," Keena corrected him. "And they're herbivores. Hey, is that my file?" she reached out to the file folder and lifted up the edge to peer in.

"No one looks at their own file!" LeTrent slapped the folder shut and snatched it back across the table. "That'd be a terrible breach of protocol."

"Kind of thick, isn't it?" Keena noticed. "I've only been here a year."

"Exactly," LT sneered, leafing through the folder. "We've got a lot on you. It'd be in your best interest to cooperate."

"Oh, I'm a team player," Keena said, helpfully, with a wink, "if you know what I mean."

This went right over LT's head. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

"The harem auditions," Keena said, a bit mystified, "just like the other girls."

"You really expect me to believe that?" LT scoffed.

"Um," Keena said, "yes?"

"Tell me about the time machine," LeTrent insisted.

"The Time Machine?" Keena hesitated, but replied: "It's a novel by H. G. Wells."

LeTrent frowned, looking at some papers in his hand, and said, "Kenna, is it?"

"Keena," Keena recognized the document as her harem application and résumé.

"Riiiiight," LT held the application up in the florescent light as if it might hold some secrets. "Tell me, Kenna, how many time travelers are there? Are you a lone agent? The vanguard of a larger temporal invasion?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Keena stammered. "Is this some kind of obscure role-play?"

"If it were, I'd be the first to know," LeTrent shook his head. "No, I'm afraid this is no game. Now ---"

"Wait," Keena interrupted, "why aren't you looking me in the eye?"

"I'm asking the questions here!" LeTrent said. "Did you really think you could infiltrate us so easily? You stick out like a sore thumb."

"This is discrimination!" Keena was starting to get red in the face.

"Krenim nation?" LeTrent tried to control the alarm in his voice. Aliens from the future??

Keena continued as if she had not heard this remark, "It's because of my scooter isn't it?

"Scooter?" LeTrent seized on the idea, "yes, the scooter, that's your time machine isn't it? Your time cycle!"

"I admit it does resemble Wells' time machine, but believe me - it has only two speeds: Turtle and Rabbit. There's no Time-Travel mode."

"If you're not a time traveler, why do you keep denying it?" LT insisted.

"What? That doesn't even make any sense," Keena sputtered.

"Another denial!" LT huffed.

"I'm not a time traveler!" she cried.

"That’s exactly what a time traveler would say," LeTrent thumped the table triumphantly.

Oh, he had her now.

Back in the Interview Room / onstage

"You are familiar with the Concubine Rebellion, of course," Doyle said,

"Um, not as much as I'd like to be," Lorma was completely out of her element and winging it.

"It's my job to ensure we don't have an uprising like that again," Doyle pontificated. Happy to tell a story, his eyes lit up. "Mistakes were made, petitions ignored. But all that is in the past. Today is a new day."

It was only then he took notice of how she was sitting. "I see you brought your own handcuffs," he commented. "Very kinky. That'll help on your score."

"What? Look, I've seen the filmstrips. This is sexual harassment, and I don't have to take it."

"You might be in the wrong line of work," observed Doyle.

"Tell me something I don't know," Lorma sighed.

Spitler Day 2011

2011-07-18T23:00:00.000-04:00

RALEIGH - Perhaps out of resentment for being forced to work on a holiday, the legislative body we call the Imperium met this morning to try Political Officer Spitler for "crimes against the Empire."

Normally, such hearings are held in closed sessions before only a subcommittee, but the Political Officer's interrogation was docketed for a rare, full congressional session in the Forum of the Imperium.

While not without precedent, this large a hearing has not been seen since the Dark Times.

Much to the surprise of many, the High Commissar took time from his shadowy and presumably busy schedule to answer the charges. Or so it appeared at first.

This reporter cannot recall seeing the Political Officer in anything other than military fatigues, but on this occasion Spitler arrived for the proceedings early in a coat and tie.

And so it seemed the inquiry was set to begin.

The Spitler stood accused of masterminding the invasions of Uranus and Neptune, manipulating the Emperor himself, pushing for war upon endless war that took their toll on the budget and stretched the Empire thin.

Spitler remained strangely silent as the politicians pontificated, but once they began to fire impertinent questions his way, the Political Officer simply cleared his throat, then waited as hush fell over the crowd (no one was injured).

All eyes on him, Spitler leaned into his microphone and spoke in a loud, clear voice. "You dare question my loyalty?" he said. "My Choices? As I see it, you are all guilty. Guilty of wasting my time with this political posturing and kangaroo show trial."

He snapped his fingers into the microphone and the sound reverberated off the Forum walls as if the building itself snapped.

This was the cue. A squad of smartly-dressed commissars burst through the ornamental doors, marched into the room, and quickly placed the entire congressional contingent under arrest.

"You will be sent to Political Re-Education," Spitler informed the assembly as they were led away in chains. "We will make good Imperial citizens of you yet."

The Propaganda Pipeline is therefore pleased to announce that Mr. Spitler subsequently cleared himself on all charges.

On an unrelated but equally happy note, we are also pleased to announce the formation of our new sister publication, the Spanish language news feed, Pipelino Propagrande.

A Climate of Debt

2011-07-15T12:42:00.002-04:00

RALEIGH - Emperor Andy walked out of a high-level budget talk today at the seat of the Imperium.

"It was really boring," he told one reporter in the lobby outside the legislature.

Asked if there was still a chance for the Imperium to reach a Compromise, Andy winced and replied, "Please don't use the C-word."

The Glorious Founder voiced his frustration at the wily Imperium members. "I don't see what the problem is," he said. "Yes, we spend more than we bring in. Yes, we have a massive debt that increases every year.

"But we haven't missed a payment in years. Our credit score has got to be through the roof! There's no good reason, at least none that I've heard, that we can't continue transferring our balance from one credit card to another."

Amidst these intense budgetary negotiations, Anti-Opposition Party leader Consul Pytell was accused by the Operations Division of siphoning money from the weather satellite program and hiding it in extra-terrestrial bank accounts.

The so-called "climate change" over the past few years has directed a lot of attention to finding a way to control instead of predict the weather.

Pytell is head of the climate control subcommittee, charged with funding, constructing, regulating, and maintaining weather-controlling satellites around the Earth.

Prior to his appointment to the Empire's highest law-making body, however, Mr. Pytell was C.F.O. of Bob's Fine Accounting, an agency notorious here in NC for its "creative accounting."

"You can clearly see on this document," Pytell explained during the hearings, holding up some complicated and impressive paperwork, "where the climate money was transferred to the Imperium's special Bribery account.

"The weather satellite funds," he added, "were re-appropriated for bribes to be given to Earth's weather gods.

"For more information, see the Thor movie, out in theatres."

Speed Demons

2011-07-04T11:31:00.001-04:00

RALEIGH - More and more traffic cops are riding with a new partner these days and we don't mean Jesus. We mean the next best thing.

"Raleigh Civil Protection, in conjunction with the Catholic Diocese of Raleigh, is working to pair every officer on the highways with an ordained priest," explained Commissioner Honeycutt. "The priests will perform road-side exorcisms at traffic stops. We mean to purge the Triangle of this speed demon, once and for all."

Beyond the immediate concerns, largely ignored, of a possible violation of the separation of church and state, the Atheist Civilized Liberties Union filed a formal protest against the RCP.

"Forced exorcism is a violation of civil rights," Mrs. Stallings, head of the ACLU, explicated. "You've got drivers pulled out of their vehicles on the side of the road without warrant or trial. I realize things have changed since the inception of the Empire, but sometimes 'innocent until proven sinful' might be worth remembering."

The cooperation of church and state for this pet project is due in thanks to the large religious lobby and is ironically funded by a new motor fuel tax.

"Just because you're a pagan or heathen doesn't mean you can't share the road with everyone else," added Honeycutt.

Motorists will see Civil Protection officers out in full force this weekend. Historically, the large Dependence Day crowds are too juicy a temptation for the police to ignore.

The new secular-spiritual partnerships have had an unexpected and positive side effect, as Officer Sixguns explained. "Now when I beat down a suspect I might not hit him quite as much because I know there's a second set of eyes judging my every move."

Ah, yes, judgment. Now, that's my Empire!

Captains Outrageous

2011-05-07T10:40:00.003-04:00

Part 9 in the Space Pirates saga!
continued from Part 8

The Emperor was partial to Earth. And so declared a ring should be put on it. Thus, the famous green and blue world is encircled by a silvery, man-made ring that serves as a defense platform and as the primary Imperial fleet shipyard and commercial docking station.

Without warning, the Imperial fleet was forced to scatter as the mammoth spacecraft dove right through the fleet and rushed toward the famous, orbital docking-ring.

The flagship was not designed for maneuverability, but rather for intimidation. Thus, she protested and groaned at every sudden shift and turn.

She was Chocolate Love Stars and her name belied her lethal nature. She was the dreadnought, the prototype, the only one of her kind, a ship so massive she often traveled without an escort fleet. Just the sight of the colossal vessel dropping space anchor in the sky was enough to intimidate most alien worlds back into submission and compliance.

Now, here she was in Earth orbit, bearing down on her home world's orbital docking-ring.

Perched in the former navigator's chair, Fleet Admiral Turmel leaned into the console and pressed his fingers against the attitude and thrust control panels, forcing them to comply, pushing the ship harder than she'd been pushed since, well, ever.

To his left, the pilot matched his posture, repeatedly tapping at the controls before him, then finally in frustration smacking at the indicators with a closed fist.

There are war games and then there are war games. The first type of war games is when a fleet stages mock-battles between its own ships to practice for actual war. The second type of war games is an invasion or military action that is dubbed "war games" for political or strategic reasons.

Whatever the nomenclature, the fact remained that the Imperial armada had never faced off against a Dreadnought. She was the first of her class. No one knew what to expect or even how to fight it.

"Let's go left ... ish," Turmel decided. His pilot grimaced, but nodded, and the two jerked on controllers in tandem.

Chocolate Love Stars lurched into a sudden turn and rolled towards Earth's ring, at first presenting her broadside as a target, then quickly moving too close for the defensive platforms to target her. She accelerated, her conventional thrusters burning bright and hot.

The pursuing Imperial fleet dived after her, trying to stay with her, but forced to hang back to stay clear of her immense engine wash.

A slightly unflattering smirk crept onto Turmel's face. "If they want to fire at us now, they risk hitting their docking ring, too," he said with barely contained glee.

Staying tight on the spacedock, the dreadnought barreled along down the length of the docking ring. The pilot and new co-pilot, only occasionally trying to turn the ship in two different directions at once, directed the flagship in a tight corkscrew around the ring to avoid the target-locks of the pursuing fleet.

"Admiral, I've got a new signal," called out the sensor op. "Stealth cruiser de-cloaking. Aft."

Turmel glanced at the rearview screen and did a double-take. The blurry image completely filled the viewer. He recognized the silhouette immediately. It was a dreadnought.

"Not possible," the radar op exclaimed. "It must be a trick."

"No, it's no trick," Turmel surmised. "They must've pulled the Writing on the Wall out of the shipyard prematurely."

"She's accelerating to intercept," the sensor op added, alarm growing in his voice. "She'll overtake us in two minutes."

The pilot and the admiral looked at each other in surprise. The new dreadnought was faster than Love Stars?

"She's hailing us," reported the communications officer.

Turmel groaned. "Put it through," he said.

"Chocolate Love Stars, this is Captain Mallory," the woman on the other dreadnought said, her voice firm, but even. "You are in violation of orders and committing an act of treason. More importantly, you are outmatched. Stand down and surrender your vessel."

Admiral Turmel snatched up the comm-unit from the helm console.

"Perhaps," Turmel growled into the receiver, "but not today."

"Sir," the pilot said, "you have to hold down the 'Talk' button."

To be continued!

The Great Easter Egg Hunt

2011-04-24T21:05:00.000-04:00

The Vernal Equinox was upon them and Doyle found his spring break interrupted.

On a rare break from his studies, the Imperial Game Warden was stalking a new prey. He crept through the underbrush, treading quietly, careful not to disturb the flora.

He was close. He could feel it. A few feet further, he parted the tall grass and beheld a sight that few men had.

The size of an ostrich egg, its shell bore nearly every pastel in the palette.

Doyle cautiously lifted the egg from its hiding place, opened the basket he'd acquired from an authentic German supplier, and eased the egg into the waiting weave.

Even with his keen skill, it had taken Doyle the better part of the morning to find this specimen. But now that he knew where to look and how, the rest should be easier, he mused.

He was on the trail of an elusive animal that only came out of hibernation once a year to lay its eggs before it would retreat again into its clandestine warren.

to be continued....

Budget Woes, Budget Whoas

2011-04-08T19:55:00.003-04:00

An old one that never got published, for your enjoyment, as we go through yet another budget crisis.

2010 Budget Approved

RALEIGH - The Imperium and Andronicus today announced they had finalized the budget for 2010. Speculation and outrage have been swarming since the Imperium approved a bailout for the failing clone industry and financial sector.

The bailout led Andronicus to do away with printed money here on Earth, whose value was declining, instead switching to coins with his head emblazoned on both sides. Much of the solar Empire has already been using a one currency system of coins.

Ops Chief Nazionale had warned the Emperor of the error in the switch, noting the value would be the same whether in coin or paper. But Andronicus stated he would then mint more. Ops Chief argued minting more wouldn't fix anything. Andronicus countered saying, "Silence! That's nonsense! Besides using coins saves trees and whenever you save anything it’s a good thing."

In front of his Excellency's Domicile reporters questioned Mouthpiece Scott, who is, due to the recession, also serving as Secretary to the Press. Asked about what provisions the budget has for the bailout, Mouthpiece stated, "I don't want to get into specifics but we feel confident all sectors have been well provided for."

A reporter responded, "Without getting into specifics, what can you tell us budget-wise that would make the Imperial minion feel good about this budget?"

Mouthpiece returned this statement, "Without getting specific I can vaguely tell you that Andronicus and his staff feel strongly they accomplished what they set out to accomplish."

"Which was?" a reported snapped back.

Mouthpiece quickly replied, "I can't comment in detail, but the mission was completed."

Andronicus was later quoted as saying, "The budget is monetarily wise, fiscally sound, asset savvy, cash smart, capitally strong, and richly rich in riches."

Nix this War!

2011-04-06T15:41:00.003-04:00

NIX - This faint, distant moon of Pluto is one of many solar bodies caught in the middle of what officials are calling a "transition," that is to say a revolution and not the kind where a planet spins around.

Yes, war has come to the small moon called Nix. Open rebellion fills the streets and canals, but is facing harsh counter-measures from the current military dictatorship in power.

Citing humanitarian concerns, Emperor Andy unilaterally ordered the Imperial Legions to intervene in what many suspect to be an attempt to annex a key moon in the Kuiper Belt.

"I am not opposed to going to war," Praetor Smith pontificated during a recent Imperium debate on the subject. "Warfare is part and parcel with running an Empire. Waging war is human nature.

"The Opposition Party contests the decision by our Glorious Imperator to declare war without first seeking a vote of approval by the Imperium," the Praetor elaborated. "His Excellency certainly does not have to run his decrees by this body, but the military campaign, however benevolent in intent, must be funded. And that is the responsibility of the Imperium alone."

Although General Kolberg would not outright disagree with the Emperor's methods, she did similarly voice concern about funding. "This operation is costing Earth almost $400 million a day," she explained. "And that doesn't include the long-term maintenance that will be needed as we burn through robot soldiers.

"Tell me, what happens if the War Department checks start bouncing? Will they still expect me to keep intervening on these moons and dwarf planets? Of course they will."

"I don't even care," Consul Pytell confided in us between sessions. "I vote against everything."

Oh Whey Oh

2011-02-03T14:41:00.001-05:00

CAIRO, EGYPT - Mass protests broke out in the Gyptian city-state this past weekend when the Internet was disabled nation-wide.

Thousands of citizens who had never seen the light of day stepped blinking into blistering gaze of Ra.

The city streets filled with disgruntled Gyptians. Protestors clashed with civil protection officers across the land.

Not able to rouse himself from the Internet long enough to investigate the problem personally, the Emperor dispatched his brother, Chris, to put down the uprising personally.

"It isn't clear so far what all the peasants are furious about," Chris told our Arabian correspondent. "Everyone is speaking some foreign language. But they are very upset, that much is clear.

"I think they are tired of building pyramids," Chris added. "Something about bricks and the last straw?"

Chris was, notably, still wearing the same pair of eyeglasses from last week's State of the Empire address and it was not clear how he could see any protests with those fake eyes painted on his lenses.

"I did find out what all those jokes about Denial being a river in Egypt were about," he admitted.

Shadow of Death

2011-02-02T14:39:00.000-05:00

PUNXSUTAWNEY, PA - The Commission for Climate Control announced today their chief psycho-meteorologist and mystic weather predictor, apparently a large rodent native to North America, prophesied The Doom of All Mankind.

"The groundhog saw his shadow burned into the ground due to an atomic detonation," a spokeswoman stated, before zipping up her radiation suit.

"The prognosticating critter then retreated into his hole in the ground. The verdict: Six weeks until Armageddon."

So we're all doomed. Is that reason to panic or bury our heads in the ground?

Consul Pytell, of the Anti-Opposition Party, doesn't think so.

"I certainly won't be spending my last six weeks on Earth hiding in a hole in the ground," the former Pennsylvania resident told us. "I'm gonna find that psychic rat and eat it. Bet he won't see that coming."

State of the Empire - 2011

2011-01-28T15:23:00.000-05:00

RALEIGH - Emperor Andy gave his annual State of the Empire speech yesterday before the gathered Imperium.

"Everything is going according to plan," Andronicus assured the citizenry, "you know, probably."

A record number of minions tuned in to watch the speech last night on TV, beating out the watching-paint-dry channel by a not unsubstantial margin.

Wait, is it unsubstantial or insubstantial?

We have the highlights of the address for you:

"Imperial academies are the backbone of our education system," the Foretold One waxed. "In order to ensure that only the most dedicated individuals apply for instructor positions, we will keep salaries at their current all-time low. I don't want people going into teaching for the money, but rather for those warm fuzzy feelings you get when a child reads his first draft letter."

As is the custom, Chris, Brother to the Emperor, sat in his place of honor behind the Imperator's podium. As is the Brother's custom, Chris wore his trademark glasses with fake eyes painted on so he could sleep through the speech without anyone being the wiser.

"I want to take a moment to address your concerns regarding the Imperial Constitution," the Chosen One said, "the ever-living document which purportedly lays out the structure and methods of the Empire of Earth.

"I've heard from many of you that you'd like to see the constitution, perhaps even read and retain it. I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of an Imperial Constitution.

"If it exists, know that its contents are kept secret for your safety and security, which are always foremost in my mind."

The Potentate even took time to address some nasty rumors.

"Finally, I want to address this long-standing concern over the inability of the Museum of Andy to produce my certificate of authenticity, proving that I am the Chosen One, destined from birth to rule.

"I can assure you it does exist," Emperor Andy explained. "I made it myself on the computer."

Hive Minded

2011-01-09T15:09:00.001-05:00

RTP - One of the many recently leaked documents smuggled off the Def Star (the nickname for Earth's man-made moon) revealed what may be the source behind the recent sharp decrease in the population of bees across the home world.

The acquired documents, if authentic, implicate the EPA (Exploitative Planetary Agency) in a serious conspiracy to wipe out the beeline races. The EPA approved a pesticide it knew to be deadly to bees.

"Yes, well, that's the whole point isn't?" asked one EPA rep. "To kill bugs?"

"Not all bugs are bad," we proffered.

"The EPA begs to differ," the rep replied. "The only good bug is a dead bug."

The Office of the Emperor saw fit to hold a press briefing on the alarming leak.

"This is Rumor Control," Mouthpiece Scott began her official statement.

"Yes, we killed the bees," she said up front. "By secret decree of the Glorious One, the lethal pesticide was sold at a steep discount to farmers.

"How could His Excellency have foreseen the consequences to the ecosystems and agriculture?" the Mouth asked. "Let's face it. Nobody's perfect, but the Emperor is the closest thing we've got.

"Everyone complained about the Killer Bees, everyone was terrified of the Killer Bees, everyone wanted the northern progress of the Bees halted," Mouthpiece rounded out her diatribe, "but when someone actually did something about it, suddenly the armchair generals turn on their protectors.

"It stings a little," she concluded.

Total Recall

2010-12-27T21:00:00.005-05:00

NYC - The Surgeon Colonel held a press conference today to announce the recall of the infamous Loyalty Chip.

"I apologize that the Surgeon General herself could not be present for today's briefing, but she was called into emergency surgery at the last minute," the surgeon colonel stated.

"It is with much regret and a heavy heart that the Department for Public Health announces a serious series of recalls on several model numbers of brain-implant compulsory microchips.

"Multiple models of the allegiance-inducing, brain implant have either malfunctioned or perhaps even contain some flaw in manufacturing that is only now beginning to surface.

"A full investigation is under way," the colonel elaborated. "Citizens will be contacted if they need to report to their local infirmary. And the recalled model numbers will be furnished to all state papers."

The surgeon colonel refused to say whether loyalty chips could be removed from a minion's brain without terminating the patient.

"It is the department's policy never to comment on ongoing surgeries," the surgeon colonel explained.

Clearly, the breakdown of such a fundamental technology bodes ill for the Empire.

Political Officer Spitler had this to say: "If loyalty becomes a Choice instead of an unconscious requirement, we'll be back to the Dark Times when everyone had to be watched," he confided to one of our embedded reporters. "Well, watched more than they are now."

We later discovered that this embedded reported was actually embedded in concrete by the Office of the Commissar and dropped into Lake Wheeler, despite the lake's unsuitable depth.

According to a note safety-pinned to our reporter's coat, Mr. Spitler elaborated, "We're more than up for the task. Tell that to your paper."

We spoke with Grantham, Chief of Assassins, in her office at the corner of Cloak St. and Dagger Blvd.

"This turn of events had one positive outcome," she explained. "Extermination requests are at an all time high. My best assassins are earning a lot of overtime."

Loyal readers will recall that the past two years have been marred by recalls. The most egregious of the incidents was the safety recall issued for several models of dinosaurs employed for civilian, commercial construction and transportation.

While the saurian menace seems to have subsided for now, it is no exaggeration to say the Empire was rocked by today's announcement.

How far up the chain of command could this chip failure run? Only time, and perhaps a series of intense radiation bursts, will tell.

Don't Ask Clones To Your Legions (DACTYL) Repealed!

2010-12-23T22:27:00.000-05:00

RALEIGH - Yesterday, the Imperium, the law-making body of our glorious Empire, passed a Notion to end the Security-Military Division's infamous DACTYL ban which prevented clones serving in the armed forces.

Today, Emperor Andy used his favorite signature stamp to sign the resolution into Law.

"This is our first victory in the crusade for clone rights," stated First Clone Twoey. "And as with all things 'clone,' there are always more - so we look forward to future reforms. We have high hopes for the future of the Brethren. And the Sistren."

As loyal readers know, originally, His Excellency was vehemently opposed to reintroducing any semblance of clone rights for fear of something he termed, "The Slippery Slope."

However, in the dark of night, the clones managed to strike a deal. In exchange for repealing DACTYL, the Imperium would adopt the Emperor's pet legislation, DPDS (Don't Pass, Don't Smell). Dossey hates this Law.

Rumor Mill Grinds to a Halt

2010-12-06T16:38:00.000-05:00

MEBANE, NC - Today, we received word, perhaps the last word we shall receive along unofficial channels, that His Excellency, Emperor of Emperors, the Chosen One, Imperator Andronicus shut down the Imperial Rumor Mills and has no plans to re-open them any time soon.

Correction: Enforcers for the Office of the Commissar did the shutting down, but we're told the edict came from the Office of the Emperor earlier this month.

Further to the closure of the Mills, we strongly suspect that Commissars also seized and disrupted the website PhippsieLeaks, which recently divulged large quantities of sensitive information on the illicit espionage by Imperial diplomats upon the other solar planets.

Propaganda Pipeline contacted the Central Commissary, but could not successfully navigate the telephone menus to reach anyone who was willing to comment on the record. In fact, we couldn't reach any living thing, be it spokesperson or regular person.

Loyal readers will recall that, soon after her appointment, Scandal Coordinator Phipps put the Rumor Mills to work on extra shifts, churning out scandal and fresh gossip around the clock.

Now, we are told, these mills sit empty and unused.

Is the sleepy town of Mebane doomed to get even sleepier? Is this metropolis destined to become another ghost town of former industry just like Denim Capital of the World, Erwin?

And what sparked this rapid sequence of events? Unfortunately, with our primary source of gossip suddenly cutoff, we cannot determine the cause of all this hulla or even the baloo.

Perhaps Phipps passed along one rumor too many.

For fear of reprisal, and of course out of loyalty, the Propaganda Pipeline will not publish said rumor. Even if we did know what it was, we wouldn't tell you. And couldn't tell you.

If you, the reader, ever hear this rumor, we caution you not to believe it. And if you do believe it, keep it to yourself.

Bank on It

2010-11-11T17:51:00.000-05:00

CARY, NC - Civil Protection units swarmed upon a local state employees credit union moments ago at the summons of a silent alarm indicating bank robbery.

When the police arrived they were surprised to find His Excellency, Emperor Andronicus, in his car circling the bank.

According to the first officer to arrive, the Chosen One was "attacking" the bank itself, attempting to gain entry.

The Imperator's vehicle, loyal readers will recall, is the former chariot of Surgeon General Jernigan. Tonight, the sedan's surgical implements were put to good use as Emperor Andy attempted to saw open the ATM.

"It would've worked, too, but none of the buttons in the dashboard are labeled," Andy later explained to reporters. "I meant to activate the laser scalpel, but must've fired a healing balm instead. Damn ATM patched itself back up before my eyes. That was when the police arrived."

The kindly policemen did their best to explain that today was an Imperial holiday and that the bank was closed.

"If it was a holiday, why was I at work?" the Foretold One demanded to know.

"It's a bank holiday, my liege," one of the cops tried to explain.

"We'll see about that," concluded the Leader as he rummaged though through the car trunk. "Aha!" He found what he was looking for: the defibrillator.

Since they were designed to also jumpstart cars, the paddles were larger than those normally used on a human.

We'll keep you, gentle reader, updated as the situation unfolds. We can only hope power is restored to the city of Cary in time for you to read this story before it becomes old news.

Dinosaur Jokes

2010-09-11T17:47:00.000-04:00

Velociraptor: Knock knock.

You: Whos' there?

Velociraptor: Interrupting raptor.

You: Interrupting rap---

And that's when the attack comes. Not from the raptor telling the joke, but from the side, from the other two raptors you didn't even know were there.

Spring leaks into Summer

2010-05-26T16:13:00.003-04:00

RALEIGH - Yesterday marked the deadline by which Emperor Andy promised we'd have pulled out of Operation Quagmire on planet Neptune.

When questioned about it, His Lordship immediately owned up to the oversight.

"It's true. I freely admit it," he told the Pipeline. "The reminder popped up on my Outlook calendar, 'Due in 15 minutes: End the War on Neptune and Bring the Robot Troops Home.'

"It's awkward, I know. It completely slipped my mind."

And the Emperor's solution?

"I just hit the Snooze button," Andronicus assured us.

But the Emperor was caught snoozing at a bad time. The Foretold One is already battling another scandal: the recent giant water spill in space.

Although water-drilling corporation Potable & Boatable (PB) is at fault for the accident which caused, and is still causing a month later, the enormous spill, the Empire is under fire for not rushing into help plug the leak and clean up the space puddle.

PB President & CEO "Wet" Willy was not available for comment, but there are reports that Wet rushed to a local Toys-R-Us where he purchased the store's entire stock of Crocodile Miles and Slip-N-Slides. Other reports claim it was his wife, Flo. According to our sources, "she always does the shopping."

"Next to pizza rolls, water is Earth's most precious resource," commented aquatics expert and known fountain-of-knowledge The Germ today by phone. "We hit Peak Water back in the 1970s, and can ill-afford another 1970s."

"The Empire is leaking while Andy fiddles," one brave dissident spouted, on condition of anonymity, from the front steps of Imperial HQ.

"The phone lines have been more flooded than usual," confirmed the Emperor's personal secretary, Hilary, "but I don't actually know how this phone works so I haven't answered them." This explains why we had to appear in person to question her. She added, "If it's important, I'm sure they'll call back."

The water slick is only one of many scandals drowning the administration.

Speaking of leaks, we questioned Imperial Scandal Coordinator Phipps on the timing of these major scandals so close together. Phipps, who recently broke the Elsbeth Is Back scandal, was very excited about the "winning combo" and promised more kafuffles in the near future.

"We're not finished with Neptune and Uranus," she confided in us, "but if all goes well I'm going to start a war with Pluto, too.

"It's a long, hot summer, and I'm just getting warmed up."

Those Damned Torpedoes

2010-05-11T08:20:00.002-04:00

Part 8 in the SPACE PIRATES mini-series
continued from Part 7: The Crunch

Under the Empire, the little world called Earth had done a lot of growing in a very short amount of time.

There was of course the usual figurative expansion in stature, importance, and influence. Above and beyond these changes, the people had made some obvious architectural additions to the planet since the inception of the Empire.

For instance, an artificial ring now encircled the blue-green globe such that it now bore a striking resemblance to Saturn. This manmade belt was built to serve as both a spaceport for the fleet and a defensive platform against planetary attack.

But that wasn't all. In addition to Earth's natural moon Luna, there was what appeared to be a second, metallic moon orbiting the Earth from pole to pole. But that was no moon. That was a space station.

And it really played hell with the tides down on Earth.

Earth Defense Command (EDC)

In the docking ring's command module, EDC Captain Faireborn ordered a full alert. The cause for alarm: dominating their scope, a massive pleasure-cruise ship bore down on them.

"She's on a collision course with us," reported the guy who reports things.

"Activate automated turrets," Faireborn instructed. "Target the Wuyi Oolong."

"We can't fire on a civilian vessel!" protested a panicked officer.

Faireborn shoved the fool out of the way, and input the orders herself.

All across the artificial ring, turbolaser cannons spun out of their protective pods and rolled around searching for their target. Receiving Faireborn's transmission, they locked onto the cruise ship.

Faireborn gritted her teeth. This was the kind of Choice no one wanted to make. "This is your final warning," she broadcast. "Alter course or you will be fired upon."

"She's not receiving," reported the communications station.

"How do you know?" Faireborn demanded.

"Because she's jamming us," the tech looked up at her, his eyes filled with dread.

"What?"

"All fleet transmissions are being jammed, ma'am," the technician insisted, even pointing at the readings on his terminal.

"One ship can't jam an entire fleet," Faireborn railed, advancing on the communications console to see for herself, "that many bands, that many frequencies."

She stopped in shock. Somehow, it was true. That meant only one thing: Attack. They were under it.

"Turbolasers, open fire!" Faireborn bellowed. Munitions officers punched in the Fire command.

Turbolaser fire pelted the oncoming ship. Turbolasers were like lasers, but presumably faster. Or maybe tougher. I'm not sure.

"Ma'am, I've got a new sensor blip," a technician reported. "Massive." He looked up at Faireborn. "It's headed right for us."

What now? Faireborn looked for herself at the space radar. She recognized the silhouette and energy signature immediately from classified images for her-eyes-only.

It was the alleged "Financial Crisis" - only a rumor, according to her briefing. But here it was. Larger than life.

And that could mean only one thing. The cruise ship bearing down on them, taking fire from the turbolasers, was the Imperial flagship, turned rogue.

"I broke through the sensor garbage," reported the space-radar op. "I've got a visual on cruise ship."

"Don't tell me," Faireborn said.

"Ma'am," the op gasped, "it's Chocolate Love Stars."

"I said don't tell me," Faireborn snapped. She grabbed up the transmitter.

Command module, Chocolate Love Stars

"Chocolate Love Stars, this is Earth Defense Command," called a new voice on the Imperial fleet channel. Turmel grimaced, detecting a faint giggle at the name of his ship. "You are courteously reminded that you are physically unable to dock at this location. Power down your stardrive and assume a standard parking orbit."

He recognized the voice. It was Faireborn, the smug commander of the EDC.

"I don't blame you for running under a different name," continued Faireborn, with a smirk that could be heard over the radio, "but rechristening your spaceships after erudite teas?"

It was one thing for Turmel to be stuck with an embarrassing ship name. It was quite another to be mocked for it by the head of the EDC.

"Hoist the colors," he instructed his radio op. The officer nodded, and flicked a switch. The monitor above him flickered and displayed a skull, with two crossed bones and two dollar signs.

"Jolly Roger activated," the communications chief confirmed.

EDC

A skull, crossbones , and two dollar signs filled the monitor.

Just as she feared. Fleet Admiral Turmel was here in the mother of all mother ships to try to intervene in the crisis, stop it before it hit Earth.

Faireborn had her orders.

"Scramble fighters."

Turmel had a lot of gall if he thought he could take on the entire fleet himself.

Command module, Chocolate Love Stars

"They stopped firing?" Turmel asked. The EDC turbolasers had ceased fire.

"The fleet is on the move," reported the radar op.

A wave of fighter craft filled the viewscreen. The sight of the fighters rushing at him, gave Turmel sufficient pause that he stopped in mid tea sip.

Apparently, his pilot had reached the same conclusion, for he voiced his concern, "This is going to suck," he groaned.

"Suck?" Turmel murmured. "Pilot you're a genius."

"Yessir," the pilot agreed, then asked, "What?"

"Emergency stop," Turmel blurted out.

"What-- Aye, emergency stop," the Pilot snapped into action.

"Full Reverse," Turmel said.

At this point, perhaps an explanation of the configuration of Chocolate Love Stars is in order. Bear with me, gentle reader.

Starting at her nose and running through the center of the ship all the way to her stern was the dreadnought's primary stardrive turbine. The drive worked by affecting the actual fabric of the universe itself, much like a jet engine churns air, pulling the vessel through space via continuous funneling action.

The pilot wrenched back on the space brake handle, and practically stood on the accelerator.

"Ignite brake thrusters," Turmel ordered. "Go to double retro."

The massive turbines roared and churned, but the ship stayed put, straining against its inertial brakes.

Assumption, Imperial ship of war

"Helm!" ordered her captain. "Why are we breaking formation?"

"All the instruments check," the navigator sputtered. "We're just - drifting forward."

"Captain, she's pulling us toward her," the pilot confirmed it, his voice strained. "The rudder is fighting me."

"What??" the captain demanded. "How?"

"It must be her turbines - pulling us toward her," the pilot stammered.

"We'll be pulverized inside their star drive!" the co-pilot added.

"Full reverse," barked the captain. "Emergency power to retros."

The two helmsmen worked in tandem. The copilot's fingers tapped furiously on the controls while the pilot grunted as he pulled on the flightsticks.

"Gentlemen, we're still drifting," the captain was beginning to worry.

"Luckily, we're at the head of the fleet," the pilot quipped. "We'll be eaten first."

"Eaten? Good idea," the captain said. "Give the beast some indigestion," she roared. "Torpedoes, gentleman. Let them chew on a few of those."

Chocolate Love Stars

The torpedo impact shook the bridge such that Turmel's cuppa overturned and doused the navigator station with tasty tea.

The GPS which had derisively been chirping at them this whole time, "Recalculating. Recalculating," now became unintelligible before shutting down all together.

"There goes the automatic pilot," the pilot said, his voice alarmed.

Sparks shot out of the console and sweet-smelling smoke began to emerge from the busted circuitry.

"We can't maneuver with just one pilot, not in combat," the pilot reminded his commander. 'I'm a damn fine pilot, but I'm not that damn fine."

The dreadnought shook again as more torpedoes detonated inside the stardrive.

"Sir, engineering reports C-drive turbine offline," the communications officer, one hand squeezing an earpiece against his head, shouted over the din.

"I'm beginning to notice a design flaw in the construction of this ship's engines," the pilot grumbled, holding onto his console for dear life.

"It's just too much incoming," the beleaguered weapons officer reported. "The whole fleet is engaging us simultaneously."

Another explosion and some flashes.

"Switching to conventional locomotion," the radio man kept reporting. "Damage assessment underway."

The hull rumbled and the floor jerked.

"Our point-defenses can't keep up," the chief gunner continued. "We simply can't handle all those torpedoes. No matter what, some get by."

Admiral Turmel, however, heard none of this. His eyes were fixed on the smoking husk that was once their GPS and co-pilot.

"Not my tea!" the fleet admiral bellowed. His eyes bulged, his lip curled, his teeth gritted, his throat filled with a rumbling growl.

He jerked the navigator chair out from under the guidance station. Grasping the GPS with both hands, he wrenched it off the console. The poor GPS screamed as it was separated from the station, but its cry was cut short when the power supply was severed. Tossing the burnt device aside, the admiral took the navigator's seat.

Another brief but inspiring explanation of the mechanics of space combat is perhaps advisable.

Like a skyscraper bending in the wind or a building swaying in an earthquake, modern spaceship designs incorporate strong, but flexible construction.

The forces that act upon a spacecraft at high speeds would easily break or snap a less flexible craft.

As the need for bigger and more powerful starships grew, so has the need for speed.

Space is not just a void. It is full of gravity wells, planets, moons, stars, and black holes that act upon a starship.

A nimble, responsive vessel can accelerate quicker and travel at a higher top speed, despite its girth, length, or displacement.

In conclusion, Chocolate Love Stars must turn into the angle of acceleration and flex with the curves of space to allow for safe travel at the high velocities required to navigate the solar system efficiently.

Yes, this will be on your final exam. I hope you were paying attention.

What does all this mean to you, gentle reader? Chocolate Love Stars is so massive that, like a fire engine ladder truck, she requires one pilot for the front end and a second pilot for the rear.

True, under normal conditions, one pilot is sufficient to operate the ship with the aid of his trusty navigator, or co-pilot. During combat, however, or any complex maneuvers, the navigator takes manual control of the rear helm.

In this case, the brave crew of the Love Stars had been relying on the GPS to guide them to victory.

Now, they would have to ... recalculate.

"Begging the admiral's pardon," the pilot proffered not without some hesitation, "but the last time you piloted, we backed into the docking ring and crashed."

Pieces of Eight

2010-04-28T08:00:00.001-04:00

WASHINGTON, DC - We've just received word that Dossey "The Nine Toes," head of the Loyal Order of the Dossai here on Earth, will very shortly be forced to amputate another toe.

According to our sources, the toe will be from the same foot that previously shuffled off a mortal toe. This will bring The Dossey down to eight toes.

Interdimensional travel is harsh on the flesh and Dossey-Rah has never really been very easy on his body. All the wear and tear of portal-hopping has finally taken its toll.

The good news is, we've already received word of the Dosai's new nickname: Ocho.

Shift Change

2010-04-27T22:01:00.001-04:00

The Present
The Bunker

Normally, all Morgborg did was dab the rare bead of perspiration from the Emperor's forehead, change out the Emperor's intravenous coffee drip when it was empty, and scurry about in her tight little nurse's uniform.

Today, however, Nurse No. 7 was running the Empire. And she was taking full advantage.

"More of these," she sighed, pushing the empty plate toward a lab technician, who hurried off to fetch his new boss more sweets. "And, you, don't fan so fast," Morgborg commanded a scientist who was fanning her with a palm branch. "You're rocking my hammock."

The former nurse's rise to power had been an easy one. Not only had Emperor Andy left her in command in front of multiple witnesses, but she was pleasing to the eye. The male scientists, locked up in this bunker for months, were no match. They obeyed without question.

In fact, the only person not at all enthusiastic about the arrangement was Mouthpiece Scott. As the Imperator's spokeswoman, Scott felt she was the natural and right choice to be left in command in Andy's absence.

She was, in a word, Furious.

And so she plotted.

But she did not have to plot long, for very soon Opportunity came knocking. It came knocking in the form of Nurse No. 8, late for her shift - as usual. Like Morgborg, the relief wore a cute nurse's outfit with a skirt made by someone running short on fabric, but not on ideas.

As the Nurse nervously climbed down the ladder into the depths of the bunker, she was more nervous about her skirt and not paying quite enough attention to her surroundings. If she had been more alert, she might have noticed the Mouthpiece lying in wait below.

"What was that noise?" Morgborg tried to sit up in her hammock, with mixed success. "I thought heard the clanking of high heels on metal, followed by a soft, fleshy, 'thunk' sound."

"I heard nothing, my Empress," said the scientist fanning her. "Only the sweet whisper of your breath."

"More fruit, my mistress?" offered a technician bearing a plate of produce.

"Sorry I'm late," came a voice from the shadows. "All eyes turned to see a short, sturdy nurse in shoved into the garb of a tall, thin nurse.

"Oh my," the scientist gasped, and stopped fanning.

Morgborg twisted around to get a better look. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"Nurse number 8," the replacement stated matter-of-factly. "I'm your relief."

Sure enough, Scott's uniform had the number eight as a patch stitched over the bosom, not unlike the number seven adorning Morgborg's outfit.

"No you don't understand," Morgborg started fumbling to crawl out of the hammock. "I'm in charge now."

"Yes," Scott replied, "and I'm your relief."

Morgborg's heels snagged in the hammock, she entangled, the hammock flipped over, and out she plopped onto the hard, concrete floor with a cute, flustered, "oof!"

Mouthpiece grabbed a handful of grapes from the plate of the surprised technician.

Meanwhile ... in space ....

2010-03-22T15:50:00.002-04:00

Do you know the difference between Uranus and a black hole?

"Admiral, I think the new navigator is angry," the Pilot whispered to his commanding officer. "He keeps growling at me."

"He's always angry, Pilot," Turmel assured him. "It's all those teeth."

The Pilot gulped.

"My advice?" Turmel continued. "Follow his course calculations to the number."

The new navigator was of the reptile persuasion, having drifted into our neck of the space. It was one of the very first non-human officers in the Imperial Armada thanks to less strict admittance guidelines and some affirmative action.

The Navigator had no lips, only a snout and lots of sharp teeth, and thus communicated mostly in low rumbles that human crewmates could barely hear.

But lately when the Pilot did not course-correct exactly as specified or fudged an acceleration, the Navigator opened its massive jaws and hissed at the Pilot. Problem was, the more co-pilot hissed, the more frazzled the Pilot's nerves, and the more he fumbled his helming.

Or at least that was Turmel's bemused inference.

What truly was perturbing the large crocodilian co-pilot was that the crew all thought she was a male alligator when she was in fact a female crocodilian.

It didn't help that her name was Navi.

The helm console beeped and a light on it blinked. The Pilot returned to his seat and reported. "Refuel complete. Fuel ship is disengaging."

"Excellent," acknowledged Admiral Turmel, resuming his seat in the command chair. He placed his cup of exotic tea in the cup and saucer holder. "Make ready to get under way as soon as refuel boat is clear."

Meanwhile, outside, an inky black shape moved against the starry background.

The dark shadow skittered across the fuel line and crept silently onto the hull of Chocolate Love Stars just as the fuel line disconnected from the fuel port.

What appeared to be a person in a thin, black space suit quickly and elegantly grasped the edge of the port, flipped over, and slid into the ship's fuel line just before the hatch closed over it and sealed the tank.

NEXT TIME:

Space Ninja!

Another Ax to Grind

2010-03-21T16:34:00.002-04:00

part of the continuing To the Time Machine! series

The Past
The Creek
Shortly before the Dark Times

The Armory

"It is one thing to carry a weapon, but it is quite another to wield it," Dossey told Lorma. "Here in my Armory, in the Temple of the Dossai, you don't Choose your weapon. The weapon Chooses you."

Dossey rolled up his sleeve up past his elbow, turned, and plunged his hand into some kind of vat that was steadily emitting smoke. From out of the tank he pulled a fantastic and impressive battleaxe.

"Another Axe?" Lorma said with disappointment. "You lose my Axe in a car chase and for all my trouble the best replacement you can manage is another Axe?"

Dossey paid her lack of enthusiasm no mind. "Forged in the heart of a star by a blind blacksmith, infused with the undying spirit of Justice, smelted with hot blood from a Rhythm heart, and sharpened against the Whetstone of all things Lethal," he pronounced, and offered her the weapon. "I present to you your Chosen weapon, the Ax."

She took it up, felt its weight in her hands. It felt right.

"It looks and feels just like my old Axe," Lorma finally said, then smiled. "Only newer. When they gave me my Ax it was pretty beat up. Lots of nicks in it." She ran her finger down the blade. "Still sharp though."

"It sharpens with every use," Dossey told her. "Wield it for Justice and you can't go wrong."

She had her Ax. It sang in her head, louder than her old Ax.

"Wield it wisely," Dossey instructed her. "And remember it is an Ax of Justice, not an Ax of Judgment.

"I will remember," Lorma said, her voice hushed with awe.

"See that you do," Dossey said. "A weapon of Power wielded irresponsibly always leads to Dark Times."

"Speaking of Dark Times," Lorma said,

Lorma hefted the battleaxe over her shoulder and, as she did, the weight of it changed her face into an older, grimmer woman.

"I've got work to do," she finished her sentence.

And, with great determination, she turned to go.

Meanwhile in the Office of the Emperor

2010-03-16T00:47:00.001-04:00

recovered from clandestine recordings

"Emperor, may we have a minute of your time?" Pytell pleaded. "We need to talk to you."

"What? Make it quick," Andronicus said. His attention, not really on the conversation, drifted back to the meal at hand. "I don't understand this delay between courses. I'm ready for my food now."

"There have been some complaints, my liege," Crumpler said hesitantly.

"Is there a point to all this?" Andy asked.

Just then, a ringing sound erupted from underneath a stack of papers somewhere on the desk.

Andy's eyes darted over the desk, scanning for the source. Finally, he shoved a stack of model dinosaurs onto the floor, thus uncovering the ringing culprit.

He grabbed the receiver, sneered at it, and slammed it back down. This, of course, caused the ringing to cease.

The Emperor was still not satisfied. "Why does that thing keep making that noise?" he demanded to know.

Pytell and Crumpler immediately froze, like deer in headlights, waiting for the 18 wheels of blame to find them.

"It's your phone, my liege," Crumpler ventured.

"What? What's that?" Andy snapped. "Speak English." He sat back down to his meal.

"Phone," Crumpler repeated. "Telephone."

"Disgusting archaic technology," Andy said between bites. "No, wait, it doesn't rate that. Not technology. A throwback, that's what it is. I don't need it anymore." He waved a turkey leg at them. "Get it out of my sight. Out of my hearing. I've moved on to bigger and better devices."

"The communications department provided you with a hologrammophone," Pytell tried to direct the conversation back in its original direction.

"Possibly," Andy answered shiftily.

"The two-way communicator that projects holograms of the people who are talking," Pytell added helpfully.

"Oh, that, yes," Andy admitted. "What about it?"

"There've been reports you're using it to call people inebriated," Crumpler told him.

"Inebra - I can't even say it," Andy scoffed. "Why would I call people it?"

"No, I meant," Crumpler started to say.

"Don't contradict me, lady!" Andy said hotly.

"I only meant--" Crumpler tried again, starting to crumple under the Emperor's glare.

"She only meant," Pytell interrupted, "that we've heard you've been drinking and dialing."

"Using the hologrammophone," Crumpler added.

"Holographic drunk dialing, you see," Pytell clarified.

"Essentially appearing in folkses' houses," Crumpler elaborated, "often in their bedrooms, as a hologram, often as late as 3 a.m."

"Imperial Standard Time," said Pytell.

The Imperator stared at them until the silence became unbearable.

"Is it true?" one of them ventured.

"Is what true?" Andy barked at him.

"The reports," Crumpler squeaked.

"Did you drunk dial on the hologrammophone?" Pytell added.

"I don't know," Andy said dismissively. "Possibly. Yes."

"My liege, that's a delicate piece of equipment," Crumpler cried.

"Not a toy," Pytell agreed.

There was an awkward pause, after which Andronicus suddenly seemed to notice his visitors for the first time. "Are you two still here?" he barked. "Your minute is up! Departure!"

He shook his open palms at the pair to speed them off, but then waved them back into the room again. "Wait, before you leave," he said, "go into the kitchen and fetch me some more pizza rolls."

The Crunch

2010-02-28T01:16:00.005-05:00

Part 7 in a space pirate series

en route to Earth:

The command module on the Imperial dreadnought full-to-bursting with hum of graphing calculators churning and the cacophony of abacuses clacking advanced computations.

It was a beautiful symphony of sums. Surveying the workers, Germ took it all in with pride.

The fleet's finest mathematicians and arithmeticists toiled furiously, racing against time to develop an effective battle strategy.

"By my calculations, we'll never get this battle plan rendered before we engage hostile forces," one accountant whined.

Germ followed the sound of the whine. He stopped at the source and looked over the hunched shoulder of the shuddering arithmeticist. He was not pleased with what he found.

"Why are you wasting valuable time on your pessimistic predictions?" Germ demanded to know. "You will devote all available resources to the Strategy computations."

Germ jabbed a finger at the console brimming with figures. "And start rounding off. We don't have time or the processing power to be that accurate. 20 decimal places will have to suffice."

"But sir," the accountant protested, "we've never gone into battle with less than 40 calculated decimal places in our tactical equations."

"Never," Germ contradicted him, "until today, son."

Across the room, another panic erupted. "Sir!" reported an alarmed Mathematician First Class. "They're still using metric."

"What's that?" Germ pounced on the worried clerk.

"The Love Stars," cried the accountant, "everything in her database, all her charts, it's all in metric."

"Metric! Unquantifiable, quantum mumbo-jumbo," responded Germ with a grumble. "We'll have to convert her over before we can even start planning."

"Is there time?" squeaked the bookie.

"Yes, we'll summarily divide our sums in half by switching to Imperial Standard," Germ assured the worried accountant.

"That could take hours," the bean counter protested.

"Not if I use my EyePhone," Germ replied.

With that, Germ reached up to his temple and withdrew a cable. He quickly plugged himself into the battle computer's auxiliary port.

"Visual interface engaged," he said, his voice adopting a flat, but pleasant, tone of voice.

His cybernetic eyeball rolled around and emitted a faint blue glow from his socket.

"Converting files," Germ stated.

His optical implant was not just a cybernetic optical implant, but also an advanced robotic phone device.

In a few moments, shiny new figures filled the monitors before them.

"There," Germ said with a smug grin. "Productivity increased 50%."

Continued in Part 8: Those Damned Torpedoes

George F. Washington

2010-02-22T15:00:00.000-05:00

WASHINGTON, DC - A man dressed in "colonial" garb and a white powdered wig chopped down hundreds of cherry trees on the grounds of the Washington monument and other local parks today before police could stop him and confiscate his ax.

According to the report filed by the arresting officer, the man claimed to be George Washington and the author of the Constitution. The policeman was not entirely certain as to the rest of the alleged President's claims as they were, according to the report, "so laced with profanity as to be largely unintelligible."

However, the report did mention that the "ax-wielding lunatic" claimed to be "first in war, first in peace," made a rude remark about the policeman's sister, and then added, "I cannot tell a lie."

De-demerited

2010-02-15T23:05:00.000-05:00

RALEIGH - Demeritress Elsbeth announced today that she had "misplaced" her demerits grand tally sheet.

"And by misplaced, I mean they caught on fire," Elsbeth clarified.

The Town of Cary fire department was on the scene to assist. Summoned by an anonymous phone call, the firefighters rolled up in their tan & beige fire trucks and quickly went to work to put out the blaze.

After most of the house was saved, the firemen began an investigation into the cause of the conflagration. As of press time, no explanation had been named, but the department did not feel it could rule out foul play.

After the beige & tan fire trucks pulled away, we were able to convince Elsbeth to comment on the inferno, although she declined to have her picture taken.

"The loss of the demerits list - who had demerits and how many - is a tragic blow," the Demeritress explained. "Starting from a clean slate is obviously not an option, unless we locate the backups.

"For now," she continued, between puffs on her cigarette, "the next best solution is to assign a blanket sum of demerits to each and every minion in the realm. After all, no one is perfect; everyone has incurred demerits at on time or another.

"And if I catch the arsonist, big time demerits for her," Elsbeth warned. "Or him."

This "demerits list" is reminiscent of the mysterious List that Emperor Andy often refers to when he is furious at someone. Could they be one in the same?

RFS Cathey, in town for Andronicus Day festivities, would only comment, "I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a List," he said, "but if there is one, you're on it."

To honor the Emperor's Birth - The SSSG and The Rev. Tam go on a Quest

2010-02-12T01:15:00.002-05:00

This is NOT to be watched until the party at the Emperor's Domicile. The SSSG charges Imperial Plumber Stegall with the playing of this video at an appropriate moment at said party, preferably in front of everyone during the speech giving portion of the evening. (thanks Brett)

The day the Pipeline Burst onto the Scene

2010-02-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

Before your very eyes is the first article published by the Propaganda Pipeline back on 8/15/2006.

This was the seed that started it all, on a humble little blog, secretly funded by the Empire to control your opinions.

Read on! And re-live a moment in history.

Pluto Pissed

PLUTO - Today the President for Life of Pluto and all its outlying provinces condemned recent Earthling scientific claims that Pluto is not truly a planet.

"For too long, you arrogant Earthlings have tried to dictate what constitutes a planet. No Earthman can tell we Plutonians whether our rock is a planet or not," President Glik stated in his speech. "Do we tell you how to run things on Earth? No. But perhaps it is time we should."

These cryptic comments fueled speculation across the solar system that Pluto intends to attack Earth in the near future. Also contributing to this conjecture is the acquisition by Pluto of inter-system missiles easily capable of reaching and striking Earth. An anonymous source within the Information Office stated that Pluto has been purchasing these long range missiles from the Titan government over the past three years (57 days on Pluto).

In addition to its three natural satellites, Pluto has in the past year claimed Neptune and Saturn as part of its territory. The Empire does not acknowledge these claims.

When asked in a press conference about the Plutonian President's comments, his Excellency the Emperor of Earth and all its moons both natural and artificial stated, "Whatever. When they crash into Neptune, they better not come crying to us." The Emperor was likely referring to Pluto's unusual orbit.

And as always the Martians reaffirmed their neutrality, ironic since the red planet is named for the Roman god war.

To the Time Machine! - Part 26

2010-02-04T00:35:00.002-05:00

The Chase continues in ...

"Forward the Ford"

The Past
The Creek

Spewing an impressive cloud of dust and engine exhaust behind it, the 1995 Dodge Dakota, nicknamed Ironhide, thundered down a back road maintained, barely, by the county.

Trailing behind, barely keeping the truck in sight the 1976 Ford LTD, branded Old Blue, roared along in pursuit. The massive automobile vibrated at this pulse-pounding pace.

"Give me ramming speed!" commanded Emperor Andy, his voice shaking right along with the old car due to his firm grip on the steering wheel.

From the passenger seat Dossey shouted over the sound of the engine, "Bringing emergency propulsion online."

Rear of them, the trunk opened. From its depths emerged a massive jet turbine. With the press of a button, the engine spun to life and propelled the blue car at breakneck speed toward its target.

Despite the sudden acceleration, Rockel was sitting on the door, hanging out the car's backseat window. The cyborg pulled his violin case from where it had been riding on his back and undid the delicate clasp that held it shut.

"Rockel, this is a lousy time for a solo," Andy yelled over his shoulder, having noticed the assassin in his side mirror.

"I always go solo," Rockel said ominously. "First violin, last violin." He opened the violin case and pulled out his beloved sniper rifle.

Rockel tossed the case into the backseat before unfolding the rifle to its full length. Flipping the sight up into position, he took careful aim.

The reptilian truck driver was centered in the sight. The cyber-assassin adjusted for distance and wind speed. He finally squeezed the trigger ever so gently.

The back window of the truck cab shattered, sending shards pelting behind at Old Blue. Rockel had missed his target! The assassin frowned with frustration. He surmised the tinted glass had affected his aim.

"It's Sanderson!" Dossey bellowed, gesticulating at the truck driver ahead of them.

"I can see that, Dossey," Andy shouted. "We need more speed. We're still not gaining."

"Transferring emergency power," Dossey yelled back, and went to work at the controls.

Forward the Ford surged, quickly closing the gap between it and the Dakota pickup.

"Where'd you divert power from?" Andy inquired.

"The braking thrusters," Dossey admitted. "You weren't planning on stopping, were you?"

"Guess not," replied Andy.

He had to fire again quickly before the thief got away. It wasn't easy to get a clear shot through all the equipment in the truck bed. He looked down the scope again and lined up the shot. This time for sure, he told himself.

And the blue car rammed into the back of Ironhide. Every head in the vehicle snapped forward, then back.

"Careful," Dossey cautioned over the roar of the engine. "We need that temporal equipment intact."

"Suppose it is a time machine," Andy said, while wrestling the wheel, "he could use it to alter history for his own nefarious purposes."

"You're right," agreed Dossey. "Better we stop it first, even if it means we destroy it in the process."

"Hold us steady," Rockel barked at them, eye never leaving the rifle scope.

Just as Rockel was about to squeeze the trigger, he saw in the sight something distract Sanderson. The RFS ducked down in his seat suddenly, as if hunting something in the floorboard.

Rockel looked up from the scope. Where'd that lizard man go?

What he wouldn't give for his sickle and hammer now, Spitler thought, as much as he hated "those guys."

Under the fleeing pickup truck, clung Political Officer Spitler. He'd managed to muck up some the time circuitry, but wasn't having much luck actually stopping the truck's forward motion.

He peeled away a layer of metal, searching for some vulnerable mechanisms, only to find he'd punctured the floorboard of the truck cabin.

That's when he glimpsed the traitor in the driver's seat. It was Reptilian Forces Supervisor Sanderson.

Damn his beady eyes, Spitler swore silently. He reached up, grabbed the flitting tail that dangled before him, and yanked on it.

RFS Sanderson screeched as he was pulled down below the dashboard. Through no fault of his own, Sanderson's face slammed onto the brake pedal.

The truck screeched and swerved, as the brakes deployed. With no time to avoid it, Old Blue nicely rear-ended the truck, smashing up the bumper and tailgate.

Andy jerked on the wheel, but the two vehicles were lodged together. Rockel saw his chance. He dropped his rifle into the car, and crawled out onto the roof and across the hood, skittering spider-like toward the pickup.

Sanderson shot his fork tongue out and whacked at the hand that held him. Burning pain shot through Spitler's hand and up his arm.

The Political Officer immediately let go the tail in pain. That damned creature's spit was eating at the back of his hand. Some kind of acid or venom, no doubt.

RFS smartly now kept his forked tongue on the wheel, which freed him to fight tooth and claw with Spitler through the hole in the floor.

Spitler was at a disadvantage as he only had one hand free, his other hand quite preoccupied with holding onto the bottom of the truck.

He punched his way up, grasped the tongue, and jerked it. This caused the truck to swerve again and the two vehicles dislodged.

Rockel quickly leapt the distance and managed to just barely grab the truck, holding onto the trailer hitch with both hands. Behind him, his feet found purchase on the car's bumper thanks to a single, cybernetic raptor-claw that jutted from each foot.

Rockel's robotic eyes enlarged to full dilation as the full strain hit his enhanced body. He was built pretty tough, but holding two racing behemoths together was taxing for even his augmented frame.

"Don't worry, Rockel," Dossey shouted out the window. "I've got this."

"That's what worries me," Rockel grunted.

Dossey looked down at his feet and noticed the Ax still sitting there. He lunged for the hatchet, and quickly hefted it up. Leaning out the window, he hurled the battleaxe with all his might.

He watched as if it were in slow motion, rocket forward, tilt and tumble, the Ax head heavy and inevitable. It slammed not into the pickup or its driver, but into the temporal equipment that occupied the truck bed.

The weapon's raw power ignited the circuitry on contact. The engine activated. The Ax sizzled, cracked, glimmered, and disappeared in a flash.

Andy and Dossey looked at each other in silent shock, followed by loud panic.

Ahead of him, in the truck, Spitler wrestled the reptile's tongue. Unfortunately, this left his face vulnerable and Sanderson's claws free. The RFS slashed at the Commissar's face and blood spurted.

With a cry of anguish, the proud political officer relinquished his grip on the man-lizard hybrid and simultaneously his grip on the truck as well.

Who wrote this? Spitler wondered.

The pavement tore into him as the truck roared over him. Next, he caught a fleeting glimpse of what appeared to be an unusually elongated Rockel. Then, he realized he was under the Emperor's car. Finally, through bloodied vision, he managed to grab at a hand that appeared out of the dust.

Dossey pulled Spitler up into the front seat of the moving car. "Need a lift?"

"How did you catch the truck?" Andy asked.

"Just like catching a bus," Spitler told them, and grinned. "Oh, no, I'm cracking wise!" His jaw dropped in horror. "I'm worse off than I feared." His shook his head in frustration. "No, I mean, I cut through the woods. Headed him off."

"It's getting crowded up here," Andy grumbled, holding up Spitler with one arm and driving with the other.

Furious at the tailgaters he could not shake, Sanderson turned in his seat and hurled a mouthful of green liquid at them.

The blast splattered across the pursuant car's windshield. Andy flipped on the windshield wipers. They dispersed much of the sizzling saliva, but the windshield still smoked heavily and eventually melted away.

Pilot and co-pilot immediately realized they'd have no protection from the next venom burst. Andy jammed the accelerator to the floor with a violent kick, and the car rammed into the truck bumper again.

Sanderson's head smacked into the steering wheel and the horn sounded. RFS hissed in rage.

Rockel winced. If only his arms were a little longer. He retracted his foot-claws and pulled himself up onto the back of the truck. It was time to settle this debacle the old-fashioned way - fisticuffs!

The Master Assassin climbed over the truck bed and made his way across what he assumed must be the temporal engine.

Sanderson spotted him in his mirror and turned to fire a venom blast, but Rockel ducked the lethal lugie. The acid globule sailed over his head and punched a hole in an important-looking component of the time machine. Oops.

"Hey, Rex," Rockel taunted, "you missed me!"

Seriously peeved now, Sanderson turned to spit again.

A rocket-propelled fist sucker-punched him right in the jaw.

"I'm gonna want that back," Rockel called out. He climbed through the rear window and into the passenger seat.

Sanderson's head rolled around. The RFS was knocked clean out.

Luckily, Rockel's flying fist had taken over and was piloting the pickup. "Pull over," Rockel told it.

Minutes later, the two vehicles had stopped on the side of a road in the middle of the countryside with no sign of civilization in sight.

"We can't stop here," Dossey's warned. "This is raptor country." His normally gruff voice was sounding a little quaky.

Andy dismissed these words of warning. "A few dinosaurs never hurt anyone," he scoffed.

"That's not precisely true," Spitler grunted. Bloodied, bruised, and beaten, Spitler dabbed at his wounds with a red handkerchief.

"Also, you don't have the Raptolier on you, sire," Rockel pointed out.

The truck engine dieseled, backfired, and sputtered to a stop. The four Imperial officers turned to see a last puff of black smoke spurt from the tailpipe.

Rockel pulled Sanderson out of the cab, so he could climb into the truck, and try to start it back up. The motor whined and strained, but would not turn over.

"Plan B, we tow it back," Andy decided.

With a groan, Spitler took a well-deserved break and lay down in the back seat while Rockel stuffed the unconscious RFS into the trunk of the car.

Meanwhile, Dossey unwound the car's anchor and attached it to the front of the truck.

"Is that a car or a boat?" Rockel, smirking, called up to them.

"Yes," Andy shouted back.

Dossey climbed back into his seat. "All set, Emperor."

Spitler opened one eye. "Anybody got a cigarette?" he asked.

To be continued!

To the Time Machine! - part 25

2010-01-23T18:37:00.005-05:00

The Chase

"That was a stop sign!" Dossey shouted over the engine vroom.

"I'll stop twice at the next one," Andy shouted in reply from the driver's seat.

The 1976 LTD Ford, nicknamed Old Blue, roared down Highway 421.

In the passenger seat, Dossey fiddled with the control knobs on the dashboard. "We must recover that time machine," he said.

"Alleged time machine," Andy corrected between gritted teeth. His eyes never left the road. "You got it yet?"

"You betcha," Dossey said. The escaped pickup truck appeared on the radar display as a blinking red dot.

"Damn, he's fast," Dossey observed.

"The truck?" Andy asked, in disbelief.

"Not exactly," Dossey answered, and pointed at a blinking green dot. It was closing fast on the red dot.

In the red dot, RFS Sanderson was trying to pilot the stolen truck when he noticed what appeared to be a parking ticket stuck under the windshield wiper and flapping in the wind.

Sanderson was so distracted he failed to notice the man standing in the road ahead.

That man staring down the speeding pickup was Political Officer Spitler, and he stood in the direct path of the hijacked and the hijacker. Spitler's chest heaved from exertion, but his fists were clenched with determination. His lip curled.

Only looking up at the last second, Sanderson spotted, too late, Spitler dead ahead. There was no time to alter course. Hell, there wasn't even time to consider altering course.

The truck plowed right into Spitler.

At least, Sanderson thought it had, but there was no crash, no thump. Not even a splat.

Disappointed and surprised, Sanderson leaned forward, but couldn't see a human on the front grill. Neither could he see any man on the road in the rearview mirror. Where'd he go?

The bottom of the pickup looked like no undercarriage Spitler had ever seen, and he'd seen plenty of undercarriages. Perhaps this was a time machine after all, he thought. Time for that later.

He clung to the machinery, barely hanging onto the underside of the speeding truck. Since he was wearing only a hospital gown, the pavement ate into his unprotected back. Spitler winced in pain, and immediately scowled at his own weakness. This new heart, he realized, was a mixed bag.

Grasping tightly with one hand, Spitler made a fist with his free hand and plunged it right into the sophisticated-looking circuitry. He pulled on the exposed wires and tubes until they ripped from the strain. The road dug into his elbow as he did, but he ignored the injury.

Above him, in the truck cab, Sanderson clawed angrily at the temporal controls on the center console. Had he gone to all of this trouble to steal a nonfunctional time machine? His blood ran cold - colder than usual - at the thought.

Spitler's collision and subsequent sabotage managed to slow the truck enough for Old Blue to catch it.

Dossey and Andy could see sparks spewing out from under the truck ahead of them, but had no idea Spitler was the cause.

"Think you can shoot out the tires?" Andy asked Dossey.

"No problemo," Dossey said. He flipped the glove compartment open to reveal a new set of controls. "I installed a new weapons system just last week."

"You never mentioned it to me," Andy griped.

"It was going to be a surprise," Dossey explained, and targeted the tires of the truck.

The hood split apart to reveal two launchers. Missiles fired shot out and streaked toward the pickup truck.

They missed, but just barely.

"Hey, watch it!" Spitler shouted under the truck, but of course was not heard.

Sanderson noticed the blue car in pursuit and accelerated.

"I said shoot the tires out," Andy shouted, "not obliterate them!"

"Still a few bugs to work out," Dossey assured him, "but the design is basically sound."

Andy checked his rearview mirror and exclaimed, "Do you know how much it costs to repave a road?"

"No," Dossey replied.

Suddenly in the review mirror there loomed the face of the master assassin.

Andy yelped, and the car swerved.

Dossey turned to see what all the fuss was about, and came face to face with Master Assassin Rockel, occupying the backseat.

"Rockel, where did you come from?"

"The backseat," the assassin replied.

"I can see that," Dossey sighed. "How did you get there?"

"I got in," Rockel said.

"Yes, why?" asked Dossey.

"His Excellency ordered me to clear the plant monster (or what's left of it) off the fine arts building (or what's left of it)," Rockel answered. "I was using the car trunk to collect pieces." He yawned. "What's going on?" Peering ahead of them, he asked, "Hey, isn't that the flying truck that brought the time travelers?"

"Alleged time travelers," Andy grunted, still wrangling with the wheel. "As long as you're in here, think you can lend a hand?"

The Emperor heard a click and whirr. Rockel handed up one of his hands, apparently detachable.

"Great," said Andy, "a robot with a sense of humor."

"Humor?" asked Rockel, puzzled. "Also, point of interest - I'm a cyborg, not a robot."

"Potayto, potahto," Dossey said.

Rockel took back his hand, but gave Dossey the finger.

"What is that, your IQ?" asked Dossey, laughing at his own joke.

"Your sister liked it last night," Rockel replied. It was then Rockel noticed a new addition to Dossey's ever-expanding armament. "Where did you get that Ax?" he asked Dossey.

"Oh, I just picked it up somewhere," Dossey answered furtively.

Rockel spun his removable fist back into its wrist socket, then flexed the fingers to check the connections. "Perfect," he noted. And he crawled out the window. "Cover me."

Naughty or Nice

2010-01-16T11:30:00.002-05:00

Part 7

The final episode in a Festively Facetious holiday series.

Continued from Part 6

"My butt's getting cold," Santa complained. He was sitting on the ice. Santa struggled against his bonds, which in this case consisted of tinsel wound tightly around him.

"You've been a very naughty Santa Claus!" Facetious Jones exclaimed, wagging her finger in Kris Kringle's face.

"Who are you to judge me?" Santa said defiantly.

"We're with the Empire," Lorma Doom explained. "It's what we do."

"But what you do," Facetious Jones jumped in, "is deliver toys to all the good girls and boys."

"Christmas, remember?" Lorma added.

"Who do you think I am?" asked Santa Claus, looking up at them in disbelief.

"Santa Claus!" the ladies said in unison.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this," Santa said, his face grim, "but there's no such thing as Santa Claus."

"Excuse me?" asked Lorma.

"I'm a little confused," Facetious said. "Aren't you living proof?"

"I used to be like you two," Santa told the duo, "young, idealistic, enthusiastic, joyful ... foolish, naïve."

"What happened to little Saint Nick," asked Facetious, "from all the songs and stories?"

"We believed in you," Lorma told him. "I believed in you. Now look at you."

"You believed in a version of me that, frankly, never existed," replied Claus, his disposition sour. "I'm a person, a real man, with real feelings, real thoughts. It is unfair for you to expect any more of me than that. Or to hold me to some imagined standard you want to impose on me."

"You need to snap out of this stupor," Lorma said.

"Stupor?" Santa said. "Is that what you think this is? One day I'll wake up, have an epiphany, and go back to being jolly old Saint Nicholas? This isn't a Christmas carol, lady. You're not the spirits of Christmases Past. This is my life and my job. And I do a damn fine job. Or I did until you interfered.

"Which reminds me," he added, "why are you here?"

Lorma and Facetious looked guiltily at each other.

"Just as I suspected," Santa chuckled, "you were sent here to destroy me. Like all the others before you. .... Instead, you find I've already been destroyed."

"Already destroyed?" asked Lorma.

"Could you elaborate a little?" asked Facetious.

"Don't you tell a single soul what I'm about to say," Santa began to explain. "When Mrs. Claus left us, left me, that was the day the real magic died."

"Wait," Lorma interrupted. "All this is over a woman?" Her voice was full of disbelief and disgust.

"A Kris Kringle Crisis," exclaimed Facetious.

"Everything I believed was a lie," Santa said. "That day, I stopped believing in Santa Claus. I stopped believing in myself."

"You better start believing," Lorma told him. "Check your list. Twice, if you have to. You've got a world full of children, plus a shop packed by elves, all depending on you."

"You can barely run your own life," Santa fired back at her. "I'll be damned if you run mine."

"Isn't there a small part of you," asked Facetious, her little lip trembling, "that wants things back the way they were?"

"I won't return to the way I was," Santa sighed. "Or, rather, the way you thought I was, while you were snug in beds in your warm house in North Carolina."

"Wow, he knows everything!" Facetious said.

"These elves are not my slaves," Santa kept going. "They are free to go whenever they please. They stay because they believe in the work we do. The job I was given, the work I was made for. And I do a damn fine job.

"My elves put up with my foibles," he added, "and I put up their eccentricities because, dammit, we love each other. We are a team, yes, but we are also a family.

"If you don’t like that, fine, don't believe in Christmas. See if I care. But don't blame me for your misconceptions.

"I can't 'go back' - because they were never that way to begin with," Santa said, his righteous rage rising and his rosy cheeks reddening. "You didn't know me. You don't know me." As quickly as he had raised his voice, now he lowered it to a hush:

"Now, either let me go," he hissed, "or kill me, if you can."

Facetious Jones looked to Lorma Doom. Lorma raised her Ax over head. Santa looked up at her, awaiting the blow.

In that moment, Lorma realized the Precept was true: Life is All about Choices.

Well, in the North Pole they say that Lorma's small heart grew 3 sizes that day. She brought the mighty Ax down and chopped the tinsel that held Claus.

"You should be the Santa you are now," Lorma said, pulling the tensile tinsel off Santa. "And we ... will believe in you."

The brutal wench abhorred affection in all forms. It was one of the reasons she was still single. Another reason was the Ax she carried everywhere.

Santa stood and hugged Lorma. "You've been very Naughty this year, Lorma," he warned her. "You've pushed away the people that love you. If anything, I've learned that pain and love often go hand in hand.

"I threw myself into my work," Santa told her, "but that wasn't the answer. I've lost the magic. So have you. I think we could help each other a great deal.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, Lorma Doom, won't you ride my sleigh tonight?"

"Oh, Santa," Lorma swooned, "I'd be delighted."

"Exsqueeze me?" Facetious' mind was reeling. "What just happened?"

"Only on one condition," Lorma said to Santa. "The sidekick stays behind."

"It's a strict rule," Santa laughed and reassured her. "No elves in Santa's sleigh. No carseat."

"That's discrimination," Facetious started to get heated in the cold. "I'm a triple minority, ya know. I'll sue."

"Take it up with the union," Santa told her. Everyone laughed. Some of them shook not unlike bowls full of jelly.

"Hey, ya gotta admit, we make a pretty good team, Lorma Doom," Facetious said, grinning up at her.

"Maybe," Lorma admitted. "Don't get used to it. It's only temporary."

"Short-term?" questioned Facetious. "How come?"

Santa kneeled down to speak to the sidekick. "Facetious, Lorma's place is here now, by my side," he confided, "but you still have much to do back home. The Empire needs you."

"No kidding, they'd be short-handed without me," Facetious smirked. "And, if I stayed up here, I'd freeze my tiny tucus off. Sides, I don't care to see Lorma kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe."

Lorma shook her head. "I wish I knew why H.R. paired us together," she ruminated.

"Being Father Christmas has its advantages," interrupted the jolly old elf. "I know kids. And I can tell you that your sidekick is no mere child. Facetious Jones is an aspect of you, my dear Lorma. The part of you that you don't let out, the part you hide from the world. The love of life and laughter! The part that you let die - the part you drove out."

"What, like in Fight Club?" Lorma asked.

"Um, sure," said Santa.

"You hear that, squirt?" Lorma talked down to her sidekick. "You're a facet of me."

"Facet-nating," Facetious raised one eyebrow.

"And I am glad you're leaving," Lorma added.

Facetious flashed a winning smile. "C'mon, you're gonna miss me, at least a little, right?" she asked.

"Anything is possible," admitted Lorma.

"Facetious, I have a present for you," Santa spoke up. He climbed up into the sleigh, not without difficulty, and pulled a small box out of his sack. He tossed it down to the eagerly jumping Facetious, who tore the wrapping off.

Jones held up her prize. A long scarf which glistened in the Northern lights.

"It's a magical scarf," Santa explained.

Facetious placed the scarf around her neck and slung the tail behind her. The scarf was so much bigger than the minute sidekick that it caught the wind and, like a sail, began to pull Facetious backward across the ice.

"I have a present for you, too," Lorma said, kneeling down in front of her sidekick. With the press of a button on her rainbow suspenders, Lorma released the cybernetic locks in her hair. When the piece was done clicking and hissing, Lorma handed Facetious a handful of purple dreads.

"Use it wisely," Lorma told her.

Facetious nodded solemnly, took the cybernetic weave, and attached it to her own small head of hair. It dominated her tiny scalp and hung down all around her head. "Whoopi!" shouted Facetious.

Lorma reached over and parted the hair like curtains so she could entrust her former sidekick with one final mission.

"Facetious, you must take my place as the Brute Squad," Lorma informed her. "I've got my groove back. I found my joy. I am no longer Brutal."

"Does that mean I get your Axe?" Facetious asked.

"Absolutely not," Lorma replied, standing abruptly. She kissed the blade and slid the Axe safely back in its sheath. "I'll be riding alongside Santa tonight, and every night. I'll deliver Justice to each household without Discrimination."

(Get it? Indiscriminate Justice! C'mon, these are the jokes, folks.)

"That's fine!" Facetious said, trying to hide her hurt feelings. "I'll admit I'm a little disappointed, but ya know what? When Axes are in short supply, you can always call ...."

She struck a pose.

"FACETIOUS JONES!!!"

The End.

Remember: Ax not what the Empire can do for you, but what you can Ax for the Empire!

Price Day 2010

2010-01-11T21:02:00.003-05:00

LOS ANGELES - The battle cry sounded down the streets, "Great thundering lizards!"

This reporter looked up just in time to witness the arrival of Reptilian Forces Supervisor "Mo-Tron" Price.

She slid down the Brachiosaur's neck, ala Fred Flintstone, and skidded to a halt with a flourish in front of the La Brea Tar Pits.

Not unexpectedly, she brandished her customary weapon, the Sabre of Eccentricity; but impossible to miss was a new addition to her accoutrements: the dazzling, towering, Feathery Headdress of Leadership.

Astute historians and fashion experts will recall this Headdress has adorned the heads of every Alpha over the last 10 years. The fourth RFS in the Empire's short but illustrious history, Mo-Tron is no exception, and she wears the ornamental crown with distinction and pride.

The RFS wears it whenever she is on duty, and often when she is not. Some say she even wears it to bed, but we're not sure how they know this. She wears the crown even when it forces her to stoop to go through a door.

The cumbersome Headdress makes Mo-Tron so top heavy it often prevents her from walking a straight line! Admittedly, some say her teetering strut has less to do with the towering tiara and more with her consumption of Bailey's. Price denies these rumors as "jealous slander."

Loyal readers will not be surprised by the headdress, as it is only RFS Price's newest accessory, Her tenure with the Reptilian Forces has seen more than its share of "bling." Indeed, Mo-Tron's raptor packs could always be identified by their extravagant feathers, most of them not naturally-occurring.

Today, the Reptilian Forces Supervisor (RFS) granted an interview at the Tar Pits to discuss her work, her life, and how she is adapting to the West Coast life.

"In California, I'm gonna warn ya, there's a lot of sunlight," she confided. "In fact, I fitted my stegosaur pod with solar panels. Those dorsal plates provide protection and keep the stegosaurs warm; I figure they might as well recharge batteries for me at the same time."

Asked if the dinosaurs minded these augmentations, Mo replied, "Absolutely not. They are happy to help.

"Reptiles are misunderstood creatures. And dinosaurs are the most misunderstood of all. They are overly misunderstood. Or underly misoverstood? Whatever.

"The point is, sometimes, a Styracosaurus just needs a hug. A careful hug. Truly, a dinosaur's cold demeanor belies a warm and loyal heart.

"That loving heart was one of the reasons the Empire was so quick to genetically engineer these gentle giants for military purposes. That and, I suppose, their spikes, claws, teeth, size, and predatory or survival instincts."

We next asked the RFS about her personal life. And we can happily report that, no, Custer the Lesser does not have two black eyes.

Mo-Tron assures us that is "guyliner" he is wearing. She explained that it was drawn around his manly eyes while he slept, helpless to stop it.

When we contacted Custer for comment, the chief of police for the entire planet stated that the search for the culprit was ongoing.

We took the opportunity to ask him for his side of the love affair between himself and RFS Price.

"The hardest part was learning the complicated mating rituals," the younger Custer told us. "And she lets the raptors watch. I wouldn't mind if they were just pets, but she treats them so much like children, it really creeps me out.

"Also, I'm not accustomed to the 'Pack' having a female leader, so that's taken some getting used to. Then again, I guess the biggest adjustment to make was the Taser. But it's all worth it."

Mo-Tron summed up her reign so far as RFS, "We've been pretty busy, overworked, and such. And so we've not rounded up the rest of the rogue raptors roaming the western half of the North American continent.

"But I have complete confidence that our Raptor Captors will get the velociraptors all rounded up before they begin spontaneously switching sexes. Not like last time. I've never seen so much blood.

"Still, my babies get such a bad rap. Raptors just want to play!"

And why did she choose the Tar Pits for this interview? As it turns out, Price was scouting tar pits to find the very best one.

"This very night, the Great Raptor will rise from the tar pits," Price explained. "He will rise out of the tar pit he finds most sincere."

Before the proper conclusion of this insightful interview, RFS Price was called away on urgent business. A dinosaur of some kind loped up outside the Tar Pits. Price dashed out the door and leaped atop the waiting saurian.

The beast reared back on its hind legs and the RFS cried out, "Forth, Dilophosaurus!"

And off she rode.

Road Trip

2010-01-10T15:14:00.001-05:00

I extricated The Dossey from Washington, DC, this weekend. The best quote from the road trip back follows.

Andy: This plan sounds a lot like you're old plan. In fact, I think they are the same.

Dossey: No, I added commandos this time.

Andy: Yes, the commandos are new.

Life Expectancy on Mars

2010-01-09T01:46:00.004-05:00

A history lesson!

Dossey was the first man on Mars. All schoolchildren know this.

What you might not know is the story behind it and the details of his mission on the fourth planet.

When space travel was still new, the Earth was innocent. We thought we were alone.

In a little town called Dunn, the best doctors all told Dossey he only had two years to live.

The Dossey-Rah faced his fate head-on. He wanted to make his last two years count - really do something productive, maybe for science.

So he volunteered for a NASA mission wherein he would be launched in a capsule to the Red Planet.

Dossey landed successfully and immediately planted a flag which bore his visage.

He then proceeded directly to the famous "face" that appeared in orbital photography. He climbed the structure, looked the giant mug over, and with his heavy space boots gave the Martian face two great black eyes.

Two years passed. Scientists were surprised when Dossey kept broadcasting after his life expectancy was up. He is up there for a whole epoch, riding around on the Mars rover, broadcasting updates back to mission control.

Funding for the Mars Mission dried up not long after his arrival, but unaware of the problems back home Dossey kept transmitting his findings.

Scientists who recently examined these transmissions found some rather surprising discoveries. Unknown to modern exobiology was the existence of friendly, "red bears" living in caves on Mars.

Dossey lived with these alleged bears for many Martian winters until the Return of the Empire, when his services were much needed back on Terra.

And so Dossey left his temporary home and his new found friends.

Not surprisingly, Mars has never been the same since.

Mr. Dossey contributed to this entry.

Be It Resolved

2010-01-04T00:19:00.003-05:00

CARY - Rather than look back on the wonderful, dreadful year we've just been forced to endure and had the pleasure to participate in, we here at the Propaganda Pipeline choose to look forward.

And while making New Year's Resolutions is always a laughable, foolhardy, pointless endeavor, when Emperor Andy resolves to do a thing, he does it - or his people die trying to do it!

Arriving back in Greater Raleigh after Christmas vacation in Androcity, the Imperator immediately set forth a grand vision for Year Eleven.

This took approximately ten minutes to get down on paper, and would not have taken that long if his desk drawer did not consist of a collection of dry ink pens.

"Why do we keep these?" he said. "If the pen doesn't work now, it is never going to work. Throw it away!"

Year Nine...Ten? ... Eleven! (2010 AD)
from the Office of the Emperor

First, stop keeping ball point pens that no longer write.

Second, buy new ball point pens.

Third, get rid of this "pre-existing condition" red tape, and provide full medical care and higher education for clones (originality-challenged people) and cyborgs (transhumans).

Note to self: What about cyber-clones? Does it give them twice the benefits? Or do the two pre-existing conditions cancel each other out?

Fourth, a velociraptor in every pot.

This will require a drastic reduction in the number of pots, since producing additional raptors would be cost-prohibitive.

Fifth, 40 acres and a stegosaurus.

Fortunately, we have a stegosaur surplus and there is plenty of real estate to be settled on the moon and various asteroids. Again, relatively little out of pocket expense.

Whatever money is spent transporting settlers out to the asteroid belt is quickly recovered by not having to deal with those folks. Let's be honest, they weren't paying taxes to start out. This gets them out of the way.

Listen, that's all I've got so far, but legally I have until the end of January to come up with the rest.

As I think more on it, every time I make plans, Fate or circumstances or other people just conspire to work against me. I'm not sure what the point is.

This is why the funding for time travel research and development is so very essential.

{ Andronicus out. }

To the Time Machine! - Part 24

2010-01-03T23:47:00.000-05:00

"A Change of Heart"

The Past
The Creek

"Why do I have all these warm fuzzy feelings?" Spitler demanded to know.

Andy and Dossey looked up at the thrashing Political Officer, who had just sat up in the infirmary bed. There was an I.V. in Spitler's arm and another connected to his neck. He looked down horrified to see fresh stitches across his chest.

"What are these scars?" Spitler ran his hands over the freshly closed wounds. "Who washed me? Who shaved me?"

"I should warn you," Surgeon General Jernigan, standing at the foot of his bed, told him, "there may be some residual side effects." She was unfazed by the angry commissar, but rather she kept her medical eyes on the bedside equipment.

"Side effects of what?" Spitler growled.

She looked up from her clipboard and informed him, "Your condition was critical. It was necessary to replace your heart."

"OK, but why do I have a craving for cigarettes?" Spitler asked, a touch of panic creeping into his voice. "And Diet Coke?"

He stopped flailing suddenly. "What happened to my voice?" he said, almost in a whisper.

"Your voice?" asked Andy. "You sound normal."

"Exactly," Spitler said. "What have you done with my accent? I sound like some damned capitalist pig." The very thought made him shudder.

"You sound like us," Andy tried to assure him.

"Only grouchier," Dossey added, helpfully.

"That's it," Spitler decided. "I'm in hell." He collapsed, overwhelmed, back down on his bed.

"Hey, is that your truck?" Jernigan asked. She pointed out the infirmary window. The men turned to look.

Sure enough. Someone was driving off in it.

"Hey, he can't steal that truck," Dossey shouted. "We just confiscated it."

They raced outside the Infirmary just in time to see the black truck disappear around the corner, kicking up dust behind it.

Spitler, his newly installed heart pumping in his chest, without hesitation took off after the stolen pickup. His legs pumped faster than ever, right along with his new heart.

"Spitler, wait!" Andy yelled after him. "Damn him. What does he think he's doing?"

Alarmed, Dossey turned to Jernigan, and asked, "Should he be running in his condition?"

"Why not?" said Jernigan, plainly confused.

Dumbfounded, Dossey just looked back at her.

Andy, on the other hand, was busy fiddling with his wristwatch. He pressed a few buttons on it. "Blue," he spoke into the clock face, "emergency pick up, this location."

Seconds later, a light blue (with dark blue top) 1976 Ford LTD roared to a stop in front of the infirmary.

The engine rumbled in idle. Andy climbed through the open passenger door, slid over, and took the wheel. Dossey wedged himself into the passenger seat and the door shut behind him.

Andy leaned across Dossey and shouted at Jernigan, "Stay here."

"Blue, pursuit," Andy commanded. The car shot down the road and out of sight, leaving the Surgeon General coughing amidst the massive cloud of exhaust and dust.

To be continued!

A Bard Act to Follow

2010-01-02T00:01:00.003-05:00

Continued from Part 1 and Part 2

Empire State Building
NYC

Clash of the Clones! Rockel 2.0 and Shakespeare II battle it out in this exciting conclusion!

"Shall I compare thee to a bloody pulp?" Shakespeare punched Rockel in the face as hard and as fast as he could. "Let me count the ways!"

Shakespeare's titanium fist began to dent Rockel's cybernetic cranium. The assassin's red optics started to flutter and dim. Fortunately, much like a dinosaur, Rockel possessed a secondary neural cluster at the end of his spine. The loss of his primary processor would not disable him completely.

"Activating secondary protocols," a computer voice emanated from Rockel's chestplate. "Rerouting primary functions."

Rockel's jump jets unfolded from his torso and ignited, propelling the entangled duo into and through a wall.

The impact was enough to shake Shakespeare loose. Rockel activated his telescopic arms and shoved Shakespeare into the ceiling.

He held the bard pinned there and prepared to fire a pulse blast. Shakespeare squirmed to free his primary weapon - the Coil Shuffler. He managed to squeeze off a blast, which punched a hole in the floor right by Rockel's head.

In reply, Rockel extended his telescoping legs up and kicked Shakespeare twice in the gut.

Shakespeare twisted enough to get a good angle on Rockel. He fired the coil shuffler, but hadn't really thought the tactic through all the way. The energy beam caught Rockel square in the chest, opening a localized portal into another dimension.

As hoped, Rockel was sucked into another, nearby dimension. What Shakespeare had not foreseen was that Rockel would not let go. Shakespeare was pulled along with Rockel into the other plane.

Flame engulfed them. Smoke choked their bionic lungs, clogging their filters. A terrible screeching roar filled their auditory nets. Detecting high concentrations of sulfur in the atmosphere, Rockel was thankful his olfactory sensors had been damaged in the duel.

"Oh, hell no," Rockel growled.

Shakespeare cackled, "We seem to be the only two here. As I suspected, hell is empty. All the devils are back on Earth."

He fired the shuffler again, the beam collided with Rockel, and the two were pulled back into Earth realm.

They did not, however, return to the floor from which they departed. Instead, they reappeared at just above the skyscraper. The wind whipped around them as they fell.

Rockel released his grip on Shakespeare, reached out, and sunk his claws into the towering spire at the apex of the structure.

Swinging around on his elongated limbs, Rockel smacked the surprised Shakespeare duplicate in the face and sent the duplicate dramatist tumbling to the observation deck.

Rockel landed, still smoldering, by the hazy hack.

"We could go on all day like this," Rockel sighed.

"That's what your sister said," Shakespeare pointed out.

"Dude," Rockel replied. "Not cool."

Before Rockel could attack, Shakespeare rose up and began to melt and twist until he had assumed the rather pleasing shape of a woman.

"You wouldn't hit a girl, would you?" the Shakes-girl asked, batting her eyes at him.

"Depends on the girl," Rockel replied.

Shakespeare returned to his normal form, but with the addition of a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "You wouldn't hit a bespectacled man," he whined.

"Be spectacular," Rockel answered, and moved in, his fists cuffing.

The would-be writer blocked Rockel's jabs, and morphed into a carbon copy of Rockel. "But I'm your long-lost brother!" he cried.

"Get in line," quipped Rockel.

"Fine," Shakespeare said coolly, his eyes hot again. He raised the coil shuffler and lined up Rockel in his sights. "Will you be or will you not be? There is no question. Tomorrow, will find you a grave man."

Rockel looked down at his bracelet again. WWMARD?

He looked up at Shakespeare II again and said, "You're not the real Shakespeare."

"What?" Shakespeare sputtered. "What makes you say that?"

"You've got a tattoo with the number Two on the back of your neck," Rockel told him. "You're a clone, a copy."

"No, a man can die but once," Shakespeare laughed at the absurdity of the idea.

So Rockel switched to terms the playwright would understand. "You're the sequel!" he told him.

This got the bard's attention. "Alas, alack," Shakespeare cried, and with his free hand felt the back of his neck for the alleged tattoo. "What's in a number?"

"It's just a number," Rockel agreed. "But the fact remains - you're not the original Shakespeare."

"You and I are past our dancing days," Shakespeare nodded glumly, and slowly his weapon lowered.

"Sure," Rockel said and held out his hand. "Now, hand over the coil shuffler."

From deep inside Shakespeare's clone, a rage began to boil. Rockel 2.0 recognized the signs. It was a fury difficult to describe - a terrible, empty anger some clones succumb to when they first discover their true identity, their unnatural nature.

"Having nothing, nothing can I lose," Shakespeare seethed. His cybernetic optics glowed hot. The Bard let loose a roar and charged at our Master Assassin.

Shakespeare let his anger get the best of him. Rockel remained cool and sidestepped the first cacophonous cannon blast. His vibro blade slid out from its forearm sheathe.

When Shakespeare rushed in for a close range attack, with one hand, Rockel knocked the shuffler away and, with the other, lopped off Shakespeare's arm just above the coil shuffler.

Shakespeare screamed in agony, falling backward. The cauterized wound did not bleed, but the smell of burning flesh filled the air.

"Et tu, Rocke?" he whispered, his eyes filled with surprise.

Frowning at all the terrible Shakespearean references in this post, Rockel stooped and picked up the coil shuffler gingerly, careful to hold the weapon by the nub of flesh still attached to its end. Squinting at the harsh light pouring out of the emitter coils, he pointed the device squarely at the bard clone.

"I cannot be vanquished so sound," Shakespeare raged. "Out of the jaws of death, from the depths of hell---"

Rockel had heard enough. He squeezed the nerve trigger, fired the weapon, and shuffled Shakespeare 2.0 off this mortal coil.

Soon, outside:

From behind a line of police cars, Clone Overseer Rev. Tam was still attempting to negotiate by bullhorn. Only in NYC would you hear someone say, "Boo, you whore," over a megaphone.

He paused when one of the front doors began to revolve. A few seconds later, out stepped Master Assassin Rockel 2.0.

"Hold your fire," Tam ordered the Civil Protection officers around him. "He's one of ours." Tam was very familiar with all registered clones, and this assassin was one of the most infamous.

At Tam's side, SSSG Jernigan at once realized what Rockel's appearance meant. "He did it!" she shouted. She crossed the police line and ran toward the assassin, but then stopped short when she saw he was alone. "Where are the hostages?" she asked, puzzled.

"Hostages?" Rockel replied, also puzzled. "Recovering hostages was not in my mission objective."

Thankfully, very few of the hostages had been harmed. Behind Rockel, they began pouring out the front doors.

The gathered crowds, who apparently did not have to be at work that day, cheered their favorite assassin. Around them, hostages were greeted by their loved ones.

"Rockel, you did it," Custer the Greater stepped up and shook the assassin's hand. "Great work!"

Clearly Rockel was the only one not celebrating the death of the world's 2nd-most famous playwright. He simply replied, "As he was valiant, I honor him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. Not that I loved Shakespeare less, but that I loved the Empire more."

He watched them take away the body of the Bard's henchmen. Rockel looked down at the coil shuffler still clenched in his hand. Those close enough to hear him whisper, heard the Rockel clone speak. "This was the noblest clone of them all. Aside from me."

The End.

Or is it?

Begin the Beginnings

2010-01-01T15:58:00.009-05:00

Today we mark many beginnings. The beginning of a New Year, a new decade according to popular belief, though according to mathematics, the new decade will begin next year, but who's counting anyway. It has come to our attention that another new beginning must also be marked: the establishment of New Christopolis, a suburb of Androcity.

As all loyal minions undoubtedly remember, Hayworth the Younger was forced to leave behind a life of decadence in the once great state of Christopolis and seek refuge with the Parents of the Emperor. Being relegated to cramped conditions was wearing on the nerves of all members of the Imperial Family in Androcity. After a few years working in the Agricultural Department of the Birthplace of the Emperor, Chris has begun to settle into new quarters and reestablish his position.

Our Foreign Correspondent Miles Aveigh caught up with Chris and his wife, Royal Seamstress Buzz, to see how things are shaping up.
　

While leaning against a bulging closet door, Chris stated that the settlement was progressing along nicely. Unfortunately, his daily work ensuring the high quality of genetically engineered vegetables means that things are not being settled as quickly as desired. Buzz muttered something about not being able to find her fabric bins and wandered off to one of the few boxless corners of the domicile.

"Confidentially," Hayworth the Lesser, whispered, "She seems to want it all magically unpacked immediately. Something about being sick of sitting home all day staring at boxes and not having her sewing machine hooked up. As if her work was so much more important that mine. You know, I'd like to see her spend all day being blinded by glowing squash and dodging flying artichokes to come home and want to unpack. I mean . . . Wait, does that red light mean you're recording this?"

At this point, the Brother to the Emperor felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and hurried off to see to important work for the good of the Empire.

I shared a cup of tea with Buzz.

"I'm glad that at least the tea kettle's unpacked. Actually, most of the kitchen is unpacked and that makes it feel a bit like home. I just hate not feeling completely settled. I know he works hard, but he doesn't seem to understand how frustrating it is to stare at the boxes all day. I know he's tired, but we're never going to be unpacked at this rate and I'd like to live at least one place where I'm thoroughly unpacked before I move again at least once in my lifetime," she sighed. "Well, at least the cable's hooked up."

And so, I leave New Christopolis sure of its future rise to be a new booming metropolis in the Empire.

Untapped Potential

2009-12-31T00:01:00.002-05:00

EDITORIAL

At the beginning of the 20th century, the times they were a' changin' and people said "aught five" instead of "1905." How cool!

But 2000 to 2009? Do we abbreviate in clever ways? No, we say 2009 or 09.

Partly, we are a more advanced, but lamer, generation.

And, partly, we expected more of this decade. For decades, the 21st century was painted in science fiction as new golden age of flying cars, space travel, utopianism, and genome manipulation. It's been a bit of a let down so far.

But the terminology stuck. It can't be just 09. It must be Two Thousand Nine:

"In the year two thousand nine ...."

The Day After Christmas

2009-12-27T08:00:00.000-05:00

NORTH POLE - At a press conference called just for the occasion, Imperial Game Warden Doyle proudly showed off a beautiful reindeer he bagged this weekend. According to the tags, the animal was named "Prancer." Reckon he won't be prancing any more.

"I use every part of the deer," Doyle told reporters. "The meat of course is delicious, and the pelt makes for a most attractive cape, but the magic dust we're able to extract from these flying reindeer is the most vital and profitable prize.

"Flying reindeer are much harder to track and kill than regular reindeer or even deer. Their ability to fly mixes the best parts of duck hunting with deer hunting. And when a broken reindeer smashes into the ground, it often breaks the antlers. Luckily with Prancer here that didn't happen."

Meanwhile, in the background, unnoticed by most of the crowd, the Fairy Wrangler marched a chain gang of elves onto a waiting cargo carrier. Their destination: work camps perhaps or to the Magic Grinder to be converted into usable, raw materials for the Empire.

A press agent for Santa Claus contacted Pipeline to voice discontent: "The polar ice caps are melting, stranding elves at sea on little floating icebergs," it said. "This separates elven families. And when there is no ice up North, Santa's sweatshop will have to be closed down, and then who will make all the toys?"

Twas Slightly before Christmas

2009-12-25T12:00:00.005-05:00

Part 6 in a Festively Facetious holiday series

(continued from Part 5)

The North Pole

Lorma Doom and her sidekick Facetious Jones were each wrapped in a gift box, with only their heads sticking out of the top.

"Who are you two supposed to be?" asked Santa Claus, standing over them.

Facetious had the presence of mind to reply, "I'm the little drummer girl and this is the garump grump-grump grump."

"Lorma Doom, you've been very Naughty," Santa said. He turned to Facetious. "And you've been a little Naughty, too."

"If you're referring to the incident at that party ---," Lorma started to say.

"I think there's been a minor misunderstanding ---," Facetious tried to explain.

Santa cut them both off with his booming voice, "When I get through with the two of you, you'll be nothing more than lumps of coal!"

Meanwhile, four or five of Santa's elves were trying to lift the Ax of Justice off the ice. They were unsuccessful. As if it weighed far more than its size would suggest, the battleaxe would not budge.

"All right, my little turtle doves," Santa asked his two prisoners, "tell me, why are you here?"

"I want a Mercedes Benz for Christmas," Lorma blurted out.

Facetious, quickly catching on, added, "I want a color TV."

"I'd like a night on the town," said Lorma.

"And buy the next round," said Facetious.

An already furious Santa was getting furiouser and furiouser. "Who sent you?" he asked.

"I didn't catch his name," Lorma admitted.

"Were you sent here by heaven?" Santa asked.

"Huh?" said Facetious.

"Enough!" Santa put his gloved hand up. "We have ways of making you talk." He rubbed his jolly hands together, and ordered his elves, "Feed the little one to the reindeer." The elves moved toward Facetious.

"I thought reindeer were herbivores," Facetious squeaked.

"Herbivores? So big a word for such a little pest," Santa commented, as the elves picked up the box containing Facetious. "No, little girl, I'm afraid flying reindeer eat whatever is placed in front of them. At least, these three do."

He turned to Lorma. "That is, unless you're feeling a little more helpful?"

"Go ahead," Lorma called out, as the elves dragged Jones' box through the snow. "Let them eat her!"

"What?" Facetious exclaimed, struggling in her packaging.

"You'll be doing me a favor," Lorma went on. "She's the Scrappy Doo to my Mystery, Inc."

"I'm your sidekick, you brutal wench!" Facetious screamed, as she was pushed toward Santa's salivating sleigh team.

Santa eyed Lorma and tried to decide if she was bluffing.

"Best Christmas present I could've asked for," Lorma added, not flinching, "if that girl bought it."

"Fine. I tire of these reindeer games," stated Santa. "Looks like you'll get your wish after all."

Indeed, the elves delivered their package, and quickly skittered backward. Facetious closed her little eyes. The lead reindeer stared at Facetious, but did not attack.

Facetious peeked to see what the delay was.

And that's when the attack came. Not from the front, but from the side.

A second reindeer, she hadn't even seen, tore into the gift wrapping, shredding her box with its razor-sharp teeth. But instead of screaming, Facetious saw her chance.

As the reindeer ripped the box away, Facetious stood and uppercut the lead reindeer and sent her flying.

Turning quick as a wink, the half-pint snatched up the ribbon and wrapped it around the second reindeer's snout like a muzzle, and tied it tight.

When the third reindeer hoofed it toward her, Facetious kicked snow into its eyes, then dived to the side and slid to safety. The beast barely missed her.

"Get her!" bellowed Santa.

Facetious slid right over to her Pike, seized it up, and flicked its blade toward Lorma Doom. The spiked Pike slashed the ribbon restraints.

"Thanks!" Lorma said, erupting out of the gift box that held her.

"Don't thank me," Facetious said. "I was trying to stab you, not free you."

"Let's settle that later," Lorma advised.

"Fine by me," Facetious agreed, and scrambled to her feet.

Lorma kicked her Ax up and caught it. She held it aloft and spoke the incantation, "A chop for Justice is a chop for the Empire!" The Ax head glowed purple with power. "I have the Rhythm!"

Facetious had no such catchphrase or words of power. She raised her Pike and shouted, "Puppy Power!"

The elves rushed them. Santa's helpers had no weapons, just the tools of their trade and of course sharp little teeth. But tiny hammers, drills, and chisels were no match for the finest in Imperial weaponry.

Facetious swung her Pike around, toppling elves all around her.

Lorma twirled the Ax by its handle strap over her head, chopping and hacking at the small army, but trying not to actually injure the poor elves.

She next employed her special break-dance fighting moves, sending elves scattering.

Facetious kept the elves at a distance with her long Pike, tripping and smacking them with the blade, but trying not to do any permanent damage.

The fight went on for some time. At one point, Lorma even flung Facetious like a bowling ball into a group of nine or ten elves.

Finally, the women fought back to back, surrounded, but holding their own.

"Ho ho ho ho ho," a deep laugh cut through the melee. It was Santa, of course, but he sounded more like Jabba the Hutt.

The elves dispersed and retreated. Santa stepped forward. "Such a clatter," he said. "But I'm through toying. This little play-date ends now."

"We'll take him together," Lorma instructed her sidekick. "You go in slowly on the left."

"I'm taking him now!" Facetious rushed forward, her Pike extended. Lorma had no choice. She hurled her Axe at Old Saint Nick.

He was a big guy, but he was lively and quick. Santa's arm shot out and he easily caught and clasped the Ax in his claws. The mystical nature of the Ax, however, prevented him from wielding it, and so he was bent back under its weight. The blade sunk into the permafrost.

Racing forward, Facetious stabbed the Pike blade into the frozen floor, pole-vaulted through the air, and decked Santa right in the halls.

Lorma skated by and holiday-punched Santa right in the jaw.

Facetious kicked him in the side. St. Nick slashed at her with his Santa claws, but caught only air as the mischievous midget ducked under the swipe.

Behind him, Lorma hefted her Ax out of the ice, swung the hatchet around, and cleaved right into Santa's enormous belly.

His stomach gave, but did not burst. Instead, it jiggled - and vibrated the Ax right out of Lorma's hands. Santa turned with a jerk and slapped Lorma to the ground.

This left him open to attack by Facetious, who sliced at his exposed side. All she managed to cut was his belt. Santa's pants dropped down around his surprised ankles.

"You little runt," Santa seethed and stumbled. He crashed to the ground. He wasn't hurt, and no one laughed, but the ice made a few cracks.

Before he could right himself, the Ax and Pike blades were both poised at his neck, their blades pressing into his flesh.

"Freeze!" ordered Facetious.

"Oh, ho ho," laughed Santa, but his eyes did not twinkle, his dimples were not merry.

To be concluded in Part 7: Naughty or Nice, the exciting conclusion!

Santa, Baby!

2009-12-24T23:59:00.007-05:00

Part 5 in a Festively Facetious holiday series

(continued from Part 4)

The North Pole

"You were supposed to infiltrate the workshop and gather info," Lorma Doom hissed at her sidekick, "not organize a union and stage a strike."

"I made a little time for both," Facetious Jones said, sticking out her tongue.

"Stick that tongue out again and I'll chop it off," Lorma warned her.

"Eep!" Facetious clasped her finite fingers over her little lips.

Instead of removing anything from her short sidekick's big mouth, Lorma Doom poked the tip of her Ax around the corner. The reflection in the Ax blade gave her a picture of what was transpiring behind Santa's Workshop.

A small group of elves was doing its best to convince a team of three vicious reindeer to move a sleigh into position under an overhead dispensing mechanism.

Lorma retracted the Ax, and turned to Facetious again. "I don't understand," stated Lorma. "Why is Santa is so mean? He is supposed to be jolly."

"The elves told me Santa used to be happy," Jones explained, "but something happened and he's lost the Christmas spirit."

"How can Santa lose the Christmas spirit?" Lorma asked. "He is the Christmas spirit."

"I know, right?" agreed Facetious. "Lame. Like, Tiny Tim lame."

Lorma winced at this description, and changed the subject, "What happened to your workers' strike?"

"There was a slight setback. Santa busted up our union," reported Facetious Jones. "He burst into the shop, yelled at the elves, and they lost all resolve. He ordered them to load his sleigh."

"OK, don't forget our mission," Lorma cautioned. "We must kill or capture the one they call Santa Claus."

"Are we really going through with this?" asked the incredulous Facetious.

Lorma touched her on the shoulder. "We'll face unafraid the plans that we've made," she reassured the small sidekick.

"Don't talk down to me," Facetious said. "I'm Facetious Jones. I don't look it, but I'm a whole lot of woman."

"Now's your chance to prove it," said Lorma. She checked the coast and it was clear. The elves had returned to the shop. "Lez go."

"What?"

"C'mon!"

The dynamic duo darted across the deck to the far side of the sleigh. Lorma hoisted Facetious into the sleigh. Facetious turned to pull Lorma up behind her, but Lorma ignored this and simply stepped into the sleigh.

Seconds later, they were hidden in Santa's sack.

After a moment of dark silence, Facetious whispered, "I'm afraid of the dark!"

"No, you're not," Lorma told her. "Now, keep your eyes closed so they can't see us. And don't show you're teeth."

"Your eyes aren't closed," Facetious grumbled.

"How do you know that unless your eyes are open?" Lorma whispered fiercely. "Now, do as I say."

They waited for what felt like forever - really only a side effect of the previously mentioned timeless properties of the North Pole.

"I'm taking a little peek," Facetious whispered, and stood up, then reported, "I see Santa!"

"What's he doing?" Lorma asked.

"He's laying a finger inside of his nose," Facetious told her. "Ew, gross."

"Quick, while he's distracted," Lorma whispered.

The two warrior women leapt, weapons brandished, out of the sack to the top of the sleigh.

"Kwanzai!!" Facetious shouted.

A startled St. Nick and gang of elves looked up at them.

"Elves," Lorma muttered to Facetious.

"Elvis?" asked Facetious.

"Elves," Lorma said again. "You failed to mention he was surrounded by Elves."

Thinking quicker than any of his half-sized helpers, Santa reached over and threw a switch. The dispenser above the sleigh rumbled and whirred to life.

The Brute Squad looked up. Boxes and boxes of beautifully wrapped presents rained down on top of our heroines.

Continued in Part 6: Twas Slightly before Christmas!

Eight Tiny Reindeer

2009-12-23T23:30:00.004-05:00

Part 4 in a Festively Facetious holiday series

(continued from Part 3)

Flying Reindeer were the Velociraptors of the North Pole.

There was simply no other explanation or comparison, Lorma Doom decided. They were mean and churlish. If they didn't bite, they kicked.

Most importantly, they smelled awful.

Every few moments one of the reindeer broke wind. Lorma could tell it was the reindeer because they gave off sparks (or magic dust or something) in addition to the smell and sound.

Disgusting creatures, flying reindeer. Only her Axe had kept them at bay. They left her alone for now.

Lorma Doom was hiding in the reindeer stable, under some magical hay. This stable was different from any she'd ever seen, which admittedly was not many.

This one had several levels and seemed to be designed by someone with no concept of gravity. Indeed, the reindeer did not just occupy the floor and stalls, but also the walls and ceilings.

Lorma watched as Santa and three of his elves selected the reindeer for this Christmas Eve's night flight.

"What's the weather like tonight?" Santa asked. "Is it foggy?"

"Visibility is very good, sir," reported the weather elf, his voice trembling.

"I don't want to take any chances," Santa said. "You sure we won't need Adolf?"

"Rudolf, sir," the stable master elf corrected, then ducked as Santa swung at him.

"Don't contradict me!" Santa bellowed, his cheeks reddening.

"Yes, Santa," the elf cowered. "Sorry, Santa!"

"Rassin frassin," Santa muttered. He grabbed the checklist out of the stable master's tiny hands and peered down at it through his spectacles.

"No, no, no!" Santa roared, and when he shouted he shook like a bowl full of furious jelly. He even bent the elf's clipboard and shoved it back at him.

"I want Smasher and Blitzkrieg, Slumdog and Fool's Gold," he cried. "Poison and Foosball, Deathtrap and Stonecold!"

"Sir, there's a problem with the new flying reindeer," the third elf piped up.

"A problem?" Santa's eyes twinkled with rising rage.

"On your orders, we engineered them and bred them," the biologist elf explained hastily. "They were great, you would've loved them.

"And they showed extraordinary intelligence, even problem-solving," he continued. "Especially the big one. We bred eight originally, as you instructed, but when she came in she took over the herd and killed all but two of the others

"That one ... when she looks at you, you can tell she's working things out." He glanced anxiously at the stalls.

"We'll make do with those three then," Santa decided.

"Just as you say, boss," the biologist elf nodded, but he gulped nervously.

"That's more like it," Santa laughed. "Now, get my team harnessed and over to the loading bay, pronto."

And away he lumbered. Once he'd left, the three elves conferred.

"So do we recall the most famous reindeer of all?" asked the stable master elf.

"Yes, you heard the fat man," biologist elf said. "Just the three new reindeer."

"Dash it, dash it, dash it all," grumbled the weather elf. "Santa gets worse with every passing year."

Continued in Part 5: Santa, Baby!

A Merry Little Christmas

2009-12-23T13:16:00.004-05:00

Part 3 in a Festively Facetious holiday series

(Continued from Part 2)

Christmas Eve at the North Pole was the single most hectic time of the year.

Actually, that's not entirely true. One of the virtues, perhaps the only virtue of this artic climate, was that the location did not experience the passage of time.

That's right. At the North Pole, no one aged. Depending on your point of view, this could be heaven or it could be hell.

Frankly, the science behind the timeless properties of the Pole is quite complicated. Suffice it to say, the ageless attribute is due to the Pole not occupying any of the Earth's time zones and therefore it was somehow exempt from time.

And this, it seemed, was the root of the problem unfolding at Santa's Workshop. A misnomer if there ever was one, the workshop was filled with elves slaving away on production lines in the worst possible conditions. The workshop's namesake, Santa, was nowhere to be seen.

Facetious Jones knew this because she was there. She tugged at her fake beard. Her face itched like mad.

"What's your name, elf?" said a stern voice behind her.

She turned to see a very severe elf, pointing his beard at her. "Facetious," she told him.

"Are you serious?" he asked, leaning on his candy cane.

"Not if I can help it," she replied with a winning smile, "but Facetious is my name."

"What are you doing?" asked the elf.

"Furthering the Elven cause in my own small way," Jones replied.

"I know every elf under my charge and I don't recognize you," the elf said, scratching his pointy beard.

"Oh, I'm a recent transfer," Facetious explained, "from the South Pole."

"The South Pole?" the supervisor elf raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know we had any facilities down there."

"What? Some of our best work goes on below the equator," Facetious lied, a little too convincingly. "I was in charge of the penguin pagoda, of course." She started to make a little curtsy, but then remembered she was sporting a fake beard, and switched to a bow.

"And why did they send you to me?" the disgruntled elf was getting less and less gruntled.

"I put in for transfer," Facetious explained. "I got tired of trudging around in the snow and ice, scooping up penguin poo with my little shovel. I wanted to bring joy to boys and girls all over the world. What better way to bring joy than making more material possessions?"

"Never mind that joy stuff," the supervising elf told her. "Just get back to work."

"Right, chief," Facetious saluted him. She returned to the assembly line, where doll heads were had been piling up all the time she'd been distracted. The sight of the bodiless heads rolling around, their eyes slowly blinking and winking, was sickening.

She clutched her tiny tummy and turned to the supervisor who was walking down the line, keeping a close eye on the work.

"Yo, chiefie," she cried out, her small voice lifting above the din of the factory. "I'm feeling a little ill. I think I'm gonna hafta take a sick day."

"A sick day?" the supervisor elf whirled around in outrage.

"Er, a personal day?" Facetious Jones elaborated.

The elf swooped down on her. "You just got here, elf," he said. "Back to work." And he rapped his candy cane walking stick across Jones' work station.

Facetious mumbled and grumbled to herself, but resumed work on the baby doll assembly line. Some of the dolls were bigger than the elves making them.

"Pssst, when is lunch break?" Jones asked the elf next to her.

The elf seemed startled that Facetious spoke to her. "We don't get a lunch break," the elf finally whispered in reply. All the while, the line kept moving, and the elves kept working.

"Not even a short one?" Facetious asked, also adopting a whisper.

"No," the elf answered in a hushed voice. "The line never stops. The work never ends. We're so far behind we never get a night off. It's Christmas Eve. We should be celebrating. Instead, we're already working on next year's toys." He looked over her shoulder nervously. "Now, be quiet, before we get in trouble."

"Maybe a little trouble is exactly what we need," Facetious said in a loud voice.

"Sssssh!" her co-worker urged her to silence.

"I can't keep quiet about these conditions," Facetious said. She jumped up on the assembly line, and almost fell over when it carried her with it.

"Elves of the North Pole," she cried out. The elves did not look up or stop working.

"I said, Elves of the North Pole!" Still, no response. They would not cease their labor.

She rode the assembly line to the end of the Workshop, and jumped down. She leaned over to the elf at the end of the line who was hastily shoving dolls into pretty boxes and sealing them up.

"Hey, hey, hey you," Facetious shook him, trying to get his attention. "Where's the off button on this machine?"

"There isn't one," the elf whispered. "Now, please let me work." He kept stuffing boxes.

Facetious huffed, but would not be undone. She turned and opened up the broom closet where she had conveniently stashed her weapon of choice - the Tyke Pike.

At twice her height, the Pike was Facetious' preferred method of dispatching a foe. In battle, the Pike's long reach made up for her short stature.

Facetious swung around and rammed the Pike into the assembly line mechanism. The factory sputtered, churned, and crashed to a halt. There was smoke, followed by shocked silence.

When the smoke cleared, every elf eye was on Facetious Jones, who stood atop the baby doll diaper pinning machine.

"Hello, North Pole! Hello!" she said. "Elves of Santa's Workshop, unite!"

Continued in Part 4: Eight Tiny Reindeer!

Will 2010 Begin?

2009-12-22T13:07:00.003-05:00

RALEIGH - Operations Chief Nazionale revealed today that 2010 will not happen unless the Imperium approves a budget for the upcoming year.

"It now appears that we are going to have to extend 2009 at least a few days," Nazionale explained, "while the landed gentry negotiate some kind of compromise.

"It's been suggested that we simply halt all Imperial activity at the end of 2009 until the Imperium passes a 2010 budget, but let's examine that scenario for a moment," the Ops Chief explained.

"Try to stop the behemoth bureaucracy for a few days, and it would be like trying to stop a moving train. Once derailed, I'm afraid we'd never get back on track again."

The primary issue halting passage appears to be healthcare reform. The Imperium is at odds over the best method to cure our already overtaxed healthcare system, paid for by our already overtaxed citizenry.

The Opposition Party insists that every minion in the dominion should be covered, regardless of class or status.

"Reform? We need an overhaul," Praetor Palmer exclaimed. "Our entire system is unhealthy. Right now, capitalism encourages competition, which breeds innovation, which means there are always new expensive medicines to buy.

"Think about it," she ranted on. "Our citizenry is bombarded by intimidating pharmaceutical commercials telling them how sick they are. It's a lot to process. We want to eliminate that uncertainty."

The radical Anti-Opposition Party, on the other hand, feels that we need to get back to the good old days, when people died if it was their time, and we stopped trying to keep them alive by artificial means. The party cites the Imperial Constitution as the basis of its beliefs.

"Just look at the word 'Constitution,'" Consul Pytell explained. "Our mighty Empire has a healthy Constitution. There is no mention, that we know of, in the Constitution about any right or responsibility that would entitle or proscribe the Empire to provide healthcare or mandate health insurance.

"What we really need to focus on is the unhealthy economy," Pytell elaborated. "Perhaps if we fixed the market, people could afford healthcare. Or at least a proper burial."

Surgeon General Jernigan, in the middle of her public speaking tour (promoting her new book, Self-Diagnosis: Admitting You are the Problem), took a break to make a few appearances in the Imperial capital, known in the common tongue as Raleigh. There, she made a strong case for healthcare reform.

"I'm trying to quit smoking," said Jernigan, on a cigarette break between surgical symposia. "Apparently, Blue Moss Blue Field will no longer pay for my cigarettes." Her outrage was palpable.

"They did agree to pay for nicotine patches to help me quit," she admitted, "but it is not the same. Intolerable."

Indeed, the Surgeon General sported several of the patches, including one pirate-style over her left eye. This patch even had an "Rx" symbol handwritten on it.

And if the Imperium cannot reach an agreement? The Operations Division will take drastic steps.

"Short of the Imperator stepping in," Nazionale stated, "and forcing a decision by casting the deciding vote - and his vote is always the deciding vote, we could remain in 2009 indefinitely.

"Should this extension become necessary, I can assure you Operations will be set. Already, we've commissioned a panel to create additional months to fill the potentially elongated calendar.

"I cannot comment at length, of course, about a calendar currently under construction, but I think it is safe to say that, so far, some strong possibilities are Edomamber, Tofubril, and Yogust."

Is compromise possible? Surgeon General Jernigan thinks so. "The best solution is to even the playing field," she told us, "and make everyone deathly sick. If the Imperium cannot settle the issue, I will settle it for them.

"A good plague is just what this Empire needs. What doesn't kill us, makes us wish we were dead."

Jernigan took the opportunity to plug her next book, a sequel entitled, Self-Medicating: Making it Worse.

A Little Christmas Cheer

2009-12-21T18:36:00.004-05:00

Part 2 in a Festively Facetious holiday series

(continued from Part 1)

Lorma Doom fastened the last buckle that strapped Facetious Jones in the child seat.

"You've got it a little too tight, don'tcha think?" Jones croaked.

"It can go tighter," threatened Lorma.

"Actually, it's fine," Facetious decided. Then added under her breath, "Finite."

Lorma shot her a look. "Should've come with a muzzle," she grumbled, then buckled in and took the wheel.

"Why are we taking this busted thang?" Facetious asked. "My minicooper is right outside."

"This is the vehicle assigned to me," Lorma told her, checking the mirrors. "The Justi-Car."

"I know it's just a car," replied Jones. "That's what I'm saying."

"No, it's the Justi-Car," Lorma shook her head. "Justi. Car. Justi-Car."

"The Empire needs to tip the scales of Justice a little bit and get you a better car," Facetious observed. "This is more like a mis-carriage of Justice."

Lorma did not answer. She kept adjusting her mirrors and craning her neck to see.

"What are you doing?" Jones asked her.

"Adjusting the mirrors," Lorma huffed. "This ride has so many blind spots I can't see for shit."

"Oh, Justice is Blind," Facetious rolled her eyes. "Hardy har har. That's not half bad."

Lorma Doom fumed. Why had she not realized that connection before? The Emperor's sense of humor was unique, to put it mildly.

With a grunt, she cranked the Justi-Car, put her in gear, and pushed the accelerator down. The car churned with the strain, but did not move. She looked down at the gearshift in frustration. It was in gear, so that was not the issue.

Aha! She disengaged the docking clamps and the Justi-Car car shot forward into the sky, puttering and whirring into the night.

Heading: Dead North.

Continued in Part 2: A Merry Little Christmas

The Ax and the Fax

2009-12-20T20:41:00.003-05:00

Part 1 in a Festively Facetious holiday series

Introducing Facetious Jones!

RALEIGH - It was Christmas time in the capital city. Lorma Doom, however, was not filled with the spirit of the season. Instead, the brutal mistress was stuck manning the nightshift again on Christmas Eve.

And what's worse, she was stuck with her new sidekick.

"When Axes are in short supply," her sidekick quipped, "who ya gonna call? Facetious Jones!"

Yes, that was really the name of the sidekick assigned to Lorma last week by the Human Resources Dept.

"Shut it, pipsqueak," Lorma told her.

Facetious Jones did not shut it. "Why did we get the short shrift?" she asked.

Lorma scowled at what must have been the fiftieth reference to Facetious' short stature in the past two hours since they'd started graveyard shift, manning the Situation Monitoring Room in the Imperial Headquarters. (Someone had to man the emergency phone line at HQ.)

"The Emperor claims it is affirmative action," Lorma explained, "but I suspect it's 'cause he believes 'we people' celebrate Kwanzaa instead of Christmas."

"Doesn't that bother you?" Facetious asked. "Even a little?"

Lorma ignored this remark, as she was on the office phone listening to the Voice telling her that due to the holidays no one in Human Resources was available to take her call. The Voice, however, did add that HR had a new motto: "This time it's personnel."

She hung up the phone angrily. With HR closed, Lorma was stuck with her sidekick at least until Monday. Now where was the Justice in that, she wondered.

No sooner had she hung up the telephone, it rang.

"That was a tiny bit freaky," observed Facetious, clutching at her small heart.

The two women stared at the phone, watched it ring. At last, Lorma Doom reluctantly reached over, picked it up, and answered. "Hello?"

"Hello?" said the person on the line. "Hello?"

Lorma grasped around on the cluttered desk for the note card that had the appropriate greeting written on it. After what seemed like an eternity, she found it and spoke into the receiver, "Good evening. You've reached Imperial Headquarters. Due to the holidays, no one is available to take your call at this time. Please call back in January. End transmission."

This made Lorma wonder if the Voice on the other end of the line when she called HR had really been a recording or a person reading a similar note card. Before she could give this a second thought, the person on the other end of the line interrupted.

"Lorma Doom?" he asked. "Is that you?"

"Um," said Lorma. "Yes?"

"Lorma, my child," the speaker replied, "I am glad I reached you. I have an important assignment for you."

"Who is this?" Lorma asked.

"Hey, who ya talking to?" Facetious bounded up and asked, trying to shove her head between Lorma's ear and the receiver.

"I'm trying to find out," Lorma barked, and whacked her sidekick atop her small head with the phone.

Lorma quickly jerked the receiver up to her ear again. "---and so you will understand why this mission must remain top secret," was all Lorma caught.

"Ow, now I have a small bump on my noggin," Facetious moaned. Lorma shut her eyes as if that would block out the sound, and covered her free ear with a mitten-gauntleted hand.

"I'm faxing the coordinates to you now," the speaker spoke.

Lorma pointed at the fax machine. Facetious, however, just looked puzzled at the extended finger. "It's your finger," she said. "What about it?"

"The fax machine," Lorma hissed, trying to cover the mouthpiece of the phone, whisper at Jones, and listen to the phone all at one time.

Facetious rotated toward the fax machine. "Ah," she commented. "A little behind the times aren't we?" She watched the machine begin its reception ritual.

"Do people even use fax machines any more?" Facetious wondered aloud. "Very low-tech."

Lorma Doom opened her clinched eyes only to try to find her Ax, but the phone chord would not stretch far enough. Facetious Jones was safe for the moment.

"Your chord is short," Jones informed her cheerfully.

Lorma grimaced in reply, and contemplated strangling her sidekick with the phone chord.

"And take Facetious Jones with you," the mysterious caller added, before hanging up. "You'll need her."

Facetious held up the fresh fax so Lorma could see it. "It's just some circles. Slightly oval. Ah, zeroes. And a nine."

"The coordinates are nine zero, zero zero?" Lorma said aloud, trying to read the poor quality fax.

"Not for long," Facetious said, took crayon to paper, and rendered the zeroes into eyes on a frowny face.

Lorma untangled from the chord, hung up the telephone, and woke the computer up from its holiday screensaver nap. It protested, but she insisted.

Soon, Lorma had pulled up the coordinates on Moogle Earth. "The North Pole," she sighed.

"Look," Facetious peeped, and held up her completed drawing with its dreads, dark complexion, and deep frown. "It's you."

"I hate you," Lorma told her diminutive duplicate.

"A tiny resemblance," Jones said. "Admit it."

Lorma lunged for the fax. Jones dodged and danced across the room, Lorma giving chase.

"I'm Lorma Doom," Jones taunted her, mocking her voice, making the fax face talk. "I'm a grouch."

Lorma skidded around the desk, hefted up her Ax off the countertop, and kept chasing Facetious.

"Grouch, grouch, grouch," Jones continued, skipping down the hall. "Grouch, grouch." She spun around and noticed the Ax in Lorma's grouchy grip. "Eeeeep!" facetious squeeked. "No fair! I've got shorter legs than you!"

Facetious Jones turned and, screeching, streaked down the corridor, still holding up the fax like a mask, Lorma Doom and her Ax of Justice in hot pursuit.

"You wouldn't chop a Fax of Justice would you?" Facetious shouted over her shoulder, waving the fax paper at the pursuant Lorma.

The story continues in Part 2: A Little Christmas Cheer!

Teddy

2009-12-04T16:58:00.003-05:00

My Dad and I are in the checkout line at the Fresh market. I checkout the pretty cashier.

Her nametag says Teddy.

Me: Is teddy your real name or a nickname?
Girl: It's a real nickname.
Dad: Is that short for Theodore?

Desdemona

2009-11-30T09:38:00.000-05:00

Last night and this morning, my cat is a love cat. Some days, she is a despise, no-touch cat. It bothers me a great deal just how much this says about my relationships with women.

I think it really fully hit me the night Desi ran out the front door and disappeared. I searched for her for 30 minutes. There I was out in the middle of the night, distraught, hunting for a cat that did not want to be found.

It suddenly occurred to me just how similar to my relationship (at the time) this was.

Thanks, Life, for the metaphors.

To the Time Machine! - part 23

2009-11-27T15:46:00.002-05:00

"Over-Incarcerated"

The Past
The Creek

The Women's Dressing Room

"Oh, man," groaned the Demeritress, "I feel like I've been shot at and missed, and shit at and hit." Elsbeth had a way with words. She sat with her head in her hands, eyes closed, a pained expression on her face. "So much pain," she grunted.

"She's right," said Stegall, wincing in the bright light that surrounded them. "My head feels clogged in all the wrong places. What's wrong?"

"Besides being held prisoner?" Germ asked.

"This wasn't supposed to happen. We took precautions," Mo-Tron whined. "We drank. And drank and drank and drank. Time travel was not supposed to hurt."

"Loyalty," Jernigan concluded brightly.

"What?" Stegall squinted up at the Surgeon General.

"I surmise that all of you feel disoriented and, for lack of a better term, hungover, yes?" asked SSSG Jernigan.

There was a general grumble of agreement.

"Obviously," grumbled Elsbeth.

"All this, despite having consumed liquids prior to departure," added Jernigan.

"Stop talking like Spock," Mo-Tron whined.

The SSSG frowned, but continued, "I know it's hard to believe, but we've journeyed back to a time before the loyalty chip, when life was all about Ch---"

"Don't say it!" Elsbeth cut her off. "Not the damned 'C' word!"

"Choices!" Jernigan finished, frowning at Els.

"Urrrgghh," Elsbeth gurgled and grimaced.

Jernigan ignored this. "Your loyalty chips are no longer receiving live updates from the Imperial servers," she explained, "because there are no Imperial servers. They haven't been invented yet." She paused for dramatic effect, but her fellow prisoners were considerably less impressed than she'd hoped. So she pressed on:

"We will remain loyal, of course, because the implants alone are self-sufficient, but our brains will take some time to adjust to not having a live feed of new content," she explained. "That means no new updates, instructions, or humorous chain emails with kitty pictures."

"How will we ever survive?" Elsbeth quipped.

Lorma Doom scowled. She had to get out of here! Lorma got along with Elsbeth like cats got along with water.

Turning to the only entrance to the makeshift cell they found themselves in, Lorma beat her fists again on the heavy door and shouted.

This time, her bellowing produced results. The door burst open and the Dossey burst through it. Five girls and one guy jumped back in surprise. Lorma narrowly missed getting smashed between the door and the wall behind it.

"You," Dossey sputtered and pointed. "Are you a doctor?"

"Possibly," Jernigan replied with hesitation. "Who wants to know?"

"Political Officer Spitler's been injured," Dossey explained hastily.

"And?"

"The Emperor bids you save him, if you can," Dossey answered.

"If I can?" Jernigan sniffed. "Of course I can."

Dossey and two guards hustled the surgeon general away.

The heavy door slammed shut behind them.

"Maybe we can dig our way out," Germ thought out loud.

"I think we're in deep enough already," said Elsbeth.

Later

"Step back from the door," came a voice from the other side.

The door swung open. On the other side, flanked by two intimidating guards was an awkward, bespectacled, pasty, young man.

The man was Security Chief LeTrent. Recently promoted from Necktie Tier, he had a lot to prove.

"Guard, I protest being interred with the females," Germ piped up. "I request to be moved to the men's dressing room."

"Not that I care," LeTrent replied, surveying the room full of prisoners, "but the male holding cell was destroyed in the plant attack."

"What are we being charged with?" Elsbeth demanded. "I have a right to know."

"You've not been charged," LeTrent answered.

"Then you have to release us," retorted Elsbeth, joining Lorma at the cell entrance. "You can't hold us indefinitely."

"Incorrect," LeTrent replied. "It is true citizens must be charged with a crime in order to be held, but you are not citizens. Under the Empire's charter, you have no rights. Officially, you've been designated 'enemy combatants.'"

"Just because we're not citizens, we have no rights?" Elsbeth cried.

"Of course," LeTrent scoffed. "Otherwise, what would be the benefit of citizenship?"

"I don't think he knows why we're being held," Stegall said, also approaching the door.

"Alright, time to go," LT said to his guards.

"Back away from the door, all four of you," a guard said.

"Where are you taking us?" Stegall asked.

"Not us," LeTrent said, and pointed at Lorma, "just you."

"Oh, right, the black girl," Lorma said.

"You're black?" LeTrent asked.

"What about the rest of us?" Germ asked.

"You're not black," Lorma told him.

"No, I mean, are you just going to leave us here?" Germ elaborated.

"You'll each get your turn," said LeTrent, and turned to go.

"This is racial profiling," Lorma muttered as they took her away.

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving our time travelers alone again.

To be continued!

Gratitude Day 2009

2009-11-26T23:55:00.002-05:00

co-written by Cathey and Andy

CARY - Today saw a rare meeting of the innermost circle of Imperial officials for the traditional Thanksgiving feast at the Emperor's Domicile.

The evening's meal was prepared by Helen the Felon. The banquet consisted entirely of special "Gratitude Feast" pills. This particular feast included the following for each guest: a turkey pill, a cranberry sauce pill (prevents UTIs), stuffing pill, pumpkin pie pill, sweet potato pill, and a beverage of his/her choice.

RFS Cathey attempted to impale one of the pills on his plate with his fork with no success. "What is this?" he asked. "Where's the food?"

"This is the food," Helen told him, dishing out a healthy helping of pills to Political Officer Spitler, who eyed them warily. "The Imperial Dietary Council mandated that all citizens and minions eat this healthier alternative to traditional Thanksgiving food." Then she added, "Sorry."

"What?" Emperor Andy scowled. "Those rules don't apply to me. Or my table!"

"A man should control what is on his own table," Spitler agreed.

"Sorry," Helen explained, "but if you don't eat it, you go to jail, and they feed you the turkey pill anyway; all on the government dime. Sorry."

"We should remember what this holiday is about," Fleet Admiral Turmel spoke up.

"Food," Andronicus agreed, hungrily eyeing the cornucopia of pills on his plate.

"Begging the Emperor's pardon," Turmel said, "but I was suggesting that we remember the first Gratitude Day, which was between clones and originals."

"Clones helped humans in the Dark Times and then became second class citizens," Master Assassin Rockel 2.0. "Now, most clones are forced to live on reservations."

"Oh, give it a rest, 2.0," Cathey said. "You're doing just fine from your clone casinos."

Rockel was visibly upset. His targeting optic was blinking red. And to make matters worse, he no longer required human food. There was really no need for him to be here. He certainly had nothing to be thankful for.

"Perhaps we should change the subject to something less controversial?" Turmel suggested.

"He's right," agreed Cathey. "Hey, Rockel, I heard you ex-wife got engaged."

Rockel's robotic eye twitched. A twitch glitch, perhaps.

Andy stopped trying to skewer his pill meal, and looked up at Cathey and Rockel. "I seem to recall very clearly ordering my favorite master assassin to exterminate her several years ago." Now, Andy's eye began to twitch, too. "I'm a little surprised to hear she is still alive."

"Oh, she's engaged, so she's as good as dead," Cathey said dismissively.

Rockel shattered the drinking glass in his hand.

"What's the matter?" Cathey asked Rockel. "Hard pill to swallow?"

"Let's talk about something else," suggested Helen.

"Fine," said Rockel. "Cathey, I noticed you no longer have that obnoxious camera strapped around your neck. Aren't you supposed to be the Royal Fotografy Supervisor now?"

"Oh, that?" Cathey said. "That was a childish dream. I've got a real career now. A sure-fire scheme."

"I'm afraid to ask," Spitler said, "but what is it?"

Cathey leaned back and plopped his feet up on the table. Strapped to his feet were what looked like balloon snow shoes or inflatable tennis rackets.

"I present the latest revolution in footwear technology," he proclaimed. "Jesus Boots!"

When no one immediately applauded, he decided some explanation was needed. "They let people walk on water," he added.

"That will never work," Turmel stated, his mouth full of turkey pill.

"Now is the time to get in on the ground floor, people," Cathey told them. "I'm looking for investors. This is going to be the next big thing."

"You look ridiculous," Rockel told him. "I mean, more than usual."

"Let's go test them right now if you don't believe me," Cathey retorted, trying to pull his Jesus Boots off the table so he could stand up. "Emperor, where is your swimming pool?"

"Let's talk about something else," Andy quickly changed the subject.

"How about this climate change?" Turmel asked. "Is everyone ready for the Ice Age?"

"For the last time, the Ice Age is a hoax," Andronicus said between gulps of pills. "The Earth is getting hotter. It's the Plutonian heat rays cooking us."

"Not that global warming junk again," Rockel rolled his cybernetic eyes. "You're in Ice Age denial, my liege."

"Denial is a river in Egypt," Andy said. "And it is going to dry up thanks to global warming."

Helen spoke up. "You told me global warming was just an excuse to get a swimming pool and cool off," she said.

"Silence!" Andy barked.

"Sorry," Helen said.

"Let's talk about something safe," Spitler suggested.

"Religion!" Turmel piped up.

"OK, what do you think about this 2012 business?" asked Emperor Andy.

"The Mayan calendar expires at the end of 2012," Rockel explained. "When it does, the world is going to end."

"That 2012 is a hoax," Helen said. "The world isn't ending until Jesus comes back."

"Jesus is coming back?" Cathey asked excitedly. "Maybe he can help me with my Boots!"

"Let's just talk about something we can all agree to disagree on," Andy said. "Politics."

The moral of this Gratitude Day story: Don't Sweat the Fall Stuff.

Cat Song

2009-11-25T11:11:00.001-05:00

Please don't vomit in the car
Please don't throw up in the car
We've got a long trip
We have to travel far
Please don't vomit in the car!

Panda Moanium

2009-11-18T10:11:00.001-05:00

Read: A Letter to the Editor

A Bard Day's Night, Part 2

2009-11-15T14:31:00.004-05:00

Continued from Part 1

"Forget not my scheme," Shakespeare spoke in a low voice. Rockel could just barely make out what the bard said. "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."

Some of the hostages, presumably the lawyers among them, gasped in terror.

"Hold. What keeps Burbage and Kit?" Shakespeare bellowed. "They've been absent for ever and a day."

"Beats me, boss," replied a thug. Then, under Shakespeare's burning glare, corrected himself with haste, "I mean, I know not."

Just then, two more goons entered, dragging a hostage between them. "We found a straggler. He was peeing on Burbage and Chris--er, Kit," one reported. "He claimed they slipped on the wet floor and knocked themselves out."

"You," Shakespeare said accusingly, and approached the new hostage. "What do they call you?"

"My name is Mockel," the hostage replied.

"Mockel?" Shakespeare raised an eyebrow. "An unfortunate moniker." He gestured toward some cowering hostages. "Put him with the others."

The goons shoved Mockel down with the other prisoners. Mockel looked down at his bracelet. He'd had it ever since he'd emerged from the cloning vat. Its origin was a mystery.

Imprinted on the bracelet was one word, "WWMARD?" He had no idea what it meant, but he often tried to pronounce it during times of trouble. The truth was, just saying the word to himself gave him strength.

"Wwwwmmmaaarrddddd," he growled.

"What was that?' Shakespeare said, turning at the sound.

"You must be Shakespeare," Mockel said, rising to his feet. "I've read your folio."

Shakespeare 2.0 froze in his tracks. He stiffened and turned to face his accuser. "Who dareth?"

"Who has two cybernetic thumbs and is really pissed off he had to come all the way over to this coast to fix other people's mistakes?" was the reply. "This guy!"

It was Rockel 2.0. He dashed behind one of the Players, and thumb-gouged out the poor sap's eyes before drop kicking the blinded baddie to the floor.

"End that wretch," Shakespeare commanded the stage. The King's Men moved between Shakespeare 2.0 and Rockel 2.0. They aimed their machine guns at the assassin.

Darkness! The overhead lights went out, dousing the room in darkness.

What most people don't realize is that Rockel's bloodstream is populated by nanites, microscopic robots that repair his systems and transfer extra strength to various parts as required. however, since Rockel 2.0 is a first generation clone (isn't that a contradiction in terms?), his nanites still have a few bugs, if you will excuse the term, and they do not always repair him correctly. they often try to fix things that are not broken, and often do more harm than good.

According to RFS Cathey, a former partner and handler for the Master Assassin, Rockel 2.0's nanites may even manifest their will in the form of speech heard only by The Rockel. While 2.0 always denied such claims, Cathey reported that the assassin often spoke to thin air, to himself, or seemed to talk to people not present. Sometimes, he even slipped up and said, "We," instead of "I."

When he was peeing earlier, Rockel was deploying several hundred nanites to infest and subvert the security system and electrical grid of the building. Now, they shut down the lights on his mental cue.

"Hey, who turned out the lights?" one of thugs asked.

"You whoreson dogs!" Shakespeare screeched in the dark. "Shoot him!"

The lights came back on in time for the King's Men to see Rockel's arms retracting, their weapons clasped in his hands.

The master assassin twisted, smashed, and ripped the weapons apart.

"Hey, those were expensive!" one goon protested.

Rockel's thigh holster sprung open and quick as a wink he drew his massive revolver and fired. The goons were down for the count before they could count to three.

"Curses!" Shakespeare snarled.

"I thrashed your thespian thugs," Rockel taunted. "Your run is coming to an end."

"Mayhaps," Shakespeare said, "but not mayday." He pulled a scabbard off what Rockel took to be his forearm. Instead, the Bard unveiled a short, fat lance which blazed white hot, hummed, and vibrated everyone's teeth and hurt the eyes to look directly at it.

"Coil shuffler activated," a computer voice emanated from the glowing weapon. "Full charge, ready."

"How do you like my clamorous harbinger of blood and death?" Shakespeare laughed, and shook the shimmering spear at him.

Rockel dived out of the blast's path. The blue stream of light passed so close to him that it singed his hair.

He could also feel the familiar tug of an interdimensional rift. That could mean only one thing. The coil shuffler was a weapon capable of opening portals. Or more likely it would simply remove its target from this universe and deposit the victim who knows where. And from the smell of sulfur, Rockel guessed it was nowhere he wanted to get stranded.

Continued in Part 3: A Bard Act to Follow!

This is Just to Warn You

2009-11-10T23:20:00.000-05:00

You have eaten
the plums
that were in
my icebox

and which
I was definitely
saving
for breakfast

My revenge
will be delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

A Bard Day's Night, Part 1

2009-11-08T14:09:00.001-05:00

For Rockel Day 2009

Continued from Shakespeare's Birthing Day

NYC - The city that never sleeps was roused from its insomniatic daze today when the illegitimate clone of Shakespeare stormed the Empire State building, overpowered the security guards, and sealed the doors with civilians trapped inside.

Clone Overseer Reverend Tam and SSSG Jernigan were soon onsite to attempt negotiations, as they were already in the area scalping tickets. "Keeping my scalpel skills sharp," as Jernigan put it.

Upon arrival at the Empire State building, however, the duo spent most of their time dodging weapons fire. "In retrospect," Rev. Tam told us, "it was probably a mistake for the Cybernetics Department to replace the clone's left arm with a particle beam cannon. I'm just saying."

Once NYC Civil Protection officers arrived and surrounded the building, the rogue clone began taking hostages.

"Yes, he's got hostages," confirmed Operations Subcommander Custer the Greater. "We think that's what he said, anyway." He turned to one of his sub crew. "Get someone down here who can speak blank verse, pronto."

After the smoke cleared and the situation was resolved, CP agents and Imperial officials attempted to piece together a timeline of events. As best they could determine, this is how events went down inside the Empire State Building on this fateful day, Rockel Day 2009.

Shakespeare's accomplices, a band of thugs he called the King's Men, had rounded up the last of the hostages and sequestered them in manageable groups in large conference rooms. Two minions, wearing tights and wielding submachine guns, were just completing a last sweep of the ninth floor when one of them spotted movement at the end of the hallway.

"Hey, take a look at this guy," he said to his comrade. They shared a laugh, because at the end of the dark corridor, a lone man was urinating. "Hey, you!" they called out.

"Oh, hey," said the peeing man, not looking up. "Can you give me a hand with this?"

"What the hell?" groaned one of the King's Men. The two thugs stalked toward the urinator.

"OK, that's enough," said the other King's Man.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," the peer said, this time his voice darker and metallic. Just then, the mystery man ceased his secret secretion and turned to pee on the two would-be thugs. They recoiled in disgust.

And they recoiled still further, this time in horror, when their disgusted gazes met a glowing red eye in the darkness. "Ass kicking circuits, online," its voice buzzed.

The combination of the wet floor, the darkness, and the element of surprise made the two thugs quick work for the master assassin.

It had been a Californian Day like any other, and Master Assassin Rockel 2.0 had been hard at work keeping the home fires burning, literally, out in Los Angeles. He looked forward to the evening's celebrations in honor of and the holiday named for him. It would be the first time in years 2.0 managed to make the festivities.

In every annual celebration past, some urgent matter of state had called him away - some terrorist planetoid had threatened to annihilate its neighboring moon, a rogue agent had to be tracked down and humiliated into submission, or a missile caught and detonated a safe distance from Earth. His work was unceasing, but Rockel's cybernetic implants kept him from requiring much sleep anyway.

When his cell phone beeped that he had a new picture message, his enhanced shoulders slumped. He knew what that sound meant. Rockel flipped open the phone. He'd received a new priority target and a few sentences of instruction. The picture looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place the face.

What puzzled him still further was that text accompanying the image. "U R auth 2 open emrgncy portal 2 target loc Empire St Bldg NYC."

Rockel recognized it as an Imperial code. He accessed his decoder subroutines and went to work on deciphering the secret message.

Continued in A Bard Day's Night, Part 2

SSSG and Rev. Tam report to the Emperor

2009-11-05T01:00:00.002-05:00

SSSG visual report to the Emperor #347-
Big Apple not closed - still here in fact.
Checking up on our infiltration status in local capitalist chain establishments.
If, in the following report, the SSSG looks somewhat disgruntled it is because the Rev. Tam insisted on popping into the frame of her visual recording device. She keeps telling him he has to do his own, seperate, individual report to the Emperor, but he insists on procrastinating and jumping in on hers instead . . . gah!

Upon entering the local capitalist establishment I found the perfect prehistoric specimen to study and - with your permission, Emperor - clone:

I was also checking up on our infiltration drone scheme - selling them to children was a particular stroke of genius, Emperor, you clever, clever Emperor, you. Now we shall be able to spy on your minions to make sure that their loyalty chips are working:

I am sorry to report, however, that the fighting Madame Alexander Dolls Experiment is not developing well. We started off with simple war games and then they got a little out of control, a la the movie Toys with Robin Williams, and well, you'll just have to watch to understand:

Thus ends my report for right now. More to come, I assure you, Emperor. This is a strange land. Still no sign of The Operations Cheif. I keep reading in these logs that he's reporting in, so I assume he's fine, but as the Rev. Tam and I inhabit the same city as The Operations Cheif and Fairy Patterson and we still have not seen them . . .

Run on the Banks

2009-10-24T13:41:00.003-04:00

Part 6 in a space pirates series

Its cooing, female voice was quite pleasing. Truth be told, it was starting to grow on them. That sexy, purring woman telling them what to do. They took to it too easily.

"At the split, keep right," the GPS instructed.

"Right it is," the pilot responded, smiling. He tugged on the flight controls to direct the cosmic dreadnaught down the right path.

The Imperial flagship Chocolate Love Stars and its two accompanying vessels Good Gravy and Calculator were slowly but steadily winding their way down the interplanetary spacelane toward Earth.

Meanwhile, on the observation deck, Fleet Admiral Turmel was in conference with two holograms. This time the holograms represented Captain Slog of the Calculator and Germ of the Good Gravy.

"Thanks to your help, we've affected repairs on all critical systems," Turmel reported. "All combat-essential systems are operational." He sipped on an exotic tea. Delicious.

"Excellent," Slog said. "Pestilence, what's our status?"

"We project the financial meltdown will reach Earth in one standard half hour," Germ reported. "Our course is plotted to put us directly in its path."

Turmel interjected. "So when you say standard half hour, do you mean the hour is half-standard, or is it half of a standard hour, or is it just sub-standard?" he asked.

"Thirty minutes," Germ answered.

"Admiral to the command deck," a voice sounded over the intercom. "Admiral Turmel, please report to command deck."

"Gentlemen," Turmel said, standing, "I'll see you out there."

He made his way to the bridge.

On his viewscreen, the Imperial defense force deployed to meet the invaders. Turmel recognized many of vessels, knew each of their names like he would his own children. The Emperor in his wisdom had renamed every ship in the fleet, bestowing them with the most terrifying, fear-inspiring names he could dream up.

The Assumption, the Not Tonight, the Indecision, the Cold Shoulder, and Incommunicado were followed by We Need to See Other People, Just Friends, and I Need Space.

Yes, Andronicus rechristened every ship save one - Chocolate Love Stars. It boggled Turmel's mind. Had he angered His Excellency in some way?

The entire first fleet. Cleary, the three privateer boats were outgunned. This was unwise fiscal policy, Germ knew, from his time with the paratrooper accountants. Then, he noticed something else.

"It looks like someone got here before us," Germ pointed at his monitor. "Look at the damage to the docking ring. Almost a third of it's been destroyed."

"Yes," Turmel said, stifling any shred of guilt under a veneer of cold command, "it's tragic. No doubt some accident involving space crabs and neutronium.”

"But sir--" one of Turmel's crew piped up.

"Stow it, crewman," Turmel cut him off.

"Why is the fleet deployed?" Germ wondered. "Unless they knew we were coming."

"It's standard defensive posture in a financial crisis," Turmel corrected, surprising even himself with his tactical knowledge. "Most people wouldn't recognize it, as we haven't had a financial crisis in years."

Captain Slog's voice cut in on the line, "They must be deployed like this to prevent a run on the banks.”

"Maybe," Turmel said, flipping the scanner display from ship to ship, shaking his head. "Look at the raptor carriers and the styrac attack cruisers. They're empty."

"Incoming transmission," the communications officer reported.

"This is Earth Defense Command," said a new voice on the loudspeaker. "Unidentified vessel, you are instructed to reduce speed and transmit your security clearance."

"Let's do audio only," Turmel told the radio man, who nodded when the channel was ready. "EDC, this is Venutian luxury liner Wuyi Oolong, six weeks out of Uranus, returning from a Kuiper pleasure cruise.”

"I do not show a Wuyi Oolong on our scheduled arrivals," the EDC replied.

“I’m sure it’s just a mix up,” Turmel said in a carefully calculated, carefree tone. “The lesser planets are not as organized as Earth.”

“That's very true," squawked the EDC. "And your companion ships?”

“Golden Yunnan and the Golden Monkey,” Turmel replied. "Request permission to dock for refueling."

Across the vastness, perched in the command module of the docking ring, Captain Marissa Faireborn's eyes narrowed as she watched the approaching silhouette. There was something vaguely familiar to her about the ship configuration.

She climbed down from her command chair to the controls console where the harbor operations staff worked.

"Analysis," she ordered.

"It is the right size to be a cruise ship," the sensor technician told her. "But the profile is not a match for any ship in our databanks."

"Clearance code?" Faireborn asked.

“It’s an old code, but it checks out,” the communications officer said. “I was about to clear them.”

Faireborn stared at the image on the view again. Something was not right.

“Shall I hold?” the operator asked, looking up at Faireborn expectantly. He couldn't wait for his shift to be over.

"They're not slowing," the sensor tech interrupted.

This made the comm officer sad. It meant trouble. Which meant he'd get to the bowling alley late this evening. He got back on the horn.

"Wuyi Oolong," he transmitted. "I repeat, you are ordered to reduce speed."

Meanwhile, back on the dreadnought, the pilot turned to look at the admiral, but Turmel shook his head. No, they would not reduce speed.

"Spaceport," Turmel said instead, "we are suffering a braking malfunction. We should have it cleared up momentarily. Please stand by."

"Negative, Wuyi Oolong," Faireborn jumped on the line. "You have not disengaged your stardrive. That's no braking malfunction. Reduce speed at once."

Turmel switched off the space radio. "Oops," he said, as if it were an accident.

He turned to the comm officer. "Full alert," he said grimly. "Battle stations." Alarms sounded.

"Recalculating route," the GPS interrupted the dramatic moment. "Make the next available U-turn."

"And turn that thing off," Turmel ordered.

"Aye sir," the pilot said and fumbled with the controls trying to silence the GPS which continued to urge them to turn around.

Turmel put down his cup of tea on the console and picked up the squawkbox. "Put me through ship-wide," he told the radio op.

"Ready," the op replied.

"All hands, this is the admiral," Turmel said. All over the dreadnought, the brave crew of the Chocolate Love Stars stopped their hurried preparations to hear the words of their commander.

"We've served together for the last few years," Turmel's voice sounded over the intercom. "During this time, I've done my best to avoid getting to know you. I spend most of my time stargazing, reading, drinking tea, and looking up new blends on the internet."

Below, the crew members nodded to each other in agreement. It was true.

"Perhaps," he continued, "I distanced myself so that if I ever lost any of you, it would soften the pain. Sure. Today, however, we all get know to each other quite well. Today we go into battle together.

"We must destroy this entity, this financial meltdown," Turmel explained. "And if our own fleet attempts to stop us, we will be forced to fight them as well. I can only assure you we do this for a greater cause. We must save our home, our Earth.

"Over the years, I've suffered shame, embarrassment, and derision for serving on a mighty starship with such a laughable, girly name. No doubt you've likewise suffered similar mockery at every port we visit.

"But today we will forever change that. We will make our name one to be feared.

"After today, history will never forget the name ... Chocolate Love Stars." Turmel said.

The crew erupted into cheers.

Stegosaurus Flu

2009-10-20T11:10:00.001-04:00

NYC - Citizens all across the globe are lining up for their immunization shots to protect against the dreaded Stegosaur Flu.

Surgeon General Jernigan, we have learned, ordered the creation and distribution of the Steg Flu vaccine when it was learned that humans did not exist during the time of the dinosaurs and therefore possessed no natural immunity to dinosaur diseases.

As loyal minions well know, the Empire's first efforts toward globalization and later colonization relied heavily on genetically-engineered dinosaurs created in labs and based on fossilized DNA.

"While the benefits for both civilian and military purposes have been tremendous, whenever you tamper with nature, it's bound to backfire," explained noted paleontologist Alan Grant. "Anyone who's ever been bit by a mosquito knows that Mother Nature is mean-spirited. Now we've unleashed a potentially powerful virus that has the population in a near-panic."

"There's really no need for alarm," SSSG Jernigan assured reporters while taking a smoke break outside, garnering angry glares from her fellow New Yorkers, "but vaccines help calm the population. Not that the shots are actually sedatives. I did not say that. And certainly they are not placebos. No one heard me say anything about that. I want to be perfectly clear on those points."

Prior to vaccination, medical techs check the patients for traces of the disease.

"We check their platelet count and if it is high, we know they might have Stegosaurus Flu," Jernigan explained. "Get it? Platelets. Stegosaurs. I'm a genius!"

Imperial Plumber Stegall assured the Pipeline that she had no involvement in the spread of the Steg Flu virus.

But how is the Steg Flu spread? Scientists theorize that someone may have not washed her hands after handling dino droppings.

Reptilian Forces Supervisor Price was unavailable for comment.

The Merger

2009-10-19T14:50:00.002-04:00

Part 5 in a space pirate series

"Stand to merge," Admiral Turmel gave the command.

"Boosters at the ready," replied the pilot.

"Rockets, fire!" Turmel ordered. Around him, the bridge vibrated.

Imperial dreadnought Chocolate Love Stars fired all her thrusters. Her tail flared against the starry sky.

The pilot reported, "Accelerating to merge speed."

The great flagship rumbled forward and worked its way up to match speed with space lane traffic. Close behind came the brigand boat Calculator and the transport ship Good Gravy.

In tandem, the three vessels signaled to change lanes, and rocketed into the flow of traffic.

"Cover me, I'm merging," Germ's voice crackled through their shared comm channel.

"Affirmative," Turmel replied. He nodded to his pilot.

Chocolate Love Stars shoved its way into traffic and made room for its two smaller companion vessels, both of which took positions ahead of the flagship.

"Zipper maneuver, complete," the pilot reported. "Disengaging merge rockets."

Deceit made the Fleet Admiral uneasy. They were traveling to Earth via commercial shipping lanes and using the rush hour traffic to hide their approach from the defense net as long as possible.

"Proceed on this space lane until you reach exit zero-zero-one," the GPS announced.

"What was that voice?" Turmel looked around confusedly. "You know women aren't allowed on the bridge."

"That's no woman," the pilot explained, turning in his seat to face the admiral. "That's the Galactic Positioning System."

"Ah, of course," Turmel nodded. "The what?"

"Following the unexpected death of my co-pilot in Part 2 of this mini-series," the pilot explained, "we were left with no one to fill the vacant navigator position. So we borrowed a GPS, Galactic Positioning System, from the Calculator."

"Very good," Turmel acknowledged. "Helm, set your speed, just under the legal limit."

The pilot's disappointment was palpable, but Turmel reassured him. "We don't want to attract any attention," Turmel told him, and gave the man a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Slowly, a line of traffic formed behind the behemoth boat. Space horns honked over the civilian frequencies, but the mighty dreadnaught ignored them or perhaps did not hear them.

Moreover, every spacecraft in the line of traffic was forced to run deflectors at full to counteract the voluminous space wake spewing behind the Love Stars. Angry commuters roared around and past the fleet flagship, tempers and thrusters flaring.

It was a diverse trio - the Calculator with her sleek, exacting angles; the Good Gravy which, well, looked less like a boat and more like a serving dish; and the Chocolate Love Stars bedecked with more guns and thrusters than any ship had any right to carry. A sundry squadron!

To be continued....

Layoffs

2009-10-03T00:30:00.001-04:00

NYC - Operations Division today announced imminent layoffs on the eminent horizon.

Operations Subcommander Custer explained in a press conference, "It's easier to dismiss workers than to fix the actual problems within the system. It's a quick fix to the bottom line."

Loyal readers will recall the Empire has not seen layoffs since the Empress was laid off two years ago following her "indiscretions."

While the world waits wondering who will walk, there has definitely been some confusion in the ranks over the nature of the projected layoffs.

"I never know if 'layoffs' and 'early retirement' are euphemisms for something far worse," one assembly line worker told us, "or if there will be real layoffs."

The biggest question: Will there be any layoffs at the upper levels of Imperial management? Attempting to interview Emperor Andy on that very subject, this reporter was intercepted by Political Officer Spitler.

"I like economy in the tank," Spitler told us. "It's easier to transport that way."

The most surprising dismissal was of the Head Concubine, although there was some confusion about her job title - whether it was Head Concubine or Redheaded Concubine or Red Head Concubine. Regardless, that position, whatever its name, is currently vacant.

It was unclear by press time whether this young lady quit or was laid off.

Former Harem Supervisor Doyle, now working as Imperial Game Warden (the jobs are similar), put forth his expert opinion: "I'm told she was one of those career women, like you read about in magazines. Believe it or not, she had no interest in ever becoming Empress. She was just using this job as a step on her way up the corporate ladder. But again, this is all just speculation.

"Remember, love is not a feeling," Doyle added. "Love is a verb. And your verbs speak louder than your nouns."

No, Sir!

2009-09-11T14:20:00.001-04:00

I have many pet peeves. I am like the cat lady of peeves. If something happens to me, the cops will be called to investigate the smell coming from my peeves-infested house.

Today’s pet peeve is when I refer to someone as “Sir” and it raises their ire. Now, if it is a lady, this is understandable, but more often than not it is a male person getting upset.

Know this: I call any man Sir, no matter the age. It is polite. It is respectful.

What I cannot abide are persons who protest this title. I am being polite. When you make a big fuss about being called Sir, you are being rude and making an unnecessary scene.

You are not funny.

You make me think less of you.

Which, I suppose, means you do not deserve to be called Sir after all.

Did you see something in that tree?

2009-09-10T20:23:00.002-04:00

Don't read this if you ever want to go into the woods again.

Jernigan Day 2009

2009-08-27T16:22:00.001-04:00

NYC - Today the whole of the Empire celebrates Jernigan Day, the holiday honoring the contributions of our sun-sucking Surgeon General.

Recently transferred, stationed now in NYC, by her own choice. As she put it, "I wanna be where the people are. I wanna see, wanna see 'em dancin'. Walkin' around on those whaddya call 'em? Oh, hydraulic prosthetics."

Only the 2nd recipient of the Raptor Medal of Honor in the history of the Empire, the SSSG is a master of innovation.

She was the inventor designer, manufacturer, and chief advocate of the now infamous loyalty chip. A very misunderstood device, the loyalty chip causes not apathy, but complacency in minions.

Now, you're perhaps wondering, isn't apathy risky? To you, I say, remember: before the chip there was Choice and it was dangerous. Apathy is the lesser of evils.

Jernigan's cranial implants revolutionized the way we think about - well, they revolutionized the way we think!

But not all is rosy in the Big Genetically-Engineered Apple. With so many Imperial officers on one island, the chances of scandal increase exponentially. (They don't call it the Empire State for nothing.)

The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Apes lodged a formal protest with the Science Commission this week.

The SPCA as a policy does not mind experimentation on lower life forms such as rabbits, guinea pigs, lab rats, and lawyers, but the organization is vehemently opposed to conducting tests on higher life forms that might possibly possess near-human intelligence, for instance chimps, gorillas, and dolphins.

"I don't think chimps are apes," the SPCA rep stated in a phone interview, "but can we take that risk?"

"Chimps not Chumps is our new motto," the rep elaborated.

We managed to contact the Surgeon General and she elucidated. "Goggled helmeted space monkeys rocketed toward enemy vessels is a clear tactical advantage," she told us. "We've trained the monkeys to cut into the hull of opponent ships and tear them apart.

"Besides, who doesn't enjoy their adorable antics?" Jernigan continued. "I personally will never forget the trial run where the chubby chimp got stuck in the firing tube and two other chimps got behind him and had to push him out. Hilarious!"

Emperor Andy agreed to give us an interview if we promised not to call him for a while. He had this to say. "I have full confidence in the Surgeon General . I reassigned her to New Amsterdam to keep a close eye on the Clone Contingent up there, but mainly because - well, the arrangement of personnel across a map is a lot like moving pieces in chess. Actually, I don't play chess. So I suppose it is more like Chinese checkers. The point being, sometimes you have to sacrifice one marble so you don't lose all your marbles."

When asked to stay on topic, the Foretold One had this to say: "Before SSSG Jernigan departed for the big city, she sold me her car - the Green Hornet. It was not until her departure that I realized she failed to uninstall the custom gadgetry housed all over the vehicle. I was turning left, activated what I took to be the turn signal, and accidentally removed the stomach of a pedestrian nearby. Luckily, everyone is born with two stomachs so no permanent harm was done."

"I'm not sure that story is true," commented Political Officer Spitler. "I've never known the Imperator to use a turn signal."

"I'm worried about the days ahead," Andronicus decreed. "What surprises does this lean green machine have in store for me? What does the 'Immune System' button do? Should I press it?"

To What Purpose?

2009-08-24T11:25:00.001-04:00

NYC - Operations announced today that the Theoretical Department just discovered the Meaning of Life.

Operations failed to elaborate or provide any clue or divulge the Big Answer, but did cite this breakthrough as justification for the millions of dollars spent on the program this year.

"I can't go into details," Custer the Greater said on his 5 minute lunch break, "but, boy, are people gonna be pissed off when they find out." he quickly added, "If they find out."

Of course, the Theoretical Department may not even exist, given its questionable name, but more on that later.

Surveying

2009-08-23T00:05:00.003-04:00

Guest-Post by Doyle

Imperial Game Warden Doyle prowled hunting preserves across the Empire today. His yearly trek endeavors to maintain the status quo in the numbers of animals of each species. He was quoted as saying, "Every year they keep propagating without regard to proper population balance. Its like a plague of nymphomania and satyriasis sweeps through them and cause mass-staria to break out. However, it does make culling the herd an easier task, as their tiny little minds are more focused on propagation than on preservation."

All that said, Wardenship Downs was pleased with the events of the day, and looks forward to the year's animal harvest with moderate optimism. Providing, of course, that we are not overrun first.

Oversight Day

2009-08-20T00:01:00.002-04:00

NEW YORK CITY - Clone Overseer Tam has a problem. The "Rev," as he was called, had through genetic manipulation made the Empire's velociraptors smarter and smarter until a few months ago. Today, the Overseer is no longer part of the process. Bypassing human scientists completely, the smart raptors now make their own clones.

This was perhaps an oversight.

And it was certainly not the first. You will recall back in April after Overseer Tam replicated the horrifying William Shakespeare, he subsequently allowed the Creature to escape the cloning vats and terrorize the City.

Shakespeare 2.0 is still at large, growing more powerful every day. How can we hope to stop the Bard?

Operations Chief Nazionale has never been a big fan of Overseer Tam, and took this opportunity to further malign the cloner's character. "I can't say I'm certain 'Rev' Tam makes anything in those costly vats," he told us, "except messes for other people to clean up."

And what is with the "Rev"? Is he supposed to be a Reverend? Or is that the sound he makes?

All that is for certain is that SSSG Jernigan was recently dispatched with sealed orders to NYC to co-locate with Overseer Tam. Is she there to reign in the Overseer's oversights? Or will she further his malignant meddling?

Mouthpiece Day 2009

2009-08-03T23:00:00.003-04:00

To the Time Machine! - Part ?

"Andy Goes Back"
for Mouthpiece Day 2009

The Present
Underground Bunker

Nurse #7 was overdue to be relieved. She fidgeted. Where is Nurse 8?? she wondered. Looks like more unpaid O.T, she realized.

Morgborg thought in italics so it was clear she was not speaking aloud, but rather through internal monologue.

Next, it was Andy's turn to think to himself. I expected any letter from the future to say, "It'll be great. You'll love it," he thought. This is discouraging/disappointing.

He watched the scientists working at their stations. So much equipment, so much money invested, so many tax dollars put to good use. Or was it?

This junk about not changing the past is bullshit. I spent all this money so we could prevent the Dark Times and that is what we're going to do even if I have to do it myself.

He stood with purpose.

And after that I’m going to travel to the future, and find out when I became such a letter-writing wuss, and put a stop to that, too.

Switching from italics to actual spoken words, Andy called the science boys over. "Show me how this retrieval system works," he instructed them. "Why can't we recall the Brute Squad?"

"My Leader," the science guy said, carefully, "we tagged The Ax of Justice, Rhythm, and All Things Lethal as the beacon by which we could bring Lorma Doom back to our time. As an object of power, it was the easiest way for the timeline scanners to find her. The Brute Squad must have become separated from the Ax."

"Can't we send it back to her?" asked Andy. “So at least she’ll have the Ax in the Past?”

"Oh," a scientist replied, astonished at so simple a solution. "Yes, we could do that."

"Compliance!" commanded Andy.

"That is, we can send it back to its time of departure," the scientist cautioned him, "and hope she gets it."

"Close enough," said Andy, waving off the warning.

Soon, the temporal engine was cranked up and making very impressive humming sounds which grew in intensity every moment. The men in lab coats worked the machinery, turned knobs, pressed buttons, made calculations, and generally were quite involved with their preparations.

So involved, in fact, they did not see Emperor Andy casually stroll over to the staging platform. He stopped at its edge and leaned over to look at the intimidating equipment suspended above. An observer might think Andy wished to see the works up close.

"The emitter is at desired output," a scientist called out over the din.

“Target coordinates locked,” yelled a technician.

"Aperture is at full threshold," shouted an engineer.

And it was true; the area above the platform glowed and bulged in an awkward, sickening fashion. The scientists, however, were too busy staring at their monitors to observe the actual platform.

The power pulsating from the opening made Andy's hair stand on end. He turned and caught the Mouthpiece's gaze.

"Scott," Andy mouthed the words at her, "distraction."

"What?" she mouthed back.

"Distraction," he tried again, speaking up.

"What?" she asked again, her voice now ever so audible.

"Distraction!" he shouted, just as the emitters hiccupped, with result that everyone heard him yell out his secret plan.

Some improvisation was called for!

Mouthpiece Scott grabbed the back of the nearest chair, yanked it toward her, spun it around, and stood atop it - for that is how all Imperial speeches should be made.

Charisma circuits at full power, she addressed the scientists in her augmented, speechifying voice:

"Minions, the Emperor would just like to thank you for all that you do," she articulated. The engineers and technicians all turned to listen.

"Your efforts and contributions are invaluable. That is to say, the exact monetary value cannot be accurately verified by accountants.

"Now, that also means you will not have earned pay bonuses. And for this I express my regrets, as does the Foretold One. You understand, it would not be fair to give you too high a pay raise, and so we must err on the side of safety.

"What with your large, sexy brains, I am sure you will recognize that sacrifices must be made.

"Know this," she concluded, "your efforts are highly valued by our beloved Imperator."

Patriotic hearts swelled to fill the room!

When they turned to applaud their Glorious Founder, however, the scientists instead saw Emperor Andy leap onto the event platform. Swathed in light, he turned to face them and posed arms akimbo.

The head scientist shouted out, "Chosen One, the aperture was created to send the Ax back!" He seemed quiet panicked. "It wasn't designed for you. You may not make it."

To their alarmed protestations Andy returned a steady calm stare. "I already have," was all he said.

"We can't guarantee your arrival location or time coordinates," a lab technician called out.

Andy ignored this and instead focused on his personal staff. "Morgborg, you're in command until I return," he called out, then added: "Don't run up the credit card."

"Score!" Morgborg thrust a triumphant fist in the air.

"What?" snorted a disbelieving Scott.

"Mouthpiece," Andy added, "keep an eye on Morgborg."

"As you command," Scott replied sullenly.

Andy ducked down, wrapped his hand around the Ax handle, and set his jaw.

Scott blinked as the bright pulsating light intensified. And missed it. Andy was gone.

The light faded, the machines whined, whirred, and wound down.

The Mouthpiece turned to look up at the Nurse. Yes, as she suspected. The Nurse had that glint in her eye. Power.

She hoped Andy hurried back.

Tentacular Tavern

2009-07-27T13:22:00.003-04:00

CARY, NC - Scandal once again rocked the Imperial capital as rumors hit the streets the Emperor himself employed illegal aliens on his personal staff.

“This is getting blown way out of proportion,” Mouthpiece Scott defended the Imperator at a press conference this morning. “Our Glorious Founder has never opposed the granting of jobs to interdimensional beings if they possess certain skills which Earth might lack.”

“I have it on good authority,” Scandal Coordinator Phipps whispered in a teleconference late last night, “Emperor Andy hired an otherworldly creature as the bartender for His Excellency’s personal taproom.”

The Office of the Emperor would neither confirm nor deny these damaging rumors. However, we were able to get a word with an Imperial Plumber, who agreed to speak only on the condition of anonymity.

“A little slime on your glass is a small price to pay for a properly prepared Plumber’s Helper with Vermouth,” she explained.

“Due to its multiple tentacles, or shall we say bartendrils,” Phipps further explained, “this single extradimensional creature is taking the jobs of up to eight bartenders previously needed to staff the Salacious Saloon.”

To the Time Machine! - part 22

2009-07-18T18:23:00.005-04:00

"Infirm"

in honor of Spitler Day 2009

The Past
The Creek

"We're gonna need a new fine arts building," said Dossey. "This one's ripped." He turned to his Leader.

Emperor Andy frowned in disapproval at the devastation what had been rendered to the fine arts center. He and his top minions stood atop the ruins.

"Mr. Dossey, impound this truck," Andy commanded. "Mr. Rockel, dispose of this plant."

"Compliance," replied Rockel, and immediately turned to the very gigantic task of harvesting the vest gigantic plant.

Dossey approached the young Emperor. "Chosen One, I must protest the arrest of the Axe-wielder," he said. "She was instrumental in the our defeat of the plant monster."

"I will interview her personally," Andy assured him. "In the meantime, examine this pickup truck." He touched the tailgate where the metal was ripped or torn, and pulled his hand back abruptly when he discovered the metal was sharp. "Ow!" He pouted. "I want to know everything about it. Are these people who they claim to be?"

"I believe they are," Dossey told him.

Andy shook his head, "I want proof."

"I'll be in the Armory," Dossey said with a sigh, and he climbed into the truck cab with resignation. Resignation scooted over to make room. (HA!) The keys were still in the ignition and the motor was still running.

Andy turned to his political officer. "Mr. Spitler, contact Ops Chief Doyle," he said, "and order us a new command ---" He stopped and squinted at Spitler. "You ok?"

"Not too good," he grunted, and swayed. Spitler was quite broad-shouldered and so, if we has swaying, he was a danger to himself and all those around him.

"Dossey!" Andy shouted, attempting to steady Spitler with his hands. "Assistance!"

Dossey unbuckled, tumbled out of the truck, and rushed over. Between the two of them, they managed to roll and shove the Political Officer into the bed of the pickup truck.

They roared down the road, speeding past the 23 MPH speed limit sign. They skidded to a stop in front of the infirmary and hustled Spitler inside.

In the waiting room, they filled out all the appropriate paperwork as Spitler's head rolled blearily around and he muttered in what Andy assumed was Russian.

Finally, they were admitted. The nurses ripped Spitler's shirt off and were surprised by how hairy he was (like a bear!) and that he had a giant bear tattoo across his chest and stomach which added to the effect.

"I can't tell where the bear tattoo ends and his chest hair begins," the head nurse declared.

Meanwhile, Spitler was turning funky colors. His skin was littered with thorns of some kind that seemed to be poisonous. And his breathing was alarmingly shallow.

The medical team went to work. But after many attempts to revive him, Spitler seemed a lost cause.

"Nothing seems to be working," said the doctor. "He's not waking up."

"We're losing him," the nurse said.

Meanwhile, in the Afterlife

Bright white light! Spitler blinked as his eyes adjusted to the perfect light. It seemed to buffet him from all sides.

Where was he? He looked down. At first, there seemed to be some kind of low fog hanging to the ground, but he quickly realized with a start that he was actually walking on a cloud.

This made him nervous, as the Empire's experiments with cloud constructs had never been very successful.

He spotted a gateway in the distance and so set out toward it, carefully at first, and then with more confidence. Somehow, he was able to walk on this cloud. He arrived at the gates, which appeared to him to be "pearly."

The gates were closed. Before them, a podium. Manning this pedestal was a bearded fellow bedecked in all white.

"Welcome. I am Saint Peter," the man said. His voice was deep and harmonious.

"Hey Pete," Spitler replied. "Petey Pete."

"You have arrived at the gates of heaven," Peter said. "I will consult this book and determine if you may enter."

But Spitler spoke before Pete could consult the text. "C'mon Pete you know you want to let me in."

"Beg your pardon?" Peter asked, looking up surprised.

"Pete," Spitler urged. "It's me, Pete."

"That's Saint Peter, to you," Peter huffed.

"Ask yourself one question, Pete," Spitler replied, "what would Jesus do?"

Finally, back on Earth

"This is beyond my medical knowledge," the infirmary doctor admitted.

"We must airlift him by pterodactyl to the hospital," Emperor Andy decided.

"Wait," Dossey said. "Didn't one of the time travelers --"

"Alleged time travelers." Andy corrected.

Dossey continued, "Didn't one of them wear one of those doctor thingies on her head?"

"Doctor thingies?" asked the infirmary doctor.

"Yeah, round, shiny, metal disc you strap to your head," Dossey explained, gesturing. "Doctors always have those."

"No, those don't actually do anything," the doctor warned.

"Fetch her," Andy told Dossey.

Soon

"Stand aside and let a woman do this," Jernigan ordered, shoving the doctor and his aides aside.

"Diagnosis?" she asked them, not taking her eyes off Spitler's lifeless form.

"Poisonous thorns, some kind of pollen coating his lungs, and a surly disposition," the infirmary doctor answered.

"We have to operate immediately," Jernigan concluded.

"We attempted it," the other doctor said. "We've been unable to remove the thorns, doctor,"

"Laser scalpel," Jernigan said, tying on her facemask.

"What?" the nurse asked.

"Laser scalpel!" Jernigan ordered.

"We don't have that," a nurse said.

"Quantum clamp," Jernigan ordered.

"Or that," the nurse said.

"Vibranium forceps," Jernigan ordered.

"Nope," the nurse said.

"Telekinetic stabilizer," Jernigan demanded.

"Nope," said the nurse.

"Pulmonary pulverizer," Jernigan ordered.

"Nada," said the nurse.

"What do we have?" Jernigan inquired.

"I've never heard of any of the devices you mention," the doctor protested.

"Well I'm sorry - I didn't know I'd come back to the Dark Ages," growled a flabbergasted surgeon general. "Might as well attach some leeches and drain his humors"

"No we do have a machine now for that," the doctor offered.

"Doctors," the nurse interrupted, "his heart is stopping." Sure enough the heart monitor was expressing its concern about just that very event.

"Cardiac arrest," the doctor announced.

"Defibrillator?" asked Jernigan.

The doctor shook his head.

"I'll perform a transplant," Jernigan decided.

"First of all, we don't have a donor heart." The doctor contradicted.

"I do," Jernigan said dismissively.

"Pardon?" asked the doctor.

"Scalpel," Jernigan ordered, holding out her hand expectantly. Nurses are trained to follow such instructions and this one did so without thinking.

Hastily took the blade, Jernigan reached down to the side of her torso and began to cut into her own flesh. She barely winced.

"Doctor, what are you doing?" the nurse cried. "You're not the patient."

"The patient is right there," the doctor exclaimed. "Are you mad??"

"No, I'm not mad," Jernigan replied. "Just terribly hurt, that's all." She plunged her hand into the incision she'd just made. After some fiddling and more cutting, she removed what appeared to be a human heart from the side of her body.

She held it up. It was still beating in her hand. "It's like Temple of Doom," she said. "Kali ma!"

"Dear God!" the infirmary doctor whimpered.

"I always keep a selection of spare vital organs inside me in case the Emperor is ever injured and needs an emergency transplant," Jernigan explained. "Spare heart, spare ribs, even an appendix or two."

The doctor protested. "But no one needs an appendix."

"How do you know what the Emperor needs?" The surgeon general grew hot as she sutured herself back together. "Ignorance!"

She closed her own wound and turned to the horrified medical team. "Now, make yourself useful and get me a rib cracker."

"We don't have one of those," the infirmary doctor informed her. "This is but a humble infirmary."

"Humble is right," she agreed with a grimace. "Downright medieval."

Her surgical kit had been confiscated by the guards. She was trapped in the Past with abysmal medical technology. She would have to improvise.

"What do you have?" she asked.

"We have a surgical saw," the nurse offered. The doctor shot her a look.

"That'll have to do," the SSSG decided. Taking up a marker, she began to draw a line on Spitler's chest where she would make the incision.

"Pardon, doctor, but that's the tattoo-bear's heart, not the patient's heart."

"Oh. I knew that," Jernigan said.

To be continued in the exciting next chapter of
To the Time Machine!

Spitler and Jernigan contributed to this post.

Economy of Words

2009-07-15T10:18:00.002-04:00

"I like the economy in the tank. It's easier to transport that way."

- Political Officer Spitler

Scientists obviously never read science fiction

2009-07-14T16:23:00.002-04:00

or they would know better than to Monkey around with Brain Chips!

Pulling Out

2009-07-04T23:17:00.001-04:00

NEPTUNE - As the Empire prepares to celebrate Dependence Day this July 4, planet Neptune celebrated National Sovereignty Day.

Imperial troops withdrew from all major Neptunian cities as Operation Quagmire drew to a close, ahead of the Empire's annexation of the planet, the cause of celebration.

Meanwhile, the Empire built up for a reinvasion of Uranus, a world we invaded years ago.

"We pull out of Neptune and immediately plunge back into Uranus?" said one patriotic citizen. "Maybe we should have finished Uranus before invading Neptune?"

"There's nothing like an invasion to make me proud of my Empire," explained Chancellor Jack, appointed governor of Uranus, "except perhaps a reinvasion."

RFS Price

2009-07-03T22:57:00.004-04:00

"Mo-Tron" Price,

It is my great pleasure and privilege to promote and appoint you to the fulltime position of Reptilian Forces Supervisor with all the rights and advantages thereof. This promotion goes into effect immediately, if not sooner.

Furthermore, I order your immediate transfer: You are requested and required to assume command of the West Coast Outpost, in what used to be Los Angeles, no later than July 15, 2009.

Your directives:

1. Recapture the feral velociraptors running loose on the continent.

2. Balance the budget.

3. When able, assist Commissioner Custer in maintaining civil order.

4. Prevent additional interdimensional incursions (and here I mean illegal immigration from bordering dimensional planes).

** Top secret sub-directive: Keep a close eye on Master Assassin Rockel 2.0 and especially his clones. **

You are authorized to exceed speed limits for the duration of your assignment.

Know this, you are near and dear to my heart, and therefore I must push you away so you can never hurt me. That is the only reason for this transfer, but not the reason for your promotion - that you earned through loyalty and service and undermining your competition.

Andronicus

Everybody's a Critic

2009-06-30T07:52:00.000-04:00

Criticizing the Critic

Durham No. 1 at last

2009-06-29T18:07:00.002-04:00

Most drunk city in the land! Yes, Durham rules.
http://www.menshealth.com/drunk/

To the Time Machine! - part 21

2009-06-25T20:15:00.000-04:00

Today's story is in honor of Stegall Day 2009

We pick up our story after the pickup (truck) was the victim of a hit-and-run from the Space Chariot.

The Past, before the Dark Times
Buies Creek

Tied with a green ribbon to the rear-view mirror was an old CD, its label faded from years of sunlight. This CD flapped and spun about in the fierce wind.

Mo-Tron, Stegall, and Jernigan filled the cab of the truck with their screams. The ground rushed up at them.

Well, at least we'll have met our screaming quota, Germ thought. Did women always scream so much or was it the alcohol?

And to top it all, Mo-Tron was documenting the whole experience with her camera-bot. So the screams were interrupted by periodic, blinding flashes of light.

"Do something!" one of them shouted over the din.

"Working on it," Germ grunted. The only thing he could think to do was activate the chrono-circuits and jump to another time period, preferably one covered in pillows, marshmallows, and feathers.

Fate had other plans for our team. The temporal controls did not respond. Germ pumped the primer and tried again. Nothing!

Curses.

"Extend all drag flaps and braking fins," Germ commanded. "I'm going to try to level off and initiate emergency landing protocols."

Jernigan flipped switches and pressed buttons. "I don't see a landing strip," she shouted over the wind.

"Reckon where do they want one?" Germ yelled back.

"Are we going to make it?" Mo shrieked.

"No," Germ shouted over his shoulder at her. "I did the math in my head. We're doomed."

That was all she needed to hear: Imperial Plumber Stegall hefted her mighty wrench, turned in her seat, and bashed out the rear windows of the truck cab. Shards of glass filled the air as the wind rushed through the cab. Stegall covered her eyes, regretted shattering the glass, and crawled out the back of the cab. She hefted herself into the truck bed and straddled the chrono-incursion equipment.

"What are you doing?" Mo-Tron hollered, snapping photos with her F-stop-er-rator.

One of the camera flashes caught Stegall by surprise and the Empire was nearly short one plumber. "Do you mind?" she shouted.

"Sorry!" Mo-Tron called back. And although the camera was digital, Stegall could hear it rewinding, even over the ruckus of the airstream. It sounded like a growl.

Stegall cracked open a casing on the outer panels of the device. With her wrench she pried the cover off. The wind quickly whipped it away, almost smacking Stegall in the face. She docked the wrench safely in its tool belt loop

Holding onto the truck by just her tightly clenched knees, Stegall jerked first one and then another tube off the temporal engine. She reversed the two hoses, plugging them into the wrong receptacles. She disconnected some cables from their ports and plugged them into each other, somehow jamming the two female ends into one another.

Let me just skip the detailed description and tell you she hot wired the engine, rerouted the exhaust, and fired up the engine manually. The combination of the cold start and her improvised reconfiguration managed to funnel hot plasma byproduct through the time drive's secondary emitters.

Obviously, it superheated and vaporized the air around them, but the controlled explosion stalled the truck's downward progress significantly, if only temporarily. This was none too easy on the lungs of our truckers, but they would survive.

Stegall let the truck gain speed before she punched the ignition circuit again. In this manner, blow by blow, she slowed their fall enough to keep them from totaling the truck on impact.

"Keep it coming," Germ called back. This might actually work.

"No can do," Stegall replied, crawling back into the truck cab. "That was the last of it."

"We're gonna hit that great big tree (again)," Mo-Tron shouted and pointed. And took a picture.

Sure enough. She was right.

Germ hefted the anti-grav gun once more, braced, aimed, and squeezed the triggers. The device sizzled and fizzled and failed to comply. Perhaps the impact with the windshield earlier damaged it?

Next, Germ pulled up on the wheel like an airplane pilot would, which of course did nothing.

And then he noticed something peculiar down below. The skyscraper plant was lumberjack-knifing to the ground. If he timed it just right, Germ could use the leaning limb as a ramp to roll to earth.

Ironhide bottomed out when he hit the titanic trunk, but bounced up, subsequently smacked into the trunk a few more times, and careened down the tree.

Germ pumped the brakes with his right foot while also fumbling around with the left for the emergency brake.

"I've got good news and bad news," Jernigan said, bouncing around in her seat and holding onto the 'oh shit' bar. "Good news - we're not going to crash into the ground. Bad news - we're going to crash into that building instead."

"We have got to work on your bed side manner," Stegall told her.

Germ recognized the fine arts building, or what was left of it. Funny, he didn't remember it getting destroyed when he lived through this the first time. He must have slept in that day.

At the base of what was left of the flytrap, a small group of people stood gawking. Germ honked the horn at them.

"Who are those people?" Mo asked.

"We can worry about that after we hit them," Jernigan replied.

"If they don't like the way I drive, they should stay off the fine arts building," Germ added, grunting to keep the truck on the trunk.

"Death death death death death," the Death Alarm chanted, "death death death death death…."

"That is getting real old real fast."
He stood on the brake pedal, pulling back on the wheel for leverage. The Emperor had not been kidding about the "iffy" brakes.

"Truck, whoa truck," Germ urged. "Truck!"

He stomped on the emergency brake. And almost fell forward through the windshield.

They screeched to a stop not inches away from the Emperor himself.

"Thank you for using the Death Alarm," the truck said.

Imperial Guards surrounded the pickup, weapons trained on the cab.

"Come out with your hands up," shouted one.

Our time travelers complied. They had little Choice. Except for Germ. He in his fury leapt from the truck and proceeded to kick the left fender. "When I says whoa, I means whoa!"

"In the name of the Emperor, you are under arrest," the head guard bellowed at them.

Germ kept kicking on the truck. "Rackin frackin---!"

"Citizen, unless you wished to be charged with vehicular assault, I suggest you cease and desist," the guard shouted.

Reluctantly, reticent even, the Germ complied.

Stegall's tools and tool belt were wrenched away from her. They took Jernigan's stethoscope. They even took Germ's multi-tool.

"My camera!" Mo-Tron exclaimed, and struggled with the guard who tried to rip it from her neck.

"Leave it," Germ whispered. She complied, but pouted.

"A black truck full of white people," Lorma Doom observed, cleaning pulp from her blade, but then she stopped in her tracks. She recognized these white folk.

"Lorma Doom!" Jernigan said with glee. Her darker sister was alive and well. For now. She wanted to rush to embrace Doom, but one of the nice guards encouraged her to remain still.

The Foretold One looked from the newly arrested foursome over to the lumberjack and back again. The young Emperor prided himself on familiarity with every minion in his command, but these new arrivals were unknown to him. If this kept up, he was going to need some kind of filing system to keep track of everyone.

Just then, Screech and his charge joined them. To the pterodactyl's neck clung a very terrified young woman.

"Alright, who are you people and why are you here?" Emperor Andy demanded.

Germ and the girls looked at one another, not sure how much they should say.

Lorma Doom, on the other hand, had just battled a leafy leviathan and no longer cared about timelines or discretion. "We're from the future," she said bluntly.

"One possible future," corrected Germ.

"Secure these prisoners," Andronicus snapped. "Somewhere quiet. Not campus security. And impound the truck."

"Yes, my liege," the guards moved in.

"Drop the Ax," the head guard ordered Lorma.

"Nuh-uh, no way," she said, and tightened her grip on it. "You drop your guns!"

"Lorma, better do as they say," Dossey urged her.

"Why do I have to go to jail?" Lorma exclaimed. "I helped stop this plant."

"Aren't you with them?" Andy asked.

"Uh, no," the brutal wench replied, not lying very well. She then raised her Ax to the sky and shouted, "I didn't land on this plant! This plant landed on me."

"Lorma, I'll get this all straightened out," assured Dossey. "Just go along quietly - for now."

"Drop it now," the guards repeated, much firmer.

Reluctantly, she did drop the Ax. And there it stayed.

"Man, the past sucks," Lorma grumbled, as they were all six led away in handcuffs.

Wardenship Downs, Transmission 1

2009-06-25T08:34:00.002-04:00

News Flash

ANDROCITY - The Department of Agriculture, partly directed from the chair of the Imperial Game Warden, announced today that, on Earth alone, they had “lethally controlled” almost 5 million animals of varying species, double what it reported for last year.

The agency stated, “While this might alarm some, that's because they are uninformed and overreacting because of their lack of gathered intelligence on the matter.”

As predicted, environmentalists and tree huggers frothed fumed and fomented over the slaughter of innocent animals.

These over-reactors claim that the agency is "waging a war on wildlife," a point that, while alliterative, seems to be a bit of hyperbole. If war was being waged, hunting season would never close, and all the rats would be off that island near Alaska (Journal Post).

However, neither of these has actually happened. And, as the Dept. of Agriculture and the Wardenship Downs Office both have access to better science than those claiming they're murdering scum, then life should continue for those of you who don't know you're being saved from animals overrunning everything. Everything!

And besides, most of the animals killed are predators threatening livestock and humans, invasive non-native species, or birds who take up residence near airports (some of which were built right over the known existing migration pattern of said birds, which has existed for more years than white people have lived on this continent).

In his most recent session of The Talkdown, Warden Doyle explained it this way: “The teeming masses should rest assured that we are only killing the ugly and/or scary animals,” he stated, his eyes darting about the camera frame. “We make sure to spare the cute, cuddly creatures.”

What about deer? Those are cute. Doyle covered that topic as well, explaining that deer most definitely fit the scary category. “You try hitting one with your car,” he added.

In other unrelated news, the Imperial Game Warden has also been reviewing the status of the black bear as a native, non-invasive specie. With recent growth patterns (Journal Post) showing them to be growing at an alarming rate, Warden Doyle has begun to wonder if these animals are truly native. If an animal is native, it usually has difficulty surviving in its natural habitat, and when transplanted to somewhere it is not native, grows and thrives. This is mostly due to the fact that there are no natural competitors for similar food for the animal, and the animal generally populates quickly and kills off other native species. So you gain more of the non-native, but lose all of the native; it’s a very delicate balance. In the case of the black bear, their resurgence strikes a new note in the process of understanding recovering animal species.

In the end, His Wardenship would like to let all inhabitants of the Empire know that he is doing his best to keep control of the animals in a similar fashion to the control shown by The Emperor. After all, emulation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Dark Implications

2009-06-23T15:57:00.001-04:00

Is it just me or does this hunt for dark matter sound like a case of the Emperor's new clothes? "Oh you can't detect it, just infer it." Right.

And now I have Devo's "Working in a Coal Mine" stuck in my head, but with Gold Mine instead of Coal Mine.

Durham is No. 5

2009-06-17T16:03:00.005-04:00

DURHAM - As promised back in June of last year, Emperor Andy has turned this city-state around. Once high* on the list of Undesirables, Durham is now one of the top five cities to live in.

We know our Imperator is a gift, but we had no idea he could work miracles. Such an amazing turnaround and in just one year.

Congrats to Andy and the citizens of Durham! Special thanks to Political Officer Spitler and local Mafia Don, Helen the Felon.

Next up for an overhaul and makeover: Cary, NC.

* Is it better to be high or low on the Undesirables list?

Heckled Planet

2009-06-16T08:09:00.001-04:00

Pluto mocked

Nazionale Day 2009

2009-06-15T00:01:00.001-04:00

NYC - Efficiency is at its peak today in the core of the Empire's bureaucracy, the Big Apple. And at the core of the Big Apple is the Operations Center, responsible for all that good organization.

Today, all the realm celebrated Nazionale Day in honor of our Chief of Operations, Nazionale of Earth. All the realm, that is, save one.

It was revealed to us the Ops Chief himself failed to show for his own revels.

Every attempt was made to contact Nazionale. When he failed to answer his iPhone, always on and always attached to his side, Subcommander Custer feared the worst.

Custer and his interns hurried to the Chief's office to investigate. What they found terrified them.

Nazionale wasn't there. OK, I guess 'terrified' was too strong a word. What they found concerned them.

They scoured the Operations Center for any clue or sign of the Ops Chief. After a fruitless search, one of Custer's underlings thought to suggest a quick peek in the Archives.

Sure enough, there they found piles and piles of papers. But most surprising of all, under it all, they found Nazionale, literally buried in paperwork.

Custer the Greater, looking over the lifeless body, spotted a document. "Ooh form J9B42a. Dystopia Planetia said they submitted this weeks ago. Here it is, marked received, just as they claimed." He chuckled. "Perhaps I should not have been so hasty to cancel their business license and ship them all off to the prison planet. Oh well." He folded it up and pocketed it.

The sub crew, as the interns had taken to calling themselves, quickly dug out the Operations Chief and attempted to revive him (after first checking his pockets for a no-resuscitation form).

When resuscitation failed, Custer the Greater quickly conducted an internal moral examination. He could attempt to save Nazionale's life or he could take the Ops Chief's position.

With a sigh, he pulled a bottle of whiteout from his utility belt, uncapped it, and waved the wet brush under Nazionale's nostrils.

The Ops Chief jumped awake, brushing whiteout all over his nose in the process.

"Happy birthday, Operations," Custer said, and helped the Chief to his feet. "You missed your parade."

"Did they deflate the balloons?" Ops Chief sat up, rubbing his eyes, and blinking in the light.

"Nope," Custer replied, recapping the whiteout surreptitiously.

"Then there's still time," Nazionale said, "for another parade."

He stood, walked to his window, looked out at the parade floats and giant balloons. He turned back to the subordinates and smiled.

"Sir, you have something on your nose," Custer told him.

All Your Base

2009-06-13T14:42:00.001-04:00

RALEIGH – Today the Imperium, law-making body of the Empire, convened to determine and legislate once and for all the details of the “bases” metaphor.

First base is universally accepted to be kissing, but, beyond that, not much is certain except the obvious home run allegory.

“Communication is the glue that holds an Empire together,” explained Praetor Palmer, the first female speaker of the Imperium. “How can our delicate progeny establish clear moral boundaries with such a vast disconnect in terminology?”

RFS Cathey, whom we were surprised to find in a local bar, had a different point of view. “I have it on good authority that the members of the Imperium are not interested in a ‘bases’ determination at all,” he told us over beers. “They only called these hearings so they could view the live demonstrations of the ‘bases’ on the floor of the Imperium Grand Viewing Gallery. Frankly, I’m jealous.”

When asked if there was any substance to rumors he had been engaged to snap photos for the Archives, RFS quickly finished his beer and excused himself from the table.

Fates Intertwined?

2009-06-13T11:00:00.001-04:00

Second Empire and a certain law school

Tooth Decay

2009-06-09T08:57:00.002-04:00

"The tooth is out there."

Continued from Choppers' Day

Raleigh

All through the house not a creature was stirring not even a Compsognathus longipes.

Cool air blew in through the open bedroom window. Choppers snored blissfully, for she slept the sleep of the loyal.

She was therefore unaware when the air from the window began to shimmer. A winged, slight creature apparated in the aperture.

She brandished a wand, a set of wings, and slung over her shoulder a bag of teeth.

It was the Tooth Fairy.

The Tooth Fairy crept through the air. Slowly, carefully, she reached for the pillow under Chopper's heavy head. Carefully she lifted it.

And unknowingly raised a pressure plate under the pillow.

Behind her, the window slammed shut with a metallic clang that made the fairy's delicate head ring and her magic eyes cross.

Red lights flashed. An alarm blared.

Choppers sat up and shouted, "Not the good China!"

She ripped away her sleeping blindfold, and spotted the tooth fairy straining in a useless attempt to pry open the two metal rows of teeth set in the window frame, preventing escape.

"I call it the Lockjaw," Choppers said, rising from bed. "It keeps intruders from extruding."

The fairy whirled around to face her captor. It even pointed its wand menacingly at Choppers.

"How dare you interrupt my important work!" the fairy cried. "Do you know who you're messing with??"

Choppers smirked. "Do you?" she asked, and then smiled a big, toothy grin, filled with razor sharp, serrated cybernetic teeth.

"You!"

"Yes, me," Choppers nodded, "and now your greed for molars will be your downfall."

"This is my job," the fairy exclaimed.

"And this is mine," Choppers said, grinning like a shark, she advanced on the hapless pixie. Now, granted, Choppers was wearing a froufrou nightgown, making her somewhat less intimidating, but her teeth were still quite frightening nonetheless.

"Is this how I go? Done in by teeth!" the fairy warbled. "Oh the irony."

Choppers stopped short. "Is that irony?" she asked.

"Uh," the fairy looked out from behind her hands, "maybe?"

"No matter!" declared Choppers. "Your polyphyodontal kleptomania bites it here and now."

The fairy flew (literally) into a rage. "NEVER! You wide mouth ass!"

"You fairy hag!" Choppers bellowed in reply.

The little fairy quaked with a fury bigger than its tiny body. "I will extract your bionic bicuspids with my bare hands!" it squeaked.

They lunged for each other, fangs bared.

They impacted. Rolling in mid-air, clinging to each other, locked in combat, these arch-enemies bit one another, each making the other cry out in pain in turn.

"Ow!"

"Ow!"

"Ow!"

And so on.

"You've bitten off more than you can chew," the tooth fairy taunted Choppers.

"I can swallow you whole," Choppers retorted.

"Oww!"

"Oww!"

As they swung about, the Tooth Fairy's bag kept unintentionally smacking Choppers in the head. Finally Choppers released the Fairy long enough to rip the bag off the pixie, tearing the strap in the process. The bag smacked into a wall at high speed.

"No!" the fairy shrieked. "My babies!" She dived for the baby teeth as they dispersed across the wood floor, bedspread, and under the bed. Thousands of teeth shot every which way.

Thinking quickly, and taking care not to slip on the toothy horde at her feet, Choppers scooped up the distracted dental dainty in one hand and grabbed the now barren teeth bag in the other. She shoved the surprised Tooth Fairy into the waiting cavity of the bag. It was a perfect fit.

She snapped it shut. From inside the heard muffled shouts. The bag bucked, but held. The Tooth Fairy was trapped.

Later
Office of the Emperor

"I have summoned you here for a purpose," Andy said, in his best Unicron impersonation.

"And that would be?" asked the sullen Tooth Fairy, strapped into a high chair.

"An assignment you can really sink your teeth into," Andy grinned.

"Please, I am subject to bad teeth puns all the time," the Tooth Fairy rolled its eyes. "Spare me."

"Oh, how rotten," Andy deadpanned. "If you wish to be spared, you will do my bidding. One job."

The piqued pixie asked, "What kind of job?"

"Some time ago, I paid for someone's teeth to be ... replaced, and I now regret it," Andy told the Tooth Fairy.

"Well, that was stupid," the Tooth Fairy observed,

Andy frowned. "Yes, yess, it was," he said. But as he said it, Andy reached under his desk and furiously pressed the Chump Puncher button affixed to his desk.

Alas, it got no results. At last, he remembered Cullen was out on assignment. He frowned more.

"Wait," said the fairy, "do you refer to that toothy freak what dragged me here in my own handbag?"

"No, no, someone else," Andy said dismissively. "The operative who retrieved you was Choppers, and she is more than worth the sets of teeth she goes through."

"Then who?"

Andy did not answer directly, obviously uncomfortable. "Can you get them back?" he asked.

"Remove teeth from the living?" the Tooth Fairy asked.

"Don't act like you've not done this kind of thing before," Andy warned. "We know about your indiscretions."

"Ah, blackmail," said the Tooth Fairy. "At last we get to the point."

"So we understand each other?"

"All too well."

Andy leaned forward. "Can it be done?"

The pixie paused, pondered, and then piped up.

"Yes," it said.

Imperial Fashion Law Number 35

2009-06-04T13:27:00.004-04:00

Denim should not be applied with a paint brush.

That is all.

Buzz

Imperial Seamstress

Fashion Police Chief

Fashion Advisor to His Gloriousness

Would that be ... Bangin'?

2009-06-02T16:42:00.002-04:00

DURHAM - Perhaps in celebration for her return or maybe as punishment for her absence, Mouthpiece Scott was today assigned the additional task of deciphering for His Excellency, the Imperator, the differences between and definitions of various slang and jargon.

"Am I living a 'thug life’?” Andronicus spoke at a press conference, and cited an example of one of his seminal dilemmas. "How thug do you need to be? Is that an option worth pursuing?"

This reporter can attest from personal encounters at various press briefings that this area is for the Emperor what others might call a weak spot, if such a thing were possible in our Exalted Chief:

REPORTER: Chosen One, you are looking fly today.
EMPEROR: Oh no, is it very noticeable?

The above exchange is a good example of a common problem in the press room. There is a communications disconnect or gap between generations - those with nanites and those without; those with loyalty chips and those still running with vacuum tubes in their heads.

And the Mouthpiece is the primary bridger of communication gaps in the Empire.

The Potentate continued his explanation, "Where does bangin' fall on the spectrum of cool? Is it better than 'off the hook?' Can you be both bangin' and off the hook?

"Does 'off the hook' refer to a telephone ringing so often that it seems to never rest on the receiver? Or does the phrase indicate a fish that takes the bait, but ultimately escapes the fisherman's hook? Wouldn't a cell phone by its very design ring off the hook, as it has no receiver?"

Propaganda Pipeline apologizes that any, shall we say, urban phrases in this post are possibly ten to twenty years old.

We make no aspersions to hipness. The Pipeline is merely a conduit for what comes out of the Office of the Emperor -- albeit, a fly conduit.

Mouthpiece Scott, ironically, was not available for comment.

When Buzz Met Smiley, Part 1

2009-05-28T23:16:00.005-04:00

Guest Post by Buzz

Today, we celebrate Smiley Day.

Long ago and far away. . .

The creek.

Royal Seamstress Buzz was waiting for the meeting to begin. His Excellency sat behind his desk, imposing and impressive as always. In her lap, Buzz held a notebook and sketch book ready to discuss her vision of the new fall line for the Empire.

Buzz sighed, trying to remind His Gloriousness of her presence without activating the insolence alarm.

He glanced her way for a moment, then picked up the phone on his desk.

"One more moment, I have to call and check on my brother," he explained, unnecessarily, as His Aboveness need not explain his actions to anyone.

This took Buzz by surprise. His brother? The Emperor had a brother? Why didn't she know this? Was His Excellency afraid of a Shakespearean-style usurpation by this brother? Was he being hidden for security purposes? Had it simply never come up in conversation? Buzz decided it must be this last reason, for, even though she had known the Glorious One for two years, she realized she really didn't know that much about him.

The sound of the phone receiver clicking back into its base interrupted her musing and the meeting began. Yet, in the back of her mind, Buzz did not forget this new information about a brother and the mysterious possibilities it opened up.

The Day of Squad and Brute (parts 2 and 3)

2009-05-28T14:36:00.005-04:00

Guest Post by Rouz (SSSG)

continued from Part 1

It was cool inside. Cool and moist, as if in a cave with an underground water source. In fact there must be a water source, for she could smell it. The smell of sweet water and something else. Something sweeter. What was it? The Brute Squad wrinkled her warrior nose. Lilies – blech! She hated flowers. Now she was a wench, after all, her full title was The Brute Squad Wench, and the title inferred a certain amount of femininity. But she was also Bad Ass – BA if you’re Dane Cook. I mean anybody whose title held the word Brute in it couldn’t help but be Bad Ass. And she didn’t want to help it. Her greatest pleasure came from being a force of brutality so great that she as a singular being could be called a squad. A force of brutality to be so reckoned with that she was often sent out before the rest of the troops in battle , herself and her trusty Ax against forces of thousands, to thin the number down to a manageable amount for the rest of the Emperor’s troops. So no, while she was a wench, she didn’t like flowers.

She took three or four more steps from the threshold and suddenly the cavernous lily filled room with a strange watery light echoed with the sound of mad laughter. A laughter so mad it threatened to make all those who heard it mad. But alas, the only kind of mad the Brute Squad could ever be was the type of mad associated with anger. Damn. She could have benefited from going a little mad. (Who said that?)

From out of nowhere in the glimmer light stepped a man. At least she thought it was a man. Really it looked so much like Old Rafiki from the Lion King movie that she almost laughed. Although it definitely wasn’t a baboon. Must have been a man. The laughter was coming from him. Of course.

“Why are you laughing?” asked the Brute Squad, maddeningly un-amused.

“Because you have by far the craziest, most admirable, and simplest personal test I have ever heard of.” Said the Rafiki man.

“What do you mean?”

The man started to speak but the Brute Squad, being very Brute Squad like, interrupted this obviously holy man.

“And before you start, if you’re just going to talk in riddles and circles, be warned that I have an Ax and I’m not afraid to use it.”

This sent the man into another fit of laughter, which also glinted from his eyes. When the hysterical giggling finally subsided (which took a while) he wiped a tear away and started to
speak again.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Said the Rafiki man. “It is very simple. The verse tells you exactly what to do. It says walk a thousand-thousand leagues, you have done that. How you figured out what a league was is beyond me, but I digress. It says climb the thousand-thousand stairs, you have done that. All that was designed to test how much you wanted it. You wanted it. You have passed. The next is to hold yourself up to your own tests. These would be the tests that you usually put others to when searching for a mate. If you desire your mate to be beautiful then we would put you to a test of beauty. Generous, kind, humorous, ambitious, you would be tested on all of these. If it was found that you have the qualities that you seek in another, then poof! The magic of the room would find out your perfect match and instantly transport that person here. If that person was then willing to go on this quest with you then you would test your abilities of wielding the power of the Deeping Room together. Most people don’t get passed their own personal tests. It is truly amazing that we expect from other people what we are not willing to actualize in ourselves. Your test, however . . ." And at this the Rafiki man broke off giggling again. The Brute Squad rolled her eyes and flexed the arm that held the Ax. The Rafiki man stopped giggling. “Your test requires us to combine two of those steps. Which is a paradox of impossibility, so we will have to adjust things a bit.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Brute Squad again.

“Well it seems you’ve watched Red Sonja a few too many times.” This was only partially true, as the Brute Squad could not see how one could watch an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie too many times. “And you,” continued the Rafiki man “like the fictional title character of that movie will only select as your mate someone who has defeated you in battle. That’s the only test you hold them to. Therefore in order to test you on that we would have to find someone who was your equal in battle to fight you. Thus we would have to find your perfect match in order to test you and we cannot find your perfect match until you have been tested. You see the conundrum.”

“Welcome to my life.” Said the Brute Squad.

“Yes, it’s a puzzle indeed. We have to get you into a kafuffle with someone, however, because – well, I mean, you’ve come all this way.”

“And I am in dire need of a good battle. I’ve missed the smell of blood, sweat, and adrenaline so much. I’m almost tempted to fight you.” She began to raise her Ax at the mere thought.

“That will not be necessary!” Said the Rafiki man quickly. He swallowed nervously, added a nervous giggle, then proceeded with his annoying speech patterns. “What the powers that be have settled on is that we will select all of the most likely candidates, all those with the potential to be worthy of you, we’ll line ‘em up, you can do battle and whoever comes out alive will obviously be your perfect match. There you go, easier than online dating. Let us commence!”

Before the Brute Squad could utter her incredulity at this plan, the Rafiki man clapped his hands and the room was filled with twenty of the finest fighting specimens of men The Brute Squad had ever seen. They were so muscular and savage looking her mouth was immediately whetted with the desire to test her strength and skill against them.

Well, will you look at that, she thought. In the entire universe there are only twenty men with even the potential to beat me in battle. And oh, my, how they look the part. At last, at last. A challenge.

She sighed with pleasure as her grip tightened on her beloved Ax, and before the sigh was fully out of her lungs the first of the men attacked. She – impressed with the speed of the blow- parried it easily and her heart leaped with happiness as she turned back for more. Oh, yes! She thought. This is the way to spend an afternoon!

*** *** *** *** *** ***

The battle was long a bloody. It lasted many days. Bards will be singing songs about the greatness of the battle for years to come (all though, alas, few people listen to bards anymore). Warrior after great warrior stepped forward to challenge The Great Brute Squad. Challenge her in a fight to the death (or would this really be called a fight to the love?). Warrior after warrior they fell. Some fell faster than others. The first lasted a good two hours, which the Brute Squad found impressive, that is until the second one lasted a day. The third one fell within twenty minutes, and the fourth lasted not much longer, but the fifth, oh my, the fifth lasted a day and a half. At least that’s what it seemed they lasted. It was hard to tell in The Deeping Room. No light from the outside got in, and no one seemed to need sleep or food. Must be the magic of the room, though the Brute Squad, who once again was pleased for she often found the need for food and sleep annoying and pesky habits that she had tried on numerous occasions to break. She wasn’t even tired. Or sore. After each battle whatever wounds she had accumulated would disappear and the exertion would leave her body in much the same manner, leaving her feeling exactly as she had the moment she stepped into the room. This was truly great power, indeed. When this was over and she was in possession of the power she would try to bottle it and give it to every soldier in the Emperor’s considerable military so they would never tire.

On and on it went. On and on the men died before the might of the Brute Squad. She wondered briefly if they really died or were instantly returned to wherever they had disappeared from with no memory of what had happened. It made her heart sick, only briefly, to think that she was depriving the world of such fine warriors, especially if they could fight for the Emperor.
Finally there was only one warrior left. The Brute Squad, still neither tired nor hungry, was exhilarated from all the fighting and was sad that there was only one fight left. She had secretly hoped that she could keep doing this forever. Ah well. Hopefully this one would be a good one and last a good long while. She would not prolong it purposefully however. She had never done anything but her best in any fight and she wasn’t about to start now.

It turned out it was a good thing she hadn’t held back, because it took every ounce of her skill to keep this magnificent warrior at bay. And keep him at bay she did. For an entire week. A full seven days.

On that seventh day they stood at opposite sides of the room panting (you may not get tired in the Deeping Room but you can get winded) and staring one another down as they each dripped blood (remember their injuries would not be healed until the fight was over). They regarded each other with cautious curiosity. Everything they had tried had been equaled. The injuries that were dealt were few, and whenever one was dealt it was quickly returned. They couldn’t get past one another’s defenses. It would be humorous if it weren’t so frustrating. And exhilarating.

Could this be it? Thought the Brute Squad. Could I have found my match at last? Oh the Emperor will be so pleased!

Around that same moment the nameless yet glorious warrior she had been battling was still looking her over trying to find a weakness. As he searched he caught a glimpse of her gleaming brown eyes, and at that moment the watery light that filled the room caught those big browns of hers and he felt his breath catch as he got lost there. For a moment. Just a moment. But it was a moment too long. The Ax found his jugular cleanly and the next moment he was gone. She had defeated him.

She was sad it was over. But really anyone who could be defeated by the old light-in-the-hypnotic-eyes trick was hardly worthy of her. I mean, if she had known it was that simple she would have pulled out that trick twenty minutes in. Or maybe a day in, just so she could have fully tested his fantastic battle skills.

After the warrior disappeared the Rafiki man reappeared.

“So that’s it?” said the Brute Squad, more curious than sad. “I have no match?”

“No, no, my dear.” Said the Rafiki man, laughing again. “He is out there. He’s just not worthy yet.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Brute Squad, yet again.

“Those men were chosen of those who were potentially worthy in that moment. But people are constantly changing, constantly in flux. Someone is out there who still has to go through the right combination of things to change in just the right way to be worthy of you. And you yourself must change exponentially so that you reach the same worthiness at the same time.”

“This is bull shit!” said the Brute Squad. “In order to achieve being matched perfectly in order to even try out the ultimate power someone would have to be here at exactly the right moment in time, after doing all of this, at exactly the right moment in time when someone had just achieved worthiness for that specific – but, but – that’s impossible! It’s bull shit, and it’s impossible!”

“Merely improbable.” Said the Rafiki man, who laughed again and disappeared. The Brute Squad found herself in an empty room. Sans floaty light and lilies.

“Bullshit!” she said again. And she promptly left, hacking off limbs and heads of unsuspecting monks as she went. The emperor would replace them later.

Later at the abode of the Brute Squad (which was also the abode of the SSSG, since they were twins they felt an affinity for living in the same abode, also I just like the word abode) over freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and two glasses of cold 2% milk, she related to the SSSG all that had happened in The Deeping Room (having already sent her debriefing report to The Emperor). The SSSG nodded politely to her story all the way through, but during the relation of the Rafiki man’s last speech, the SSSG got a strange maniacal gleam in her eye.

“What?” asked the Brute Squad. “What are you thinking?”

“Not ready yet!” said the SSSG, “Ruminating!”

The Brute Squad hated it when the SSSG started talking like the Emperor. However, since the SSSG spent most of her nights in her lab, and since the Brute Squad spent most of her nights in battle of training for it, the Brute Squad decided not to comment on it and ruin one of their few nights at home together.

They each got ready for bed, the Brute Squad donning her G.I. Joe pajamas, and the SSSG donning the pajamas that she had made from parts of many different pajamas. They brushed their teeth in their adjoining bathrooms, braided each other’s hair, had a pillow fight, and tossed a coin to see who would get to sleep on the top bunk of their brightly painted bunk beds. The SSSG lost.

Even though the Brute Squad could not see the SSSG, she could literally hear the twinkle in her eye and the wheels in her head turning. Finally she could not stand it anymore.

“What?!” she asked again.

“Well, you know, “ said the SSSG, “I could build you your perfect match.”

“Don’t you even think about it!”

“But, I could –“

“No, absolutely not!”

“But, -“

“Roux, if you say another word about it, I will tell the Imperial Plumber that you have a crush on her!”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I swear on the Ax of Rhythm and Justice and All Things Lethal that if you try and make me the perfect match I will tell –“

“All right!”

And they went to sleep.

For the last several weeks, however, many of the Empire’s most promising young warriors have mysteriously gone missing after receiving orders to report to the SSSG’s laboratories, and the charges made to the account the SSSG uses for research on the Deeping Room have gone up astronomically. Hmmm . . .

Happy Late Birthday, Lormarev. I love you.

Sunstroke

2009-05-26T10:00:00.000-04:00

SPACE - The first fleet redeployed late last night by command of Emperor Andy. Their mission: Revenge.

In a risky maneuver that left Earth rather unprotected, the portion of the Imperial Armada what normally parks in Earth orbit departed this past evening for hotter space. The first fleet, we have just learned, is on its way toward the Sun.

As loyal minions will already know, His Excellency went to the beach for a vacation this weekend. According to our sources, he was minding his own business, enjoying the delicate art of building sandcastles and kicking them down, when he was stricken by the sun with a fierce burn on much of his imperial skin.

Swearing vengeance, Emperor Andy picked up his Red phone, which since this is the 21st century, was also a mobile phone so he could make the Call from anywhere, not just his office. He got the first fleet admiral on the phone and ordered the fleet to destroy the Sun at all costs.

So loyal is the Armada that they could very well launch their full complement of planet killer bombs at the Sol star.

So now humanity watches and waits. Sunlight takes just over eight minutes to reach Earth. That is all the warning we will get.