Fragment: The Husband's Message

From the Old English:

He who commanded this rune-stave graven,
Bids thee, his jewel, to recall to thyself,
From thy mind’s recess, the promises
Which you twain oft spoke in former days,
While the fates allowed you both to reside in golden cities,
To dwell together in a single land,
To pursue a romance...

Were I A Tree

It would be nice--I think--
To be a tree;
My leafy brow could taste the wind,
And my twisting roots the loamy earth;
My blood would flow--
A sappy ichor--which,
In winter months, would slow,
And I would sleep,
And in that darkness dream--
Of my leaves unfurled
Like little sails
To catch the morning sun;
Straining, ever so softly,
I raise my boughs--
A silent paean to unseen light;
The brightness nourishes:
My belly full, I am well.

Modern Obfuscation or 'Through A Glass Darkly'

Dude 1: So...what was that about?

Dude 2: What?

Dude 1: You know.

Dude 2: Dude, I don’t know.

Dude 1: You know you know, man. Back there. C’mon, you know you know.

Dude 2: I know you think I know, but I don’t.

Dude 1: With the chick.

Dude 2: What chick?

Dude 1: The one, the one with like—you know.

Dude 2: That’s like every chick ever, man.

Dude 1: How can you not know?

Draugadróttin

The sun drew across the sky. Heavy with winter, it cast its canting rays into a small evergreen forest, whose primeval density was riven by a broad, muddy and well-trodden path. Along this path a lone man walked homeward in the company of the solemn, immortal pines, which had grown tall in the ages before men had come to this land, felling their brethren to make the road easy. These venerable forest-giants formed a wall of spiny boughs whose needles—mantled in snow—lost but little of their nocuous, stiletto-like appearance.

This traveler continued through this corridor of knitted, snow-dusted branches, as weird twilight began to chase the sun from its Uranian perch. The traveler’s thoughts were already at the path’s end, with his wife—her ample bosom; with the joyous squeals of delight from his children upon his return; with the warmth of his hearth; and with the warmth of delicious broth and the new-baked, thick-crusted bread, sweetened by honey, that would be his supper. It was the time of Yule. It was a time of celebration. These thoughts hurried him along the path home and made it possible for him forget the cold.

As the traveler approached the crossroads, however, the thought of what waited there put out of his mind his reflections of home and hearth. He began to feel the winter’s bite which those fond images in his mind had been helping him to ignore. The crossroads. He could see them clearly in his memory. They were just ahead. Near them, just off the side of a path, a gibbet had been erected. It was composed sturdily of a single broad, roughly-cut beam thrust deep into the earth, topped with four beams jutting out equidistantly from the center beam, horizontal to the ground. From each outstretched beam hung a noosed rope, and from each rope hung a corpse—victims all of justice. Around each outlaw’s neck would be hung a placard, which bore the name of his crime. Thief. Rapist. Murderer. It was a grim sight. One he wished he needn’t see. But his path lay beyond the crossroads, and he could do nothing for it.

The traveler reached the crossroads just as the last feebly burning embers of the day vanished altogether, swallowed—wolf-like—by night’s yawning maw. Nascent stars cast down their ghostly light from the heavenly plain, and the dark shape of the gibbet emerged as if from his own memory to discomfort his sight. The reek of decaying flesh followed, sharply invading his nostrils, and he was forced to cough, and cover with his palm his mouth and nose. He sped up to hurry past this place of stinking death. But he was caused to stop, as flint struck steel, launching a spark into a handful of dry tinder. A small fire came chokingly to life next to the gibbet. His curiosity stayed his steps, and he watched as a pair of gnarled hands slid into the protean light cast by the fire. When the lone man’s eyes had adjusted to this new source of light, he discerned a figure, who wore a great, thick cloak and wide-brimmed hat.

This stranger didn’t speak as he warmed his hands, and the traveler neither spoke nor moved, puzzled by the appearance of this character, and his apparent disregard for the reeking tree of cadavers. Some minutes passed. Still, neither changed their positions. At length, the stranger stood. He was almost inhumanly tall, and seemed untroubled by the ailments of old age, which were suggested by his seemingly arthritic hands and deeply lined face, and greying beard, which the light of the fire had revealed to the traveler. The odd old man walked the few steps that separated him from the gibbet, and loosed from a sheath a small dagger, which flashed briefly, reflecting the light of the stars. With a deft motion, he cut from the corpse-tree one of the bodies and, lifting it with an ease that betrayed a monstrous strength, returned to the small fire with the corpse in hand.

The traveler could only look on in wonder and horror, as the stranger unknotted the cord that constricted the throat of the cold-bodied corpse, and then pulled a black tongue free from its dead mouth. The stranger’s small, silver dagger flashed again, this time reflecting the light of the fire, and the traveler could see that the old man was cutting something into the tongue of the deceased criminal. At last, the spell cast by the strangeness of the scene began to dissipate, and the traveler found he could again move, and began to do so, when the stranger called out to him.

“Will you not bear us company some little while? Perhaps warm yourself, before you continue your journey home?”

The old stranger’s voice was low and mellifluous, brimming with unspoken poetry and authority. The traveler stopped, and, almost against his will, stepped towards the fire until he stood directly before it. He opened his mouth to protest, but found himself speechless as the vacuous eyes of the reclining corpse caught his attention.

Noticing where his gaze lay, the stranger spoke, “Don’t worry about him; it usually takes a moment. He has far to come.”

“What?” the traveler said, confused.

“Long and strange are the paths he must take; for he is journeyed far from his house of bones. Please, sit,” the stranger gestured to a stone that stood near the fire.

The traveler took the proffered seat. As he settled himself, a raven dropped from the sky, and lighted on the face of the corpse, and began to pluck at the criminal’s eyes. A second raven landed immediately after, and began to do the same. The stranger shooed them gently away, with a brush of his hand and a softly spoken word.

“Later friends. Many other feasts await you, and we have much to discuss.”

These words struck the traveler as odd, and he waited, sitting, for some further strange occurrence. It was then, that a stertorous gasping broke forth from the throat of the cadaver’s mouth, and with it, the release of nauseating, almost visible stink which burned the traveler’s eyes and caused him to choke and retch. Still reeling from this noisome stench, he missed something said by the stranger. Then, the traveler heard a voice— hollow and passionless:

“It is dark here...Why can I not see?” The voice had come from the corpse; it was a ragged and eerily somber voice.
The stranger spoke addressing the corpse, “The runes which would awaken your mortal sight, would serve you ill, I fear. Your eyes’ roots have been worried through by the rigorous attentions of the grave-worms.”

“...I am returned, then, to the mortal plane?” replied the corpse, haltingly.

“Yes. And I would know of your journeyings in the realms of the dead. What news have you? What tidings?”

“...Your sister, the Hag, she bids me greet you...She reminds you...that winter comes and that...your blood is forfeit to her...” the corpse’s voice faded to a hoarse whisper.

“Not particularly cheerful sentiments, no?” The stranger looked at the traveler, a glint of lugubrious mirth twinkling plainly in his eyes. He continued, “She’s right though. Winter comes. It shall be an end—but what she doesn’t know, is that it shall be a beginning too.”

The traveler could say nothing, and the stranger turned his attentions again to the corpse, “And, what of those planes which no mortal eye has seen? In your journeyings, what did you see there?”

The corpse then related all he had seen, and the traveler could hear and imagine the strain it was to its dead throat.

* * *

The small fire was long dead. The night was almost passed, and still the cadaver spoke revealing things both strange and horrifying from unimagined universes. And the traveler listened; and all the while his terror grew as he learned of truths which no man should have to bear and yet, he could not flee—enraptured and rooted as he was by a perverse curiosity.

Finally, the corpse stopped speaking. The traveler’s mind was drunk with horror, and his body frozen by the winter-night’s chill. But the corpse was not yet finished with his speech. For the first time he spoke directly to the traveler.

“...The Hag bids me...give one last message. She bids me tell you...welcome.” And with that, the corpse’s tongue was still.

The stranger stood as dawn’s roseate light began to fill the forest, and to light the path which the traveler had been following. He straightened his cloak, and adjusted his hat. A raven landed on his left shoulder, followed by a second on his right.

“Hello again, friends. See, another feast. And this one fresher than the other.” The stranger turned into the new morning’s light, which revealed, in the strangers face, a rough, black hollow which had once held a seeing eye.

Of Spiders and Men

A spider daily spins his gossamer web in the corner of my windowsill. Sometimes, I chance to look up, and there he sits, his eyes examining me, curious. I watch him, also curious. He seems to wonder at the life I lead, while I wonder at his. Eventually, I turn my gaze, or he does, and we go our separate ways--each satisfied with this tacit exchange.

Darling Me

I just discovered something so endearingly cute about myself, that I could not resist sharing it with my readers. Apparently, as a small child, I called Santa Claus, 'Clana Claus'. Though such stories doubtless abound concerning the misspeakings of other children, those children are not and were not me. Thank you for your indulgence.

-Volker The Fiddler

A Timely Warning: Diachronic Fields (Followup)

My latest article, A Timely Warning: Diachronic Fields, has engendered no small criticisms from some of my readers, and so I feel it necessary to answer their charges formally.

The first criticism was one that any person unfamiliar with the politics of time-travel is likely to make: that time travel is a profitable business. Illegal time-travel, which would be contrary to scientific principles, could be lucrative, though entirely unethical. Legal time-travel, however, is a commodity so heavily taxed and regulated, that it is virtually impossible to make money in the field.

The second criticism is more difficult to combat. One commentator felt it necessary to use words and terms like '...Classical Field Theory...,' '...rigorous...,' 'vectors...,' and '...hurry...' I myself am only a lay-person when it comes to diachronic fields, and don't necessarily understand all the science behind it. One thing I do know, however, is that Classical field theory and its adherents belong to a virtual stone-age in terms of productive and progressive inroads into the science of fields relating to time-travel. Scientists have been creating diachronic fields since, at latest, 1895 (see George Orwell), and their successes have been well chronicled (see Time Changer, Quantum Leap, Star Trek: First Contact, Time Chasers, A Kid in King Arthur's Court, Back to the Future, et al.).

A Timely Warning: Diachronic Fields

Yesterday, I was watching Josh Kirby...Time Warrior!: Planet of the Dino-Knights (the first film in this excellent sci-fi series), when I for the first time I became aware of the dangers of diachronic fields. Now many are aware of the dangers posed by traveling through time: killing one's ancestor, stepping on a butterfly, spontaneous combustion, aliens, general weirdness. But many seem ignorant of the danger posed by the time-fields themselves.

Now, in the opening scenes of Josh Kirby...Time Warrior!, the film's protagonist, Irwin 1138, must activate a machine that produces a diachronic field which acts as a portal into the time-stream (whose winding, ramified corridors grant access to all points in time). He and his team are very careful to avoid any contact with the diachronic field produced by the machine, and for good reason.

Science has shown that diachronic fields are composed of highly unstable strands of the time-stream itself. When a foreign body is introduced into this highly unstable field, a reverberation-pulse begins to form which polarizes the direction of the field: past or future. Now in a controlled time-jump using a 'time-machine', 'time-transport', or 'time-armor' (a exoskeletal suit, with the ability to withstand the turbulence of the time-stream), the reverberation-pulse in the diachronic field is controlled and directed to achieve the desired effect: date/time-specific time-travel. When, however, a foreign body is exposed to the field, activating the reverberation-pulse, and no control is supplied—then all sorts of havoc can be unleashed. For example: If a bit of drift-wood were inserted into the field, the R-pulse would be activated and one of two things would happen. The portion of the wood exposed to the field would either decay rapidly (if the polarization of the field became future-charged) or it would begin to reverse in age (if the polarization of the field became past-charged). If a living body were exposed to this same field, the same would happen.

Many and horrific are the deformities of those scientists who were too lackadaisical in regard to safety when it came to diachronic fields. Consider the case of Dr. Attius Melchor, who now must live with a body that is partially age-reversed; parts of his face and skull have been infantilized as well as his left arm and left foot. Or consider, perhaps, the case of Dr. Alison Carper. Her entire lower torso is aged 300 years more than the rest of her 34 year old body. She hasn’t had a lover in years.

So, now that you, my readers, are aware of the danger posed by diachronic fields, what can you do to protect yourself? First, make sure that all prescribed safety protocols are adhered to strictly. Second, consider wearing appropriate protective gear: safety-glasses, gloves, aprons, knee-pads. Lastly, consider getting into another field. There’s no money in time-travel.

From the Diary of a Time-Traveler

Genesis of the Doodle: First the text came to me, perhaps inspired by visions of the future where the machinery of the future makes incessant and irksome noises. Then, I imagined that this quote was spoken by a man ill-suited for any sort of travel, but bound by his genius to travel the paths of time. For the buildings of the future, I decided that each of them would be topped by an ornament, which perhaps serves as an antenna or satellite dish.

The Last Laugh

In the Year of the Cephalopod (current notation C.E. 7043), on the Day of the Yam (current notation August 20^th), four hundred years after the second so-called ‘Joke-Holocaust’ or ‘Jokolocaust’, in the Temple of the Joke Eternal, the High Archon—chief priest of the temple—waited for the other priests of his order to settle in the simply constructed benches of stone, each of which consisted of a horizontal beam of roughly squared stone sitting upon two squat, upright, (and similarly rough) columns of stone. They were spaced, two by two, equidistantly from one another along the length of a nave. At the end of the nave was a raised dais, upon which a simple stone lectern lay, and behind which the High Archon was standing, his patient, aged face looking down at an immense tome which rested before him on the lectern, his lips silently mouthing the text as he read from it. When the murmurs and rustlings of the settling priests had become sufficiently muted, the High Archon looked up from the book he studied and intoned in a steady and warmly paternal voice:

“Dearest brothers and sisters, priests and priestesses, we are gathered here on this most sacred of days to read forth from The Book of the Joke, and to read aloud the last joke known to the race of man. Let us begin with twenty third chapter of Lazarus, verses 10-24.”

Pausing his oration briefly, the High Archon turned the pages of the book to the appropriate passage, and began again:

“And it came to pass in those days, that Orvan and his hosts determined that no more would jokes trouble the minds of those under his dominions. And so he banned the telling and fabricating of jokes to those under his rule. And so it was, that all the joke-books in the lands of Orvan were sought out and destroyed. And flames from the pyres of joke-books sent black smoke into the heavens; and yet God did nothing. He had turned his face away from his people. And Orvan’s might and dominion grew, and, not seeing fit that his neighbors be allowed to continue in their jesting, Orvan commanded his armies to overcome all his neighbors, and they fell like wheat before a harvest-scythe. And like the wind, which blows through every land—knowing no hindrance—Orvan’s rule covered the earth. And there was no more joke-telling, nor were there any books remaining that contained jokes.”

At this point the High Archon paused again, adjusting his position and gauging the attentiveness of his audience. Though the priests under the High Archon’s care had heard the tale many times before, they seemed enraptured anew by the Archon’s carefully and passionately orated rendition. Well adjusted, and sure of his power over his audience, the High Archon continued his reading in the book of Lazarus:

“God at last turned his face to his people, and from the high mountains he sent a prophet to the people, who bore in his heart the best and last joke. For God in his wisdom preserved only the finest of man’s jokings. And this prophet’s name was Mazaram, and from land to land he traveled, blessing mankind with his joke. And a great cry rose up from the peoples of all the lands oppressed by Orvan; the people took up arms against Orvan, and his might was overthrown. And that day hence, only one joke was known to mankind, and God demanded it be revered above all other forms of humor, and that no more jokes should go forth from the race of man, that being an abomination.”

The High Archon stopped reading and raised again his head. The audience of priests sat reverently, considering the tale of Orvan, and Mazaram and God’s wisdom. Now, as all gathered knew, it was time to speak the joke aloud, the joke that had survived Orvan’s wrath—the only joke left to mankind. The High Archon spoke again:

“Let me admonish you all on this solemn day to remember that any who find they cannot contain their laughter to the three-guffaw laugh—which is the only laugh acceptable to Him, God of the Joke, whom we shall ever revere—have condemned themselves to endless torment in the subterranean bowels of the Dark One’s Kingdom. And not only that, but they shall hereafter be as the dead unto the members of our order. But let that not distract you from the pondering of the joke’s humorous aspects.”

Much study had been devoted to the humorous aspects of the joke by the Order of the Joke, to which all present in the Temple of the Joke belonged. It was a joke written in an ancient, long dead tongue—English—and its principal referents (two animals) had been extinct for millennia. But the priests were well versed in this ancient and defunct tongue, and countless exegetical tomes had been composed to explain the biology and habitat of the creatures to which the joke referred.

The High Archon waited a moment, till the anticipation for the reading of the joke had reached it’s apogee, and only then began to speak it aloud:

“What do you get when you cross an Elephant with a Rhinoceros?”

A chorus of voices emanated from the gathered priests:

“I don’t know. What do you get?”

The High Archon spoke: “Elephino!”

Three staccato laughs burst out, in unison, from the priesthood. The ritual was ended.

Translation: Jenny From the Block

My friend John's posting of his excellent spoken-word version of the Britney Spears' single, Hit Me Baby, One More Time, reminded me of my own forays into the world of popular music. Being thus inspired, I went into my archives and retrieved my 'translation' (incomplete) of Jennifer Lopez's Jenny From The Block. My principal efforts at the time were concentrated upon the chorus, which I shall here present. So, without further ado, a line-by-line translation of the chorus of Jennifer Lopez's opus:

Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got
Be thou not deceived by the extravagant wealth I now possess, the troves of glittering gems--torn from the earth’s breast--that now adorn my gracile dactyls and dance in fiery chains about my fair throat;

I'm still, I'm still Jenny from the block
I remain, ever remain, the Jennifer who did dwell in miserable penury in the grey tenements, whose ruined faces bespoke an ill-futured omen.

Used to have a little, now I have a lot
A wretch, unused to any comforts, I waxed under the tower-shadowed welkin, and my eyes knew not the stars which coursed through the heavens; now, however, my wretchedness is ended and those portents of ill-omen seem a wan, nearly forgotten wraith under the single blazing eye of the noontide sun.

No matter where I go, I know where I came from...
Those hardships that I have endured, though, are not forgotten: those tribulations were a refiner’s fire, whose hellish blaze vaporizes all impurities, leaving behind no dross; yet, I am stamped by the metallurgist’s mark, and that stamp remains impressed in the unalloyed metal, a symbol that reminds of past trials...

Photolog: Hohengeroldseck

The ruined interior of Hohengeroldseck, a castle in the Schwarzwald or 'Black Forest', Germany.

Monstrous Morality:

The Sorcerer's Gift: Part 1

A sorcerer, with sneering eyes, bowed before the king The king sat in his cleverly wrought throne of state in a many-pillared hall, surrounded by the treasures and trophies of war gotten by his long dead kinsman, which he now possessed through the accident of his birth. He had summoned the foreign sorcerer to himself, alone, at night; for what he sought of the magician was a thing that the moralizing, petty hierophants of the temple had forbidden him and condemned.

Rising from his bow, the sorcerer intoned in tones mockingly sycophantic, “My king, my lord, wherefore do you call me into your presence? How may I, humble servant to his majesty, be of assistance to him who owns my very flesh?”

“You, sorcerer, you claim converse with beings of hidden planes? With demons?” proclaimed the king imperiously.

The wizard paused a moment before answering, discerning the king’s mood, and answered conservatively, “I have some small experience with these matters, yes, majesty.”

The king considered the sorcerer’s answer; he wondered at the true extant of this man’s powers. He had heard many things–lies, half-truths perhaps–concerning the sorcerer, his guessed at abilities. No petty haruspex, this one, thought the king, if the half of what I’ve heard is true. None knew whence land the wizard had come, though he spoke the common tongue of the land with a trace sibilance, which defied placement even by the king’s most well-traveled scholars. The king’s informer’s did not doubt one thing, however: eldritch powers were evidently this wizard’s service. While the king pondered these things, the sorcerer calmly, craftily waited for the king to reveal his intent, though he knew already the king’s desire, which he had guessed at and then by his subtle arts confirmed: the king sought immortality.

The king resumed the conversation, dissembling, “A friend, very close to me, suffers from a seemingly persistent ailment.”

“Ah, my. This is ill news, certainly. Can your physicians do naught for your friend?”

“They have found no thing which has proven effective in its treatment.”

“Misfortune, indeed. What are the symptoms? Doubtless my apothecary’s chest contains some unguent, some potion, some salve or balm that can effect relief—”

“No, friend wizard, my physicians tell me there is no medicine that can give him relief from it.”

“Ah, my. The blessings of the gods be on him, then.”

“Think you then, wizard, there is no hope? Is there no sorcery, no supplication to the powers over whom you have dominion...”

“None. Unless—“

“Yes?” The king leaned forward greedily.

“The price is high, esteemed majesty.”

“You know my desire?”

“I know it.” The wizard’s eyes gleamed with mirth.

“What do you ask? Name it, and it is yours to half my kingdom! More!”

“You honor me, majesty, but for my own part I shall take nothing.”

“What?” The king scoffed, suspecting chicanery.

“Service to so great a king is its own reward, lord.”

The king leaned back into his elaborately scrolled, gilded and fluted throne, gripped the hooded-heads of the gold-wrought, ruby-eyed serpents which served the great chair as armrests, and examined the sorcerer. He cannot be trusted, thought the king, but if he can truly grant me my desire—immortality, deathlessness—then any cost is worth the price! But he cannot be trusted.

The king spoke, “And the price, what is the price of which you spoke? If you will have nothing, what then is this price?”

“Nothing do I require, majesty, but they who agree to serve me demand their rightful fee.”

“Can you give any proof that you possess the powers which can grant my desire?”

“It would be a foolish man who didn’t ask for proof of the miraculous, lord of lords. The blade you wear, there, at your side, draw it and strike at me. Strike!”

The king waited but a moment, stood, and drew the ornate, gold and silver filigreed blade from the scabbard at his side. Though so richly adorned, the sword was no mere ornament, and its well polished blade, honed to razor’s edge, menacingly reflected the light of the flickering lamps, whose light banished the great hall’s darkness to its far corners. The king approached the sorcerer calmly, stepping from the dais upon which his throne towered. If he have not the power he claims, then no loss. Another charlatan plagues the world no more, thought the king. But if he have the power he claims... The thought was drowned in the king’s excitement at the prospect of immortality. The blade made its almost silent, scintillant arc, and the king felt and saw flesh being sundered from flesh and bone from bone. From shoulder to sternum was the wizard cloven, and from the yawning wound runnels of blood coursed the sorcerer’s length to the floor.

Ah well, another fool is fallen through his hubris. The king swallowed his disappointment and, leaving the blade in the still standing sorcerer, he turned away and prepared to retire to bed. He would send someone to clean up the mess tomorrow.

As he walked away, however, he began to hear strange hissings and susurrations. He turned back around to determine the source of the noise and saw there standing, seemingly unharmed, the sorcerer. Across the space that separated the two—sorcerer and king—emanating from the wizard’s hale frame, burst forth a hollow and cruel laughter—an unholy cachinnation that could only have had its genesis in a mind diseased or corrupted by staring too long into those abysses forbidden by those gods who demand worship of the light. When the wizard had ceased his diabolic laughter, and the echoes thereof had ceased to reverberate in the far corners of the cavernous hall, he spoke: “You see, great king, that death has no power over me. This is the gift that I offer you.”

Tagline:

When one man has nothing left to lose, he has everything to gain.

The Booze Hadn't Helped

Genesis of the Doodle: I was thinking about how depressing life can sometimes become, and how many self-medicate with drugs or alcohol. Sometimes, though, one feels worse after a binge.

The Fop's Sandwich

A fop dressed snappily in a white shirt and designer tie steps up to the counter at a chic delicatessen. "I'll have the roast beef sandwich, please." The cashier logs the order in the cash register, and the fop pays—credit, of course. He then takes his receipt, upon which is his order-number: 23.

He is a real up-and-comer—the fop who ordered a roast beef sandwich. He is the youngest V.P. of one of the largest tech firms on the east coast. He drives a nice car. He has a nice girlfriend. He's used to getting what he wants.

"Number 23!" The counter cashier calls out the fop's order.

The fop approaches the counter and looks at the tray upon which is resting a sandwich. He becomes confused. "This," he says, "is not what I ordered."

"Number 23?" The counter clerk asks helpfully, "The roast beef?"

"Yes, I ordered the roast beef. This is not the roast beef."

"But you ordered the roast beef?"

"Yes."

"Number 23?"

"Yes."

"That's your order there," the counter clerk points at what is quite apparently not a roast beef sandwich."

"But I ordered the roast beef!" The fop says, raising his voice in incipient exasperation.

"Yes. Order number 23."

“Well, are you going to fix it?”

“...Sorry sir?”

“My order? Am I going to get my roast beef sandwich?”

“Yes. Order number 23: roast beef. Right on the tray sir.”

The fop’s rage begins to thunder within because of the ostensible denseness of the counter clerk; but he has gone too far to maintain dignity and walk away. He would have his roast beef, regardless of the consequences!

“I would like to see your manger,” the fop says with no little vehemence.

“Of course, sir,” answers the clerk and disappears somewhere into the back of the establishment.

The clerk returns moments later, with an official-looking man in his forties. The man in his forties speaks, “Yes sir, what seems to be the trouble?”

“I ordered a roast beef sandwich—”

“Yes?” The manager interrupts.

“Yes, I ordered a roast beef sandwich, and this,” the fop points to the tray upon which the incorrect sandwich was sitting, “is not a roast beef sandwich.”

“No sir, it doesn’t appear to be. Let me speak to the chef, I’m sure he can clear up this small misunderstanding.” With this, the manager disappears into the kitchen. Awkwardly, the fop stands before the counter, as the counter clerk now continues to help other patrons of the delicatessen. After a brief wait the manager returns.

“Sir?”

“Yes”

“You ordered the roast beef. Order number 23?”

“Yes”

“Yes then. Order number 23 is right here,” the manger gestures to aforementioned tray.

“It’s not bloody roast beef though, is it?” exclaims the young man.

“No. Truly, it is not. It is, however, the correct order.”

“By Christ’s bleeding foreskin, can’t I have a bloody roast beef sandwich?”

“Would you perhaps like to speak to the chef?” asks the manager.

“Yes. Yes I bloody would!” the fop shouts, “I bloody would like to see the whore’s son who won’t make my thrice-damned roast beef.”

“No need to shout, sir. You wouldn’t wish to disturb the other customers.”

Now completely exasperated, the fop says nothing, but fumes inside as the manager leads him to the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen, the manager introduces the fop to the chef: “Our chef, Heinrich Teich.” He then leaves the two alone, the chef and the fop.

“Buddha’s balls, where’s my roast beef?” the fop cries out at the chef.

“That was the sandwich you wanted, yes?” Chef Teich calmly asks.

“Yes. The roast beef. The damned roast beef!”

“The sandwich you wanted, yes. The sandwich you needed, no.”

“What?” The fop becomes confused.

“Did you try the sandwich? The one I prepared? The one I prepared for you? Order number 23?”

“No...I...it’s not a bloody roast beef!”

“No, but I made no error. Order number 23 is correct.”

“But—“

“It is the sandwich you need. It is the sandwich which will enable you to fulfill your destiny. Eat of it, I think you shall find I am right.”

The situation has become so bizarre that the fop has to concede defeat. He leaves the kitchen, and starts out the door of the delicatessen.

“Wait!” the counter clerk calls to him, “Your sandwich.” The clerk has placed the sandwich in a to-go bag, and races to the fop and forces the bag containing the sandwich into the fop’s hand. Utterly confused, the fop leaves the delicatessen, to-go bag in hand, and returns to his office. He sits puzzled for awhile. Hours pass. It is time to leave the office, to go home. The bag with the sandwich stands atop the fop’s desk. The fop doesn’t leave, doesn’t go home. He waits; a contest of wills ensues: his will against the sandwich’s. Hours pass. He is conquered. He eats the sandwich. The chef was right. This is not the sandwich he wanted; no, it is far better than that. This is the sandwich he needed. The sandwich he needed to fulfill his destiny.

The Giant's Guest

The giant gobbled up the last bit of his pasty, looked expectantly at his guest, and declared, "Delicious. That was exquisite."

The giant's guest appeared less enthusiastic. He sat across from the giant upon a small traveling stool; the stool itself sat upon the massive wooden planks that formed the giant's table. The guest was—needless to say—not a giant. No, he was simply a man of normal human proportions.

The giant, noticing his guest’s lack of gustatory appraisal, queried, “Not to you liking, eh? I’ll never understand you humans. Can’t even enjoy the finest meat this world has to offer.”

The guest hesitated, then replied, “Well, it’s not so much that I didn’t enjoy the flavor, sir, but that meat, as you put it, was but a few hours ago my good friend.”

“Well,” said the giant, “I can’t say that I quite understand your argument.”

“Perhaps,” said the guest, “there is something of a cultural misunderstanding here.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, generally, in human society it is considered impolite to consume a guest. Even more impolite, would be to consume a guest who is also a friend.”

The giant thought about his guest’s words for a moment, then spoke: “I could understand the dilemma if one’s friend, be he guest or no, were ill-prepared. If perhaps he was served with a wine unsuited for his flavor or...”

“No it’s nothing like that. I mean, his company is what I will miss.”

“Oh, so you don’t think he would mind if he were undercooked (or worse) overcooked? If he were salted overmuch?”

“I suppose if he were here, and not on my plate, he might well be dissatisfied that he was prepared in a less-than-perfect manner, though that isn’t the point.”

“Oh.”

“Do you begin to see my meaning?”

“No, though this has been a very interesting and diversionary topic. I wish we could continue this conversation, but I think I’m going to have a nap, and you’re going back into the larder.”

In Brief: Say No to Supernatural Vigilanteism

We've all heard the stories. But, what gives them the right? Now many will ask, of whom do I speak? My answer: fairies, pixies, brownies, elves, and all the other yet nameless entities who dwell in the realms between our own mundane sphere, and a fantastic dimension beyond human comprehension or imagining. Now many will ask, what are you talking about? And for that question I too have an answer: What gives these creatures the right to pass judgments upon mankind? What right—if I may ask—do they have to inflict cruel and bizarre punishments on the race of man? No right at all, I would and will argue.

First, let me get something straight: I won't accuse their entire race of the crimes perpetrated by the few, but the evidence embodied by the preponderance of the relevant tales, informs us that these incidents are far from uncommon. Admittedly, most of these fey personages are content merely to plague mankind with inconveniences. They drink our milk; they tie our shoelaces together (which of course causes us to trip); they kidnap our children and replace them with changelings—nothing terribly serious. Some of the fair-folk even see fit to help mankind: cobbling a backlog of shoes before tight deadlines, being one example. All this, however, should not distract us from the matter at hand: some fairies are taking justice into their own hands, and we humans should not have to accept this. Supernatural vigilanteism cannot and should not be permitted to continue.

Now for those of my readers that think this is a non-issue, or an issue that doesn’t affect them, consider the following true story:

There was once a woodsman who one day was blithely practicing his trade with an axe upon a stout old oak, which had reached its venerable age but a few paces from a swift-flowing river. Now, the woodsman had made some progress towards felling the tree, when he raised his axe above his head and brought it down against the oak’s curving trunk. The blow was ill-aimed, and struck glancingly against the oak, causing the axe to recoil and fall from the woodsman’s hands and straight into the river.

Now the woodsman was greatly distressed, for this was his only axe, and he could ill afford another. But as the woodsman stood at the river’s bank, despairing of ever seeing again his trusted axe, from the water rose up a strange, androgynous being clothed in iridescent and ever-changing raiment. Gently lying across this strange being’s upturned and outstretched hands was an axe whose head was made of the purest yellow gold.

The woodsman stood dumbfounded before this apparition, and couldn’t move. The rainbow-cloaked being then spoke to the woodsman: “Woodsman, you have let your axe fall from your hands into the swift-flowing river.” Then, holding out the golden-headed axe toward the woodsman, he asked, “Is this the axe fallen from your grasp?” The woodsman, his fear for the alien being dissipating, answered: “No. This is not my axe.” With that, the strange being disappeared into the river.

But, even before the woodsman had time to blink, the strange creature reappeared, this time bearing in his hands an axe whose head was of the purest silver. The fairy, holding out the silver-headed axe toward the woodsman, asked: “Woodsman, is this the axe fallen from your grasp?” The woodsman answered: “No. This is not my axe.” With that, the strange being disappeared into the river.

But, even before the woodsman had time to blink, the strange creature reappeared. This time, in it’s hands was a simple iron-headed axe. The creature spoke again: “Woodsman, is this the axe fallen from your grasp?” And the woodsman examined the axe and answered: “Yes. This is my axe.” The fairy passed the iron-headed axe into the woodsman’s hands and then began again to speak: “For your honesty, Woodsman, you shall not only have back your own axe, but also the others which you refused. And the fairy disappeared into the water, returning again with the golden- and silver-headed axes, which he passed into the woodsman’s hands. “Use them well,” the fairy admonished, then disappeared again into the water.

When the woodsman had convinced himself that the fairy-creature would not return, he hurried back toward home, to share with his wife his good fortune. On the way home, he met on the road his neighbor, who, seeing the fine axes of gold and silver, stopped the woodsman and asked: “Whence, Neighbor, have you these fine axes of gold and silver?” And the woodsman recounted to his neighbor how he had come to possess them, and, upon finishing the tale, hurried home.

Now the woodsman’s neighbor, wishing also to share in the woodsman’s good fortune, took up his own axe and made for the river. Upon arriving at the spot described by the woodsman, the woodsman’s neighbor purposely tossed his axe into the river. As had happened before, a fairy appeared bearing a golden-headed axe. However, when the fairy asked the woodsman’s neighbor if the axe were his, the woodsman’s neighbor answered yes. And the fairy disappeared, returning with a silver-headed axe, and asked the woodsman’s neighbor if it were his. And the woodsman’s neighbor answered yes. And the fairy disappeared, returning with an iron-headed axe. And the fairy asked the woodsman’s neighbor if it were his, and the woodsman’s neighbor answered yes. And a dark look stole across the fairy’s countenance, and the fairy spoke: “As you have answered me dishonestly concerning the ownership of these axes, you shall have none of them!” With that, the fairy disappeared, and the woodsman’s neighbor cried out for the loss of his axe. And ever after the woodsman’s neighbor knew nothing but poverty and ill luck.

Tsk, tsk. This is supernatural vigilanteism at very close to its worst. (I could give a myriad more examples, but an exhaustive list would fill a building. But don’t take my word for it, just check out your local library). But truly, the idea is horrible to contemplate: that supernatural beings are wandering the earth (or swimming about in its rivers), just waiting for some poor soul to lose his axe, and then testing him with some sort of bizarre ritual—for some esoteric, self-gratifying purpose—all just to make some obscure point about human morality. Thanks, but no thanks. Morality isn’t so black and white, Fairy-Folk!

Now, some might make the argument that the woodsman’s neighbor deserved what he got. Some will say the woodsman’s neighbor, “...is greedy...” “...doesn’t listen well...” or “...seems stupid...” Well, what if I told you a little more about this unfortunate man? His eighteen children are starving. His wife is pregnant again (fertile, eh?). He just lost his job, and the idea of a quick couple of bucks (in the form of some gold and silver axes) seems like just the thing to alleviate his family’s suffering (just in time for Christmas, no less). He wouldn’t take hand-outs normally (especially ones from such dubious sources), but in desperate times, what’s a guy to do? Also, he suffers from hearing loss and dyslexia, which caused him to misunderstand the woodsman’s story. Who’s feeling guilty now? Is it you, the Reader?

I hope not, but still, the Fair Folk aren’t good judges of human morality. The Fair Folk are immortal; the Fair Folk don’t have cars; the Fair Folk have magical powers; the Fair Folk don’t have good senses of humor—and the list goes on. Until the elves and kobolds and pixies (and what have you) have walked a mile in a man’s shoes, I shall continue to declare him unfit to judge man. So, Elf-creature, will you accept my challenge? Can you be man enough to judge man?

Photolog: Candy King of Norway

This is a photograph that chronicles the famed meeting between myself and that self-styled tyrant, The Candy King of Norway. Note the red package in my hands. This package was a gift from The Candy King of Norway himself.

In Brief: Human-Mermaid Relationships

For some time now my credulity has been taxed by tales of happily-ever-after human-mermaid love stories. It seems these unions grow increasingly common as the years progress, though I find it difficult to believe that said unions could produce happy and healthy long-term relationships. I have three principle arguments against the success of these unions, which I will explain in more detail during the course of this brief essay.

The first difficulty that comes to my mind is the most obvious one: humans have legs and feet, mermaids have fins and flippers. Now—as is well established by popular cinema and various other media—the mermaid is able to transform her fish-like tail into human legs and feet, that she may ambulate more easily on terra firma. The danger, however, is that any exposure to water causes her fish-like appendages to reappear (See Splash!; Aquamarine). What does this mean to someone who wishes to spend time with their mermaid life-mate in the public forum? Well, it means that the mermaid is unable to bathe properly while in possession of human appendages, i.e. the feet and legs. Bathing properly is a hallmark of modern, public etiquette that cannot be easily ignored. One who is dating a mermaid should be prepared to be denied entrance to the more trendy restaurants and businesses while in her company and that of her loathsome stink. Now, one might think that a little body odor could be born for the sake of love. And perhaps it could be, if only this stink were merely the stink common to any un-bathed human! Simple body odor it is not. This is the smell of the fish market; of the fisherman’s garb; of the open can of tuna—left out a few days. Those fishy smells would be sufficiently offensive in their own right, but they combine with the mermaid’s more common human body odor (sweat, etc.), producing a smell that will necessitate many passers-by to vent their stomachs into any convenient receptacle.

My second difficulty in believing that humans could have a successful relationship with a mermaid, concerns itself with the difference between their life- and sexual-cycles. As has been well established in various highly respected scholarly journals, the mermaid is an anadromous creature (See Cryptozoological Quarterly v.24; and Merpersons: Their Kith and Kin) . That is to say, that the mermaid is born in small freshwater streams, then journeys to the ocean—where she matures—and then must make the arduous journey back again to the streams where she was born in order to spawn. After spawning, the mermaid dies, and the process begins anew. Now, if any human and mermaid unluckily fall in love, several things must logically occur. If the human and mermaid meet during her maturation process, while she is in the ocean, one need expect this be a celibate relationship. For many this extreme chastity will pose an almost insurmountable challenge to a successful intimate relationship. If one successfully navigates this first hurdle in the relationship, then there is the difficult upstream-swim to negotiate. Most humans are ill equipped to swim thousands of miles upstream, facing obstacles like overzealous fisherman and man-made dams. Then comes the spawning. Spawning is not a particularly satisfying sexual experience for the average human (See Cosmopolitan; Esquire). Upon reaching the stream where she was spawned, the mermaid expunges from her body thousands of unfertilized eggs. She then expects her lover to fertilize them with his sperm. This experience is little better than masturbation for the human. The two entities never touch during the spawning. After the spawning, the mermaid dies. In human terms, each human-mermaid love story will end in tragedy: the death of someone beloved. (The mermaid of course realizes this is just the natural way of things).

Now, if the stink and celibacy and dissatisfying sexual relationship weren’t enough, consider that mermaids are protected in the U.S. by the Endangered Species Act of 1973 (and are on many of the international endangered species lists). Humans and mermaids cannot successfully produce viable offspring—the progeny of their unions are universally sterile. When one seduces a mermaid, and thereby prevent a mermaid from reproducing with one of her own species, you are effectively reducing the chance of survival for one of this world’s rarest creatures.

The mermaid is a special creature, but not one compatible with mankind. Their stink is unbearable, their sex bizarre and dissatisfying, and their rarity a burden. If any man and mermaid can surmount these obstacles, traverse these abysses, then I wish them all the best. I doubt, however, that it can be done.

Photolog

("Chain Bridge" in Budapest, with Buda Castle in the Background)

Peace!

It behooves me inform my readers, who in the past relied on me to maintain adamant opinions opposing the popularity of various snack foods, that I am no longer in enmity with the brownie. Recently, in snack-desperation, I consumed and rather enjoyed this popular treat.

Fear not, however, dear readers, that I have changed my opinion of the S'more. It is still unpleasant to make (particularly when camping) and not good enough to justify the effort.

The Second Shame

Christian eschatology describes the day of judgment, the day whereon God will separate the wheat from the chaff, and the sheep from the goats, and the chaff from the sheep, and the sheep from the wheat, and the goats from the wheat, and the chaff from the goats. Presumably, God will also separate things not at all related to things of the agricultural and pastoral realms, things such as sinners and saints.

Anyway, this Christian God will stand before all mankind and read forth each person's sins from the book of life, and we shall be naked and helpless before him and he will severely chasten us sinners. To many this idea is horrifying, and rightly so. The sum of one's villainy laid plain before a pure and ruthless conscience, all ones crimes revealed in the most exacting and unremembered detail—such a thorough penetration of one's inner character could easily turn the most courageous soul into the most wanton of cravens. But on this day of judgment I shall have no fear of that penetrating conscience, for I have experienced judgment on a scale that no deity has a hope of besting. Some of my closer intimates may already have heard some abridged form of the tale I am about to relate, but I hope now to give a fuller account to both them and my loyal body of readers.

Now, I am a man who is ruled by his passions. By passions I of course refer to intense and peremptory cravings for various snack foods. As it happened, one winter's eve, I found myself enjoying some form of enlightening entertainment (perhaps some poetry; an opera; a Russian novel of social criticism) when into my mind overpowering thoughts of silk and chocolate, grace and vanilla, seized my imagination. I struggled in vain against this siren song, but I was drawn to the damning rocks where the Lorelei sang, weaving her ensnaring net about my senses.

A man possessed, I left my home for a local food merchant, ill-attired for the biting winter’s cold—I hadn’t the time nor thought nor will for anything but my heart’s desire. I sped through a chill land, hoary-white with laden snow; but my mind was a furnace, a greedy, insatiable fire that no cold could touch nor frost affect.

I arrived. I sought. I found. With pudding-snacks in hand—the big pack of them, the pack with both vanilla and chocolate—I proceeded to the checkout lane, little intimating the cruel and terrifying fate I would soon be forced to confront.

* * *

The cashier stood at her post. It took her but an instant to fathom the depths of my soul. With a searing intensity she penetrated my mind with her baleful stare. In my soul’s inmost recesses she saw my fate. She saw me lying, nude, upon the floor in some dingy apartment. Strewn about me lay the evidence of my debauched excesses: emptied, licked-out pudding cups. In her vision she sees my belly: grossly protuberant and jiggly with yet undigested pudding. (It will take days for my overtaxed digestive tract to manage this unholy burden). She hears my groans of bloated pain. Her mind’s eye recoils in horror.

Now this alone, some would say, is cruel enough. But she didn’t stop there, no, to her it was not sufficient merely to see my fate; no—she had to judge me for it, to condemn me, to damn me. Neither pity or mercy mitigated the sentence she summarily passed upon me. And like a mace’s blow—launched by the powerful, war-hardened arm of some feudal knight into a peasant’s yielding skull—her judgment struck me full across the face, crushing my deepest self. I reeled and gasped at this horrific onslaught of mental tyranny. “Have pity on me, wretch that I am!” I cried out. “Did not even God grant Cain mercy, him who slew his brother and the Lord’s beloved?” But none of my entreaties or exculpations could revoke her irremeable sentence.

So, I paid for the pudding-treats, left the store, and headed home, FEARING NO MORE THE JUDGMENT OF GOD. For, on that day, I had known the judgment of the grocery clerk.

The Hated Creature

He examined the creature standing before him, and attempted to conceal his revulsion for it with a smile. Ostensibly of the observer’s same species, homo sapiens sapiens, this pathetic animal hardly seemed deserving of this elite categorization. It seemed to him that its face betrayed the insipid mind of an imbecile. Squat, and ugly it smiled stupidly at him and extended its hand in friendship. The hand, and the arm to which it belonged was scab-covered, flabby, and clumsy. He extended tentatively his own hand to politely return the greeting, and when his hand touched that of the creature, which was moist and clammy, a involuntary shudder coursed through his body. He didn’t stop smiling.

* * *

She saw the brief glimmer of disgust in the man’s face before he replaced it with a disingenuous smile. At least he did that much—many whom she met made no attempt at hiding their revulsion at what she knew was a less than attractive mortal frame. Her loathsome features were doubtless the product of some freakish, ill-chanced combination of her parents genetic material, that, or the earthly trial of some malevolent deity. She attempted to smile back at the man, and reached her hand out to offer a friendly handshake. She knew that her smile did not at all improve her appearance, as it was an expression that rarely graced her countenance and one that—in combination with her protruding brow—gave her the appearance of a simpleton. Their hands touched, and she felt waves of disgust emanate from this undesired contact. He didn’t stop smiling.

Two Word Film Review: The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor

Vomiting Yak.

Dear Diary: 10.08.2008

Dear Diary,

Today, at work, there were many customers. They came like a terrible Hunnish horde, sweeping toward the check-stands with overladen carts of sundry goods, which caused horribly long lines to form, like some hideous serpent. And the labor of the cashiers was endless and without surcease. Now, this may shock the more sensitive of my readers, because today was Sunday. Yes Sunday, the Sabbath Day, the day upon which we emulate the creator of the universe and take a pause from our labors. Why should this shock you? Well, as it has been said and widely believed, the United States of America is a Christian Nation. How shall we interpret the fact that today, Sunday, the Sabbath, was as busy as it was? There's is only one way to interpret this: We are not a Christian Nation. This is merely a façade. Secretly for decades those of alien faiths have been infiltrating our society. Today's shoppers represented the new and terrifying population of America: an American population replete with Atheists, Jews, Heathens, Buddhists, Hindus and various other non-Christian denominations. Shame on you America. (Mostly of course, I just think it would be nice if, regardless of religious affiliation (or lack thereof), a single day of the week could be reserved for spending time with family, or quiet contemplation, or whatever. Let's hear it for keeping the Sabbath Day holy, yeah!).

Well, Till Later
Volker The Fiddler.

No 3rd Option?

Genesis of the Doodle: Must man choose to be only diabolically maleficent or angelically beneficent?

Exodus of the Snails:

Genesis of the Doodle: Snails are a very calming thing to draw. The tempest of my soul is easily soothed after a few dozen snails hit the page. These snails, large and small, are on a journey away from those things which had formerly plagued them. Luckily, snails aren't into burdensome possessions; home is wherever your back is. What a life! (Also, looks like a couple of nautili sneaked into the picture. Naughty nautili)!

The Headsman

The Headsman (who wore the black, anonymizing hood of his trade) raised his axe and then brought it down with a swift arcing motion upon the neck of a prostrate human figure, who had been found guilty under the laws of the land. The sharpened blade sundered flesh and bone. It was a clean cut—professional; the severed head fell into a waiting basket with a satisfying 'plop'. The crowd gathered before The Headsman’s raised platform squealed with delight. "Next!" The Headsman cried.

It was going to be a long day. That was just number four. Forty-seven beheadings today. This most recent political upheaval was taxing his energies. Two or three a day was the ‘norm’. The State had even had to have some more guys brought in from out of town to keep up with the demand. It was good work though: fairly well paid, full benefits.

Slice. Plop. “Next!”

Number five. Just as clean as number four. He really enjoyed his work; he never took it home with him like some guy would, who pulled 60 hours a week at an office, only to pull another 30 or so at a home. Nope. His free time was his own.

Slice. Plop. “Next!”

That one was pretty clean too. Yeah, his free time was his own. He had a nice record player and a decent sound-system. A considerable jazz collection. Jazz really helped him relax after a hard day’s work. That and his cats, Mopsy and Topsy. Cute little things. Found them in a gutter, abandoned by their mother. Raised them.

Slice.

Not so clean. Bit of neck still whole. Head hanging, as if by a thread. Dangling there, kind of funny-looking. Another stroke’ll fix it.

Slice. Plop. “Next!”

It was getting close to break time. Union rules. Break every ten heads removed. He probably could have done 15-20 without stopping but, hey, why argue? Job security was nice. Always someone who needed to have him give their political enemy a close shave. Ha! Gallows humor. Seriously though, a lot of people thought his job was easy. It wasn’t; to get good required a lot of practice, a lot of time honing one’s skills. Ha! More gallows humor.

Slice. Plop. “Next!”

Another clean one. But the audience was getting bored. That was another of his skills. Keeping the audience interested. There was a picture hanging in his apartment. It showed The Headsman when he was younger, with a crowd of other headsmen all wearing their ceremonial, face-obscuring hoods; it was a graduation photo: class of '68. ‘Cleaver College’ they called it. Learned all about crowd control, keeping them entertained.

Slice. The blade nicked open an artery. Blood fountained onto the crowd as the accused struggled against his bonds, in a vain attempt to stop the flow of his life force as it spilled onto the revitalized crowd. "Next!"

That was a good one. He had almost total control of the axe, and knew how to give the audience a show. One more till break!

Slice. Plop.

Break time! Yes!

Customer+Bird+Mouse:

Genesis of the Doodle: I was manning the U-Scan (Self-Checkout) at my place of employ, when a man who possessed one of the most prodigious noses I had ever seen approached to use the machine. I quickly sketched him, beginning with his magnificent 'sniffer'. Later, I added the bird and mouse as his sidekicks, who also serve as a balance to what would have been a lot of white space. It might be of interest to some, that the bird began as another sketch of another customer (see beak) but I didn't like how it was looking, so I changed it into a bird.

The King Sits at Board with a Skeletal Companion:

Genesis of the Doodle: I had recently seen Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal and images of medieval nobility and Death were figuring prominently in my mind at the time. The king in the image may give the appearance of being mildly insane; this is intentional. Anyone who sees death while trying to consume the fleshy leg of some dead creature is likely to be somewhat insane. In this image, the skeleton---a personification of death and mortality---points either an accusing or mocking finger at the king (the latter being my favored interpretation). The evenhandedness of death makes it a favorite theme of mine to revisit, and this quality is well exemplified in the the following quote: "Whether a king, or a little street sweeper, sooner or later you dance with the reaper." —Death, Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey

History of Kang: Excerpt

Now, many who knew me in the past may recall my infatuation with series of feature-length, live-action films which starred Corbin Allred is the titular character: Josh Kirby...Time Warrior! What some of you may not know, is that I began a history of one of the ancillary characters in the series, in order to flesh out some of the less salient points of the plot. So, without further ado, The History of Kang:

In the latter part of the 21^st century, the extraterrestrial peregrinations of the human race led at last to a frozen, desert planet, whose hardy native population proved to the greedy race of man to be an easily subdued, obsequious people. And so—as history moved like a wheel in its rutted track—mankind cast this gentle folk into chains, yoked his neck, and traded his flesh across the star-strewn galaxy.

Though the trials of this ultra-telluric people, forced into thralldom, were great throughout the universe, nowhere were they greater, however, than on the planet of their origin, Tantaresh. After the initial overtures of peace and mutual benefit were dissemblingly afforded, the race of man began the systematic enslavement of the Annuz-lish, the name by which the autochthonous population of Tantaresh even yet call themselves.[1] Soon after invading Tantaresh, the new human masters of the Annuz-lish began to destroy the cultural institutions of the Annuz-lish; first, banning among them the use of their language, then the practice of their religions. These were to be replaced by terrestrial counterparts, principally, in the case of language, with English (though other tongues also achieved some diffusion), and, in the case of religion, with various denominations of the Christian faith. Today scant Tantarean linguistic monuments persist which have survived this cultural holocaust, and even more rare are the remains of their indigenous religious heritage.[2] [3]

The principal interest of mankind in the planet of Tantaresh, besides its cheap–if unwilling–labor, was in the vast mineral wealth which lay unexploited beneath its alien, forbidding landscape. And so man forced the Annuz-lish into the infernal regions of their own planet, where they were born and died; generation followed generation, and they tasted blood and dirt in unfathomable darkness, and the memory of light, of the brilliant sun became to them legendary. With whips at their backs, the Annuz-lish plundered their world of its riches–oil, gold, platinum, diamonds, ore.

It was into these darkling depths that An’dar Kang, future savior of the Annuz-lish, was born. Like many saviors, much concerning An’dar Kang’s early life is likely wholly apocryphal. It was said he was born with a mark, a livid scar in the shape of a blazing sun on his rump; an adumbration of his future greatness. It is told that he tamed wild beasts with a commanding gesture. Other sources tell that, in a contest between man and machine, he beat a steam-powered hammering device. Many of the old growth sinfructu-orchards which today cover Tantaresh are said to have been planted by An’dar Kang himself, after he felled with prodigious blows of his axe the poison-emitting Ivr-trees, which trees are still common in Tantaresh’s remoter regions. Various geological phenomena (canyons, deserts, waterfalls, etc.) have been attributed to his supposed miraculous, heroic abilities. The wildest tales even claim that Kang was born of a virgin, a claim which, during his life, Kang vehemently denied.

What is more definitely known, through An’dar Kang’s own writing, and that of his more sober contemporaries, is that An’dar Kang was the product of the union between an Annuz-lish woman, Teng Mae Ka, and a human father, Edvard Kang, who had exercised his drunken lusts on what he considered to be his rightful property.[4] [5] His early experiences with his father would have a profound impact on Kang’s later philosophies, and would greatly influenced the matriarchal society which Kang would eventually implement among the people of the Annuz-lish.

---

[1] The linguistic origins of the term Annuz-lish are lost to history, but by the best reconstructive efforts the term seems to mean ‘Children of Nnuz’, Nnuz being the ancient tutelary deity of Tantarean people.

[2] The most famous of these linguistic monuments is the challenging cry, Kal’ung ãng starr, the speaking of which phrase initiates a complex ritual combat through which a new tribal leader is chosen by the combat’s outcome.

[3] E.L. Biedermeier in his Urahnenkulte des urtümlichen Annuzlischenfolkes explores the religiosity of the pre-conquest Annuz-lish, and argues that a form of ancestor worship or veneration existed as the principle means of religious expression before the coming of their human oppressors. In later times, Christianity was, of course, displaced by the veneration of An’dar Kang.

[4] Teng Mae Ka developed early on significant cultic influence, though her following never surpassed that of her progeny, the prophet, An’dar Kang.

[5] Human-Annuz-lish genetic compatibilities have been well documented in the journal Human-Annuz-lish Genetic Compatibilities: A Study In Three Parts, edited by the late Dr. Ferian Jules.

Dear Diary: 03.08.2008

Today, before I got in my car to go home for my lunch-break, I noticed, sitting enchantingly on my car's antenna, a dragonfly. It was golden-bellied and red-backed, and its wings sparkled iridescently in the bright sun. We didn't speak to one another, but merely eyed one other with no little curiosity. This went on for several seconds. The dragonfly seemed quite comfortable on my car's antenna, but, having other things I needed to do, I could not allow the creature its perch for too much longer. So, we said our silent goodbyes, I got in my car, and I drove away. I didn't see the little insect when I arrived home, so presumably it didn't come along for the ride. I wonder if the dragonfly had any other plans, or if, perhaps, it intended to just loiter for awhile, enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon.

'To The Fairest'

Your beauty is the gently shaded spring
Whose cool, clear waters I drink—
Nigh to bursting—
And yet would I drink more.

The Spider-Gram

I recently invented a novel message delivery service, which will provide its users with a unique opportunity to impress their recipients with caring messages. My idea is the "Spider-Gram". The Spider-Gram process is simple, effective, and will have your recipient saying "wow". The following image describes the process in detail. Interested investors should feel free to contact me.