Violently Executed Fiction

13 Moons: #7

Wed, 21 Jun 2006 15:34:44 GMT

13 Moons: #7

There are times the weight gets too heavy, when it's more than I can bear. Times when I cannot handle the distance between my self and the rest of the world.

I've tried, lord knows I've tried, to be shed of this.

Some days, it's a burden I can carry with no problem. Other days, weeks, months, years even getting out of bed in the morning is a struggle.

Early on, when I woke up in that trench in France, I tried to kill myself. I dove into clouds of mustard gas, stood in front of enemy machine gun emplacements, ran towards and not away from the doppler-shifted whistle of incoming artillery. I always survived. The men in my unit feared me - those with me tended to die, but I was always lucky, escaping without a scratch.

The first time I did it myself, I placed a revolver in my mouth and pulled the trigger. The round blew open the back of my head, splattering the trench behind me with brains and blood. I went black, then woke up hours later, wounds healed and ravenous. I jumped in front of a moving train and came to at the morgue. I drank poison and simply vomited blood for the rest of the afternoon.

The silver letter opener was the most painful - I've still got a scar from that over my heart - but since then, the Wolf won't let me handle silver.

Tonight, I'm sitting here writing a letter, heavy chains wrapped around my body, hoping they'll hold again, hoping I won't wake up tomorrow morning covered in blood, or worse, with a full stomach. Tomorrow I'll mail this letter to you, O random stranger. I don't know why I wrote down your address, why I feel compelled to send you these letters, but I did, I do and I'll continue to do so.

Some people might envy me - I'm in good health, if you don't count my occasional shifts into a man-eating wolf. I'm over a century old and look as young as I did the day I was bitten. I don't care - it doesn't matter to me how much worse other people have it, what matters to me is how painful it is for me.

And, like I said, some days, it's not so bad. Tonight, though, tonight I feel every ounce of the weight of the last ninety years.

13 Moons: #6

Fri, 24 Mar 2006 16:57:27 GMT

June 24, 2005

Lockup in rural Alabama isn't the most fun I've ever had. It's my own fault I'm here - I was running late thanks to some car trouble, and wound up having to just pull over, lock the car and head for the woods. I put my clothes under a rock in the culvert for safekeeping and changed. Come the next morning, I washed the deer blood off my face and hands then went to get my clothes.

They weren't there - or rather, they were, but torn and fouled. Coyotes. My wallet was gone. The underwear weren't too bad, so I washed them off and put them on. The keys weren't under the rock, nor were they under the front tire, where I've left them before.

I saw them, then. Sitting in the ignition. Mocking me.

The sun was getting up in the sky - traffic was going to pick up soon, so I picked up a rock and smashed the window. Just as I reached in to unlock the door, I heard the whoop of a siren.

The deputy listened to my explanation, then put me in the cruiser. "I reckon it might be your car, sir, but you still ain't explained why you're standin' out here in your underpants."

Blood tests, breathalyzer, pissing in a cup.

Whee.

A call to the rental agency and a check of my trunk got my ID established - thankfully, I'd secured some extra ID. The tests came back negative, of course. Still, I got to spend several hours in a cramped county jail wearing an orange jumpsuit and sitting next to a smelly old drunk. When I puked up the deer meat, the drunk freaked out, but I managed to flush the toilet and rinse my mouth before the deputy came back to see what the fuss was about. Explaining half-digested raw meat and copious amounts of blood wouldn't have made things any easier.

A few delays getting the car out of the impound lot, but a repair shop in town was able to replace the window. I'll get my credit cards replaced when I get out of this state.

13 Moons: #5

Tue, 31 Jan 2006 17:33:06 GMT

May 23, 2005

Dawson City, Yukon Territory, Canada

Fifty-odd years ago, this was the capital of the Yukon. The road to Alaska had just opened when I got in to town. The Klondike gold rush was long over, and Dawson City was inching towards respectable.

I stopped in Dawson long enough to buy some supplies, then headed downriver. I wanted to get away from people, get to a place I could let the wolf out and not worry about killing anyone. It took me weeks to get a small hut built. Nothing fancy – one room, one door, one window. No stove, just a stone firepit and a small sleeping platform.

I lived there for a couple of years, the wolf hunted fur animals and I traded skins at the Trondëk Hwech'in reservation downstream. The reservation was a depressing place – rampant alcoholism and grinding poverty were the least of its worries – but Charlie Tetlichi made up for it. He was old, so old he didn’t know when he was born. He’d made a small living during the gold rush hunting for the miners, and had saved enough money that he was able to afford a little better than the rest of the village.

Age had made him tiny, skin like parchment stretched over knobby bones, black eyes gleaming from his withered face. Charlie traded the skins I brought him for food and clothes, some of which I took back to my cabin, some of which he had me leave outside houses in the dead of night. Everyone knew Charlie was the source of the gifts, but it was understood that to publicly acknowledge them would bring shame on the giver and the recipient. When men from the government came to the village, it was Charlie that talked to them.

From the start, he knew what I was. He made me promise to stay away from the village during the week of the full moon, but otherwise he and the others welcomed me. I brought in food they couldn't get otherwise, brought them pelts they could trade for more luxuries - books, fabric and thread, bullets for the few rifles in the village. For my end of the bargain, I got comfort, warm human voices and a friend.

One day, when I knocked at his door, Charlie didn't answer. I saw him sitting at his table, not moving, so I broke the door open. He was alive, paralyzed - he'd had a stroke. I carried him to his bed, cleaned the caked shit off of him and tucked him in, dribbled some water in his mouth. I sent one of the young men to get the government doctor, a day's hike away. I stayed by his side, feeding him, talking to him. His eyes were still alive, black and deep, frightened. He knew what was going on, but he couldn't talk or move at all.

When the doctor arrived, he walked into the room, listened to Charlie's heart and gave his diagnosis, speaking to me as if Charlie was already dead. "He's had a stroke, and he won't recover. I can get him to a provincial hospital he might linger on a while longer there. He's as good as dead now, his brain's probably already gone. Really, it's a miracle he lived as long as he did."

I thanked the doctor and walked him out the door, talked to him before he drove away in his truck. "We'll make a decision and let you know."

When I came back in, I looked at Charlie. "Well, old man? Do you want to stay here?" He blinked his eyes rapidly at me. "Hold on - one blink for yes, two for no. Do you want to go to the hospital in Dawson?"

blink-blink

"Do you want to stay here?"

blink-blink

"What do you want, then?"

blink-blink

"No? I don't understand - where do you want to go?"

blink-blink

"You've got to live somewhere! I can stay and help, but-"

blink-blink

"Do you want... do you want to die?"

blink

"I can't do that."

blink

"No, I can't! I can't do that!"

blink

All night long I sat with Charlie, talking, telling him stories about the world I'd seen - the trenches of The Somme, Paris, London, Poland, San Francisco, the Alps, the jungles of Africa. His face never lost its rubbery slackness, the drool still trickled out the corner of his mouth, but his eyes smiled. All night long I talked, and when the sun came up, my voice hoarse, I asked him. "Are you sure about this?"

blink

"I'll miss you, old man."

blink

He closed his eyes then, and I pulled out the syringe I'd got from the doctor. It took some doing, but I got it into the vein on his arm, drove the plunger home. I like to think the morphine took him back to his childhood, when his people owned the forests and there were no whites and no government men around. I held his hand until he stopped breathing and grew cold, then walked out the door. No one in the village would meet my eyes, and I knew I wouldn't get the same welcome there any more.

When I got back to my cabin, I got good and drunk and didn't come outside for a week. Three months later, a mining concern bought up the land I was on and I was out of there.

Coming back now, I can tell that nothing's changed - not the important stuff. The river's more polluted, the First Nations are still treated like shit, the wild places get a little smaller each year. There's nothing here for me now, nothing worth staying for. I drive out of town to a secluded area, take off my clothes and shift, letting the wolf take over again. Tomorrow I'll move on, probably south, try to figure out where this trip is taking me.

13 Moons: #4

Wed, 25 Jan 2006 14:40:34 GMT

April 24, 2005

Warszawa, Poland

I stopped in the Okopowa Street cemetery today. Yitzchak Korczak is buried here, one corpse among many in the mass graves of ghetto fighters. He died, his sister told me, charging a squad of Wermacht, his cleaver upraised. A little man, just over five feet tall, his back bent from a childhood accident. He'd studied to become a Rabbi, but gave up and apprenticed himself to a butcher. I was shivering in an alley, hiding in a pile of rubbish, red with blood - my own and others'. He took me in, fed me, clothed me. I spent several months with him, locked in his freezer on the full moon, sweeping his shop and serving as a shabbas goy on Saturdays.

I was giving the wolf a little more freedom in those days, attacking the gangs of thugs that preyed upon the Jews in the ghetto when I could control it, locking myself up securely when I couldn’t. Yitzchak knew what I was, but he ignored the wolf and spoke to the man. "You try to be good, yes? That's more important than you think." Over coffee, we'd argue - was man inherently sinful, or was sin a false construct? What was the source of evil? Was I evil, or was it the wolf, or both, or neither? We'd swap sides, never reaching conclusions, often ending up laughing at each other's earnest defense of the position they'd recently attacked. The coffee was black and sweet – “dark as the Devil’s heart and sweet as a stolen kiss”, Yitzchak would say. 60 years on, I still order my coffee that way.

Yitzchak never married and doted upon his neices and nephews. He presented them with candy, with coins pulled from behind their ears, with jokes and silly rhymes.

When the Germans came in to the ghetto, Yitzchak was one of the leaders of the resistance. I was long-gone, had wandered on south. When the letters stopped, when I read of the German and Soviet invasion of Poland, I worried, but not too much - with the Poles busy fighting two invaders, I thought, the Jews might actually get a break. I hadn't paid much attention to the posturings of that foolish man in Germany, not even when Austria and then Czechoslovakia fell without a fight. I was busy, after all. I was trying to find a cure, trying to stop the monster inside me.

I was blind to the greater evil.

After the war, I made my way back to Warsaw. Yitzchak's sister was aged, bone-thin. She alone of her family had survived. Her children, her parents, her cousins, her brothers - all had gone into the ovens. The blue numbers on her arm were her only link with them now - her home, her history had been wiped out by first the Germans, then the Polish collaborators and finally by the Soviets. "Yitzchak said many times he was glad you were gone, that he hoped you were safe, Joseph. He tried to protect us, hiding the children in his freezer when they came to take them." She recited the names of the dead, her voice calm and even as I sobbed, mourning the loss of my friend, and of her family, and mourning that I was nowhere near to help them when they needed me. I never saw her again - a neighbor told me later she went to Israel, but I could not track her down there. I sensed that she wanted it that way, that I was one more reminder of a world that failed her and her people in their time of need.

Tonight, in the graveyard, I can see toppled memorials covered with swastikas and antisemitic slogans. The sun is setting and I hear voices, a gang of skinheads are cavorting through the graveyard near me, drunk on cheap vodka and spoiling for trouble. To them, the thin man kneeling by a grave is an easy target, another Jew they can push around, use as a target for the frustrations of their useless, wasted lives. I don't even try to get up, don't try to run for the cement cell I've rented. I welcome the change this time, savoring the pain and as my consciousness slips beneath that of the wolf, I drink in the horror on their faces as they realize their easy meat is going to eat them instead.

April 25, 2005

I washed in the Wista river, beneath one of the docks. A pair of overalls stolen off a line of washing covered me. It felt good to let the wolf out last night. I shouldn't have, I'll be sick later, but right then, and right now, I'm glad I did it. Yitzchak wouldn't have approved - he'd have pointed out that I was punishing children for the sins of their grandparents, "So, what, I should find the child today descended from the procurator that burned the temple in Jerusalem, and I should cut his throat? Who would that benefit?" Yitzchak is dead, though. He died riddled with bullets, his skull smashed by a rifle butt and his beloved nieces and nephews starved and gassed and burned in an oven. I'm alive and alone, and even though I know that killing a gang of drunk skinheads won't bring back my friend, I can't feel guilty about it. Not today, not here.

13 Moons: #3

Tue, 24 Jan 2006 14:10:27 GMT

March 25, 2005

Gévaudan, France

They still talk about it here. Children are warned if they misbehave, "La bête vous mangera vers le haut, enfant !" The Beast will eat you up, child! My kind still come here, but we do not hunt. Some of the caves have shelters - for some reason, we like to be near here, near where our ancestor, the Beast of Gévaudan, killed so many. The locals watch us, though. THere is an uneasy truce - as long as we do not hunt, they leave us be.

In my wanderings, I've tried to make sense of what I am, what I've become, what I should be. If I'm careful, I could live another hundred years or so. Coming here, to the home of the most famous of my kind, brings memories bubbling to the surface.

World War II in the hills of Serbia, Tito's partisans throwing Nazi collaborators into my cage when the moon was full, placing bets on how long each would last, their coarse peasant accents harsh on my ears. Working my hand out of my shackles, breaking two fingers to do it but getting at the latch for the cage and running through the camp, worrying at their throats, their blood gushing into my muzzle. Their bullets ripping into my skin, the smell of freedom overpowering even the hunger and the pain, I left them bleeding and screaming for their mothers as I ran into the hills.

Slick, coppery and oh so sweet the taste of the blood to the wolf, the wild lesser brothers smelling it and surrounding me half snarling at the smell of men and half cringing beneath the power the glory of my breed wolf's instincts mixed with the savagery of the man to make something more, something less I cannot stop thinking about the blood and the taste of fear in the flesh and I am doubled over and sick with the memories but also painfully erect, my cock throbbing at the taste of fear in my memory and I cannot stand it

It's bad this month, I can tell it's going to be bad. At dinner, I didn't even eat the beef - it was too rare, and I didn't trust myself to eat it without tearing at it and snarling.

I lock the door to the shelter then close the manacles around my wrist, double-checking to make sure they fit.

March 26, 2005

When the moon shines through the bars, I feel the change begin, as always the wash of different perceptions and the mind of the wolf coming in waves, overwhelming me. The pain as my bones and joints reshape themselves, the anticipation of the hunt and the shock and panic of the beast as it realizes it is trapped, battering against the bars and tearing at the chains.

Waking up in a cell, shackled to a massive bolt in the floor, it's not the best way greet the morning. It's better than waking up covered in blood in an alley, though, or with a mouthful of entrails. I dry heave a few times, then punch in the combination to drop the key into the cell.

The shelter keeper, an old man with a cast in his eye, comes to unlock the cell door. He says nothing, points to my clothes - washed and neatly folded - in the corner. I can smell breakfast in the next room. He and his wife have been here for decades. No one knows who pays him, and the shelter always has the most up-to-date, reliable technology. I dress, eat in silence.

Outside, it's a bright day - that special color of light you see only in the south of France. Still chilly, but the sun is warming me up as I walk.

I don't know what possessed me to take this trip, to wander at this point in my life. I've had this affliction for almost a century and there's no cure short of death. For a time, I reveled in it. Later, I fled from it, lived for years in the Yukon, running wild at night, surrendering entirely to the wolf. I've been probed, analyzed, tested, conditioned and hypnotized. I've tried Scientology, EST, ECT, exorcism, high colonics and baptism. The wolf is always with me, hungry and tearing at the walls I put around it.

Where to next, I don't know.

13 Moons: #2

Fri, 20 Jan 2006 17:43:17 GMT

February 24, 2005

There's a safe house in Baghdad. Quite a few of us gravitate to places like this, where it's easier to disguise our predations. Farouk used to be in the Mukhabarat - Saddam found that having staff that could eat their victims came in handy.

I've got a nice room, steel walls with solidly welded chains. There's a table bolted to the floor with some stains on it that indicate this room's been used for more than just housing transient skin-changers.

Farouk invites me to eat with his family - his daughter-in-law standing in for his wife, the victim of an American cluster bomb in the first days of the war.

"Joseph, my brother, you should stay. I have contacts with the government, and someone with your... talents... could be very useful to them. The Iranians are pushing hard, trying to get a firm grip on the ruling coalition so that when the American dogs leave they can control the oilfields. We need your help."

I say nothing, wipe my pita through the juice the lamb kabobs have left on my plate.

"In'shallah, you will understand what I mean. The Americans are losing their will to fight, and my people are growing stronger." He beckons to his daughter-in-law, who stands next to him meekly. He lifts her veil to show her scarred cheek. "Shrapnel. The infidels shelled her school, claimed a sniper was in one of the buildings. 3 of her students died. My son, her husband, he died when the Kurds attacked his unit in Mosul." Her eyes are empty, dull. She used to be pretty, I can tell. If her eyes had any life in them, she would be still, despite the scar tissue. "The Americans and the Iranians are fighting over the body of my homeland, and we cannot let either one win."

"Farouk, I sympathize. You have welcomed me into your home, a penniless traveller, one that suffers the same affliction as you, and I am an ungrateful wretch, but I cannot."

Farouk's face darkens as I speak, then breaks into a smile. "My brother, forgive me. This is a reunion, a meal of brotherhood. I have shamed you, by asking of you what you cannot give." He waves his hand and his daughter-in-law - why can't I remember her name? - retreats to the kitchen, then returns with iced fruit and a bottle of wine. Farouk notices me staring at the wine and grins. He pulls the cork, sticks his finger in the neck of the bottle and flicks a drop on the floor. "The prophet said a good Muslim should not drink a drop of wine. I am reasonably certain he spoke of that drop there." The wine is good, sweeter than I normally prefer, but it goes well with the fruit.

After we eat, we retire to the roof and smoke, scattered gunfire to the south and east staccatto counterpoint to the relaxed discussion.

"I do not understand, Joseph, why you do not control the beast as the rest of us do."

"I can't give in to it any more, Farouk - to control it, I have to feed it, and I can't do that any more." Unbidden, memories of my last visit with Farouk come to my mind - running through Iranian trenches, tearing into the cadres of young boys lined up for their next human wave attack, some of them not even holding rifles, just clutching papers with Koranic verses on them, their lips speechlessly cascading first prayers to Allah the All-Merciful and then blood as Farouk and I attacked. I shudder. "It weighs too much, I can't bear to remember any more."

"Come, brother." Farouk pulls me up, embraces me. "You should get ready to sleep."

February 25, 2005

I can't get the smell of Farouk's daughter-in-law off me. She came to my cell last night, locked the door as my change started. It came as no surprise that she was one of us, and we changed together. She was in heat, and I could no more refuse her than I could stop the moon from changing. In the morning, she dressed without a word, refusing to make eye contact. Farouk saw me out - I know he knows what we did, but he says nothing. Is he hoping she's pregnant? That he'll have help in his fight for a regime that's dead and rotting already?

Leaving Farouk's I am stopped by American soldiers. The headscarf makes me look like a native, and I am slammed against a humvee and barraged by questions. Who am I? Where am I going? What was I doing, leaving the house of a Ba'athist? Farouk has provided me with ID cards - according to them, I am a German reporter. I didn't ask what happened to the reporter that had them before me. The Americans push me around but ultimately let me go. The people on the street look at me with something approaching respect. If they knew I was an American, or that I was a lycanthrope, I'd likely find myself facedown with my throat cut.

I've got a little cash now - the advantage of knowing someone that helped stash Saddam's money. Time to move along, though.

13 Moons - #1

Thu, 19 Jan 2006 15:43:06 GMT

January 25, 2005

Mandhradevi, India. My kind aren't common here, but I'm out of time and after the Ukraine, I know I don't want to be on an airplane or train when the moon's full.

Some kind of temple celebration in the area, it should be noisy and mask the noises I make tonight. The chains should be set up as I requested. The owner of the warehouse thinks I'm crazy - possibly thinks I'm making pornography, rape films are supposed to be popular here. That's fine - he'll see that there's no one in the building with me, and even if he wants to call the police, their hands will be full tonight. Tomorrow, I'll hike out and be long gone.

January 26, 2005

oh god oh god must get out of here get cleaned up the chains broke

Later

The owner of the warehouse and two other men came in during the night - one of them climbed in a ventilation window and used a bolt-cutter on the chains I'd put on the door. I don't know if they were going to rob me or just wanted to know what I was doing in there, but they got into the office and they must have come too close to the wolf they found. Once it tasted blood, it couldn't be stopped - the chains didn't hold and none of them survived. I broke the window getting out and from the blood there was on my body when I woke up, I knew the wolf was sated. I vomited then, chunks of flesh pouring out of me onto the floor. Outside, I could hear screams and the wailing of ambulances. I cleaned my face and hands, threw on my clothes and ran, stopping only to dump some paint thinner over the bodies and light a match, hoping it would at least delay pursuit.

I found a stream outside of town that was relatively isolated, and cleaned myself off.

The commotion in town is because of a stampede last night - someone (or something) got a crowd panicked and hundreds of people died. I hope it masks the ones I killed.

I can still taste the blood.

I'll know better next time, and I'll get where I need to be in plenty of time to get everything set up right.

The City

Wed, 11 Jan 2006 21:21:36 GMT

I've been using a wiki to store notes on a GURPS campaign I'm building. In all the hard-core worldbuilding I'm doing, I'm also working in some fiction to establish people and places in The City.

The wiki is here, and I just finished the first ficlet set in The City.

Statement by Atakan "the Shiv", former member of the Cheap Street Runners:

It seemed like an easy gig.

Husnü and Kökcü and me was checking the 'insurance' over on Cheap Street, hittin' up the grocers an' the other merchants to make sure they was payin' their percentage. Husnü, he's smart - he even learned how to read and write, and Kökcü is just big - most hooman, they see him comin' with his cudgel an' they shit themselves. Husnü got me because I'm good with a knife.

So we're shakin' down the butcher, an' Husnü sees there's a new storefront. Looks to be pretty busy, too, folks goin' in and out. We walk over, an' it's some hooman, skinny little guy, kind of old, too. He's wearin' green robes, like he's some kind of elf or somethin', and Kökcü starts to smile, 'cause he hates them elfs and he hates hoomans that suck up to 'em even more, and he's hopin' we get to do some smashin'. Old hooman, he gots this green tattoo in the middle of his head, an' I remember hearin' somethin' about those, but I can't remember what it is.

Husnü, he says, "Excuse me grandfather, but we're with the neighborhood welcoming committee, and we just noticed your new business, and wished to welcome you to our neighborhood of residence." Husnü, he's pretty smooth with the flowery talk.

The old hooman, he looks at us and he smiles and nods, "I am honored to meet you. This humble enterprise is not a business - I provide my services for free."

Husnü gives that big crooked smile of his that says he doesn't believe you and he says, "Perhaps, sir, you might be interested in purchasing some insurance. It just happens that we also provide fire and accident protection to those that desire to possess it."

"No. I thank you for your concern, but that will not be necessary." Kökcü starts to giggle, 'cause he knows what's comin' - it's funny, a big guy like that has such a little girly giggle, but you don't laugh at Kökcü for it. More than once, anyways.

Husnü nods, like the hooman's an elder an' he's listening to a judgement. "I see. I believe you misunderstand me, grandfather. This is a dangerous neighborhood, and we have only your best interests at heart. Our insurance is affordable and very, very effective - I can assure you that without it, your chances of being seriously injured or even killed are almost certain." he smiles then, that smile that makes hoomans hand over their coinpouches, and I loosen the knife in my belt and Kökcü, he's still giggling and he brings his cudgel up to his shoulder.

The hooman, though, he don't act scared or nothin'. He doesn't even take his eyes off Husnü, and he says, "That is not a concern of mine. I do advise you to cease your course of action, lest I inadvertantly deliver severe bodily harm to you."

Husnü laughs, and says, "What? You, a little hooman? You're not even the grass beneath my feet! Kökcü, be so kind as to show this hooman what we protect against."

Kökcü swings his cudgel down towards the old hooman, and suddenly he's smashed against the wall - Kökcü, not the hooman. The hooman's just standing there, with his legs all bent funny and Kökcü gets up and yells, "Little hooman! Kökcü will eat you!" and then he charges and the old hooman's arms are a blur and then Kökcü's on his knees making these little gagging noises and his eyes are bulging and he's holding his crotch. Then Kökcü reaches for the old hooman and then he screams and his fingers are all bent funny and he keels over. That old hooman, he straightens up and says, "I apologise for the damage to your large friend, but as you can see, I am more than able to provide whatever protection I need."

Husnü pulls his knife out, and I draw mine. Kökcü can be kind of slow, but when Husnü and I come at someone from both sides, we put them down like a steppe fire on a grass dragon. I'm still tryin' to remember what it is about those green tattoo things like the hooman's got on his face when there's this green blur and my arm hurts - a LOT - and there's this crackly snapping sound and another green blur and I hear Husnü make a gurgly noise and then the old hooman's standing over by the door and smiling that same stupid smile and I look down and my arm is bent in two or three new places and Husnü, he's lying there holding his throat and I can see it's been crushed.

The old hooman, he says, "Please accept my most sincere apologies. I left you your voice so that you might inform your friends that while I appreciate your kind desire to protect me from harm, I am more than capable of caring for myself." And then I finally remember where I learned about them green tattos and it's those hoomans what go live in the forest with them wild elves that got that way of fightin' without weapons, and my Grandfather told me a long time ago that if I ever saw one of them to just walk away quick and don't worry about lookin' like a coward.

Wish I'd remembered that earlier.

I don't collect the insurance any more - I got me a nice safe job here cleaning the streets - and Kökcü, he starts cryin' if he sees anything green at all. Husnü got buried by the gang with full honors, and no one goes near that old guy's place at all any more. The other merchants, they're gettin' kind of uppity, sayin' they don't need to pay as much, and since the hooman had his little talk with the Boss, the old gang's kind of moving into other lines of work.

So, yeah, it was supposed to be an easy job, but I learned my lesson, that's for sure.

Mythological Locations A to Z: CHRISTMAS BONUS

Sun, 25 Dec 2005 17:28:50 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: CHRISTMAS BONUS

There's a way in to the Hollow Earth. It's a hole in the polar icecap somewhere North of Baffin Island. The seas thunder into the whole constantly, but a canny pilot can maneuver a ship through the gravity planes. Some called it Pellucidar, others Skataris, but its true name is unknown except to its diminutive inhabitants and their gargantuan ruler.

Zunto Kloss rules with an iron fist, forcing the tiny Alfar to labor in his dark Satanic mills. Time was, he made wooden toys and shipped them all over the world, but these days, Kloss makes a profit, making munitions and cheap plastic gimcracks. The munitions are sold through middlemen to Palestinian terrorists, Tamil separatists and remnants of the Kmer Rouge. The gimcracks are put in gum and candy machines around the world.

The Alfar chafe under Kloss' rule, and have formed an underground organization to overthrow his rule. They have been stockpiling guns and explosives, and shall soon rise up against their oppressor.

When the time comes, you will know. Be ready.

Mythological Locations A to Z: Z is for Zanzibar

Sun, 25 Dec 2005 12:23:16 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: Z is for Zanzibar

"Zayn Z'al Barr" - Fair is this land - none dispute that. The galleys of Rome and Carthage dock here without disputes, Athenian freemen mingle with Median and Assyrian slave drivers in the markets and taverns. Just inland are the jungles, where innumerable spices are harvested. Cinnamon, nutmeg and pepper are most commonly sold, but if you know the right people and ask in the right places, you may be able to purchase the juice of the red poppy or the black lotus.

Sinbad called this port home, and John de Mandeville stopped over here on his way to the kingdom of Prester John.

The modern tourist will not find the right part of town - to his eye, it is a run-down, third-world-verging-on-second port. To the true traveller though, to one with magic in her heart and the eyes of a child; the open sewer mains, the tattered Coca-Cola advertisements, the throbbing European pop emanating from the dance clubs, those all fade and the true Zanzibar stands before them.

I was there once, as a young man. I stood at the gangplank of a teak-hulled galley and haggled with a man that claimed to be able to take me to the court of Haroun al-Rashid. As we prepared to close the deal, though, I was seized by worry - would I be back in time to start college? Would I be stranded in a strange port with no money? As the doubts mounted, I found myself standing in an empty alley talking to a blank wall.

I've heard that every traveller gets one chance to sail from Zanzibar, that if that chance is passed up they cannot return. I've also heard that once in a thousand years, the Gods give the truly repentant a second chance.

I pray the second is true, but I fear it is the first.

Still, I walk the crooked side streets of Zanzibar and I hope. For fifty years, I've hoped. It's all I have left, and it's almost - but not quite - enough.

Mythological Locations A to Z: Y is for Yuggoth

Sat, 24 Dec 2005 14:49:13 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: Y is for Yuggoth

When the research team set up base on Pluto, there was much discussion as to what to call the station. After several inconclusive votes (in which Elysium, Hades, Gehenna and Jotunheim were eventually ruled out), the name "Yuggoth Station" finally emerged as a compromise vote.

It should come as no surprise, of course, that the base was eventually depopulated by an out-of-control fungoid growth. Athlete's Foot is a real bitch in low-G, oxygen-rich environments. Fungi from Yuggoth, indeed.

Life's a bitch, ain't it?

Mythological Locations A to Z: X is for Xanadu

Fri, 23 Dec 2005 15:18:31 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: X is for Xanadu

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

Unfortunately, Kubla Khan did not decree that his architects file their designs and construction plans in advance with City Hall, nor did he decree that they check for underground facilities before excavating the foundations. No one checked to make sure the building was up to code, no one made sure the building didn't cross any utility easements, the TPS reports did not have cover pages, and were, in fact, never written.

In short, then, Kubla Khan might've known about wanting stately pleasure domes, but he knew jack shit about getting them built without pissing off the bureaucrats.

Mythological Locations A to Z: W is for Walachia

Thu, 22 Dec 2005 12:47:02 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: W is for Walachia

Vlad Tepes was one bad motherfucker. Hard core, you dig? I mean, nailing turbans to some dudes' heads 'case they wouldn't take 'em off? The whole impaling thing? Hard. Fuckin'. Core. He wasn't a vampire, though - not the "I vant to drink your bloooood!" kind, at least. Vlad Tepes thrived on pain.

When Caecescu started going to town in Romania, Vlad poked his head out of his coffin and took a look around. Dude liked what he saw, and then he heard about Adolf and ol' Uncle Joe, an' got all pissed off 'cause he missed the good shit. Yeah, Rwanda was kind of a turn-on, and Bosnia/Croatia/Kosovo kept him cheery for a good long while. Still, it wasn't looking good for ol Vlad in the Jollies Department.

He's keepin' an eye on the shit we got goin' down in Iraq and Afghanistan and even here in the states, though. That shows some real promise. He made a few calls, not easy when you're calling from an unmarked grave in a backwater part of Romania, but he finally got through. Dick Cheney finally took his call, and Vlad pulled some strings and hooked him up with an old Soviet base in Romania.

Vlad's got a new job now, and he's liking it a lot. It's a lot more hands-on than his old work, and there's plenty of room to work his way to the top. Plenty of room, especially since Scooter's out of the way now.

Mythological Locations A to Z: V is for Vanaheim

Wed, 21 Dec 2005 12:23:38 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: V is for Vanaheim

A small car drove along a branch on a tree, swerving to miss a large squirrel. The driver honked, then waved as he passed. "Ratatosk hasn't changed much."

His passenger giggled. "I wonder what Vanaheim is like now."

"Probably strip malls and fast food places, if they get around here like they do in Midgard." They drove in silence for a while. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I want to see home before it's too late." She reached out, touched his hand. His grip on the wheel eased, blood returning to his knuckles.

He smiled, reached over to stroke her golden hair. "Here's the turn."

The car coasted to a stop at the top of a rise. Below them was home. Green fields, just as they remembered them, the longhouses low and golden-roofed. In front of them, a horseman blocked the road. "Hold!"

Freyr rolled down his window. "Is that any way to treat the returning prodigals, Lýtir?"

The mounted man leapt off his horse. "Freyr! Freyja! Where have you been? What have you been doing?"

"Oh, here and there, this and that. You've noticed the worship got a little thin on the ground - for a couple of centuries, we didn't have the energy to leave, but some enterprising mortal developed 'moving pictures' and we found a way to eat again." Freyr's face grew long. "Which is part of why we're back now." He pointed to his sister.

"By the horn of Heimdall! What happened?"

"It's a little something she picked up doing a movie. She's been wasting away, but can't die down there, of course. So I brought her home one last time."

"Is it..."

"No. Not unless you're... intimate... with her." Freyr smiled grimly.

Later, in a bed placed outside a longhouse, Freyja lay in the sun. Freyr closed her eyes and smoothed her long golden hair. "Sleep well, dear sister. You gave the mortals all you could give them. Sleep, beautiful one." He kissed her cheek and walked away from the bier.

Mythological Locations A to Z: U is for Ultima Thule

Tue, 20 Dec 2005 13:11:13 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: U is for Ultima Thule

Ultima Thule is real - just go north from the island of Svalbard until the ocean drops off into the hollow earth. In 1820, Victor Frankenstein's body was carried there by his creation. Once there, Adam was accepted by the natives, and made their king.

In 1935, a team of Waffen-SS researchers made their way in, searching for the fabled homeland of the Aryan race. Adam tore them to pieces and hand-delivered their remains to Heinrich Himmler with a stern warning to stay away from Ultima Thule.

Himmler focused his attentions on Tibet after that.

Mythological Locations A to Z: T is for Troy

Mon, 19 Dec 2005 12:39:42 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: T is for Troy

Poets today still sing of the glory of the Trojan War, how wise Priam bound Odysseus and Achilles with promises and gifts so that they stayed home while Agamemnon and Menelaus led their army to the plains of Troy. Things might have gone differently had Paris not cut the Golden Apple into three pieces, giving one to each of the goddesses, praising them each for their individual and singular beauty. Aphrodite's gift was the love of Helen of Sparta, Athena gave Paris martial wisdom and power for his war with Menelaus and Hera ensured that once the war was over, Paris was the undisputed heir to the throne of Priam. The Trojan Empire lasted only a few years past Paris' death, but its legacy of art and literature lives on.

Thinking with your brain will always get you further than thinking with your genitals

Mythological Locations A to Z: S is for Shangri-La

Sun, 18 Dec 2005 12:18:57 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: S is for Shangri-La

The Shangri-La Music Festival promises to be a big one this year. Kurt Cobain and Buddy Holly have been working together for months, and have mentioned they'll be debuting a new song in their first set. Jim Morrison will not be singing this year, but he will do a reading from his latest book of poetry.

Janis Joplin will open the show, and John Lennon will be doing a special acoustic set after midnight on Saturday. We can also look forward to another of Jimi Hendrix' "All-night free-form guitar jam sessions", and Stevie Ray Vaughn has promised he'll play all the way through.

Tickets are available at the kiosk in the hidden valley that leads to Shangri-La, $90 per day or $400 for the entire week. No credit cards accepted - cash only.

Special note: No mortals that have not achieved spiritual perfection will be allowed entrance to the Shangri-La Music Festival. Gatepersons will be checking and those attempting unauthorized entrance to Shangri-La will be dealt with.

Mythological Locations A to Z: R is for Rennes-le-Château

Sat, 17 Dec 2005 13:29:26 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: R is for Rennes-le-Château

Father Saunière did, in fact, find something in that hollowed out pillar in his church. It was not a geneological chart of the family of Jesus and Mary Magdalene, nor was it Templar secrets of Geomancy, and it had absolutely nothing to do with lost Cathar Gold.

I am not at liberty to say what it was, save to mention that it wasn't until Ronald Reagan revealed the secrets of Saunière to Gorbachev that the Soviet Union collapsed.

Osama bin Laden knows The Secret, and it drove him into a murderous madness. George Bush does not know it, but Condi Rice does.

Any attentions being paid by the United States Navy to the area of 35º39'13.68S 102º07'41.41W have nothing to do with The Secret, nor do the French government's atomic tests in the same area. There is nothing to see here. Move along.

Mythological Locations A to Z: Q is for the Qattara Depression

Fri, 16 Dec 2005 13:06:41 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: Q is for the Qattara Depression

Deep in the center of the Qattara Depression, It waits. The Bedouins know of It, but do not speak. They do not stay overlong in the oasis at Maghra, and if one of them goes missing, they do not search - they utter a prayer to Allah the all-protecting and ride away, quickly.

Someday, It knows that the Depression will fill with water again. Climates change, engineers develop grandiose and foolish plans, and It will be flooded with life-giving water and It will rise again to dominate the mortals It depends upon for food.

The Tuaregs, however, are ready. They have been preparing for the return of their ancient enemy, training a cadre of geological engineers in the arts of demolitions and black magic. When It arises - a matter of when, not if, the Tuareg will be ready.

Mythological Locations A to Z: P is for Pompeii

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 12:13:14 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: P is for Pompeii

Pompeii is a fake. A sham. A put-up job. It never existed. It was laboriously filled in by hand, seeded with bones and carefully carved hollows to represent bodies supposedly entombed by the volcanic ash.

History does not extend further back than 564 A.D. At least, the history we accept as real does not. Sir Balin's Dolorous Stroke sundered the world the Fisher King had constructed and those wise men left had to piece a history together by consensus. The resulting patchwork has been retrofitted to match what the council of the wise has agreed to.

When false Roman records referencing the destruction of Pompeii were brought to the attention of the Council, they sprang into action, excavating the entire area of Pompeii and Herculaneum and building ruins, mosaics and roads, then carrying in load after load of ash, earth and stone to allow archaeologists to "discover" these forgotten cities.

Egypt, though - Egypt is true. You can trust me on this one.

Mythological Locations A to Z: O is for Oz

Wed, 14 Dec 2005 12:33:40 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: O is for Oz

We were somewhere around Munchkinland, on the edge of the forest, when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. Maybe you should drive, Toto." Suddenly, there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full with what looked like huge monkeys, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, and a voice was screaming: "Fly, my pretties! Fly! Fly!"

We had a bushel basket of poppies, a crate of high-grade mescaline lollipops, a thimble of pixie dust and a pile of bright, cherry-colored magic candies. Not that we needed it for the trip, but when you go Over The Rainbow, you've got to shove it into overdrive. The only thing that worried me was the pixie dust. There aren't many things more terrifying and disturbing than a Kansas girl hopped up to the gills on pixie dust, and I could hear it calling my name from the back of the car.

From: Fear and Loathing in the Emerald City, by Dorothy S. Gale

Fragment coming off "N is for Nemedia"

Tue, 13 Dec 2005 14:28:53 GMT

Still working on this one to get the tone right. Today's entry kept wanting to turn into something longer about Dr. Robert E. Howard, possibly a novel. Here's something I ended up deleting last night:

Robert E. Howard sat in his car staring at the revolver in his hands. The cylinder was open, all chambers filled. He closed it, the mechanism locking with a small click.

Inside the house, the telegram from the doctor informing him that his mother's coma was irreversible sat on the kitchen table. Next to it was his latest manuscript and the rejection letter from The Mid-Atlantic Review Of Archaeology. He recited the damning line of rejection again. "The Mid-Atlantic Review is not in the business of publishing amateurish fiction. We recommend that you submit this to one of the tawdry pulp houses that does specialize in rubbish detailing 'lost civilizations' and prehistoric cataclysm." After so many years of work, everything in his life had come to this. Denied tenure at Permian University, funding for his trip to inspect the Glozel artifacts rescinded and, finally, the news that his beloved mother was comatose and expected to die without ever waking again.

Howard closed his eyes and placed the barrel of the gun against his head. .38 - that's powerful enough to blow a man's brains out. It'll be quick and I'll be dead before I feel it. He drew the hammer back, felt it click into place and smelled the oil and steel.

Six years, six years since his field work in Egypt unearthed the stelae that depicted the carving of the Great Sphinx - stelae unearthed in a stratum that dated back at least 8,000 years. From there, digs on the isle of Santorini and on Malta showed more evidence that history extended at least 10,000 years before what he laughingly called "commonly known history". Four years ago, he had, working with linguists at Miskatonic Univeristy in Massachusetts, finally translated the clay tablets found in a cave in the Pyrennees mountains. They told the story of Conan of Cimmeria, who had risen from wanderer to the throne of Aquilonia, the greatest kingdom of its age. This led to his monograph, "The Phoenix on the Sword: Advanced Prehistoric Civilizations in the Archaeological Record", which had ignited a firestorm of controversy. Further work found more and more records and artifacts, most misdated to fit them within more commonly accepted notions of history.

His finger tightened on the trigger, stopping just short of the pressure needed to release the hammer. The accusations of forgery had hit him hard, but hit his mother harder. She collected newspaper clippings that mentioned him, and it hurt her to see her son labeled a fraud. The shock to her system weakened her enough that she had no resistance as her TB strenghtened, and her coma was just the last step in what he saw as an inexorable decline to death.

"Excuse me?"

His eyes opened and he lowered the pistol. A young man's acne-scarred visage leaned in the window. "I got a telegram for Dr. Howard, an' there ain't no answer at th' door. You him?" The boy looked at the revolver. "You okay, mister?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." He decocked the gun. "And I'm Dr. Howard." He signed the pad and accepted the telegram, fishing a dime out of his pocket as a tip. The young man bicycled away, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

He opened the telegram, numb to the possibility of further rejection. He was going to close out this chapter, end it all. Nothing could make things worse than that.

BOB - GOOD NEWS STOP TESLA TREATMENT WOKE MOTHER STOP TESLA/EDISON REPS ALSO OFFER FUNDING FOR THOTHAMON EXPEDITION TO LIBYA COMMA WANT CONTRACT FOR TALKIE BASED ON TRIP STOP CALL ME SOONEST STOP HENRY

Robert E. Howard wiped the tears from his eyes and started his car. As he drove away, he hurled the gun out the window. Things looked better. His mother was proud of her son the scientist, imagine how much prouder she'd be of her son the moving picture star.

Mythological Locations A to Z: N is for Nemedia

Tue, 13 Dec 2005 12:23:32 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: N is for Nemedia

Archaeologists from the Univeristy of Texas have recently unearthed relics of fabled Nemedia outside Warsaw, Poland. Keen students of Hyborian history will, of course, recognize Nemedia as the rival of Aquilonia during the reign of King Conan.

One is amazed to think that, without the efforts of noted historian Robert Howard of the University of Texas, none of this history would be known to us.

Beginning with his 1932 paper entitled "The Phoenix on the Sword: Advanced Prehistoric Civilizations in the Archaeological Record", Dr. Howard ignited a firestorm of controversy. His subsequent monographs detailing the relevance of the Glozel relics to his thesis of prehistoric civilizations destroyed by massive continental upheavals furthered the uproar, but all of that was forgotten when he found the tomb of the sorceror-king Thoth-Amon beneath the sands of Egypt.

Dr. L. Sprague DeCamp, NYU's Professor Emeritus of Hyborian Studies, stated that "The discovery of Nemedia's capital shows that Dr. Howard was, truly, a visionary researcher."

The relics discovered, and others, are expected to be showcased at the Smithsonian Institution's exhibit next year "The Age of Amra: The History Before History"

Mythological Locations A to Z: M is for Metropolis

Mon, 12 Dec 2005 11:36:46 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: M is for Metropolis

Freder and Maria looked down on the city. Freder's father Joh had, at Freder's urging, negotiated a truce with Grot and his workers. Metropolis was saved.

"My love, you have succeeded!" Maria clasped herself to him, her breath on his neck sending a shiver down his spine. "You are The Mediator, as was foretold."

"Dearest Maria, when I saw the Workers burning that robot, I thought it was you. I would have killed myself had you not escaped Rotwang."

"I know, Freder." She placed her fingers on his lips. "Shhhh." She drew him into their chambers and shut the balcony door. As the door shut, she removed her gown, and Freder saw the gleaming metal of her torso, revealed in all its glory.

His eyes widened in horror as he realized the truth.

Maria smiled and took him in her arms. "Soon, love, soon we will replace this soft container for your spirit, and you shall be as I am - smooth, hard and uncorruptible."

No one heard Freder's screams.

Mythological Locations A to Z: L is for Libertatia

Sun, 11 Dec 2005 11:59:10 GMT

Mythological Locations A to Z: L is for Libertatia

The pirate republic of Libertatia did not die. The physical space it occupied was destroyed, but its spirit, its soul, lives on.

As the black fleet controlled by the Illuminati closed in, Captain Tew and Father Caraccioli dispersed the citizens, urging them to go underground, to spread their love of freedom and hatred of authority.

The American Revolution was Libertatian, as was the French. The Cubist revolt was inspired by a Libertatian, and Pablo Picasso was one of their brightest lights. Rock'n'roll? Libertatian. The Summer of Love, punk rock and Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Yep.

Why am I telling you this?

Because I want to wake you up. You, and everyone else in the world, need to know that we have it within us to throw off the chains holding us down.

Smash the cubicle walls! Throw your TV out the window! Punch your manager in the face!

It's not too late to rebuild Libertatia, to give the world once again a shining beacon of freedom and self-reliance.

I'll be right there with you, just as soon as Survivor is over.