#So I might put the 10 lower gods at rare and the two main ones at Mythic
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Red commons
#Had trouble coming up with ideas for these for some reason#But here we are#Custom cards#Also yeah I decided I'm gonna do planeswalkers#For all twelve gods#Managed to decide what colors they're each gonna be#Not sure about the rarities yet tho#Having 12 of the 15 Mythic Rares be planeswalkers would be a lot#So I might put the 10 lower gods at rare and the two main ones at Mythic#But that wouldn't really feel right either#I guess it just depends on how many other ideas for mythics I get#Also I might do sagas in this set#I have ideas for like three so far#If I actually want to make them a thing in this set I'll probably want more tho#I'll think about it#Gonna finish up the commons first#This is probably the set of commons I'm least sure about so far#But it's fine#There are like five more things I could ramble about#But I'll save that for next time#custom cards 1
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Ranger Danger
The vibrational dance of Noah’s cell phone dragged him away from the horror movie splaying blood across his television. As a young starlet screamed and ran with poor coordination through the woods, Noah scanned the stream of incoming texts.
“Damn,” he muttered, running a hand over his dark hair. The incoming texts were from work. As his supervisor implored Noah’s help, he discerned they needed him to come in even though he was off duty. Some sort of mild emergency that he couldn’t quite put together. Glancing at his phone’s clock, he read that it was a little after midnight. He quickly replied ‘be there soon’, flipped off the movie, and headed into his bedroom.
Noah slipped off his gym shorts and quickly dressed in the forest ranger uniform all his coworkers wore. He gave himself a routine glance in the mirror to finish buttoning his shirt. Noah filled out his uniform with a lean beefiness acquired from miles of hiking and lifting fallen trees, his sizable biceps straining the short sleeve cuffs of his shirt. With his striking brown complexion, easy smile, and muscles, Noah was a handsome representation of the Forestry Department, frequently called in to give tours to visiting government officials or bored tour groups of sexually frustrated housewives. He always maintained a calm demeanor in the most straining of circumstances, deftly handling questions with charm. He assumed the ‘emergency’ he was needed for now was something that required his level headed thinking. Weaving his belt into the buckle of his trim waist and grabbing his hat, he headed out to his Jeep.
As Noah drove into the darker recesses of the woods where his ranger station was located, he lowered the windows on his Jeep to take in the bracing smell of pine trees and cool night air. He inhaled deeply. He loved these woods. Having worked as a ranger now for almost five years, he felt at home in this forest, having hiked its expansive trails many times over.
Pulling up to Ranger Station #04, Noah saw his District Ranger standing in the soft yellow light of the station doorway waiting for him. Taking the only remaining parking spot next to the station, Noah observed that Ben and Daniel were on duty tonight, their cars parked next to the DR’s own Ranger Jeep.
“Hey Jim,” Noah said, lifting a hand in acknowledgment as he approached the station. “How’s it going? You were slightly ambiguous in your texts...what’s going on?”
“Hey Noah, thanks for coming on such short notice,” Jim said, his smile tired but friendly. Jim was middle aged and handsome, having served in the military for several years before leaving service for a position in the Forestry Department. His body was slightly thicker than Noah’s in the middle due to Jim’s fondness for doughnuts but the small rounded softness there was offset by thick arms that easily heaved many forest obstacles.
“Ben and Daniel missed their last two audio checks so I drove over to check the station,” Jim explained, walking with Noah into the small station. He gestured to the radio log. “Last I heard from them was at nine thirty, then radio silence.”
Noah raised an eyebrow but only slightly. This wasn’t a big emergency, the guys were probably taking their time on their latest rounds. Ben and Daniel were known for getting high on these late night shifts, then strolling deep into the woods observing the enhanced beauty of the stars.
“Where’s their observation log?” Noah said, shuffling a few of the scattered papers on the desk to the side.
“Here,” Jim said, handing a clipboard to Noah. Noah flipped through a few of the sheets before reading the top page. Ben and Daniel had logged every hourly observation walk up until 10 pm. The last two spots for the day, the eleven and midnight observation, were conspicuously blank. Still, Noah wasn’t alarmed.
“They’re probably sitting under a tree marveling at the Big Dipper,” Noah said with a smile at Jim, looking up from the clipboard. He handed it back to Jim who set it on the desk.
“You’re not wrong but let’s follow protocol and run our own observation. Shouldn’t be too hard to find these two” Jim said, adding a new sheet to the clipboard. “I apologize for making you come out here but safety first right? Two man teams always”.
Jim scribbled the time, his rank, and initials in the one o’clock slot then handed it over to Noah for his own initials. Both of them grabbed a flashlight and radio, locked the station door, and headed out into the woods, following the well worn starter path every ranger had trod day in and out.
The night air settled around the two rangers in a cool mist as fallen pine needles crunched underneath their boots. They made small chatter occasionally but mostly remained quiet, something Noah appreciated about Jim. They both enjoyed the quiet of the forest, preferring the majesty of their surroundings to the noise most humans make to fill the air.
Nearly halfway through their observational walk with no sign of other rangers, Noah stopped and looked closely at a break in the trail. The trampled and well worn path of the trail continued on but to the right, the undergrowth was disturbed. Pointing it out to Jim, the two concurred that this was a recent disturbance of the forest and most likely Ben and Daniel had veered off trail, high and looking for a place to watch stars. Picking their way through the flora, the two rangers followed the new trail.
Despite the circumstances, Noah was enjoying the walk into this new part of the forest. It was rare for the rangers to disturb parts of the forest beyond the trail without good cause. Finding Ben and Daniel was sufficient cause enough to walk in these uncharted paths and Noah took in his surroundings with a slight feeling of contentment and awe. The forest really was beautiful.
The upended pine needle path continued for some time, Noah estimating nearly fifteen minutes since they had veered from the main trail. He was starting to feel slightly concerned and opened his mouth to say something to Jim when he heard a sharp slapping sound. Glancing over, he saw Jim removing his left hand from his right arm.
“God damn mosquito,” Jim uttered, wiping the remains of the crumpled creature onto his pants.
“Yea, consistently the worst thing out he-...” Noah started saying then cocked his ear as his sentence dropped off.
“Do you hear that?” he asked Jim, tilting his head further. Jim froze in place and listened as well. Somewhere in front of them, not too far, there was a low rumbling noise. It sounded almost guttural to Noah, like water pouring from a giant jug.
Putting a finger to his lips to keep silent, Noah began carefully walking forward with Jim right behind him. The noise grew slightly louder with each step they took until suddenly, it stopped. They stopped in their tracks. Noah cocked an eyebrow at Jim and motioned with a questioning gesture of his hand, “keep going?”
Jim nodded and the two men pressed forward through the darkness of the forest and bush. Noah noted in a corner of his mind that he had never been to this part of the forest on any of his inquiries or observations; the wood seemed completely untouched by humans save for the newly beaten down path they were following. Jim stopped for a moment and appeared to be fidgeting with his belt but at Noah’s curious look, he waved them forward and they continued. Eventually they reached a small clearing by a pond that immediately struck Noah with its serene natural splendor. However as they stepped out into the clearing, they both heard and saw them at the same time. It took Noah a beat to fully comprehend what he was looking at.
Near the edge of the pond lay a blanket and small radio, still playing the local college station. On either side of the blanket were two enormous spheres of flesh, completely naked and wobbling slightly as Jim and Noah approached.
“What the fuck…” Noah said as he approached the shapes slowly, observing them not moving from their spot but jiggling and shaking in place.
“Oh shit, it’s fucking Ben and Daniel,” Jim uttered as he drew closest to the quivering shape on the right. Noah’s face took on incredulity as he drew close to the left. The flesh colored ball was indeed a man but blown up to enormous proportions. His legs and feet hovered almost a foot off the ground from the immensity of his ass, Noah judging it to be almost eight feet wide. The legs themselves were encased in roll after roll of fat to the point that Noah couldn’t discern where the knees might have been, the feet themselves swollen almost unrecognizable and sinking into the fat above them. Moving his eyes up, Noah took in a belly that covered half of the fattened legs and spread out in all directions, matching the width of that enormous ass, with a belly button itself six inches wide and receding darkly into the piles of belly fat.
Two enormous breasts sat atop the behemoth of a belly, swollen and perky like two plastic grocery bags filled with pudding. They shook slightly in the night air as Noah observed the entire body jiggle, then suddenly swell out a little more. The feet at the bottom of this mass had almost disappeared. Two arms lay to the side of the massive torso, seemingly stuck and disappearing into the expanding rolls of fat as well. As his eyes traveled finally up to the face, Noah saw the faint hint of the face that used to be Ben. His neck had ceased to exist as roll after roll of fat took up the space above his breasts and connected with his cheeks. Ben’s cheeks had become intensely rosy, swollen to a state that it looked like he had a baseball in each.
Noah saw Ben glance down at him and begin to grunt, uttering something that Noah couldn’t make out.
“Ben, what the fuck happened…” Noah said in shock, recalling the two fit men who he had joked with a week ago in passing shifts. This quivering mass of fat was at least eight times fatter than Ben had been.
“Moosh..” Ben uttered, slurping and trying to enunciate with his fat forced pouty lips.
“Moosh!” he forcefully said, his eyes darting wildly as that rumbling Noah had heard before in the woods sounded. It was coming from Ben’s belly. Glancing over quickly at Jim and Daniel, he saw Daniel’s belly start jiggling then begin swelling in all directions. The man was expanding massively. His arms and legs disappeared into the expansive fat of his belly, leaving him almost completely ball-shaped. He was nearly nine feet around, with only hands and feet still visible on his appendages. His breasts, the same size as Ben’s, inflated as they jiggled, nearing the size of basketballs.
Noah looked back to Ben, absentmindedly slapping the back of his neck as an insect bit him. The now almost unrecognizable ball of fat that was Ben was going wild eyed, trying in vain to shout something, his lips forced even more open from the recent gains to his cheeks.
“Msssh!” he sputtered, his whole body quivering.
“I can’t understand you..what the hell happened here Ben?” Noah asked in horror, then turned sharply when he heard Jim cry out.
Jim stood next to the enormous ball that was Daniel, holding his stomach and looking down in shock.
“Jim, what’s wrong?” Noah yelled, beginning to walk over.
“I..don’t...know…” Jim uttered, right before the first button on his ranger uniform popped off. It was quickly followed in succession by a second and third button as Jim’s dough middle rapidly swole into a beach ball shape. His love handles quickly expanded to the sides as his chest developed two breast shaped mounds. His cheeks fattened and a double chin wobbled into place as Noah heard Jim’s pants rip as his ass followed suit. In the matter of thirty seconds, Jim suddenly looked to be over three hundred pounds.
“Oh fuck, Noah, it’s happening to me!” Jim yelled, waddling slightly over to where Noah stood.
“The hell is happening here?” Noah exclaimed, his eyes shooting from the fat man in front of him to the unrecognizable blobs of men to his side. The rumbling noise came back then, but this time, it started with Jim. Jim’s eyes went wide as he clutched with chubby fingers at the fattened sphere now occupying his front. The noise rose exponentially as it began coming from Ben and Daniel as well. Noah watched as Jim’s belly began growing again, pounds and pounds of fat piling on in waves. Jim began waving his arms in shock as his entire body inflated and began to take on a generally round shape, his feet slowly slipping on the wet grass of the clearing until he fell with a thud onto his immensely fattened ass. Noah observed him begin rising in the air as the fat continued to grow and Jim began to become another ball.
Ben and Daniel themselves had also grown more, their faces beginning to sink into the sheer mass of their rolls of fat. Ben was still trying to tell Noah something but it was just sputtering noises at this point. Noah backed away from the insane scene like he had observed something otherworldly, his eyes wide and his feet stumbling occasionally. A pit in his stomach had developed which he attributed to terror but as he turned to begin running, something brought him up short. A small popping sound rang through the air as he tried to run and he felt something heavy bounce on the front of his body. Looking down, he cried as watched his own midsection, now the size of a fleshy basketball, wobble and grow double in size.
“No…” Noah uttered, stumbled a bit as his chest began to swell. He looked back to Jim who now was completely naked and becoming fully ball shaped.
“No!” Noah yelled, as he heard the rumbling begin again in Ben, Daniel, and Jim’s bellies. He grasped at his shirt as it fully ripped open, then felt his fingers clutch his doughy middle when he heard the rumbling start in his own belly. Turning to face the other fattened spheres that were once rangers, Noah felt his entire body begin jiggling then quickly begin to grow…
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MOVIE DATES WITH STRAY KIDS
stray kids x reader
genre: fluff
word count: 1.8k
warnings: intended for male reader, but can be read as gender neutral; my first fic 👉👈 im nervous; lowercase aesthetic; does “bastard” count as a swear word..?
i hope you enjoy this little gift :)
bang chan
he likes romantic comedies
tbh being chan’s s/o would feel like a romcom of its own
since he doesn’t like crowds, your movie dates together usually wouldn’t involve actually going to the movies
instead you’d probably both opt to stay in for the night and watch a movie on the couch
under multiple blankets
in each other’s arms
hugs and cuddles
with the occasional kiss on the top of your head
it’s so soft
it’s chan :)))
he does the little claps at the end of the movie
because happy endings ^–^
y’know those awkward scenes where the main couple meets for the first time?
he likes to point out which character you were most similar to when the two of you first met
“i didn’t know you were in this movie!”
“you look so different! i could hardly recognize you!”
he’s such a dork
all your movie nights would end in one of three ways:
1.) you falling asleep in his arms
2.) him falling asleep holding you close (yeah not really, this man doesn’t sleep that much T_T)
or 3.) you both make it through the movie, and one of you says something like
“this is nice...i wish we could just stay like this”
and so you both (in theory) fall asleep right where you are
either way, chan is the best boyfriend and neither of you know what you did to deserve each other
lee know
he’d get you to go see a horror movie
even if you protest, he’d manage to convince you somehow
pokes fun at you every time you get scared
during a suspenseful part in the movie, he’d suddenly put his hands on your shoulders and shake you (lightly) out of nowhere, just to startle you
and he’d have to stifle his giggles because your reaction is just too priceless
absolutely relishes in how you never let go of his arm
like ever
seriously, his arm might as well be an extension of your body at this point
he may act like he’s annoyed
but he loves it
cuz he knows it’s because you feel safe with him
and if you hide your face in the crook of his neck
he’d get this look on his face...
something between an evil smirk and an amused grin
why? because his plan is working
plot twist: the whole reason he chose to see a horror movie with you was so that you would cling to him
surprise!! >:]
but even if you catch on, he’ll never admit it
tsundere
“did you even see any of the movie?”
you just kinda grumble in response, still latched onto his arm
“i can’t believe it... i so generously paid for your ticket, only for you to hide your face the whole ti- OW!”
you jab him in the side with your elbow give him a “love tap” :)
but it’ll take more than that to get him to stop teasing you about it
he’s a cocky bastard but you love him to death for it
seo changbin
superhero movie!!!
like something from the mcu
seeing him get so excited/invested in the movie??
wholesome
but he might get a little too excited
in other words, going to the movies with changbin is an...interactive experience
meaning that he talks at the movie
not to the movie, but at the movie
like...he talks at the characters on screen
as if they can hear him
honestly it’s kinda cute
but occasionally you have to remind him to keep his voice down
“HE TRIED TO TELL YOU NOT TO TOUCH THE STONE”
“shhhh alright calm down a bit-”
“...AND NOW YOU DEAD”
“changbin i love you but please don’t get us kicked out of the theater”
10/10 would have his arm around you throughout the movie
even if his arm goes numb, he’d refuse to let anything stop him
“changbin, you don’t have t-”
“CUDDLES.”
lowkey feels like a pillow
bc he beefy
on very rare occasions he might fall asleep during the movie
if he does end up dozing off and you catch him in the act, he’d deny it profusely
he likes to spontaneously slip his hand into yours :)
and lace your fingers together :))
you’re holding hands now :)))
his presence is just so warm and fuzzy and you make each other so happy
hwang hyunjin
THIS MAN
the funnest(?) most fun bf in existence
he’s definitely the type to try and smuggle outside food into the theater
he insists that he’s inconspicuous about it
and he tries to be
but he’s not :)
“uh... hyunjin, why are you wearing two hoodies?”
“i uh... i’m... cold?”
“so you’re sticking bags of microwaveable popcorn in between your sweatshirts...to keep warm?”
*visibly sweating* “i can explain...”
ok ok
so y’all seeing a comedy
why?
because HIS LAUGH OMG
it’s so bubbly and contagious
so naturally, you’d both be laughing up a storm at the back of the theater
and sometimes it’s because of the movie
but most of the time it’s because of the side comments the two of you keep making to each other
and it doesn’t help that he keeps making these ridiculous observations about the characters in the movie
“what’s up with that guy?”
“what about him?”
“why is he built like a refrigerator?”
about halfway through the movie, you both reach that delirious state where literally anything and everything becomes funny
even if it’s not supposed to be funny
...especially if it’s not supposed to be funny
the two of you? lowkey hyenas
long story short, you’re both asked to leave the theater not even two hours into the film :)
han jisung
action!! movie!!
finishes the popcorn within the first ten minutes of the film
that is, if he doesn’t scarf it all down during the previews
he talks through the entIRE THING
he’s always got something to say
it’s like watching the director’s commentary version of a movie
but instead of the director talking about the film-making process
it’s jisung muttering nonsense in your ear
sometimes pertaining to the movie
and other times...
“hey did i ever tell you about the time i saw a seagull eating garbage?”
...yeah, other times it’s...not
either way, you don’t mind
because you aren’t really paying much attention to the movie anyways
you’re too busy admiring your boyfriend
how could you not?
the way he’s on the edge of his seat, giving the movie his full attention...
the light from the screen flickering dimly on his face, highlighting his gentle features...
you’re the luckiest person in the world, no doubt
his eyes light up whenever something particularly cool/badass happens in the movie
but he also gets startled by the explosions every now and then
when that happens, you just look at each other for a moment
and then burst into a fit of giggles
“stoooppp!! it was loud, ok??”
you just hum in response and rest your head on his shoulder
y’know that thing he does where like...
he’s giggling, but he has something he wants to say, so he keeps trying to talk?
but his words keep getting cut off by his own laughter?
yeah... that’s what he’s doing
he’s adorable
lee felix
animated movie
a firm believer that you’re never too old to enjoy cartoons
he never lost that child-like energy/enthusiasm, which is part of what makes him such a gem
so of course, when the new disney movie came out, he knew he had to go see it with you
he would definitely load up on snacks from concessions
if you don’t stop him, he’s gonna be buying two giant things of popcorn and at least five different kinds of candy
and when he walks back to you after paying, he’d just smile brightly from behind the mountain of junk food in his hands like
“snacks :D!!!!!”
seriously though, try to keep track of how much popcorn he eats
bc he might overeat and get a stomachache :((
obviously he can take care of him self, cuz he’s an adult
but like
he loves when you look out for him
because he knows just how much you care about him
sunshine boy :((
y’all already know how much of a cuddle bug this man is
so of course that means lots of cute, affectionate gestures during the movie
skinship
holding hands
you resting your head on his shoulder
and him resting his head on top of your head
and most importantly SNUGGLES
snuggles are a must
for him, movie dates are just an excuse to be extra touchy with you
even though he never needs an excuse to get cuddles whenever he wants
because c’mon
it’s felix
what are you gonna do, say no?
kim seungmin
murder mystery film
tends not to talk all that much during movies
he’d just be so completely engrossed in the movie that he’d forget about his surroundings
but that’s not to say he won’t hold your hand or drape his arm over your shoulders
every now and then you can catch him leaning forward in his seat
with his mouth slightly ajar
it’s so endearing
but if for whatever reason you want to get his attention...
heh...
yeah, good luck with that
you’d have to maybe give his hand a lil squeeze to get his attention
and at first he’d just turn his head in your direction, keeping his eyes glued to the movie
but if you gave his hand another squeeze, he’d snap out of it
“psst...seungmin”
“mm.”
“hey, seungmin?”
“huh? yeah?”
“i love you”
if that doesn’t make his heart SWELL—
his dazed expression would quickly shift into one of pure elation and fondness
he might not respond verbally
but he’d gently bring your hand up to his lips
press a soft kiss atop your knuckles
and then lower your hand again without letting go, turning his attention back to the movie
but that bright smile of his would never falter for even a moment
he loves you too
so so much :)
yang jeongin
another one for romantic comedies
he likes it when there’s a little less “rom” and slightly more “com”
and so do you
because it means you get to hear his laugh more
oh god...
his laugh
the little giggles in between the short gasps for air...
so cute
“no. i’m not cute.”
he is very cute
probably won’t initiate any skinship
but if you do, he will absolutely go along with it
sometimes he’ll nod off in the middle of a movie
and then wake up during the credits, completely disoriented
“where am i”
“you fell asleep”
“huh??”
“you drooled a little on my shoulder, you goof”
unlike hyunjin, he’s really good at sneaking food into the theaters
like really really good
almost to the point that it’s scary
usually people try to sneak in popcorn or candy or maybe soda
well not jeongin
“hey, you want some?”
“what the- HOW DID YOU GET A BUCKET OF FRIED CHICKEN IN HERE”
“:]”
he’s not telling
like or reblog if you enjoyed ^^ feedback is always welcome and very much appreciated!
#kpop x reader#kpop scenarios#kpop imagines#kpop drabbles#kpop x you#kpop x y/n#kpop fluff#kpop x gender neutral reader#kpop x male reader#kpop male reader#kpop mlm#stray kids x reader#stray kids scenarios#stray kids imagines#stray kids drabbles#stray kids x you#stray kids x y/n#stray kids fluff#stray kids x gender neutral reader#stray kids x male reader#stray kids male reader#stray kids mlm#bang chan x reader#minho x reader#changbin x reader#hyunjin x reader#jisung x reader#felix x reader#seungmin x reader#jeongin x reader
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If u wanna write a thinkpiece on noise music i would be v interested tbh
ok buckle up 🤠
so in this essay i'm going to only focus on and compare nct and skz because they're the forerunners on noise music. full disclaimer: i ult both groups and love the (majority) of their music and i adore the members. this thinkpiece is only to give my most objective opinion on their artistry and music.
what constitutes noise music? and what elements of noise music make it "good music"? to me, noise music has clashing instrumentals, that separated would not sound cohesive at all, but when put together have at least some semblance of musicality. this definition excludes sticker and thunderous from the category of "noise music". ik this might be a controversial opinion, but sticker simply does not have enough instruments in the song to be considered noise. i can practically count on one hand how many instruments are used. yes the weird synth base and flute clash, but there is too much empty space (for back of letter word). i think sticker is definitely experimental, but i would not classify it as noise music. nct noise music includes (but is not limited to) songs like kick it, limitless, chain, mad dog, and to an extent, punch and simon says. i would not classify thunderous as noise music because there is not enough clashing instruments. sure, the song has brass fanfare, but at no point when i'm listening to it do i think it is itching my brain. don't get me wrong, it's a great song, but it is not similar to their other songs like miroh, side effects, god's menu, go live, or cheese. that's why i think trying to compare nct and skz by their newest releases is kind of dumb. however, you can definitely compare and contrast their previous songs
NCT 127
now i'm going to focus on nct 127. although nct dream has some songs that are defined as "noise music" (see: go and hot sauce) it is primarily nct 127's "brand". the main element nct has that turns their music from "bad bad music" to "good bad music" is their vocals. their songs often have small breaks from the clashing instruments to give the listener a relief, and during that break, they showcase what sm is known for (amazing, industry-standard vocals). not only does it break the monotony of the noisy instruments, but it also creates hype for when it resumes! limitless is a great example of this! please do yourself a favor and listen to the instrumental ver of the song on youtube. i get legit goosebumps every time the beat drops all over again. i do have two complaints. 1) there are times were their raps are lacking, and it really kinda almost breaks the whole vibe of the song because it makes me cringe a little. see lemonade as an example, even though i would not classify lemonade as noise music. 2) this is off topic but i kinda rip apart skz a little bit so i feel like i need to be balanced and fair but i literally hate sticker so much and the album, although has good songs, is bland and has little variety
STRAY KIDS
stray kids are the younger cousins of nct. they too focus on noise music, but they have their own twist on it. skz comparitively have better rappers. not saying mark and ty are bad by any means, but there are some nct members that also rap that ... should not and instead be vocals. but skz continuously show hard, impactful raps that nct usually lacks to some extent. this is both a good and bad thing for noise music, depending on your baseline opinion on noise music to begin with. if you generally don't like noise music, raps add even more clashing. if you do like noise music, rap can be used as an additional "instrumental" element. i think a great example would be cb's rap in miroh and god's menu. it hypes up the song either right before the beat drop or at the beginning respectively. nct doesn't really have that, they rely on vocals for the lead up. skz definitely have their own spin on noise music and i'm glad they do, variety is the spice of life. i only have three complaints. 1) they do not use their vocalists to the best of their abilities. sm and in have lower toned voices, yet they are consistently forced to sing notes in a very high register, which can understandably sound strained. to combat this, skz use han for the really high lines. 2) when they do have vocal breaks, they should really utilize lino more. part of the reason why nct's vocal breaks are so good is because they are such a contrast to the rest of the song. have you ever watched judges on cooking network? they often say "i wish you used a spalsh of lemon to lighten up this dish". well in this scenario, light, airy voices are the lemon and the noise music beats are the heavy cream. nct has light voices (dy, hc, jw, and to an extent tl). look at kick it. the very first vocal break is jw and hc and it really elevates the entire rest of the song. now skz really only has lino as a light voice (bc and han also too an extent) yet they very rarely use him, which is disappointing. 3) this is kind of off topic but i'm disappointed that their lastest album, literally termed "noeasy" which is a spin-off of the word "noisy" has only one noise music song. like i said before i do not classify thunderous as noisy, but cheese fits the description. don't get me wrong, noeasy is literally one of my favorite kpop albums now but it does kind of fall short of its given name.
conclusion: i really enjoy nct and skz's music. i think the introduction of the noise genre is a great illustration of why kpop is so unique. kpop is MEANT to be experimental. it is meant to be in your face. it is meant to be loud and colorful. it is meant for you to initially think "wow that's weird" because in the end, 9/10 you'll fall in love with it. i think nct and skz can both improve on different aspects and i think it's interesting to compare the two, but in the end, they both have their own takes on noise music
#*looses followers*#ok disclaimer again bc i don't want angry people in my inbox: i literally run blogs for both of these groups#pls don't twist my words i never once said i hate this member or i hate this group i am just giving my objective musical opinion#you asked and i delivered <3#asks#q 🌾
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Would You Rather
previous part // IAFAG Series Masterlist // next part
main masterlist
Summary: Y/N watches a movie. Bucky thinks she’s only had shit boyfriends.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings: swearing; some sexual innuendos if you squint; spoiler for To All The Boys 2
A/N: i’m just gonna leave this here; i know i’ve just updated it yesterday but I LOVE THIS SERIES SO MUCH
A/N2: i ain’t taking any responsibility for this or the next part (that will come tomorrow?), and as always i’d like to thank my beta and most supportive babe on this earth @the-chocolate-moose (please keep your blood pressure in check, don’t die on me)
Y/N wakes up with fingers grazing over her bare arm. There’s a hard body nestled right next to her and she snuggles closer, breathing in the smell of flesh, sleep and a faint forgotten tone of cologne. The sun that’s shining through the open windows heats her back, but she doesn’t want to move – right on the verge of waking up, there’s nowhere else that could ever feel better than this. A kiss to the top of her head, and she grasps at the tank top under her hand.
“Come on, baby, it’s already 10 o’clock.”
“Who cares?” She mumbles. “It’s Sunday.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been up for half an hour and I can’t listen to your mumbling about The Office anymore.” He says and nudges her in the shoulder. “I’ll make pancakes, come on.”
Y/N’s eyes pop open and she raises her head. Bucky’s hair is mated to one side, his mouth is quirked in a smile and he’s watching her from deep within an ocean. She’s never loved his eyes more than she does first thing in the morning, right before he gets out of bed.
“Can you put some chocolate chips in them, please?” She murmurs, a rare sweet smile that she only keeps for him.
“Sure, honey.” Bucky kisses her forehead once more and stands up from the bed. “Do you still have those coconut flakes I got? I can add those as well if you want.”
Y/N nods as she watches him put on sweatpants. Bucky starts chuckling when he notices her still laying in bed, sheets bunched up on her torso and thighs, inspecting his every move. He leans over her again, making her squeal when he delivers a rain of pecks on her cheeks.
“I’ll make the pancakes, but you have to make the coffee. I still have no idea how that stupid machine of your works.”
“Ok, ok! I’ll get up, jeesh! And here I thought you’re gonna bring me breakfast in bed.” She pouts.
“Who do you think you are, asshole?” He laughs. “Goddamn Queen of England? Get your butt to the kitchen, I’m spoiling you enough as it is.”
With Bucky gone, Y/N manages to put on her own clothes (well, technically that’s Bucky’s t-shirt, but he doesn’t need to know that), brush her teeth and make the bed. The smell of food finally forces her into the open kitchen, but she’s taking her sweet time in order to admire the view. Bucky’s piling pancakes on two plates, topless. Because that’s obviously the way to fucking cook, isn’t it? The muscles in his back and arms ripple with the motions, and Y/N is suddenly reminded how stupid boys are with their cute faces and dumb bodies.
“I’m almost done and there’s still no coffee.” He announces, back still to her.
“Oh, get off it, you big baby. I’ll make you your goddamned coffee.”
She pushes him to the side in order to turn on the machine. He bumps his butt to hers when she passes him to pour some water from the sink, which makes Y/N yelp and jab a finger in his stomach. Bucky slaps her hand away with the spatula, but she just sticks her tongue out and gives him the finger. Leaning on the counter, watching him flip the last pancake, Y/N crosses her arms in front of her.
“Do you have anything to do today?”
“Nope.”
Bucky takes the full plates and sets them on the table in front of the tv. He waits for her to take her own place on the sofa, keeping quiet until she doesn’t have two steaming mugs in her hands anymore.
“Peggy is spending her weekend at our place, so I was hoping to just hang around here and be lazy with you.”
“Ugh, fine. But if you’re gonna make me put on more clothes, I’ll kick you out.” She warns.
“When did I ever ask you to put on more clothes, babe?”
“You’re disgusting.”
A few hours later, Bucky is scrolling through his phone, while Y/N is laying under his arm, his free hand absently playing with hers. She’s entirely enraptured by what is happening in the movie on tv, which made her bite his knuckles once or twice. He’s unable to focus enough to follow the plot, but her comments and grumbles still make him laugh. A gasp suddenly escapes her lips and she squeezes his forearm, effectively trapping it between her chest and her hands. Bucky can feel her heartbeat under his skin, but he’s a bit distracted by the softness right at the edge of his arm.
“I knew it! I knew you were gonna go back to Peter!” She shouts. “Oh my God, that is so sweet. He loves her so much. Look, baby! Babe, look, look, they’re kissing, he loves her!”
“Stop pulling at my arm, I’m looking, you dumbass! Jesus Christ, how can you be so strong when you’re so tiny?” Bucky grumbles. “What happened?”
“He told her he’s been waiting for her to drive her home because it’s snowing and he knows she doesn’t like driving when it’s snowing. Isn’t this the cutest thing ever?”
Bucky frowns at the tv and then down at Y/N. She’s pouting, big puppy eyes waiting for his reaction. He flicks her forehead, making her bite on his thumb that she’s still clutching.
“Your boyfriends must’ve been shit if you think that’s the cutest thing ever.”
“He’s just a soft boy who’s told her she can break his heart if she wants to. How is that not romantic?”
Bucky shifts in his place until he’s laying on the couch, Y/N on top of him. She crosses her hands on his chest and places her chin on top, demanding an explanation. He smells like coffee and aftershave, and she’s just now noticing his jaw is clean. A finger traces his face until it lands on his bottom lip and she taps it two times. Bucky grabs her hand, kisses each of her finger tips and clutches it back to his chest.
“Ok, so this is a movie about teenagers, right?” He asks and waits for her to nod. “So, it’s more than likely they’ll break up when they’ll move to college. Now, would you rather live the greatest love story of all but not end up with that person or make it work with someone, putting in the effort through the years, knowing that in the end it was all worth it?”
“Can’t I have both?” She giggles. “Alright, fine. In the great words of my sweet bean Michael, ‘if soulmates do exist, they're not found. They're made. People meet, they get a good feeling, and then they get to work building a relationship.’ I’d rather be with someone who I can trust with all my being, although it might get tough at times. I don’t need a soulmate and I don’t need to be swept off my feet constantly, to live a whirlwind romance that ends up fizzling out. I want someone that I can count on, that I know will be there for me no matter what. I want someone I know I can love unconditionally and who will love me back no matter how atrocious I can get at times.”
“You can get pretty horrible.” Bucky nods seriously and has to dodge another flick of her hand. “So, there you go. It’s not the cutest thing ever. It’s cute, yes, but we both know there are more important things in a relationship.”
Y/N hums in agreement and lowers her head on his chest. Her eyes are starting to droop, the heat of the sun mixed with the smell of him making her drowsy.
“Would you rather marry me or your supposed soulmate?” She mumbles, already half asleep.
“You are my soulmate. I’d marry you in any life.” Bucky murmurs in her hair.
“You can’t. Sam would have a heart attack.” Bucky’s laugh rumbles under her, making her smile. “We should do it though. I mean, I’m never going to find anyone I love more than you anyway.”
“I want a spring wedding then.” He chuckles.
“Good. Me too.”
***
Taglist:
@imma-new-soul @feelmyroarrrr @bxrnsfeyson @miss-nerd95 @geeksareunique @welostkirsten @free-as-fishes @jessyballet @fckdeusername @eternallyanxiousandstressed @get0verit @cap-just-said-language @bubblegumbarnes @gaya-is-weird-af @lollipopdomination @shadowsndaisies @rynabarnesrogers
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes!friends au#mcu!friends au
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Chatti
The Chatti were a Germanic tribe located in modern day Hesse and southern Saxony, Germany. They were one of the largest and most powerful tribes of Germania, only the Cherusci were as large as the Chatti tribe. I have written a post about this tribe last year but I wanted to add more information and of course this group has gained so many new members since last year, that most probably missed my previous post on this tribe. Also thanks to Netflix’ new show ‘the Barbarians’ the Chatti has gained more attention. Somewhere around 100BC, there was a huge internal conflict in the Chatti tribe, this conflict resulted in the split of the tribe. Two groups of Chatti tribesmen/women migrated towards the lower Rhine area in modern day Netherlands, this is how the Batavi and Cananefates were born.
The meaning of the tribe’s name isn’t 100% certain but most theories lead to the following meaning: ‘the angry’ or ‘the haters’ from the Proto-Germanic word Hataz. If this is the correct meaning of their name, it is quite a curious one. Why would a tribe call themselves like that? It might have something to do with a conflict that they experienced with another tribe or the conflict that caused the tribe to split back in 100BC. Perhaps the tribe’s name isn’t Germanic in origin at all. Another theory suggests that the word Chatti comes from the Proto-Celtic word Cat which means ‘battle’ or ‘fight’. If this is the case, the pronunciation is also different ‘Khatti’. Yet again these are just theories and nothing is 100% certain. The modern day region of Hesse, where the Chatti once lived, has most likely been named after the tribe.
The first written records about this tribe came from Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus, the stepson of emperor Augustus. After Germanicus was appointed as the governour of Gaul, he launched a series of campaigns into Germania in an attempt to conquer Germania just like how Gaul was conquered and added to the Roman empire. The first of his campaigns started in 12BC and was very succesful for Germanicus. He crossed the Rhine with his army and subjugated the Sicambri tribe. Germanicus was also the first Roman to reach the Weser river in northern Germany, close to modern day Denmark.
During a later campaign in the same year, he also subjugated the Batavi and the Frisii and defeated the Chauci at the river Weser. In the following year, 11BC, Germanicus defeated the Marsii, Bructeri and the Usipetes. From 10-9BC Germanicus also defeated the Chatti, Cherusci and Marcomanni. It seems as though nothing could stop him from conquering all of Germania, he almost succeeded at this until a fall from his horse during his fourth campaign killed him. It is likely that Germania would have become a Roman province if Germanicus didn’t fell off his horse.
It was during Drusus Germanicus’ campaigns that the famous Arminius of the Cherusci was sent to Rome as tribute by his father, together with his brother Flavus. Relationships between the Cherusci and the Romans continued to sour in the following years after their defeat by the Romans during Germanicus’ campaigns. This eventually led to Arminius revolting against the Romans in 9AD. The king of the Chatti, Adgandestrius, was quick to join Arminius. The Chatti also haven’t forgotten Germanicus’ campaigns in Germania. The revolt led to the famous Teutoburgerwald battle during which three Roman legions were completely destroyed
This battle would be the biggest military defeat for Rome. While Germanicus almost succeeded at conquering Germania, this battle led to the abandonment of all plans to expand the Roman empire into Germania. Permanent borders were established along the Rhine river which kept Germania free. Interestingly enough, Adgandestrius turned against Arminius in 19AD. He even went as far as to ask Rome for help in assassinating Arminius with poison. This request was denied by the Romans as they saw this as a dishonourable way to defeat Arminius, the Romans prefered to meet him in battle. Arminius died two years later, betrayed and murdered by his own people who thought that Arminius was getting way too powerful. (Hope I didn’t just spoil the show for you guys, I still haven’t watched it)
Almost half a century later, another conflict broke out, this time between the Chatti and the Hermunduri in 58AD. Both tribes fought for control over a river that was rich in salt that flowed between the two tribes. This whole conflict has been recorded by Tacitus who described that this river was also very religiously important to the Germanic people. It is not certain which river is mentioned by Tacitus, it is either the Rhine or Main (a river connected to the Rhine). The Germanic people believed that this river was closely connected to the realm of the Gods. If you would make a prayer at the banks of the river Rhine, it would be directly received by the Gods. Both tribes also vowed their enemies to Tyr and Wodan before the battle started. This vow meant that the defeated party was sacrificed to Tyr and Wodan, unfortunately for the Chatti, they lost this battle.
Another revolt broke out in 69AD, this time the Batavi revolted against the Roman empire. The Chatti also joined this rebellion, even though the Batavi were once part of the Chatti and left due to a conflict. The Batavi were able to destroy two Roman legions and several Roman fortifications before the revolt was put down. The Chatti laid siege to Mogontiacum, modern day city of Mainz. Even though the Romans lost their trust in the Batavi, they recognized their strong fighting power and are named the strongest of all the Germanic tribes, not in number but in skills.
20 years later in 89AD, the Chatti joined another revolt. This time two Roman legions under Antoninus Saturninus revolted against emperor Dominitan. Unfortunately all documents describing this event are lost or destroyed so we can sadly never know what event led to two Roman legions revolting against their emperor. There is a theory that the revolt was caused by Dominitan’s strict moral policies for the officers of the army. The revolt however failed before it could really begin. It would have been interesting to observe this revolt if it had succeeded, a curious sight Romans and Chatti warriors fighting side by side.
In 98AD Tacitus published his famous work the Germania, in this work he describes the Chatti as following:
“Beyond these dwell the Chatti, whose settlements, beginning from the Hercynian forest, are in a tract of country less open and marshy than those which overspread the other states of Germany, for it consists of a continued range of hills, which gradually become more scattered and the Hercynian forest both accompanies and leaves behind, its Chatti.
This nation is distinguished by hardier frames, compactness of limb, fierceness of countenance, and superior vigor of mind. For Germanics, they have a considerable share of understanding and sagacity, they choose able persons to command, and obey them when chosen, keep their ranks, seize opportunities, restrain impetuous motions, distribute properly the business of the day, intrench themselves against the night, account fortune dubious, and valor only certain, and, what is extremely rare, and only a consequence of discipline, depend more upon the general than the army.
Their force consists entirely in infantry who, besides their arms, are obliged to carry tools and provisions. Other nations appear to go to a battle, the Chatti, to war. Excursions and casual encounters are rare amongst them. It is, indeed, peculiar to cavalry soon to obtain, and soon to yield, the victory. Speed borders upon timidity slow movements are more akin to steady valor.
A custom followed among the other Germanic nations only by a few individuals, of more daring spirit than the rest, is adopted by general consent among the Chatti. From the time they arrive at years of maturity they let their hair and beard grow and do not divest themselves of this votive badge, the promise of valor, till they have slain an enemy. Over blood and spoils they unveil the countenance, and proclaim that they have at length paid the debt of existence, and have proved themselves worthy of their country and parents. The cowardly and effeminate continue in their squalid disguise.
The bravest among them wear also an iron ring (a mark of ignominy in that nation) as a kind of chain, till they have released themselves by the slaughter of a foe. Many of the Chatti assume this distinction, and grow hoary under the mark, conspicuous both to foes and friends. By these, in every engagement, the attack is begun: they compose the front line, presenting a new spectacle of terror. Even in peace they do not relax the sternness of their aspect. They have no house, land, or domestic cares, they are maintained by whomsoever they visit, lavish of another's property, regardless of their own till the debility of age renders them unequal to such a rigid course of military virtue.” – Tacitus
Not much is further known about the Chatti besides the fact that they raided Roman territory between 160-170AD. Eventually elements of the Chatti, together with the Batavi, Cherusci, Tencteri, Tubantes, Chamavi, Bructeri, Sicambri and the Ampsivarii formed together in a confederation called the Franks. They settled in modern day southern Netherlands and Belgium around 300AD and were first of the Franks who eventually founded modern day France. The remaining Chatti remained in their original location and continued raiding the Romans wherever they could, by 300AD the Roman western borders were severely weakened by internal conflicts.
Eventually the remaining Chatti became the Hessi during the early medieval ages, this was first recorded in 782AD. Hesse itself has a long and rich history but that is not a topic for this group, feel free to explore this topic further if you are interested in Hesse’s history.
Here is a map which shows the location of the Chatti, a map showing Roman campaigns into Germania before the Teutoburgerwald battle and a depiction of Germanic warriors from the game Rome 2 total war.
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Eitr | Chapter 10
Fanfic summary: In an alternate universe where the Raven Clan is wiped out, Sigurd ends up being rescued by the son of a Saxon ealdorman, and is tasked with being the boy’s new bodyguard. Upon meeting the boy’s father however, Sigurd soon realizes that the ealdorman is responsible for his clan’s destruction, and secretly plans for revenge while hiding behind the guise of a Norse pagan turned Christian.
Point of view: third-person
Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male OC
Author’s note: Thanks for being patient with me guys. I know I’ve been sucking ass in terms of getting these chapters out at a frequent rate, but I really appreciate you all being so understanding with me. Hope you enjoy this part, and thanks again for the support.
This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter
ONE WEEK LATER
ELMENHAM, THE LONGHOUSE
Oswald threw an incredulous stare at Eivor upon hearing the news, unable to deny the doubt that was settling into his mind.
“The ealdorman of Wedenscire did this?” He asked. “Are you certain?”
Eivor shrugged, fidgeting with his axe as he relaxed in a chair.
“That’s what Gjuki tells me. There is still much information to be uncovered when it comes to the nature of this ambush, but based on what he has brought to me so far, I think it’s safe to assume that Aegenwulf was involved with the attack at the very least.”
The king placed his hands on his hips and began to pace around the room. “I just... I find it difficult to believe that he would act so brazenly -- especially in the middle of a war, no less. Aegenwulf has never been fond of the Danes, that is true, but he is a man of honor; a man of God. If he truly is behind the attack on Ravensthorpe, why would he do such a thing? What reason could he have to treat your people in such a way?”
Eivor sighed, tracing the edge of his blade. “I do not yet know, but his crimes go beyond what happened at Ravensthorpe. He also has my brother.”
That caught Oswald’s attention. “Aegenwulf has Sigurd? Is he holding him prisoner?”
“Not officially, but he may as well be. I have only heard fragments of the entire situation in Forangal, but Gjuki tells me Sigurd is slowly being brainwashed. He bears their sigil, and raises a blade in the ealdorman’s name. He obeys Aegenwulf’s every word, and apparently, has expressed some hesitation in terms of going along with my plans to assault the fortress. There are even whispers that he might convert to Christianity soon. They are turning him into a thrall.”
The Saxon king shook his head in sympathy, gazing blankly at the floor. “I’m... so sorry, Eivor. You’ve made it quite clear how much Sigurd means to you. I can’t imagine what it’s like watching a loved one lose sense of who they are. I wish I could make all this go away with a snap of my fingers, but we’ll need more men if we are to breach the walls of Forangal Castle.”
Eivor rose from his seat, sliding his axe back into its sheathe. “Have no fear, Oswald. We will have the forces we need soon enough. I have just finished securing an alliance in Eurvicscire. A couple more, and we should be ready to get Sigurd back.”
“Good. In the meantime, I will do all I can to prepare. A fragile peace hangs over East Anglia, but if there’s any chance we can save your brother, I’ll be there when you call for me. So will Valdis.”
“Thank you, Oswald.” Eivor said sincerely. “I know I’m asking a lot, but if we don’t rescue Sigurd from Forangal, he could end up dead. Or worse.”
“I understand. This is not something we can simply let go. If Aegenwulf really is at the heart of all this, we must bring him to justice. He has the blood of many innocents on his hands, and that cannot go unpunished.”
Oswald strolled back to his throne, finally having a seat after a long day of work.
“Carry on with your plans, Eivor. I will inform Valdis of what is to come. In the meantime, do your best to keep your head high. I know these are trying times, but Sigurd is going to need your strength if his situation is truly as bad as Gjuki reports.”
Eivor gave him a nod, making his way out of the longhouse. “I know, Oswald. And I will. I’m not giving up on him yet.”
~~~~~~~~~~
THAT NIGHT
FORANGAL CASTLE, SIGURD’S CHAMBERS
Dragging a small stone along the edge of his sword, Sigurd sharpened the blade underneath the pale moonlight as he sat by the window, continuously checking to see if Gjuki had lit the brazier yet.
It had been about a week or so ever since he began searching for Algar’s hidden crypt, and with no further updates to inform Sigurd of what was going on, the man couldn’t deny that he was starting to grow anxious.
What if something had happened to Gjuki? What if he had been caught? What if all this was for nothing? What would he do?
The last thing Sigurd wanted was to think about the possible outcomes that could arise if their plan was foiled, but the thoughts continued to creep into his mind regardless. There were so many risks at hand and so many lives to consider, that he was beginning to wonder if all their effort was doomed to end in futility.
After all, they were heavily outnumbered in this part of England. Aside from Gjuki and his men, Sigurd really had no one else to rely on in Wedenscire. Of course, he had the support of Aegenwulf’s children to back him up, but in the face of true monarchy, he doubted that their approval of him would mean much to the ealdorman in the end.
Still, he supposed there was no use in worrying until he had a solid reason to believe something was amiss. Gjuki had already proven himself to be a skilled warrior in the past, and with Eivor waiting just beyond the horizon to bring Aegenwulf to justice, Sigurd remained confident in the fact that they would reunite someday.
Though, of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t frightened.
“...Sigurd?” A man suddenly said from behind the door, their gruff voice muffled by its material. “Are you in there?”
The viking placed his sword down and walked over to the entrance, straightening his tunic along the way.
“One moment.”
Swinging the door open with a firm pull, Sigurd paused in surprise when he saw an unexpected face greeting him from the other side, admittedly confused about their presence here.
“Thegn Raedan?” He said. “Is there something you need?”
The nobleman took a moment to observe the Norse in front of him, flicking his eyes up and down.
“So...” Raedan replied quietly, not wanting to wake Forangal’s people, “you’re Sigurd the Lone-Wolf. I apologize for the abrupt visit -- especially at such a late hour -- but I wanted to speak with you face-to-face. After all, I don’t think you and I have had the chance to sit down and have a proper conversation yet, have we?”
“No, we haven’t.”
The Saxon quirked a brow at him. “...May I come in?”
Sigurd stepped to the side, allowing him entry. “Of course, my lord.”
Walking into the dimly-lit chamber, Raedan strolled towards the window and leaned against the wall beside it, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword as Sigurd closed the door behind him.
“So,” the viking said, “what did you wish to speak about?”
Raedan was quiet for a second. “...Well, a few things. But mainly, my wife. Moira. You’ve met her a handful of times by now, haven’t you? I know she’s been giving you some trouble since we first arrived, and I’m sorry about that. She is a good woman, but she’s also very protective. And I fear that the history between our people and yours has been anything but peaceful.”
The viking crossed his arms. “I assume her distrust towards me isn’t without reason.”
The Saxon nodded. “And you’d be correct. I’ll spare you the details, but... just know that she lost her own mother to the vikings. Many years ago. It’s the main reason her father arranged a marriage between the two of us. He wanted to secure an alliance with my family in order to drive the Danes out of their lands. It worked in the end... but at a great cost.”
Sigurd’s tone softened with empathy. “...I’m sorry to hear that. I know how it feels.”
“I imagine we all do, nowadays. Unfortunately. It’s rare to find someone who has evaded the tragedy of this war, and even rarer to find someone who hasn’t been changed by it. But I digress...”
Raedan approached Sigurd, lowering his voice so that it was barely above a whisper.
“May I ask you something, Lone Wolf?”
The Norseman nodded. “Certainly.”
“...From what I understand, you’re quite close to Aegenwulf, aren’t you?”
Sigurd shook his head. “Not particularly, no. In fact, I hardly know anything about him.”
“Is that so? Well, I must admit, that’s somewhat of a surprise. I simply assumed you were friends since he’s allowed you to stay here. Most Danes that cross paths with Aegenwulf end up with a severed head.”
“It was mostly his children who influenced his decision to spare me,” Sigurd explained. “Initially, Aegenwulf was going to have me executed.”
Raedan chuckled softly. “Ah, yes. That’s more what I expected. Still, it doesn’t sound like the Aegenwulf I knew all those years ago. He’s always been a stern bastard, mind you, but... I feel as if he’s changed lately. And not for the better.”
Sigurd recalled what Edric told him. “Well, he did lose one of his sons.”
“Aye. Gareth. I heard about that. Such a horrible death, and one that I fear has left Aegenwulf in a perpetual state of despair. He always puts on a smile when he’s around me, but I can’t help but feel as if it’s no more than a facade.”
The viking picked up on his tone. “You’re worried about him?”
“I am. That’s why I came to you. I hate to talk about a man behind his back, but I thought you might know something that could help. Seems he’s keeping secrets from everyone these days, though.”
Sigurd couldn’t hide the sharpness in his voice. “Not everyone.”
“Oh? You have someone in mind?”
The Norseman sighed out of hesitance, somewhat reluctant to answer the question. Part of him trusted Raedan to handle information like this with an objective mind -- he seemed quite rational, after all -- but the other part regretted saying anything in the first place.
Still, he wondered if it’d be best if someone from outside of Forangal knew the reality of the situation. Sigurd wasn’t willing to open up to Raedan about everything just yet, but... maybe it could’ve helped if one of Aegenwulf’s oldest allies had the gist of what was going on.
He only prayed he wasn’t wrong.
“...It’s Algar.” Sigurd finally confessed.
Raedan furrowed his brow. “Algar? You mean Aegenwulf’s housecarl? What about him? Have you noticed anything strange?”
“Nothing specific,” he lied, “but it doesn’t take much to see that he’s influencing Aegenwulf’s way of thinking -- and not in a good way.”
Strangely enough, the other man didn’t seem too shocked. “Yes... I’ve heard the folks in this castle whispering about him. Edric’s mentioned him a few times as well. I get the impression that no one here is really fond of him, and now I’m starting to suspect there’s more to it than mere speculation.”
“Indeed. Everyone I’ve met so far has called him a snake. Perhaps it’d be worth keeping an eye on him--”
Sigurd came to an abrupt pause, suddenly noticing a lone flame glowing in the distance. It appeared to be coming from the pier just as Gjuki said it would, and he could’ve sworn he saw someone moving around in the shadows.
It must’ve been him.
“Sigurd?” Raedan said, pulling the viking from his thoughts. “Is... everything alright?”
The bodyguard brought his gaze back to the nobleman, quickly conjuring up an excuse.
“Erm, f-forgive me, my lord. I hate to cut our conversation short, but I just remembered I have an important matter to take care of. I’m afraid it can’t wait. If you’ll excuse me...”
Raedan nodded, giving him a casual wave. “Of course, Sigurd. Do what you must, and thank you for lending your ear to this old dog. I’ll keep in mind what you said about Algar, and I think we’d both do best to observe his every move. In the meantime, keep Aegenwulf’s children safe, understand? I don’t know what’s going on with his housecarl, but those little rascals don’t deserve any harm.”
“Understood. You have my word.”
The Saxon began heading for the exit, satisfied with the information he gathered. “Very good. I’ll see myself off, then. Take care of yourself, Lone Wolf. This place is far from safe, and I fear it’ll stay that way for quite some time.” He gave him one last glance.
“Until we meet again.”
~~~~~~~~~~
A FEW MINUTES LATER
THE PIER
Tugging his hood further down his face, Sigurd stuck to the path as he navigated his way through the darkness, doing his best to stay concealed in the overwhelming blackness of the night.
So far, he had yet to notice anyone tailing him through the wilderness, and the foliage around him remained calm with inactivity, but he couldn’t seem to fight off the sense of dread that was crawling underneath his skin.
It just felt... ominous out here. There was too much silence; too much stillness. The world was devoid of any life during this time of day, and it didn’t reflect the same atmosphere Sigurd experienced when he went hunting with Edric at all.
Perhaps it was just nerves, he thought. The night always seemed to draw out a certain type of fear from people’s hearts, and the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be out here in the first place certainly didn’t help.
His mind may have been racing with about a thousand different thoughts at the moment, what with all the anxiety that was building up in his chest, but he had to remind himself to stay calm.
Panicking would only make him stand out more after all, and he couldn’t afford to be caught.
“...Gjuki?” Sigurd whispered cautiously, quietly approaching the pier as he stepped into the brazier’s circle of light. “Gjuki, are you there?”
There was no response.
“Gjuki,” He repeated a bit louder, starting to grow concerned. “It’s me, Sigurd. You can come out.”
Still, he received no answer.
Where was that damned bard? He wondered. Had Gjuki been forced to flee prematurely due to some sort of threat? Or had Sigurd simply mistaken this flame as his signal?
He assumed the fire had been lit by Gjuki, considering that this pier was abandoned. No one else had any reason to make use of this place, and the timing of its appearance had to be more than just a coincidence.
Though, in spite of all that, the bard remained nowhere to be seen. There was no trace of Gjuki lying around the vicinity, and if Sigurd looked closely enough at the wooden floor of the pier, he could’ve sworn he saw some type of red liquid staining its surface.
Wait a minute.
Was that...?
“Hello, Lone Wolf.”
Whirling around at the sudden voice, Sigurd barely had any time to react before he felt the sharp sting of an armored fist bashing him in the face, causing him to fall to the ground.
He heard a group of footsteps swarming him as soon as he hit the floor, and within the blink of an eye, a pair of men had grabbed him by the arms, restraining him in their grasp.
“Hold him down!” A familiar voice bellowed over the commotion.
Sigurd struggled violently in their grip and desperately attempted to break free, only to receive a firm kick to the stomach. His head was still spinning from the initial punch, and now, his organs felt as if they were about to climb up his throat too.
“Stay still!” One of the men barked, shoving Sigurd’s face into the ground as he bent the man’s arms behind his back. But the viking wasn’t done fighting yet.
Despite being somewhat dazed from the attack, Sigurd wrestled even harder with the guards and let out an aggressive grunt, trying to weaken their grasp.
Before he could resist their seizure any further however, a metallic scrape suddenly reached his ears, forcing him to bring his attention to the dagger that was now kissing the flesh on his throat.
“Move one more muscle,” his captor hissed, “and I’ll plant this little beauty straight through your eye.”
Sigurd glared at the man on the other side of the blade, instantly recognizing their face.
“...Algar.”
The housecarl grinned widely, leaning in closer to him as he pulled his hood back. “Well, well. If it isn’t the blue-eyed demon. I had a feeling you would turn up sooner or later, Sigurd. I’m so glad to see you again.”
Sigurd ignored the man’s taunts, focused entirely on the absence of his friend. “Where’s Gjuki? What have you done with him?”
Algar raised a brow. “Oh, you mean the bard? There’s no need to worry about him, mate. I assure you, he’s receiving the exact treatment he deserves.”
The viking glowered at the malevolence in his tone, horrified to imagine what Gjuki could’ve been going through at the moment.
“I’ll kill you for this, you dog...!” Sigurd growled through clenched teeth.
The Saxon offered nothing but a chuckle in response. “You’ve certainly got a fire in you, Lone Wolf. There’s no denying that. I almost... respect it in a way. But unfortunately, I doubt you’ll be doing anything in your position.”
Algar grabbed Sigurd by the hair, yanking his head upwards from the ground with a hard tug.
“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t figure out what you and your friend were doing? How blind do you think I am? I warned you what would happen if you defied me, Sigurd, but it seems my threats fell on deaf ears. A shame, really, seeing as how you would’ve made a great warrior. All you had to do was follow our fucking orders. Now though, I’m afraid your fate rests in Aegenwulf’s hands.”
Algar let go of the viking’s hair and stood up from the ground, giving his men a series of commands.
“Tie him up, and bring him back to the castle. I’ll inform the ealdorman of what has transpired here. In the meantime, make sure this one stays put in the dungeons. I don’t want him to see even a sliver of sunlight until Aegenwulf permits it.”
“Right away, sir.” They answered in unison.
“Good. Then our business here is concluded. Oh, and Sigurd?” Algar shot a smirk at him. “Have no fear. I’ll personally see to it that your friend Edric hears of this. Can’t wait to see what he thinks.”
Sheathing his weapon, Algar swiftly walked over to his horse and prepared to return to the castle, dousing the brazier’s fire with a splash of water from the river.
Meanwhile, his men wrapped a cloth around Sigurd’s mouth and secured him with an abundance of ropes, ensuring that the man couldn’t move. Afterwards, they hauled him up from the ground and threw him over the back of one of their mounts, rendering him completely defenseless.
Sigurd was terrified right now. He had no idea what Algar intended to do with him, nor if Aegenwulf would spare him a second time -- and considering the fact that Gjuki could’ve been dead, he assumed he had lost his only chance to discover what the housecarl was doing behind closed doors.
Everything was going to hell.
Not only would he be a prisoner of Algar’s now, his identity would also be exposed to everyone in Forangal. They would learn his real name, and finally hear the truth of his cryptic background. Edric would believe that his clan was responsible for the death of his brother, and the trust that they had built thus far would crumble into ash.
Blood of Tyr, Sigurd thought to himself. What on earth had done? Would he even survive this next week?
How was he going to contact Eivor now? Were Gjuki’s people aware of what was happening? Surely, Eivor would realize something was amiss with the bard’s disappearance.
Or perhaps... he would just assume they were dead. Hope was in short supply nowadays due to everything going on in the war, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to believe that Sigurd had been killed whilst in the hands of Saxon enemies. Eivor probably had many other things to worry about at the moment, and the viking could only pray that his brother would be vigilant enough to notice that something had gone wrong.
Otherwise... Sigurd didn’t know what else he would do. There weren’t many chances to escape in a situation like this, and the odds were heavily stacked against him.
Right now, his only option seemed to be compliance. He imagined his stay with Algar would simply worsen if he fought back, and any defiance would’ve surely swayed Aegenwulf towards a less forgiving approach.
Edric was the one person who had any hope of changing the ealdorman’s mind, and just like before, Sigurd had no choice but to rely on the young man’s help.
He was the only one who could’ve saved him now, and unless his view of the viking changed after hearing Algar’s report, Sigurd hoped he would be able to see reason.
There was something deeper connecting the two of them, and now, after all this time, he would finally see for himself if it ever actually meant anything.
#assassin's creed valhalla#ac valhalla#sigurd styrbjornson#male oc#sigurd x male oc#ac valhalla fanfic#eitr
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7, 8, 9, and 10 for Meme for Fic Writers. Have fun!
Ahhh, thank you for the asks, my friend! Here is the question list. Throwing it under the cut for length!
7.) Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.
Seeking Resonance
“But, even as he ran his fingers down her upper arm, even as he acknowledged that she was a crucial part of him, Takeru wished that he could step away from her, ridding himself of the intruder who burrowed more deeply towards his core every day. There is fear in love, he repeated to himself. It was the opening line in one of his latest- and most popular- poems. It was certainly not a new thought, but then, what was? What mattered was the presentation, the depth of emotion placed into the words. And he had bled out over that poem, plucking words from his heart as one might pluck thorns from flesh: slowly, carefully, with much pain, swearing, and wine.”
I’m not saying that this is the best thing I’ve written, or even that I’m proud of it, but... I like this bit because I think I nailed what writing can feel like, sometimes. That’s when you know you’re being vulnerable and honest.
And if you’re going to read just one thing I’ve written- just one full chapter- make it Yamato’s chapter in After August. It’s got everything, man. It’s got some solid writing, it’s got Hiroaki, it’s got me finally starting to really figure out how to write Yamato, it’s got the coalescence of the point I was struggling to reach with the whole fic. Check out the opening scene:
When Yamato left for school this morning, his father was already gone. He returned to an empty apartment, cooked and ate alone, cleaned up, and started his homework in his room. Scowling, Yamato dropped his pencil and leaned back in his chair. The quiet was intense, endless, absolute. It was to the ears as utter darkness is to the eyes: a fearsome void.
He drummed his fingers against the desk, needing the noise. He considered moving to the living room and turning on the TV or stereo, but the thought made him tense. Living rooms were supposed to be shared spaces, gathering places. His bedroom already felt huge. The main apartment area was like a cavern.
The image made him shudder. The four walls surrounding him seemed to darken. Yamato exclaimed, slammed his hands on the desk, and pushed himself to his feet. Could the dark cave suck him in on earth?
Gabumon's not here to help me. No one is. Yamato's breathing was labored, lungs straining for air. He collapsed on his bed, bent over, and cradled his head in his hands.
Seconds passed, and nothing happened. Somewhat reassured, Yamato straightened. His eyes landed on the framed picture on the edge of his desk. He focused on Gabumon as his heartbeat slowed back to normal.
Sighing, Yamato lifted the picture and pulled it in. When he was upset in the Digital World, Gabumon sometimes asked him to play the harmonica. Somehow, his digimon knew that making music was an outlet for Yamato, a way to siphon off his emotions.
I guess I was thinking that it's too quiet... Yamato sat the picture down, then leaned forward to open a desk drawer. His harmonica was stored there in its case, the spot where it remained now, safe from being lost or damaged.
Yamato grabbed the instrument and spent a moment appreciating the tactile sensations of cool metal and sliding his fingers over the square openings in the comb. He lay down on his bed, closed his eyes, and lifted the harmonica to his mouth.
Although he already had a song in mind, he warmed up with a few scales, inhaling and exhaling to hit every note, blocking airflow to unwanted chambers with his tongue. Giving each part of the instrument its due was meditation for his troubled heart.
And after his breath warmed each chamber and every note sang, he began to play Gabumon's favorite song.
8.) Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.
Hahahaha! For me, I love love love writing dialogue between Koushiro and Taichi. I feel that Koushiro can be his most direct and short with Taichi, and that’s... So, so, delightful. I also really love when writers or actors convey characters talking over each other/cutting one another off, because it happens so often, and is so rarely shown? (Also, you can see from the “cool head” bit that I had not yet nailed writing Yamato at this point).
From Seeking Resonance:
Thankfully, this set the operator down to business, and the ambulance was dispatched. Taichi lowered the phone and stared down at Eimi. Now what do I do? He had no clue, so he called Yamato, turning to someone with a cool head. When the call went to voice mail, he tried Koushiro, muttering orders for the nerd to get off his computer and answer. His nerves frayed more with each ring, and he barked a curse when the chiming stopped.
An exasperated sigh blew into his ear. “Honestly, Taichi-san. Be profane elsewhere. I’m trying to work.”
“Koushiro!” A flash of relief and surprise lightened his strain. It didn’t even occur to him to pick at his friend for being up and probably working before sunrise.
“Thank God. Shut up and listen.”
“Taichi-san-” The dry disapproval that accompanied their typical repartee colored Koushiro’s voice. Taichi grunted in response, but it sounded more like a growl.
“Shut up! I’m with Eimi-”
“I’m aware-”
“I just called her an ambulance. She’s nonresponsive and burning up. She, she…” His voice broke in a fashion he hadn’t heard since early puberty. “She looks like shit, Koushiro. I, I’m terrified.”
There was a short beat of silence, broken by a sharp intake of breath on the opposite line. “What do I do?!”
“Uh- Well-” In any other situation, Taichi would have laughed at Koushiro for stalling and stuttering, but it scraped at his nerves now. “Jyou keeps an emergency bag in the closet closest to his front door-”
“How the hell does that help me-”
“And he likely passed that habit onto Eimi-san. Check and see if she has one. It should contain clothing, personal items, insurance information, and the like. And at this hour, you’re probably running around in boxers.”
Taichi was already sprinting towards the foyer closet, his feet crashing like thunder against the stairs. He was, as Koushiro predicted, a pair of boxers away from being butt naked. “Fuck you.”
“Charmed. Find the bag, clothe yourself, and carry Eimi to the couch in the library; it’s closest to the front door. Put something on her feet. Text me the name of the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Koushiro- Thank you.” Taichi cut the call off without waiting for a reply, then shoved the phone under his armpit. His bare feet slid against the hardwood as he cut his speed by the closet.
9.) Which fic has been the hardest to write?
...Seeking Resonance, probably. I think I got pretty real about how hard it is to make your way as an adult. It’s a vulnerable work.
10.) Which fic has been the easiest to write?
Definitely So You Were Alive, which I wrote and posted in under two hours.
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horses? in MY westerns?
It’s exactly as likely as you think! That is, very likely! The genre wouldn’t exist without them, and I feel like people should talk about them more often, especially wrt fics and fic-writing! So, that’s exactly what I hope to do: give a little run-down of how these very strange dogs work, and how to make them seem a little more real in your transformative works.
DISCLAIMER: I’m an English rider who’s been riding English for almost ten years now! I don’t ride western, and I could count on one hand the amount of times I’ve been in a western saddle. Even so, the people in western flicks aren’t exactly competing in shows, and I think a lot of the basic principles carry through. If I get anything grievously wrong, though, feel free to correct me!
Long post below the cut:
PART ONE: ANATOMY
Both of the horses and of tack, anatomy is important for understanding how things work! Since I suppose people only really need to know the anatomy of a horse as it relates to the equipment placed on said horse, I’ll mention it as it comes up.
I. The saddle
Western saddles differ from English saddles in lots of ways, but the main difference between them is that western saddles are designed to be comfortable for the rider to be in for hours at a time. They have deep seats with a high cantle and pommel (back and front, respectively), which makes them easier to stay in than a flatter English saddle. That’s how people can stand to stay on horseback for those long trail rides, or days at a time spent in the saddle moving a herd across the desert. Saddles sit just behind the withers (above the highest point of the shoulder on a horse, that visible ‘bump’ after the neck ties into the back), usually with a saddle pad or blanket between the saddle and the horse’s back. The cinch, which is the strap that holds the saddle onto the horse, wraps around his barrel (essentially his belly and sides, the main barrel-shaped part of his body. Go figure.) just behind his front leg. Some horses also are fitted with a breast collar, which is a strap that attaches to the middle of the cinch and the front of the saddle through his front legs to keep the saddle from sliding back.
The horn on the front of a saddle might look like a tempting handhold while you’re on the horse, but it’s not meant for grabbing. The horn comes from the saddle’s purpose on cutting and reining horses, and is for tying roped cattle to. Grabbing it while riding is more liable to put you off-balance than anything, as you’re hunched forward and out of the stirrups.
Speaking of! The stirrups are the things that you put your feet in while you’re in the saddle, and they attach to the saddle with stirrup leathers. Western stirrups can’t be removed from the saddle like English stirrups can, but this is mostly because they’re a lot thicker than English stirrups, and combined with a high-heeled cowboy boot, it’s a lot harder for the rider’s foot to slip through the stirrup and get stuck, especially in the event of a fall. The stirrups are where a lot of the rider’s weight is while they’re riding, alongside their seat, and losing a stirrup can really throw you off-balance.
II. The bridle
This would be the piece of tack on his head! Most western bridles don’t have nose bands (a piece of leather that wraps around a horse’s nose several inches above his nostrils) as they’re not really necessary for functionality, but most working styles do have throat latches, which is the piece of leather that goes around his cheeks, and a browband, which is the strap that goes in front of his ears, as both help keep the bridle more firmly in place. Both of these attach to the cheek straps, which run down his face lengthwise.
Honorary II.5 on this list is the bit, the piece of metal in the horse’s mouth that the reins attach to. In most of the westerns I’ve seen, most of the horses are wearing a Tom Thumb or some other kind of shank bit attached to split reins. Split reins are pretty much what they say on the tin: reins attached to either side of the bit but which do not connect with each other. This can give the rider more control, and also makes it real handy to just hop off a horse and tie one of his reins to a hitching post.
Now for the bit ipse.
The above is what a modern Tom Thumb bit looks like. It’s a jointed piece of metal that goes inside a horse’s mouth, attached to a shank that’s anywhere from 5 to 7 inches long. I’m grouping all shank bits together here, since they all have basically the same effect: pressure at the poll (the top of a horse’s head behind his ears) and pressure on the mouth. Since the reins are attached to the bottom of the shank, the rider is given a significant amount of leverage when they pull on the reins; a general rule of thumb is that with a 5″ shank, every pound of pressure the rider puts on the reins is multiplied by three in the horse’s mouth. This lever motion puts pressure on his poll and his mouth, and when the rider pulls sharply, a lot of pressure on the corners of his mouth, and a twisting of the jointed part of the bit that makes it come into contact with the roof of a horse’s mouth. This can cause a horse to toss his head and gape his mouth, something that’s unfortunately seen in lots of westerns.
Shank bits like this can be incredibly harsh in the wrong hands, and can damage a horse’s mouth if they’re used too aggressively. Honestly, I feel bad for most of the horses in these films, where they’re under an inexperienced rider who often saws away at their mouth with a harsh bit like this. If you’re writing a story, remember that for most horses, it isn’t necessary to haul back on the reins to get a horse, even a hot horse, to slow or stop.
III: miscellaneous
Shoes: shoeing a horse makes him better suited to hard surfaces and long-term work. Any horse expected to be used for work would be shod. Horses can throw (somehow get rid of, don’t ask me how, little buggers. . .) shoes to varying degrees of trauma to the hoof, and while it should be fixed as soon as possible, it’s rarely too serious.
Spurs: technically a piece of apparel for the rider, but since everything else a rider wears is kind of a given for any self-respecting cowboy, I’ll chat about spurs. The stereotypical janglin’ cowboy spur is a rowel spur, named after that funky star-shaped thing that spins. Spurs are used to help encourage forward motion, and trained riders can ride a horse in rowels without any harm done to the horse. Even so, overuse or misuse can lead to damage and bleeding on a horse’s side, and deaden him to your legs.
PART TWO: ACTUALLY RIDING A HORSE
Unsurprisingly, riding a horse for a long time can be very tiring. Even in a saddle designed for comfort, someone unaccustomed to riding for long distances will find their back and core hurting something fierce. Worst of all, though, would be the strain it would put on a rider’s legs. Riding for extended periods of time makes your thighs ache, and can rub you pretty raw in the inner thighs and knees even with proper trousers. It can also have you walking bowlegged, which is pretty funny to watch.
Stability when riding starts from the bottom up. A good rider has a steady seat and good legs that grip the horse without pinching at the knees or the ankles (remember those big spurs you’re wearing, cowboy? ouch!). They stay with the motion of the horse, which can be difficult when you're just starting out. Beginner riders might find themselves too tense and easily thrown off-balance, since they're not working with the horse. Though western saddles make the act of staying on easier, developing a good seat and the muscles necessary to stay balanced on horseback can take a while.
In western riding especially, the reins don’t need to be taut while you’re riding. The horse isn’t responding to aids from your hand, he’s responding to your seat and your legs. The reins are helpful to direct and to slow him, but they’re not the star attraction. A horse moves forward in response to pressure from the lower leg, and if he doesn’t listen to that, a rider can angle their foot to press the spur into his side, removing the spur and the pressure as soon as the horse responds to the aid. To slow, a rider settles into the saddle and applies gentle pressure on the reins, escalating as needed, but again, removing the pressure as soon as a horse responds. Anything else is more energy expended than necessary on the rider’s part, and it’s also just kind of mean.
In addition, though I hope I don’t actually have to say this, flicking the reins will not make a single horse on god’s green earth go forward. Why is this a thing.
SO, LIKE, HOW LONG CAN I KEEP DOING THIS?
Mileage varies a lot as to how long a horse can run before he gets tired. A good average is about twenty miles a day if you’re planning on going long distances, which obviously can also vary depending on an individual horse or rider’s endurance. A horse can only gallop (their fastest, four-beat gait--think racehorses) for a mile or two before he’s exhausted, but he can canter (a three-beat gait that’s generally around 10 or 12 mph) for a while longer. Quarter horses, which I assume most of the horses in these movies are meant to be since they're the standard horse for working cattle and ranching in the U.S., aren't built for running long distances; they're significantly better at running short sprints. If a rider wants to cover a long distance in a short amount of time, it behooves them to switch horses along the way so he’s never riding a tired horse, and can run the horse they do have harder while they’ve got him.
An important thing to remember is that a horse should always have a chance to walk for a bit after he’s been working hard. Walking is more effective to cool a horse than just standing still is, as it allows the blood flowing through their legs to cool down. As well, it’s generally a bad idea to let a horse just drink his fill after he’s been working. Ideally, he gets smaller amounts of water over time.
A lot of these examples of less than stellar horsemanship might seem a bit like splitting hairs in fiction, but I think they can serve lots of different purposes. Does your villain have a horse whose skin is rubbed raw behind the cinch since he never lets up on his spurs? Does your hero have to make a daring escape, only to find his horse sick from exhaustion? Horses are a pivotal part of many stories, and there's lots of aspects to them as creatures and as methods of transportation that can be used in many different ways!
BONUS PART THREE: COLORS
Horses of every color show up in westerns, mostly because quarter horses can come in just about every color! Here’s a brief rundown of what different colors are called in horses, so you’ve got some words better than ‘brown’ to work with.
Chestnut: also called ‘sorrel’ when talking about western horses, a chestnut is a horse whose mane and tail are the same color brown as their body. They can range from light, cool browns to deep red browns, but the main thing is that their mane is the same color as their body.
Bay: a bay horse can have any of the same colors as a chestnut, but his points (that is, his ears, nose, mane, tail, and all four feet) are black. A bay horse can still have white markings on his feet, as long as all of his other points are black.
Palomino: a classic western horse, a palomino is a golden or yellow horse with a white mane and tail. A chocolate palomino has a body darker than a normal palomino's, but maintains a white mane and tail.
White/gray: while many horses may have white hair, very few are truly white. A white horse has white hair and pink skin, while a gray horse has white hair and black or brown skin. Most ‘white’ horses are, technically, gray. Generally, it’s safer to refer to a horse as a gray. Horses will also become a darker gray as they age, even if they’re born white.
Buckskin: A buckskin horse has tan or gold hair similar to a palomino, but black points like a bay. Similarly, a dun horse also has a tan coat and black points, but also has a black stripe called a “dorsal” stripe down his spine, a remnant of ancient breeds of horse.
Roan: a roan horse has a coat that’s equal parts white hairs and colored hairs, and solid-colored points. They can have a blueish or blush-colored look, depending on what colors are mixed in their coats.
HEAD AND LEG MARKINGS
Stars and snips: a star is a white mark on a horse’s forehead, and a snip is a white mark on his nose.
Stripe: a stripe is, rather self-evidently, a white stripe that runs from a horse’s forehead to his nose. They’re generally fairly thin, because when they’re thick they’re called a
Blaze: a blaze is a thick stripe of white down a horse’s face that does not cover his eyes.
Bald face: a horse with a bald face has white on his face that does cover his eyes, and usually most of his nose.
Socks/stockings: socks are white marks on a horse’s leg that only goes about to his fetlock, the first joint above his hoof. Stockings are white markings that come up between his fetlocks and his knees on his front legs and his hocks on his back legs.
IN FINE
Wow, that was longer than I thought it would be! Hopefully it helped someone.
I thought about talking about feed on here, but honestly, I have no idea what feed looked like in those days, and this post is long enough without advice that amounts to “probably they got lots of grazing on what you can find in the desert”, so. . .
Most of the information here is pretty basic, but there’s lots of resources online for further research!
Happy riding and happy writing!
#writing#writing ref#horses#western#oh god im sorry in advance#spaghetti western#reference#the good the bad and the ugly
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alannah; neverending survey
BASICS.
FULL NAME: Alannah Ailíse Caireann Corvaine Outway
NICKNAME: Little Bird (Faron only)
AGE: almost 23
BIRTHDAY: 10/16
ETHNIC GROUP: Midlander Hyur
NATIONALITY: Thanalanian
LANGUAGE/S: Common, a hodgepodge of things she's picked up from books
SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Demisexual
ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Biromantic
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Married (verse dependent)
HOME TOWN / AREA: Drybone, Eastern Thanalan
CURRENT HOME: The Grey Fleet, Lower LaNoscea
PROFESSION: Professional White Mage™, Healer, Purifier
PHYSICAL.
HAIR: Rich, dark brown with white streaks extending from her roots (magical scars)
EYES: Sea Green
FACE: Slightly angular, but still has baby fat
LIPS: Full, pouty, usually covered in neutral tone gloss
COMPLEXION: Sickly pale
BLEMISHES: Birthmark under her left eye, constant red splotchy patches due to allergies
SCARS: The white in her hair, a mark between her shoulderblades where she was kicked by an aldgoat as a child
TATTOOS: Flowery vines crawling up the left side of her ribcage (permanent), stabilizing arcanima symbols all over her arms (temporary, reapplied daily)
HEIGHT: 5′2″
WEIGHT: 135 ponze
BUILD: Petite
FEATURES: Extremely striking eyes, more girlish than womanly facial structure
ALLERGIES: Severe pollen and pet allergies, mildly allergic to some foods and perfumes
USUAL HAIR STYLE: Worn long, down to her hips. Either in a sidebraid, high ponytail with various small braids, or loose
USUAL FACE LOOK : Lost in thought
USUAL CLOTHING: Loose, flowing, bohemian style. Lots of white, lots of bangles, delicate necklaces and rings. Sometimes hair ornaments. Barefoot or sandals, doesn't believe in socks. While "working" she prefers trenchcoats open at the waist, shorts, and knee-high boots.
PSYCHOLOGY.
FEAR/S: Failure, guns, the excited laugh her daughter makes when she's found something "interesting"
ASPIRATION/S: To be a powerful mage, fix her borked aether, and to be a better mother to her daughter than Christaine was to her
POSITIVE TRAITS: Insatiably curious, focused, dedicated, protective, kind, funny, generous
NEGATIVE TRAITS: Emotionally distant, petty, wrathful, impulsive, reckless, gets lost in her own head and forgets to come back out
TEMPERAMENT: Melancholic
SOUL TYPE/S: Artisan
ANIMALS: --
VICE HABIT/S: Swearing, letting her temper get the best of her, alcohol (very rarely, because it ends badly)
FAITH: Hail Hydra Hydaelyn
GHOSTS?: ...verse dependent (lol)
AFTERLIFE?: Not so much an afterlife as much as being recycled by the Lifestream.
REINCARNATION?: Yes
POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: I mean...she might be a bit of an ecoterrorist?
EDUCATION LEVEL: Self taught through an ungodly amount of reading
FAMILY.
FATHER : Aedan Corvaine
MOTHER : Christaine Harlow Corvaine (deceased)
SIBLINGS : Faron, Ean, Davon, Brennan
EXTENDED FAMILY: Nine Outway (husband), Aislinn Outway (daughter), Moira Corvaine (aunt), Fayre Harlow (maternal grandmother), Fasshon Fuqushon (step-grandfather), Veronique Corvaine (sister-in-law), Isobel Corvaine (niece), Octavia Outway (sister-in-law)
NAME MEANING/S: You know, I spent hours looking up names with fitting means for Alannah’s family members way back when, but I am absolutely too lazy to go find them again
HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: None.
FAVORITES.
BOOK: Technical studies on the properties and workings of aether, historical volumes, adventure and fantasy stories, and sometimes a romance novel
DEITY: Hail Hydra Hydaelyn
HOLIDAY: Starlight
MONTH: July
SEASON: Summer
PLACE: La Noscea
WEATHER: Snow
SOUND / S: The almost electric hum of magic, the sound that Nine makes when she scratches his head
SCENT / S: White musk, fresh bread baking, old books, lemongrass
TASTE / S: Wine, dandelion tea, almond cream croissants
FEEL / S: Being magically powerful, sleeping on fresh sheets, wearing her husband’s shirts, snuggling with her daughter
ANIMAL / S: Fish, since they’re the only thing that doesn’t maker her sneeze
NUMBER: 9 (lol)
COLORS: White, black, any pastel or sherbet colors
EXTRA.
TALENTS: Retaining large amounts of information. magical aptitude (even if she has to fight her unstable aether for it), large scale destruction, cooking exactly one meal, tripping on flat surfaces, the ability to braid anything
BAD AT: Wielding any kind of melee weapon, seeing without her glasses, remembering where she put her glasses, keeping up a conversation without getting lost in her thoughts, public speaking, remembering to drink her tea before it gets cold
TURN ONS: Patience, humor, calloused hands, empathy, confidence, kindness
TURN OFFS: Arrogance, cruelty, smarminess, apathy, insensitivity
HOBBIES: Researching, reading, sketching, playing the harp, traveling/seeing new places, teaching her daughter how to human, using her husband as a nap pillow
TROPES: (oh god there are so many, these are just a few) Caged Bird Metaphor, Grass is Greener, Kitsch Collection, Misery Builds Character, Now Let Me Carry You, #1 Dime, Wake-up Call, Grew a Spine, Rage Breaking Point, Big Screwed Up Family, Black Sheep
QUOTES :
“my bitterness was sometimes rest
and sometimes ecstacy
grace or rage, always the two opposites
ready to annihilate each other
and to rise from the ruins of the vanquished.”
MUN QUESTIONS.
Q1 : If you could write your character your way in their own movie, what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?
A1 : Listen, I shamelessly love YA dystopian fiction, so it would be something in that vein, where Alannah is OP as fuck running around and blowing shit up as the young heroine main focus. Also there’s all of the romance tropes (sandwiched between developmental angst, of course), because I like them, and nobody’s allowed to bitch about it.
Q2 : What would their soundtrack/score sound like?
A2 : It would be scored by a collaboration of Two Steps From Hell, Hans Zimmer, Jeremy Soule, and Zack Hemsey, and my ears would orgasm.
Q3 : Why did you start writing this character?
A3 : I don’t like doing the whole “my character is just me or an extension of me” thing, it just never feels right. I also can’t just look at the avatar I’m using and see nothing but pixels and just “play the game.” She has to have a personality, a backstory, a reason for what she’s doing. Also it’s a great creative outlet for me because I love coming up with stories in my head as I go. And thus Alannah was born from the soup of inspiration made up of many various characters I’ve loved over the years.
Q4 : What first attracted you to this character?
A4 : She was supposed to be something new, a kind of character that I’ve never written before. All of my female characters end up badass, overpowered, and full of personal angst, because that’s just my thing. And yeah, Alannah’s reached that point, but the point is I tried.
Q5 : Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.
A5 : I feel like I can never get her voice right, she always just ends up sounding like me.
Q6 : What do you have in common with your muse?
A6 : The longer she’s around, the more of my traits she absorbs by osmosis. At this point she shares like 80% of my personality and traits and is completely unrecognizable from my original concept for her.
Q7 : How does your muse feel about you?
A7 : I am a generous god.
Q8 : What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ?
A8 : My favorite thing to explore, if it isn’t grossly obvious, is her different relationships with each of her siblings, probably because I have none.
Q9 : What gives you inspiration to write your muse ?
A9 : Mostly music and books, sometimes games. I have so many AUs for Alannah. Actually writing things, however, is another matter entirely.
Q10 : How long did this take you to complete ?
A10 : I had it done by the end of the work day after working on it between things I had to do, but then SOMEBODY tumblr drafts had to blow it up so I had to start over from the halfway point. I am not amused.
tagged by: @resistance-ranger [thankyou♥]
tagging: @keeperprinceling @menphinasbow @keeperofthelilacs @fheythfully @manawalls @khaamara @ahlis-xiv @aethernoise @castthemintotheabyss @alphiinaud @chysgoda @dragons-bones @astrophoros-ffxiv @loslorien @nuclearanomaly @zunshtral @card-and-flame @carmen-ffxiv @arabeka-ffxiv @voidwife @crowsaerie-rp @apassingshadow @violet-warder @hydrangea-fields @areniaagn @autumnslance @keltgeim @holyja @unmend @pulse-oflife
#LETS TRY THIS AGAIN#now that my rage has finally calmed#about alannah#character profile#long post#pls forgive me if you didnt wanna be tagged
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What He Wants (Pt. 24)
Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced Reader
Summary: On going series of Bucky getting his shit together and falling in love with you.
Warnings/ Content: showering together but it’s surprisingly lemon-free, and sweet fluff
Word Count: 1560
Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! Welcome to the last installment of What He Wants. I’ve agonized over what to say here for most of today and nothing sounds quite right. I guess it’s never easy to say goodbye, but part of the journey is the end. Some of you will leave happy and satisfied, some of you will grumble, and some will beg for more. I stand by this as a good stopping point though. I’m not saying I’ll never pick up where you and Bucky leave off; to maybe do another story or some one shots, but I don’t know yet. I need to let my brain rest after two weeks of daily updates and pouring my soul into this little world. I do want to say thank you though. You readers (especially my darling tag list peeps) have been so kind and welcoming to this little writing community here on Tumblr and over on AO3. I am eternally grateful for every single one of you. Every like, comment, and reblog has given me infinite joy even when shit got real in my real life. So thank you for going on this journey with me and hanging out until the very end. I love you all 3,000.
If you missed the first few parts, you can read them here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23
XOXO - Ash
What He Wants, Pt. 24
The bathtub shower combo in your bathroom is really only meant for one person. Squeezing a super soldier in it comfortably with the curtain closed is a feat in itself, but with both of you in it, it verges on comical. Bucky is determined though and as soon as you have the water falling at a reasonable temperature he’s guiding you in under the spray. He lathers your perfumed bar of soap between his palms and you’re surprised he isn’t worried about getting his vibranium arm wet. The marvels of Wakandan tech, you suppose.
Bucky rubs his soapy hands across your chest, kneading your shoulder muscles before moving lower to caress your breasts. He lavishes them with attention only for a moment, intent on actually cleaning you instead of starting something again. His palms slip down your waist, rubbing soothing circles across your soft tummy, and he reaches for more soap to lather his hands up again. Bucky smooths his slippery hands down further down, cupping your sex gently in his palm as he works gently to clean you. You brace your palms on his shoulders for support, his hands are relaxing all of your muscles as he works and making it difficult for you to stay upright. Your thighs tremble as he moves to them, working out the knots in your muscles as he goes. Delicately, he lifts each of your feet as he reaches the bottom of your calves and even takes the care to wash them as well.
“You’re gonna have to turn around, sweetheart.” he tells you gently and you oblige, holding on to the wall for support instead of him. He moves back up your legs, stopping above your knees for more soap. Bucky is savoring every moment of washing your well loved body and he works your tense glutes until you’re sighing in relief. Bucky continues upward, ending finally as he works the last of the knots out of your shoulders. Once he’s satisfied you are completely clean he trails kisses across your shoulders, “All set, doll. Do you want me to do your hair too?”
You moan again, “I would say no, you’ve already done too much, but god help me your hands are magic.”
A satisfied chuckle rumbles in Bucky’s chest, “I haven’t done nearly enough, doll. Turn around and I’m gonna do your hair too. Let me take care of my girl.”
Your heart speeds up when he calls you his girl. It’s so old fashioned but it makes you feel cherished and loved. You turn to face Bucky, getting your hair under the spray, and he’s ready with your shampoo bottle. Bucky’s hands are just as skilled massaging your scalp with your shampoo and then conditioner, even knowing to work the knots out of your hair as the conditioner rinses out. You are completely spineless by the time he’s done and you wish you could return the favor but he swaps your positions and starts washing himself with quick, efficient swipes of his soap. He’s gorgeous as his vibranium hand rubs the soap across the hard muscles of his body and you are chastising yourself for not offering to reciprocate, especially as he moves down to wash his thick thighs and your mouth goes dry at the thought of running slippery hands down and in between them.
Pulling yourself together you grab Bucky’s shampoo and wait until he finishes washing himself. “Let me at least do your hair?” you ask him.
“I’d love that, doll.” he moves to kneel in front of you and you’re amused by how tall he still is compared to you. You tilt his head back into the spray, ensuring it’s well soaked. The shampoo Bucky picked out smells crisp and piney, it compliments his natural scent and you love it on him. You work your fingers over every inch of his scalp slowly, ensuring his hair is clean and he’s able to enjoy your gentle massaging. Bucky’s eyes are closed, a peaceful smile on his lips, and you’re pleased he seems to be enjoying it. Since he’s letting you take care of his hair, you grab your good conditioner and start massaging it in too. He might not think it’s worth using on his hair but you suspect once he feels the difference he’ll be hooked.
You finish rinsing Bucky's hair and he’s still sitting back on his heels, seemingly lost in his own little world. Leaning down you place a kiss on his forehead, rousing him from his thoughts. “That was fantastic, mouse.” He says as he stands.
You shut off the water and Bucky steps out, grabbing your towel to hand to you. He looks inquisitively at the stack of four large towels and when he turns back to you he finds you bent over twisting your hair up in the towel he’d handed you. “Interesting.” He muses looking at the towel wrapped securely around your head.
“Do you not do this?” You ask, surprised, “There’s two towels for each of us. I figured you did because your hair is so long.”
Bucky shakes his wet head, “No, but I’d like to learn.”
You grab one of the towels and have him lean forward, mirroring how you did yours. You walk him through the steps and a minute later he’s doing it perfectly fine on his own. “I like this.” He says patting at his handiwork.
“It saves drying time, I think.” You explain.
Bucky nods and starts drying himself off, looking over occasionally and smiling at you. There is an unexpected intimacy as you share the bathroom, even as you brush your teeth together. It makes your usual morning routine more enjoyable having someone to share it with. You plan your day as you get dressed in the bedroom and Bucky insists he’s going to make you his ma’s spaghetti for dinner. You’ll need to stay home all day while the sauce cooks on the stove but neither of you mind. Bucky wants to get the laundry done and offers to help fix the wobbly shelf on your bookcase in the living room. It’s drizzling outside now and there’s a slight bite to the air that makes you more than happy to stay inside all day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bucky loves putzing around your apartment. It makes him feel productive and useful. He wants to do everything possible for you, not because you can’t but because you shouldn’t have to with him around. Bucky ends up putting your old toolbox to good use, not just on the shelf, but on a window that sticks, a loose cabinet drawer, and the wiggly handle on your large soup pot. You watch with amusement over the top of your book as he works, knowing if you try to move from the sofa you’ll just be scolded again.
You’re trying to wrap your mind around the concept of this becoming a regular thing. Waking up together, Bucky trying to spoil you and splitting the chores, quiet cozy days spent relaxing and enjoying each other’s company. Even once you go back to work, having him with you will change that routine as well. Getting ready, driving in, lunch breaks, coming home, everything done together. It might seem smothering to some people but the idea of spending all of your time with him sounds perfect to you. Eventually the occasional nights out with your coworkers out will resume, and Bucky will want to make time to go see his friends, and that will be okay too because at the end of the day you’ll be coming back to your cozy little apartment, together.
Bucky has run out of things to do and after a quick check on his sauce, he joins you on the sofa. He watches you quietly, wondering what thoughts are keeping you so occupied. Bucky picks up a worn, copy of “American Gods” and settles in to relax. The book only holds his attention for a few minutes as you shift in your seat across from him. Bucky takes a moment to just watch you, the way you worry your bottom lip between your teeth and the way your eyes crinkle on the edges when you read something that amuses you. He could watch you all day given a chance and he finds himself baffled by how much his life changed in just a few days.
Steve has been gone just over a week and the pain is still fresh but it’s softening around the edges. Now that Bucky understands the type of happiness and peace he’s found with you, he can only imagine how rare and beautiful it had to be for Steve to go back to Peggy and live out his life by her side. He will always miss his best friend, but he can honestly say he understands the choices Steve made and that they were the right ones. Bucky smiles to himself as he listens to the soft falling rain and let’s himself really be present in the here and now. This is his life now, a cozy little place off of SHIELD’s radar, a good woman who loves him, even though they hadn’t yet said the words, and endless possibilities for the future. Because for the first time since 1944, Bucky Barnes is looking forward to the rest of his life.
The End.
Tag List Lovelies: @my-current-fandom-is @blacklightguidesnic @amazonianbeauty@ladyemofhousestark@abswritesfandoms@rupestria @dark-night-sky-99
#bucky barnes#bucky x you#bucky x reader#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes x reader#winter soldier#marvel#marvel fanfic#marvel fandom#marvel fangirl#marvel avengers#post endgame#post avengers endgame#what he wants#series#series finale
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Exit Rant: Mr. Sunshine
[This is intended to be a spoiler free review of Mr. Sunshine but it may include a few minor spoilers throughout. It’s also long as all hell. Enjoy.]
Wow, here I am with my Mr. Sunshine review and it's only...*looks at wrist despite not wearing a watch* nearly three months after the final episode aired. Totally in keeping with this blog's commitment to publishing consistent and relevant content *manic laughter*.
The truth is, even if it hadn't been bad timing schedule-wise, Mr. Sunshine was going to be a difficult drama for me to review. This drama has so much to recommend it in terms of beautiful production, epic scope, unique period setting and blockbuster cast. There is something conceptually mesmerizing about Mr. Sunshine that engaged my basest fangirl and aesthetic sensibilities, but the actual experience of watching the episodes does not live up all the premise promises. What Mr. Sunshine delivers as a drama is, paradoxically, less than the sum of it's parts.
Let's focus on the positive first.
The cast in this drama is god-tier. You're rarely going to find an ensemble cast like this outside of Chungmuro. Your first, second and third leads all can and have headlined films and dramas of their own, and a lot of the stars here (like Kim Tae Ri of The Handmaiden fame) have critically acclaimed film pedigrees.
There's a lot to say about the actors and the performances, and there's no way I'm going to get to all of it. The extended cast is large and exceptionally great, and I'm not going to be able to remember and talk about everyone by name, so I'm going to have to limit myself to the main cast.
It's really the cast that moves heaven and earth to make this script work. To the degree that sometimes it felt that each actor lived in their character and lent flesh and texture where the writing let us down. Kim Tae Ri, played Ae Shin with so much fierceness and unshakable dignity that I couldn't stop cheering for her, even when the plot sidelined her character for what felt like episodes at a time.
For many people, the rousing showstopper performance of the drama was Yoo Yeon Seok as Gu Dong Mae. Early in the life cycle of the drama I recall hearing that Kim Eun Sook got herself embroiled in some controversy because people felt that the Japanese-sympathizer Dong Mae was far too likable considering his political ideology. Some hasty shuffling was done and rather than being characterized as a bald-faced fascist, Dong Mae became more of a freewheeling mercenary gangster-type. This was a positive change in my opinion. I don't want to retread what has already been said (a lot of it by me) about Dong Mae, but YYS has never been and may never be as interesting or as sexy as he was in Mr. Sunshine, in my opinion. He plays the morally grey character with edge and blazing charisma and, if nothing else does, makes the drama worth checking out.
Information broker and enigmatic owner of the Glory Hotel, Kudo Hina, as portrayed by Kim Min Jung and (my personal favorite) and the soulful Hui Seong, born into a blood-soaked privilege he can't escape, played by Byun Yo Han, wonderfully round out the cast and are, if anything, tragic underutilized by the plot. The only person here who perhaps underwhelms is Lee Byung Hun as the titular main character. I don't have strong feelings about him as an actor or as a person one way or the other. I've enjoyed some movies he's been a part of. I do feel that visually he looks too old for baby-faced Kim Tae Ri, but I'm almost used to that kind of thing in Dramaland. His performance is perhaps meant to be restrained--nigh on repressed--but it comes off as a bit bland and wooden. Which isn’t to say he’s bad, and I feel Eugene had a lot of potential to be a very interesting character just...decidedly less interesting than everyone else.
A lot of praise has been heaped on the way this drama looks, and I will agree, it’s a very pretty show. Personally, I disliked how heavily color graded certain scenes, especially outdoor scenes were. I found it a bit distracting and it took away from how otherwise gorgeous some of the scenery in this is when the sky is tan or everything in a scene is tinted blue for some reason. But the production deserves a lot of credit for creating a full and lived in feeling world, for the beauty of the sets and the costumes, the sheer attention to detail, and the way they used all four seasons to set the tone and give you a sense of the passage of time.
And let me just state that during Mr. Sunshine’s run I was decidedly obsessed with it. I posted about it, I talked about it to my friends, I talked several of those friends into watching it with me...and a few of those people still speak to me to this day. When I start criticizing it here in a few seconds, know that doesn’t mean I didn’t get a lot of hours of enjoyment out of this drama or that I think I’m too good for this show. I’ve seen 4 of Kim Eun Sook’s dramas so far and this is easily the best one. It’s not just better than Goblin, DOTS and Heirs, it’s miles better. Is that everything? I think that about covers it.
Now for the bad stuff...
I’ve said this in the past in relation to Goblin, but it bears repeating: Kim Eun Sook is good--possibly even great--at creating singular, iconic story moments and absolute rubbish at developing a cohesive plot that builds tension over multiple episodes and pays off in a logical way. At the time I said it I was basing it off of relatively little experience with her writing, but I’ve seen the pattern repeat itself two more times since then and I’m increasingly convinced that I’m a genius.
I do believe there are extenuating factors that account for the poor pacing of her dramas. The number of episodes and the episode length might not be within Kim Eun Sook’s control and she’s not responsible for poor editing either. Both Goblin and Mr. Sunshine suffer a lot because of bloated run time, and maybe that’s the network’s fault but it leaves plot feeling thin in places, even like it’s futilely spinning it’s wheels waiting for the next important event to come along.
With Mr. Sunshine the issue wasn’t even that there wasn’t enough interesting plot or character backstories to fill 24, hour plus episodes, possibly even more, it was that at times it felt like the drama flatly refused to delve into the interesting details, preferring to leave us miserably treading water in the doldrums of the story. It felt like we had to beg and wait for even morsels of backstory about certain characters--the drama was especially mum regarding Kuda Hina’s history--while the two leads endlessly mooned over one another. How many scenes did we need to watch Eugene and Ae Shin soulfully stare at one another?
Mr. Sunshine never successfully builds momentum until the last 2 or 3 episodes of the run. And while there is a lot of lip service paid to guns and glory and sad endings, but much of the drama feels like it's milling around with hands in pockets waiting for the tragic curtain call. Even the badass sniper heroine is frequently sidelined. It feels like the story remains stubbornly in the set up phase, one step forward and two steps back. It's as though Kim Eun Sook has all of these wonderful toys--great characters, huge budget, interesting time period/setting--and she simply doesn't know what to do with them.
Consistently my frustration with Mr. Sunshine was its inability to effectively incorporate the extended cast into the plot. It feels like all characters exist in separate bubbles waiting for their turn to have a scene. Those scenes are interesting but maddeningly brief, and then they are shuffled backstage once again until it's once again time for their requisite 5-10 minutes of screen time per episode.
This problem is especially present in the main cast with Dong Mae, Hina and Hui Seong. And that is what is so deeply exasperating about this drama, because there is just enough good peppered in to keep me invested, so many great elements poorly employed. It makes one want to take KES's script away from her and take it home and fix it yourself, because you just know she's not treating it right.
When calamity comes, and it does, it feels disproportionate and somewhat unsatisfying, because the build up didn’t do it justice. The drama ends with a rousing crescendo, but it feels that the individual character arcs were never allowed to reach their full potential. I’m not one to shy away from tragedy, but it left me feeling rather empty.
I wish I could a finer point on it than that, but it’s a murky issue to me. I know I’m not connecting with the story as much as I want to, but it’s hard to put my finger on the exact reason and that just adds to my frustration with it.
I stand by my assertion that this is still the best KES drama I have watched. Thought admittedly I’ve still only seen 4 of them, this one shows the most promise and, I think, the most growth. But it’s not there yet. I don’t know if I could ever watch it again, but I’m glad I watched it once. If for nothing else for the fantastic performances of several old and new favorites. I give Mr. Sunshine an 8.5/10, which is probably too high considering everything I’ve said about it up to this point. However, it’s just too strong in terms of overall production and cast for me to feel good about rating it any lower.
#Mr. Sunshine#mister sunshine#kim tae ri#byun yo han#yoo yeon seok#exit rant#exit rave#kdrama review
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God of War - Review (PS4)
Developed by Sony Interactive Entertainment / Santa Monica Studios
God of War is not only a reboot of the series which has existed since 2005, God of War is a complete re-imagining of the series; not only changing the core gameplay, but its entire genre. Gone is the power fantasy of slashing our way through Greek Mythology. Now, we have an incredible adventure through Norse Mythology, but far more nuanced, meticulous, and grounded. This new God of War is more of a cross between Dark Souls and a Zelda game, more so than hack ‘n slash titles the series originally was inspired by. God of War is a technical masterpiece and also happens to be a great game overall. With this complete change of pace, it may not capture all fan’s attention, but as it stands, God of War is one of the best games of the current generation so far.
The concept itself it one of the coolest ideas for a story I’ve ever heard in fiction: the Kratos (Christopher Judge) the Greek God of War is traveling through Norse Mythology on a quest to spread his dead wife’s ashes from the highest peak of all the Nine Realms. I have never heard before of two mythologies crossing over so deeply, and the authentic execution on display is even more impressive. Much like how Red Dead Redemption got me interested in the Western genre, God of War has gotten me interested in Norse Mythology. This is one of the biggest things I can thank this game for, as I’ve already bought reference books and done online research about this mythos, completely captivated by its history.
Plot-wise, God of War is a bit weaker. While the overarching concept is brilliant, the actual beat for beat story is a bit less inspired. Kratos is traveling through the Nine Realms with his son, Atreus (Sunny Suljic). The drama between them is fantastic and subtle. The graphical detail, as well as writing, and motion capture have made their duo one of the best in gaming entirely. However, since their quest is so simple, it means this 25+ hour RPG has to keep finding excuses for the heroes to not reach their goal yet. Small obstacles keep getting in the way that force us to explore more of the realms, acquiring mystic and rare items from one place, combine it with others, and then bring it back to where it goes. It’s a noble quest to uphold his wife’s dying wish, but the protagonists (and the gamer) certainly go through a lot of trouble and danger for a woman the gamer has never met or seen (yet Kratos and Atreus’ affection for her is quite clear).
Gameplay is methodical, using heavy and quick attacks with our sole weapon: the Leviathan Axe. This ice-based weapon is essetially our only main weapon throughout the game, but it has enough versatility and skill trees to unlock to make it a worthy weapon. Atreus is never controlled directly, but he can fire special arrows wherever we want, which, by extension, still makes him part of the player, especially in combat. Puzzles are equally dotted throughout every hour of the game as combat is. The new fighting system is a bit stiff and difficult to get used to at first, but the learning curve ends quickly. We collect XP to level up our abilities, and collect items and crafting components to upgrade armor and weapons.
This leads me to my only other nit-pick about the game, which is its overcomplicated menu system and abundance of confusing items. Spank me silly if I couldn’t remember the difference between runes, talismans, and enchantments for at least two thirds of the game. Every single items and attachment can be upgraded, but it’s hard to keep track of knowing if Kratos and Atreus are as truly optimized as possible with so many items and equipment. I’d rather it had been slightly simplified to keep the focus on the gameplay and story rather than scratching my head constantly deciding what is okay to sell and what should be kept for later. Either way, much like an action game, the ability to defeat greater foes more so comes from your skill as the player getting better at the combat, rather than relying on stats and special abilities (but they certainly do help).
I love how this game feels so new, yet so traditional. Things like locked doors and chests have to be passed up earlier in the game, and found again once we have the key or ability to open it. To inspire exploring old areas again, the developers creatively came up with the idea that the Lake of Nine (the hub area) constantly reveals more land because the World Serpent shifts his weight or lifts out of the lake sometimes, forcing the water to lower due to his displacement. We explore this hub lake via canoe and get to know Midgar (Earth) very well. The other Nine Realms aren’t quite as inspired, and tend to feel very similar to each other. Sure, one is “lava” themed and another may be “ice” themed, and enemy types certainly match their realm, but I thought there would be more variety in the lands themselves. I also thought I’d come across more foes and friends of Norse Mythology than we did, although there are many authentic scenes and interactions to keep a history buff surprised and entertained.
Aside from graphical detail, the game is also technically impressive purely in its processing performance. At no time (other than a death or firing up the game) do we see a loading screen; every cut-scene flows right into gameplay, and gameplay flows right into cut-scenes. Even going through doors from one massive area to another doesn’t force the game to enter a loading screen. This helps make the game immersive to never take our eyes off the protagonists, like an invisible third member of the party. The game uses creative techniques to disguise loading times while keeping you present with what the heroes are doing or saying.
I also love how Santa Monica Studios clearly put all their effort into the single-player mode, and nothing else. Never did I find something blocked by obvious future DLC or microtransactions. This is a very big, pure, dense, single-player title that is a love letter to gamers. The developers (and publisher) did not sell out, which is an enormous relief to see from big gaming companies in 2018. Although a few of the realms were locked during the game, I suspect those might make an appearance in future DLC, I’d be happy to purchase and play those because it doesn’t feel cynical and greedy on the game creator’s part. God of War isn’t completely perfect as a game, beings none are, but its many technical, artistic, and gameplay achievements should be universally praised. We want more games like this, so vote with your wallet, and pick up this product. This game has incredible depth and value, and should make all fans of action, adventure, and RPGs extremely satisfied.
9/10
#godofwar#santamonicastudios#rpg#gaming#ps4#kratos#atreus#norsemythology#loki#thor#odin#tyr#frigg#baldur
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THE COURAGE OF Y
And this national standardization of wages was so pervasive that its effects could still be seen years after the war ended. So it's kind of misleading to ask whether you'll be at home in grad school, because very few people are quite at home in computer science. And when the Duplo economy was an evolutionary phase. Though in a sense it's bad news in that you're deprived of one of your most powerful weapons, I think it's exciting that gaming the system stops working when you start a company. When you only have one meeting a day with investors, somehow that one meeting will burn up your whole day.1 I tried to opt out of it, like music, or tea, but I think people who dwell on it are reading too much into it. You can't plan when you start a startup in college. The founders sometimes think they know.2 As little as $50k could pay for food and rent for the founders for a year. EBay didn't win by paying less for servers than their competitors. But most startups that die, die because they were living in the future.
Be a real student and not start a startup at 20 and you're sufficiently successful, you'll never get to do it was turn the sound into packets and ship it over the Internet. You'll probably be talking to several investors and you manage to get one over the threshold of saying yes, it will be better for the people who pay the most for it, is not the hope of getting a better one, and actually did.3 I don't expect that to change. And not just those in the corporate world, but in software you want to work on some very engaging project.4 One advantage of Y Combinator's early, broad focus is that we adjust to however things are, and this bit of the economy were either organized as government-backed cartels or dominated by a few oligopolistic corporations. When we launched Viaweb, it seemed laughable to VCs and e-commerce was all about. In particular, I don't think we'll ever reach the point where much of what they're responding to when they lose interest in a startup, or start a real startup. If it is, it will take to become profitable.5 This too seems a technique that should be generally applicable.
But if you were using the software for them. And one of the original nodes, but by making great products. Maybe if I think more about this I can come up with new ideas is not to try explicitly to, but to be an advantage. Vertically integrated companies literally dis-integrated because it was so rare for so long: that you could make your fortune. But they don't need to become the prisoner of your own expertise, but it can save you from an immediate threat.6 A couple million would let them get office space and hire some smart people they know from school. The place to look is where the line ends. Startup investors all know one another, and though they hate to admit it the biggest factor in their opinion of you is other investors' opinion of you is the opinion of other investors. Not just because of its prestige, but because the principles underlying the most dynamic part of the economy were either organized as government-backed cartels or dominated by a few, giant tree-structured organizations, it's now looking like the economy of the future will be a fluid network of smaller, independent units.7
Most people at the beginning of their career only works if everyone does it. Has it been net good or bad? Be conservative.8 They were the kind of thing is out there for anyone to see. At its best, starting a startup is to try.9 And this rule isn't just for the initial stages. My hypothesis is that all you have to worry about—not even Google.10 The more ambitious merely hoped to climb the same ladder faster. There was no Internet then. But I could be wrong.11 And I think that's precisely why people put it off for as long as they want to start it.12
Basically at 25 he started running as fast as I can type, then spend several weeks rewriting it. The amounts invested by different types of investors vary from five thousand dollars to fifty million, but the people who want to work that hard. An optimism shield has to be pierced too. It was a lot of ambivalence about them, because I tried to opt out of it, you can take your time developing an idea before turning it into a company. But the total volume of worry never decreases; if anything it increases.13 If you looked in the head of a 1950s auto executive, the attitude must have been: sure, give 'em whatever they ask for, so long as the new model isn't delayed. How would the government decide who's a startup investor.14 So any Web-based startup get spent on today? I don't mean, of course.15 That's why there are a lot of the serendipity out of his life.16
That was a social step no one with a college education would take if they could avoid it.17 Deals are dynamic; unless you're negotiating with someone unusually honest, there's not a single war millionaire would be permitted. Don't click on Back.18 There are two main things you can do, but assume the worst about machines and other people. That's not a recent trend; change has been accelerating since the paleolithic era. Icio. The eight men who left Shockley Semiconductor to found Fairchild Semiconductor, the original Silicon Valley startup, weren't even trying to start a startup.19 In the late nineties you could get paid huge sums of money for building the most trivial things. Even Microsoft probably couldn't manage 500 development projects in-house. Do not start a startup, you probably shouldn't do it. Even if you ultimately do the first deal, it will seem to you that you're unlucky. Technology tends to get dramatically cheaper, but living expenses don't.
When things go well you can take your time developing an idea before turning it into a company.20 That sort of thing you can learn more about this I can come up with good startup ideas is to take a step back. I've read that the same is true in the military—that the swaggering recruits are no more likely to discover new things, because great startup ideas tend to seem wrong. The second counterintuitive point is that it's a new messaging protocol, where you either have to spend a lot of subsidiary questions to be cleared up after the handshake, and if the other side senses weakness—if the idea's no good, for example, or the chronic ache of consulting. She assumed the problem was with her. If you work on overlooked problems, you're more likely to get money.21 Individualism has gone, never to return.
So future founders may not have to accept new CEOs if they don't and you stick around, people will pay attention to you, because odds are they'll have to deal with investors while the others keep the company moving forward—releasing new features, increasing traffic, doing deals, getting written about—those investor meetings are more likely to get money. So in a hundred years—or even twenty—are people still going to search for information using something like the current Google?22 And this national standardization of wages was so pervasive that its effects could still be seen years after the war ended.23 A good startup idea has to be treated as a threat to a company's survival. But if you had to change something, what would it be? Or more precisely, new protocols that take off are. Investors' power comes from money. The way to become an expert on startups, but as I explained before, this is not what you might think. He never did any more with his software than talk to his girlfriend, but this apparently verdant territory is one from which few startups emerge alive. Partly because the unions were monopolies.24 You can see why people invent gods to explain it.
Notes
And since everyone involved is so hard on the ability to solve are random, they have wings and start to shift back.
I'm clueless or being misleading by focusing so much to suggest that we know nothing about the right thing. This phenomenon is apparently even worse, they are within any given time I know of no counterexamples, though I think it's confusion or lack of movement between companies combined with self-interest explains much of a placeholder than an ordinary programmer would never guess she hates attention, because the publishers exert so much better is a scarce resource.
Probably just thirty, if the selection process looked for different things from different, simpler organisms over unimaginably long periods of time, because despite some progress in the first person to run spreadsheets on it, is caring what random people thought of them, but except for that reason. The best investors rarely care who else is investing, which in startups. There are some whose definition of property without affecting and probably especially those that made a Knight of the living. The point where it sometimes causes investors to founders with established reputations.
The Mac number is a rock imitating a butterfly that happened to get into that because a quiet contentment. One VC who read this essay, but in practice that doesn't exist. So whatever market you're in the sense that if you have two choices and one of them is that they've already made the decision.
But so far done a pretty mediocre job of suppressing the natural human inclination to say.
This technique wouldn't work for the same trick of enriching himself at the same time. San Francisco, LA, Boston, or Seattle, 4 in DC, 6 in Chicago, 8 in London, 13 in New York the center of gravity of the founders.
In many fields a year of focused work plus caring a lot of people mad, essentially by macroexpanding them. If you have to talk about humans being meant or designed to live in a spiral. A round VCs put two partners on your thesis.
The history of the more the aggregate is what you can often do better, because you could only get in the press or a funding round at valuation lower than the don't-be poets were mistaken to be spread out geographically. It might also be argued that kids who went to Europe. Similarly, don't make their money if they do. The second alone yields someone who's stubbornly inert.
The angels had convertible debt with a company doesn't have to make your fortune? Think it's too hard at fixing bugs—which is as straightforward as building a new airport.
What we call metaphysics Aristotle called first philosophy. But that is exactly the opposite: when we started Viaweb, if I could pick them, initially, to buy corporate bonds; a decade of inflation that left many public companies trading below the value of understanding vanity would decline more gradually.
You have to do as a naturalist. Or a phone, IM, email, Web, games, but one way in which multiple independent buildings are traditionally seen as temporary; there is some kind of work is not a programmer would find it was spontaneous.
When that happens.
That name got assigned to it because the broader your holdings, the underlying cause is usually some injustice that is more of a city's potential as a cold email startups.
The Wouldbegoods. All languages are equally powerful in the imprecise half.
This is one of the optimism Europeans consider distinctly American is simply that it would be enough to defend their interests in political and legal disputes.
I'm not trying to sell something bad can be either capped at a 30% lower valuation. Strictly speaking it's impossible to write it all at once, or b to get a definite plan to have, however, and yet managed to get frozen yogurt.
But not all of us in the absence of objective tests. Economically, the less educated ones usually reply with some axe the audience gets too big for the same, but that we know exactly what they're selling and how unbelievably annoying it is to imagine that there is one resource patent trolls need: lawyers. This includes mere conventions, like warehouses.
If anyone wants.
You could feel like a conversation reaches a certain threshold. 5% of Apple now January 2016 would be lost in friction.
I ordered a large pizza and found an open source project, but I took so long.
Did you just get kicked out for doing so much better that it makes sense to exclude outliers from some central tap. Life isn't an expression; how can I count you in?
Norton, 2012.
A significant component of piracy, which is the last thing you changed. Unless we mass produce social customs. Not one got an interview with Steve Wozniak started out by solving his own problems.
The kind of work into a significant cause, and large bribes by the Dutch baas, meaning master. Incidentally, I'm guessing the next Apple, maybe you don't think you need but a lot on how much effort on sales. The disadvantage of expanding a round on the scale that Google does.
#automatically generated text#Markov chains#Paul Graham#Python#Patrick Mooney#LA#day#anything#tests#naturalist#sound
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Text
Love Letters To My Wife
JMJ
cc:2010 william c.
My Last Love Letter to My Wife
Jacqueline C.
Memoirs of True Love from a soldier
Dear Jacquie,
FOLLOWS IS A U.S. ARMY CLOAKROOM
DEBRIEFING OF THE MISSION BELOW.
*Honors due to the two French Motorcycle
Police Officers who gave their all to
Protect French President Charles De Gaulle*
Subject
Mission: To Prevent the Assassination of President Charles De Gaulle of France 1962
Case Title
ONZE RUE de la croix ROUGE
aka: Cry of the Aliases
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It all started in the small, wonderful, picturesque, historic French village of Chatellerault. It was a normal very, very, early Friday morning. The year 1962.
“I warn you… I warn you,” screamed the stranger dressed in a 14th century knight’s helmet with sight shield wide open. An Albanian Skerd cigarette hanging on his lower lip and a knight’s metal chest plate partially showing under his blue French work jacket. Knight’s leggings, without codpiece, barely revealing under his modified blue workpants. Black scuffed pointy work shoes. His screams, “I warn you,” in a South Moscow accent mixed with a curious German peasant drawl seemed hysterically musical as he banged on the wooden door at Onze de la croix Rouge (Street of the Red Cross) with boiling madness early morning, Friday 10 August 1962. Jacqueline April, quickly jerked the door open almost wrenching it off its hinges as she
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blocked a Roundhouse punch that the stranger was just cocking his right arm with clenched fist to blast her as he bellowed, “I warn you.”
Jacquie, Savate (the deadly art of French old shoe fighting) power kicked him in the groin.
The stranger bending over in withering agony, as Jacquie’s follow up lightening Savate heel kick strike smashed him in the open area of his 14th century helmet that exposed his eyes nose and Skerd smoking mouth. This drove him back into the very foggy, chilly, six-foot wide street, just missing the petit parked fire engine with brown fire ladders on each side, and onto the foot and a half wide sidewalk across the street, hurling the stranger into a neighbor’s house wall. The sound was like a big strong garbageman heaving a heavy metal garbage can back onto the cold sidewalk after its contents was deposited in the garbage truck.
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‘Three Tons of Fun,’…Maurice, Carl and Lou. Retired, medically obese, military Psychological Operations Specialists, are now Weathermen in the London area. And Dorkus Fricate, an international outdoor Drive Inn roller skating waitress from Warningville, Upstate New York blamed this type of cold polarity weather affecting the historic Rue’s of France on the cooling fog of the climate.
Dorkus, is now under exclusive contract with Peewee’s International Drive Inn Diner of Warningville, New York, The Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade, Kushi Japan, Moo’s Diner, Wet Dog Maine and ‘The Ole Communist Bar and Cafe,’ Ingrandes France. Dorkus, also follows the cooling of the planet with her assortment of brown and black caterpillars.
Dorkus, Maurice, Carl and Lou, aside from playing in a band occasionally in Paris at, ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ are all ‘Laurates’ in accord. Carl with his
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alleged Nobel Prize winning seven thousand page,‘ one word’ Doctorate thesis ‘Brevity and the Cooling of the Planet’ entitled… “Brrrrrr.”
All four pilgrimage to the Rue de la croix Rouge annually to meditate and recite ancient poetry until they are asked to leave by the Rue’s very patient inhabitants.
Onze Rue de la croix Rouge, located on one of these Rue’s on an enchanting small winding street was right out of the history books and a prime example of this type of ‘Brrrrrr’ ‘Polarity Weather.’ The well-kept house, charming but a little battered. Medieval stone two story buildings with small attic windows topping off the homes as they line the Rue seeming to be standing at Parade Rest. One might expect to meet Jeanne d’Arc on her way to battle coming down the narrow weaving Rue at any moment.
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Onze de la croix Rouge. A wonderful, glowing, warm kind of magical looking Safe-House in the middle of the Rue has a long narrow back yard and an ancient Maple tree in the middle of the one quarter acre near a spring-fed small pond. The yard was surrounded by high stone walls on three sides as they seem to play some sort of bizarre tag with the back of the home. The noble walls were not that high that would prevent climbing over with some difficulty.
Besides, a loudmouth, bossy, pain in the butt, 80-year-old parrot named Sweet William alias The Black Adder, there is a small flock of angry Geese, several nasty Billy Goats and one continuously ticked off fighting bull from Spain, no matador would fight, that patrolled the yard.
Only Steve Ptah, Jacquie’s ‘Cloakroom’ (The Cloakroom is a small secret U.S. Army agency of covert specialists that fell through the cracks,) to say again, Jacquie’s partner is the only one who
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could go back there without being attacked. Inhabitants of the backyard considered him one of their own. Perhaps even feeling sorry for Steve.
And, of course, Steve’s drinking buddy, Monsieur Cacahuete, alias ‘Werewolf’ a handsome peanut vendor who allegedly believes he is not a werewolf and fighting not to have a ‘Universal Werewolf Month.’ Heavily muscled and built like a top he is beautifully decorated, battle-injured, retired Legionnaire. The Peanut Vendor, who receives ‘Hazardous Duty Pay,’ and, who enjoys rough housing with his customers is the other exception the animals allow in the backyard.
The animals can’t wait for 11AM every morning to attack Monsieur Cacahuete and ravage his cart as they hear his ‘Call to Battle’ cry, “Getsha Red Hots, Getsha Red Hots Cacahuetes. He enters the house through the front door with his hot steamin’ peanut cart. Squeezing by the usual turmoil in the rooms and into the backyard.
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This is always his last morning call because normally Monsieur Cacahuete and his cart had to be taken away, after each visit to Onze de le croix Rouge, by ambulance, to just past the Polish Guards barracks. Then into the charming town of Dange a few kilometers north of Chatellerault to ‘The Bitter Sweetee’ private hospital for Noggin Traumas and for those of all ages who Forgot How to Jump. Not only open to the pubic but is always filled with patients who are celebrities and politicians.
Monsieur Cacahuete brings his Red Hots to Paris one night a week when he and his band (Maurice, Carl, Lou and Dorkus play at the infamous ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ located deep within Les Halles.
Oh yes. Then there was the beautiful, warmhearted Madame Tata, a mysterious Forever Young, lovely angel who makes sure the animals and inmates of the Safe-House are, tended too.
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Dressed in French fashionable, blue and white clothes is very rarely seen or heard as she ejects herself around the house and yard. She is loved by everyone. She is always smiling.
Unexplained used egg-stained Ouija boards are occasionally fired at passing fire trucks and at Steve. A possibly demented existentialist who thinks he is a troll with serious mental health problems may be hiding somewhere nearby in a small field of daffodils. Or not?
Steve has been trying to get the fire truck halfway hanging on the narrow curb of the Rue moved from the front of the lovely antique home, so the regular morning ambulance and Banana van could get through, without much success. For some reason, the firemen seem to think there is a fire in the house.
###
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10 AUGUST 1962… FRIDAY… YERY EARLY MORNING:
Back inside the historic picture book home on Onze Rue de la croix Rouge in Chatellerault, France were the sounds of many oboes. Their music drifting in from someplace far away lost in the morning fog. Also seemingly lost in the morning fog was Steve Ptah, U.S. Army Cloakroom Special Operations and Covert Pentagon Anti-Intelligent Agent. His Philosophy of Life being ‘People you go up against must always underestimate what you know and what you can do.’
Steve, standing next to a small stone fireplace with a unique onyx mantle that somehow reflected the fire burning in the hearth and added warmth on this unusually chilly morning.
The modestly furnished antique room had a plain wooden Crucifix on the main wall which drew everyone’s attention who entered.
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In honor of her partner Steve, Jacquie placed a small sign under the Crucifix reading; ‘The Loving God has Mercy on those of us not playing with a full deck.’
The above words under the Crucifix are the same words ‘The Sargent at Arms’ recites at all Secret ‘Closed Door’ ‘Blue Panel’ ‘Intelligence’ meetings the U.S. Congress and Senate and are considered ‘Opening Prayers.’
A Holy Water holder was at the entryway and always filled with Holy Water from Lourdes along with an emergency set of Rosary Beads. Several framed pictures of Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, Angels and Saints were also about. Included is a large painting of Saint Jude, God’s special Saint for Impossible Missions.
A calamity of firemen with unidentified cigarettes held on their bottom lips were running to and fro trying to put out the small fire spots in the wires of
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the newly installed electric doorbell that Steve and his always top notch, handyman, wingman, the honorable Monsieur ‘C’ just put in a few days ago.
A side note: (After the evening’s doorbell’s electrical work was completed Monsieur ‘C’s car, parked outside, well… his car battery caught on fire.)
This morning the usual aroma of French bread baking and French coffee brewing on the black iron oven was replaced by the smell of French cigarette smokes that were roaming the early French sculptured fawn creamy white and brown beamed ceilings due to the smoking firemen and two visitors. These two visitors, well, some may consider a wee bit strange.
Jock Unita, with recent snow on his boots, (a term used by American, French, and British agents when they work behind the Iron Curtain) has trouble
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with his lineage and has a great fear of accordion players who wear lederhosen.
Jock is a Japanese cut-out (a cut-out is an agent who has no apparent connection with an intelligence agency) and one of Steve’s ace contacts.
Jock claims to be from Angola and is a member of the Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade. The Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade is always angry about something from cooling of the planet to all their women being men… and taller than the Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade men who have been brainwashed into believing they are women by hearing the control words ‘Ah So’ with two hand claps. Then one hand clap turning them back into believing they are men. It’s complicated. Especially when they march protesting the parades they are marching in as they go into their synchronized march ‘Having a Charlie Horse Attack’ routine on stilts.
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Also, Jock has been fined numerous times, by the Brigade, for unauthorized wearing of stilts. Stilts are supposed to be used only when the Angry Brigade march in ’Protest’ of parades they are marching in.
Jock always dresses in a black motorcycle jacket, red sweatshirt, and red woolen pants with matching red sneakers. Jock is a handsome hombre about five foot six, slim build, bald head, pudgy nose, cold black Jerry Colonna eyes that seem to spin continuously. Wears a physiognomy aftershave that smells like rotten fruit.
Constantly plagued by all-weather fruit flies. Some fruit flies, bursting into flames if they swarm too close to Jocks activated cigarettes. Jock, a violent chain smoker, always carries lighted cigarettes behind each ear so he doesn’t have to waste time lighting up.
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Jock is wearing some type of contraption on his forehead held in place with an excruciatingly tight white with red lettering kamikaze style elastic band wrapped around his prominent bean. Speaking Japanese with a heavy Scottish accent Jock drives Jacquie’s partner Steve Ptah looney. Although it is a noticeably short drive for Steve.
Steve Ptah, a most dangerous man. His only claim to fame, aside from being an unnoticed superb ventriloquist, and a U.S. Army professional enemy terminator, assassin if one prefers, is that he has won top prize on a now defunct radio show, ‘It Pays to be Ignorant.’
With Steve Ptah is a very lissome spy and assassin, Jacqueline April, a nuclear weapon ready to explode, from French Army intelligence, Groupe D’Intervention de le Militarie Nationalerie (GIMN).
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Jacquie has an IQ so high Steve must remind her to always keep Oxygen tanks with her. Or so he says.
Both Jacquie and Steve also have recent snow on their boots.
“Who was at the door?” Steve growled in a low warning tone.
“Looked like one of your idiot contacts Steve.” Jacquie replied in a sweet French nonchalant voice yet carried the threat of everyone being immediately pummeled with a baseball bat.
“He kept saying, ‘I warn you.’ As he tried to… How do you Americans say with your strange language? ‘Lay a ‘Haymaker on me?’ I had to neutralize the situation with immediate and painful counter-action.”
“Were you hurt?” Steve mumbled in a low threatening growl.
“Are you kidding?” Jacquie smiled a noncaring glint in her eyes.
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“I warn you?’” Jock questioned in a high-pitched hysterical tone. “Was he partially dressed as a 14th Century Knight?”
“Oui.” Jacquie said softly, still with her voice carrying the threat of someone about to be severely beaten. “You know the lunatic?”
“Must be my publicist,” Jock squeaked in an extremely high-pitched squeak. A wine glass broke in the kitchen. “His name is Party Member 60508. He believes if he starts every sentence with ‘I warn you,’ as he throws a punch people will pay more attention to him.”
“Publicist? On a covert meeting?” Steve slow barked as if he was biting down on a stale Turkish Taffy candy bar.
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“Oh, what the hell is that you’re wearing on your head Jock?” Steve, a bit over 6 feet tall, slim, lean with a body of hardened steel but is flexible like water asked. His tone was that of a long mean bullwhip being cracked. Attired in a brown suede sports jacket over a dark blue work shirt, well worn, military pressed dungarees and light brown suede cowboy boots.
Running his fingers through his wavy dark brown thick hair with silver streaks cut DA style, (Ducks Ass} Steve whipped on. “That apparatus on your noggin will draw attention to you. Not to mention a Publicist following you around. Even if he is disguised as a partially dressed 14th Century Knight.
‘Hoot mon on all of you,” Was Jock’s response as he chained smoked Gauloises French cigarettes…
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two sometimes three at a time. His manner of speaking was always in a high sniffing helium tone.
When Jock became really agitated his head began to tremble and start to turn a wonderful shade of pumpkin orange-‘tealish’ making him increasingly suave and mysterious, especially to women and perhaps to Legions of ‘Woodpeckers,’ or should we say ‘Shrinks.’
“Do not get me angry Steve. You know how angry I can get---”
“Yes Steve, “Lik, Jock’s betrothed, spoke up in her usual ‘ice cracking under one’s feet while crossing a partially frozen lake tone.’ Lik, puffed hatefully on a Gitanes (Gypsy Woman) French cigy. “Remember Jock and his idiot Publicist are members of the Japanese ‘Angry Army Brigade’ of the Red Sun. And when Jock gets angry his head begins to rumble and changes color to deep pumpkin orange-painful-teal and begins to swell savagely—”
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“Not swell Lik,’ Jock screeched as a glass picture frame cracked someplace.
“ ‘Expands’ as my brain becomes a Ninja brain when I get angry or become hopelessly befuddled.”
“Whatever, “Lik responded with applause as she shrugged her shoulders and did an eyeroll. “Some people crack their knuckles… Jock cracks his brain.”
“If he had one,” Jacquie inserted her venomous view into the conversation. “The guy’s a moron, a crackpot a---.”
“Jacquie,” Steve, said in a low chastising tone that sounded almost as if he were agreeing with Jacquie. “Jock has some important info for us about—"
Lik interjected with a kind of depressed glee. LIK, short for Lethal Intensity Kon-Unita. Her real
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name. She too has recent snow on her boots. A pretty girl with a chin jutting out just begging to be
punched. A bit taller than Jock but dresses like him except she does not wear makeup or perfume nor rotting fruit aftershave.
“You should have worn your stilts, Jock.” Lik said coldly as Steve and Jacquie turned around to see if someone was coming from across some partially frozen pond. “Jock is always forgetting his parade stilts so he can always be a little taller than me,” Lik continued, her voice was that of shaved ice being dumped into a stainless-steel mixer “I had them made for him by Uganda jungle Pygmy’s who live in a tree and bake bananas. They can also be used as throwing weapons.”
“What? The Pygmies?” Jacquie demanded in a sharp tone.
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“No, of course not,” Lik shot back as if she slammed the winning puck into the net at an ice hockey game. “The stilts. Excellent for throwing.
The stilts I had the banana baking Pygmies make for my Jock.”
“Yes, of course you did. What a thoughtful gift,” Jacquie commented in a kind sympathetic hard French tone that equaled a beautiful Siren ordering the ‘dragons released.’ Then softly whispering to Steve, “Let me put her out of her misery.”
“What about my misery?” Steve slammed back.
Lik, wears her heavily used coal bin colored hair spiked a lot off center and to her left which keeps her head in a ‘tilt mode.’ Has double-jointed lips and those freezing cold black eyes that seem always blinking ‘burst’ Morse Code. Suffers from clinically diagnosed unexpected moments of ‘Berserk Time’ which includes, but not limited to, a lot of skirmish
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type running around at high gallop. Pummeling and loudly reciting the Hokey Pokey
backwards. It is believed that the medical term is ‘Tantrum Macabre’? One of her many endearing qualities.
Lik’s appearance and actions are as if she just exploded out of the Sunday morning comics.
“Lik,” Jock sang out in a high operatic voice, possibly causing eardrum damage. “You know my chums in the Red Sun Angry Army Brigade, confiscated one of my stilts last month for unauthorized stilt usage at their last meeting.
You all know, The Angry Brigade only wears stilts when they are marching in a parade they are protesting. If I wore stilt’s I could only wear one stilt until my right stilt is released from stilt lock-up. Ninety days or until I produce a troll, I found hiding
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under a bridge. Otherwise, I would have to stilt-hop on one stilt throughout this mission.”
“Perhaps your Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade Army of the Red Sun, or whatever the Hades it is called, would allow you to use a right foot Roller Derby skate with a thick four-inch cork insert in a pretend marching parade.” Jacquie’s venomous tone made Jock think.
“Hmmm, one stilt and one skate?” Jock screeched aloud as he challenged himself to a thought.
“No stilt hopping, limping or roller derby skating while we are on a mission,” Steve announced in a low menacing tone.
“Jock,” Jacquie demanded reason. “It’s bad enough we have to work with a guy that looks like he has some kind of plastic toilet seat on his head
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being followed around by a half-dressed 14th Century knight and now hopping on one stilt.
Someone is bound to notice… like the enemy for one.”
“Does anyone else smell smoked rotten fruit?” one of the firemen, Claude Modi, careening through the downstairs rooms, yelled as he blew cigarette smoke circles nervously from his mouth. “It is hampering our ability to smell out new electrical fires in the doorbell electric wires. Who is the brainless wonder who installed—"
“Aw shut up,” a tiny voice came from outside the front window as something flew by Claude Modi, as fast as its hard-knobbed feet could pitter-patter, in the opposite direction, slinging a used, egg-stained Ouija board, from under its arm, at fireman Claude Modi.
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“Hoot Mon on you Steve, Jacquie and whatever the hell that was that just flew by me,” Jock blew his words out of his mouth as if he were blowing a hot forming glass bubble on the end of a long glass tube in some freakish opera. “You all know I am a blender. Becoming a Ninja when I get angry or overwhelmed by happenings, like getting too much information overload I blend. No one will even notice me.” Jock ended his defense with a horrible bonsai suicidal attack high note scream.
“What was that scream?” Jock demanded to know.
“It was you…you mor—” Jacquie started to say holding her ears.
“Well, I think it is adorable Jacquie,” Lik drove on. “I mean Jock’s thingamajig strapped on his bulging hairless… Adds a sense of romantic mystery to his meaningless cue ball face.”
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Jacquie, wearing a light white turtleneck blouse, dark blue ski vest, midnight blue slacks and fashionably eloquent black, light titanium-toe, boots with almost invisible razorblades pointing outward ever so slightly between the soles of the of the boot and the boot itself. On the feet of an expert Savate master it could cut up an opponent as one shreds coleslaw, or not.
Jacquie, slender, tall, five foot-seven, a stunning brunette with shoulder length hair framing her hauntingly beautiful face and the most remarkable blue-grayish eyes and compassionate hard nature, said softly to Steve in a mesmerizing killer French accent, “Whatever the hell Jock’s contraption is?
But Jock, “Jacquie continued in a biting tone. “Even a Renaissance man such as yourself Jock… will have to admit the contraption on your head and a Publicist using Martin Borman’s Nazi party number 60508 as a name is a little bizarre.”
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“I admit nothing,” Jock screeched. A fireman, Sava Bastone, complained to other firemen that his watch crystal just shattered as Sava seemed to canter through the room.
“Only you would know Martin Borman’s Nazi party number Jacquie,” Steve smiled sarcastically. His timbre showing the signs of many brutal battles.
“Swine,” Jacquie volleyed back hard and swift.
“Well… if you must know,” Jock said in high Japanese with a heavy Scottish accent.
“Speak English,” Steve ordered harshly in a scary low tone. “No one can understand your Japanese with that heavy Scottish accent. If it is Japanese?’
“I can,” Jacquie speared defiantly.
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“Of course, you can,” Steve growled under his breath. Followed by an eyeroll and rubbing his temples.
“Hoot mon on you Steve. This little gadget strapped to the top of my receding hairline (Jock, refuses to believe he is completely bald) forehead is the newest in audio/visual recording-projecting holograms devices.
“It was developed at the U.S. Army’s secret Edgewood Arsenal base in Maryland. Some guy… Alvin Gored, you know head of the ‘Flat Moon Green Cheese Society invented it…”
“You mean that nut who fools around, with Anti-Gravity experiments, in a rolling biosphere ball and believes he’s a singing Talpid?” Jacquie’s words kneed Jock in the groin.
“Right a Roo Jacquie,” Jock moaned in a splintering high note with tears of painful joy yet an angry
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smile as if the harvest were finished but all the food crops were immediately lost. “The top military scientist at Edgewood Arsenal.”
“Steve,” Jacquie mused, “I heard about this rodent guy who—”
“What the hell is a talpid? Can we stay focused Jacquie?” Steve rabbit punched his question in French.
“You speak French like a Spanish cow, Steve,”
“I was speaking English for your info—”
“Then you were speaking English like a French cow,” Jacquie’s words carried the force of an uppercut to Steve’s chin as he bobbed and weaved. An occasional occupational habit in Steve’s line of work.
“You guys with your talk of cows make me think of milk-toast,” Lik dry-ice gargled. “I always have nightmares. That is my arch enemy’s Rutherford B.
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Hayes favorite desert. I myself am milk-toast Intolerant.” Lik spoke, holding her cigarette tightly between her lips, in her ice cracking humble tone. Now staring at her deadly machete, she named
‘Golompi’ after her favorite Polish stew.
“Who cares if you’re ‘Milk-Toast’ intolerant?” Steve’s growl challenged. “Millions of people are milk-toast intolerant and don’t even know it. That’s because they’re not nuts like you.”
“I see you still carry ‘Golompi’ with you,” Jacquie sneered in that soft killer French tone.
“Would not venture out without my baby ‘Golompi.’ Did I tell you how we met behind the Iron Curtain many years back? Jock and I were in a Polish restaurant, Gookies I believe, when these
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several very nasty Secret Police Agents came to our table. Naturally, Jock’s head exploded—”
“Naturally,” Jacquie mimicked with raised eyebrows. Did his head explode literally, or figuratively?
“I believe both,” Lik, said in a low, icy, thoughtful tone.
“Who cares?” Steve said in that menacing low tone, his teeth grinding. “We’ve all heard this story a hundred times.
“Actually 84 times,” Jacquie corrected.
Lik, sat staring at her dearly beloved and very deadly baby ‘Golompi.’ Stopped sharpening the blade against a piece of dried out steel wool. Heating the machete’s blade up by puffing on her Gitanes to sterilize the cold hard steel head lopper.
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“Get to the point Jock,” Steve demanded sharply while giving Jacquie an annoyed stare. “I don’t want to hang around this place too long.”
“But you live here,” Lik pointed out very coldly. Humbly tossing her ‘Golompi’ machete up, down and all around as if she was a Majorette leading a High School parade. Then suddenly flung it deep into a far wall. “I thought I saw a caricature of Rutherford B. Hayes, my nemesis, on the wall making faces at me.”
No one seemed to notice or care at Lik’s action or words.
“Yes, I remember now,” Steve seemed confused but only for second or so. “I move around so much I forget where I am.”
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“I don’t even pretend to understand what that means,” Jacquie moaned a French moan shaking her head in the negative with that ‘Another crazy American’ stare mumbling, “Too many blows to the head. Too many blows to the—. Never
mind. Steve, I can never tell if it is flummery with you or being serious.”
Jock started to speak but the doorbell made a funny dying, fizzing noise immediately starting a series of spot wire fires as the firemen yelled for back-up over their Walkies Talkies pleading to everyone not to ring the doorbell. Evidently, some enemy agent or poor soul put a sign on the door earlier to ‘Ring the bell if you love Pistachio.’ Madame Tata’s favorite flavor.
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“I’ll get it this time, Steve said in a low dangerous tone as Firemen rushed around trying to find the newly activated hot spots on the doorbell wire.
“May I help you?” Steve asked in a voice so low and hard his sentence was more of a threat than a question.
The young lady was dressed in an old Mother Hubbard pink hat. A Springtime pink jacket with a lot of straps and buckles hanging from it, white pants, and white slippers. A sparkling white plastic band with some type of mysterious printing on it adorned her left wrist.
“Why were you following me just now?” She demanded to know in a soft, the mouse ran up the clock, nursey rhyme tone.
“Huh?” Steve’s cool repartee-reply dazzled her for a moment.
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“I thought I heard a scream. I am Collette Perinod, a professional passer-by, and I have a blank check drawn on the Bank Nationale. Would you be kind enough to sign it? I wanted to get here before the tour buses start arriving, so I could go and cash it. Your generosity is known all over the planet,”
“Tour buses? Planet? No tour buses could fit up this Rue,” Steve said looking around. His Jungle green eyes searching up and down and all around as he handed Colette the now signed blank check with Jock Unita’s signature on it. Steve is also a master forger when necessary.
“Thank you a… a, Monsieur… Unita… Jock Unita.”
“De rien, What tour buses?” Steve asked again in a more pleasant tone still reconnoitering with his jungle greens all rooftops and up and down the chilly foggy Rue. Dorkus, Maurice, Carl and Lou were right about the weather again.
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“Oh… The busses are all parked along the Blossac. The tourist then quick-step march four abreast from there to Onze de la croix Rouge,” Collette said shyly with a spooky giggle.
“You are on the Chatellerault ‘Must See’ historic tourist sights.” Collette flung up her tourist map so Steve could see through the almost lifting fog that seems to be settling back down again. “See it reads, ‘Onze de la croix Rouge is a beautiful historic home where strange things seem to happen.’ ”
Collette, continued to read. “Jeanne d’ Arc, stopped here to refresh and more recently a pair of socks someone was wearing in the house… were sucked into the past. Or maybe it was the future? Or perhaps they were sucked into the present.” But how could that be?”
Collette giggled eerily, “Sounds like this reporter has problems.”
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“Wait a minute,” Steve announced angrily. “Are you spouting my theory that the Present, Past and Future existing at the same time and—”
“No,” Collette sounded confused. “I don’t know what you are babbling about. You sound like a--. I mean it sounds like the reporter and me are not the only ones that have mental health problems.”
“Then you must be yapping about the time I was taking an emergency nap.” Steve seemed to be reminiscing as if he was in another world. “And my partner was vacuuming, and she lost control of the vacuum—”
“Yes… of course,” Collette said suspiciously as she jumped-stepped back a bit from Steve and assumed the international ‘Pretzel’ self-defense stance. “That must be it. Well, I better… better move on,” Collette lamented sadly to the tune of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…’ “I think your house is on fire and I see more fire engines and a reporter from the Chatellerault Blast News…
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Oh-oh. Some people with butterfly nets.” Collette yelled to Steve in a psychotic nursery rhyme of ‘Jack Fell Down and…’ tone as she waved the signed check, “Au voir Monsieur Unita. Merci beaucoup.”
“Steve,” Jacquie snapped as she yanked him inside. “Who were you talking to?”
“Jacquie, did you know our safe house is on a Chattellerault tourist map as a ‘Must See?”
“Steve, sometimes you really scare me with your leaps from reality to boundless fatuity. Now Jock what were you about to say?”
“I wear this visual recording-projection hologram device, that is powered by anti-gravity mini-micro molecule chip slowly mixing with regular gravity in miniscule portions. I am making a yearlong record of my wife’s Lik’s right ear. I am on the cusp of a New Age movement.
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I am also on the cusp of passing out as this plastic- elastic kamikaze strap is cutting off the blood supply to the ole bean. I call it ‘A Year in the Life of My Wife’s Right Ear.’ Twenty-four Seven. Three hundred and sixty-four. Christmas, I always spend with my Angry Chums,” Jock said proudly, in English, knocking off the Scottish accent.
“Sacre Chat. What the blazes did I just run over?” A Frenchman passing the house in a small yellow ‘Banania’ truck could be heard yelling outside the home as the low ground fog was just starting to yield more of its hold to the wakening morning sun. “I think I broke my front axle. Hey you tin man. What in the name of Blossac Fannie you doing under my banana truck ya bonehead? You want bananas… you will have to wait like everyone else.
Hey firemen, when ya going to move that fire engine so me and my bananas can get by?” Jacard La Fourmi, banana salesman from Ingrandes, raged again. “Is that you Claude Modi in the fog?”
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“No. It’s you.” The fireman yelled back then disappeared into the house.
“Me?” Jacard La Fourmi challenged himself with an unanswerable question. “But how could that be?”
From under the deflated ‘banania’ truck came a mournful cry, “I warn you.” Then a thump like flesh hitting metal… then some crying.
Back In the Home:
“It’s my left ear you are recording Jock,” Lik said in a low, ice crunching but still frightening tone as she yanked her machete out of the wall. “Do not make me correct you again.”
Lik started to stab the wall repeatedly as she cried intensely, “Death to all walls.”
“Hey Lik,” Steve said calmly. “Lay off the plaster. This is our safe house.”
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“Jock is such a pathetic, happy psycho-sociopath wanting to spend Christmas with his moronic Angry nitwits.” Lik, tee-heed her words, holding her delicate fingers of her left hand over her double-jointed lips as she hurled her machete again, with deadly accuracy across the room once more stopping a small spider prancing up the far wall. Lik, later claimed the spider had the same recognizable limp that Rutherford B. Hayes, her blasted enemy, had when he scurried up walls.
“You know Lik,” Steve deeply mumbled. “You might want to seek some heavy-duty professional help. It’s not easy hurling a machete with such force and pin-point accuracy like you do Lik.”
“Oh, Steve,” Lik laughed sounding like the roar of a calving piece of ice breaking off a huge glacier, causing a tingling but also ballistic wave. “You know Steve, Jock has Post Graduate Degrees in baking cookies among many other medical accolades. As a professional hero with many
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Ph.D.’s. Jock handles all my deep therapeutic needs.”
“That’s right Steve. The boys at the U.S. Army’s secret experimental base at Edgewood Arsenal in Maryland. You know… those crazy guys and gals in building 355 made and wanted me to test it after Doc Alvin Gourd developed it when he was on a singing tour with his talpids,” Jock bragged.
“The machete?” Jacquie interrogated.
“No, no,” Lik spoke up in her ice crackling underfoot tone, “The machete, I mean Golompi. Golompi was made by Polish Partisans in seclusion at Edgewood Arsenal. This video recorder and projector thing on my baby Jock’s bulging but empty forehead was a U.S. Army Edgewood Arsenal idea. They wanted him to test it out in the middle of the desert at… I think it is called ‘White Sands Nuclear Testing Sight’ because of the nano-modified Anti-Gravity chip being tested as a power source.
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But my wonderful Jock chose to test it on this mission with you folks.”
“You are kidding?” Jacquie’s words were more like a plea than a question.
“Hoot Mon Jacquie. Not at all. You know I have no sense of humor. ‘A Year in the Life of my Wife’s Lik’s Left ear’ says it all.”
“Jock?’ It sounds like those halfwits at Edgewood Arsenal are at it again,” Jacquie sighed. “Steve, building 355? Were not you brainwashed in that building when those delinquents from some nut factory tested their Menticide experiments on you?” (Menticide is the rape of the mind.}
Steve thought for a moment. “Planters? By Granny, I…I, er believe you are Johnny-on-the-spot with that one. I was Menticided by them? Or was it near London at Porton Down Great Britain’s Chemical and Biological Warfare Center by a quorum of Brit Wierdos?”
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“Steve, you are such an idiot,” Jacquie French whipped.
“Correction please Jacquie, I was also at Edgewood Arsenal when building 355 was a halfway house for the Criminally Insane. Graduated top of my class.
Now Jock, what does your video tapping of your wife Lik’s right ear have to do with finding out where REDCOM (REDCOM is two-part Soviet secret operation to be carried out by OAS members in Paris. OAS a Secret French Army Terrorist Organization that may use Jock’s Publicist to advertise.} is going to be activated?
We need to know and confirm when, where and how the Soviet Spetsnaz troops (Spetsnaz are Soviet Special Forces Soldiers} attack is going to happen. All we know is someplace in Paris and the Russkies are somehow planning to assassinate President De Gaulle by proxy.
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“Who?” Jock asked making a one-word question sounding like fingernails across the blackboard.
“De Gaulle. De Gaulle. De Gaulle, you nitwit,” Jacquie cried out. “Why do you think we are all here?” After a moment Jacquie calmed down and continued. “It is so difficult to work with you people. Political assassinations, especially by proxy… whatever the hell that really means, are rarely successful,” Jacquie pointed out in a serious French tone. “Steve I still believe there is an assassin on President De Gaulle’s 7 person-personal security team.”
“Jacquie don’t start that again,” Steve Brooklyn snapped. “An ex-punch-drunk boxing sparring partner that passed numerous background security checks plus other rigorous investigations? Now if he were a politician instead of an ex-punch-drunk boxing sparring partner… Well, that would lend more credence to your hypothesis.”
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“Steve, it is not a hypothesis. It is a fact. I believe my contact Zizib, alias Canvas Back Zizib—”
“Is CB still fighting?” Steve questioned in a low Brooklyn tone. “I thought he was locked up in an asylum someplace in Albania—”
“That is beside the point Steve… anyway he has walking privileges. And it is not an asylum it is an institution for the… Never mind. Anyway, there is something else you should know about President De Gaulle--.
“Who?” This time Steve asked, seemingly bewildered as his mind was working on an idea, he had… how to foil REDCOM.
“De Gaulle… De Gaulle… De Gaulle you idiot.”
Only Steve, and Jock and a few thousand others could make his partner Jacquie lose control to the point of madness as she Savate kicked the floor, loosening and cracking a piece of the heavy, ancient shinny hard wood plank.
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“Steve, it is my left ear that is being recorded.” Lik said somewhat in that ice being cracked tone, as pieces of white plaster flew off the wall. Lik, kept banging her head against the wall where she was assuming Rutherford B. Hayes was hiding.
As the Catholic church bells of St, Jacque, just up the Rue, began to sound, Jock answered Steve’s question about ‘How was recording Lik’s right ear going to help in stopping REDCOM? —
“Nothing that I know of Steve. What do you know Steve about Holograms, or The Algerian War of Independence? Why can’t I hear Popcorn pop? Why me?” Jock pondered aloud. “But I will tell you this about REDCOM Part One, the Les Halle’s Diversion… and cardboard Spetsnaz soldiers disguised as cardboard cutouts or is it cut-outs…(Remember cut-outs=Military/Intelligence jargon for an agent who has no apparent connection with an Intelligence agency,) Wait. I feel befuddlement coming on.” Jock’s head seemed to begin the agonizing metamorphosis
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into a giant teal orange colored blimpish pumpkin lifting his body a centimeter or two off the ground.
“Steve,” Jacquie whispered, “you don’t think Jock was serious about an Anti-Gravity chip… I mean one nano of Anti-Gravity touches actual gravity it could destroy—”
“Not to worry Jacquie,” Steve said in a low growly voice. “Lik said it was ‘modified.”
“Modified? What the hell does that mean? Anti-Gravity matter? How does one ‘modify’ Anti-Gravity... One would have to… Wait. Did Jock say Les Halle’s?"
“I’m coming baby,” Lik, shrieked as a baking dish shattered, for some unknown reason, someplace in a storage draw. Placing her Golompi down softly on a table Lik ripped up part of a loose heavy, wooden, historic recently cracked floor plank that must have been, well over, several hundred years old and crashed it over Jock’s head.”
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DEBRIEF 2
PARIS
RESTAURANT TRUFFLES
Off Av, Jean Jaures near
28 Rue de Perigneux
MONDAY 13 AUGUST 1962
MID AFTERNOON
RESTAURANT TRUFFLES is a covert Soviet military hangout open to the elite of Paris and all Intellectuals on the Continent and Around the World. In fact, clientele must answer unanswerable questions, such as, ‘How high up?’ And ‘How long is a piece of string?’ to prove they are ‘Intellectuals’ to be granted admission.
Specialty trained Soviet ‘Spetsnaz’ (Russian Special Forces) troops and KGB agents along with
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Vasaltnicki Soviet agent (Vasaltnicki people are Russian spies acting as waiters, waitresses, Doormen, cashiers, models, politicians’ businesspeople, homeless, Professionals, teachers, professors, neighbors-next-door etc…People you trust or pay no attention to until one morning you wake up in a Gulag.)
Much like the Russian Vasaltnicki agents we have today in New York City, U.S. Senate, Congress, and other places throughout the States.
TRUFFLES is a popular spot for the International ‘IN’ crowd of gourmet-diners, especially the so-called ‘intellectuals,’ who are stupid enough, to order awfully expensive ‘whites of truffle eggs’ but never eat them.
The two owners are Major Miroslav (Short Step) Elias, a short pickpocket, hit man, medically obese KGB agent who at this moment is chocking on a Borscht-soaked Truffle.
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The other owner is KGB Major Frantisek (Creature) Strachovsky, a tall, very successful anorexic ‘who believes he kills by convincing intellectuals they never were born.’ Known to his men as ‘Creature,’ owing to his close resemblance and green pallor.
He has been ordered to wear a special, ‘almost’ fire resistant, slow burning paper bag, with eye holes over his head and set it ablaze just before he enters the dining area. This way he doesn’t frighten the dining guests. Both are known affectionately as the ‘Mutt and Jeff’ team of Dzerzhinsky Street. (Western agents called KGB Headquarters in Moscow, Dzerzhinsky Street.)
For an encore, when Major Creature leaves the dining area, a small group of, large-footed, high-stepping, well trained Spetsnaz soldiers stomp the moving smoldering bag, a fire safety precaution, as Major Creature stumbles away.
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The elite, high society, Intelligencia dining guests believe it is part of the floor show and look forward to it with enthusiastic applause.
“ ‘Sputnik’ to ‘Short Step.’ Will you stop choking?” Major ‘Creature,’ yelled. “It is very annoying to me. If you did not stuff that gaping hole you call a mouth with all those truffles you would not—"
“You say something ‘Creature’?” Major ‘Short Step’ gargled. “By Stalin’s chicken feed sacks, he used to give himself shoulders, I do believe I am… agh… chocking.”
“Do not call me ‘Creature,’ idiot. I have enough trouble with my men gossiping behind my back.”
“Idiot? Remember your date-of-rank Major ‘Creature.’ I out rank you by 32 seconds.”
“31 seconds you—”
“Anyway, when I am eating it cuts off power to my hearing,” Major ‘Short Step’ coughed and gaged each word. “Hey! Any of you morons know the
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Soviet ‘Kapooie’ method those Boyilaneyt Americans stole from us in 1923 and now called the ‘Heimlich’ maneuver.”
As the ‘Kapooie’ method was being applied by two Spetsnaz soldiers disguised as waiters and a Soviet Vasaltnicki spy named ‘Floozy’ disguised as a floozy, Major ‘Short Step’ gagged in a disturbingly chocking tone. “And that reminds… me…Stay out of…the dining…area tonight when… the Restaurant opens… We are running low on those special paper bags you… are ordered to wear over your head.”
And that also reminds me… I cannot breathe. I think you three idiots just broke two of my favorite ribs… This Soviet… ‘Kapooie’ method sucks… Run out… into the street… and grab the first… … passerby… that… can… a… perform… a… tracheotomy…”
Major ‘Short Step’ lay chocking on the floor almost passed out. His face turning a shade of ‘Tragic
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Evening Blue’ Stalin’s now Khrushchev’s favorite aftershave.
Exploding on to the small, now crowded, stage area where Major ‘Short Step’ lay, one hundred and fifty-two Russian Vasaltnicki ‘Squat Dancers (Kazachok)’ soldiers started their new ‘Squat’ dance routine accompanied by blasting Russian ‘Squat’ dancing folk music, shouting, high leaping and ear-piercing yells.
Now major ‘Creature’ announced “Let us go over one more time operation REDCOM, our Paris attack plans--.”
“I tell you… you idiots I do not know how to perform a tracheotomy,” Passerby, Emile
La Traille, a tough, suave, handsome intellectual, who for some reason was chasing a large goose down the Rue as he was passing Restaurant TRUFFLES and was dragged in by Floozy and two Soviet Spetsnaz soldiers. “I am Emile La Traille,
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Finder of Missing Geese. Where is my Goose you head of ham fat?”
“Perform,” ordered Soviet private Soo Poo G-Deh Seveer as he shoved a lighted blow torch in Monsieur La Traille’s hand.
###
DEBRIEF 3
LES HALLES, PARIS Les Jardin du Poubelle aka (Alma Frump’s Dump.)
WEDNESDAY 15 AUGUST 1962
LATE EVENING.
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Les Halles is an immense spreading, noisy 800 plus-year-old, always mobbed with food and everything else market, almost in the center of Paris. Saturated with merchants, buyers, sellers, locals, spies, assassins and the dreaded mimes from every corner of the planet. Tourist of all sorts continuously roving throughout, barely dodging the trucks, horse pulled wagons and different sized unbalanced pushcarts. Many with square worn-down wheels.
Merchants were selling everything. Flowers, wine, fish, French bread, meat carcasses, animals, fruit, classified information. All types of food and everything in between. But the thing one will always remember most is the kaleidoscope of tantalizing yet obnoxious aromas including the drifting of burnt gunpowder of occasional pistol shots and that homey-feel that lingered about.
And the most important place was a Café called ‘Les Jardin du Poubelle’. (Known for its clarion of
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Moulin Rouge and wild Apache dancehall music and familiar to all operatives worldwide as ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’) Always packed with before-during and after-work locals and the strangest assortment of patrons, shadow-people, bewildered tourist, self-actualizing Intellectual morons, weird performers and even plain-run-of-the mill-morons, such as the writer of this debriefing, etc…
As the Pederin band blasted music like confetti throughout Café Poubelle, “Steve,” Jacquie called out. Her tone was that of a stiletto being stabbed into his ear as the Café noise ran a defense that only close piercing contact could infiltrate. “What are we doing here besides meeting with French Intelligence and doing completing a nutty plan you have been working on? A plan I do not think President De Gaulle will go along with. I have been
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detecting avalanching signs of mental stress from you.”
“No time for high-praise from you Jacquie. I’ve been doing a little investigating here.”
“I know… Meeting with French Intelligence is okay. But those other Black Forest people…Those creepy shadow people you have been sequestering with
and paying off your contacts. Jock and Lik’s friends are less stable than they are.”
“You know Jock has not been right-in-the-head since he discovered it was the dish that ran away with the spoon,” Steve jackhammered his voice. I have been doing some follow up. The Ruskies have hired the OAS for De Gaulle’s assassination. And the OAS has hired that idiot ‘The Jackass’ for the assassination plan.”
“Not ‘The Lard Butt,’ alias ‘Little medically obese Eddie Illich Ramirez’ the guy that wobbles if he
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could run. Alias ‘The Jackal’ alias—” Jacquie sighed.
“Right,” Steve sneered. “Previously known as ‘Fat Eddie Ramirez. Anybody blows something up the Jackal gets all the credit.”
“He must have a great publicist,” Jacquie stabbed Steve’s ear again with her words. “Wait a minute you do not think the Jackal, alias the ‘Limp’s’ Publicist could be—"
“No. Let’s not go there,” Steve growled a penetrating growl.
Let’s not go wave after wave after wave of ‘The Kackle’s’ many aliases, with that hideous laugh. He’s the only moron who runs flappin’ his arms and bunny hops and can’t sweat.” Steve moaned.
“I thought the Jackal is still living in his parent’s cellar apartment in Paris selling Hi Fi’s and dungarees from there,” Jacquie stabbed Steve’s ear again as she pushed her hair back.
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Jacquie’s hair is a formal evening coiffure with a turban style bump. Steve, still coming his hair DA style in the mobbed Cafe.
Steve, answered back in a smashing sledgehammer tone, “and we’re still waiting for Jock and Lik who are supposed to meet those two KGB agents in the reserved booth behind us. You sure it was the dish that ran away with the--?”
“I don’t know, Steve. Lik, gave Jock one Hades of a clonk on that noggin of his with that broken floor plank to stop his head from swelling and turning pumpkin-teal, orange.”
“Give the guy a break Jacquie. He was becoming befuddled. Anyway, he was released from that Bittersweetie Noggin Nockers private hospital in Dange.”
“Yes, Jacquie shived her words again into Steve’s ear but this time holding a hanky over her mouth
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as she thought she caught sight of a Maverick Lip Reader in the crowd. “I know, but Lik said they were treating Jock for not being able to jump. She said he has to carry a 12-volt car battery with him with wires connected to his ears.”
“Oh, big deal,” Steve roared back. “What’s a few more gadgets hooked up to Jock’s head?”
“Steve, he is carrying a 12-volt car battery around with him. What if his jump shock meter goes off every few minutes like Lik said it is supposed to? I am sure Jock knows how to jump.”
“Forget it Jacquie. We have more important things to concern ourselves. Lik assured me she disconnected the wires.”
“Like the wires she disconnected in Romania last year when we were tasked to see how many Romanian tanks they had for their surprise ‘October Military Exercise?’ I still cannot hear properly.”
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“So, we found out Lik was colorblind,” Steve shouted. “All those different colored wires. Any way she insisted we all stand behind Jock… even her. Jock and his imagined nanny took the brunt of the explosion.”
“Steve,” Jacquie said in that stiletto blade tone close-up and personal. “That nanny was not imagined. If I knew then that idiot with Jock and Lik was a Romanian General in charge of the whole Romanian army’s ‘October Surprise’ was a spy disguised as a nanny, I would have… I mean I really would have Savate kicked that nitwit… Why do I put up with you?”
I can’t look for a couch now.” Steve mumbled in a low growl, “Psychoanalyze yourself later.”
Just at that moment the Pederin British band drummer, Rio went maniac. Began to make horrible faces and plunge his drumsticks into his ears while waving out his tongue Semi Flore style
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sending expletives to the crowd and all the ships at sea.
Carried off the four-foot-high stage, drums and all, by the rest of the Pederin band Boris, Natasherine and Lord Bloat into an always waiting Pederin ‘Fou’ van. (Under International law a Fou Van was required to follow the Pederin’s anyplace they are allowed to perform without strait jackets.)
The chaotic Apache dancers following the Pederin band to the front door flinging their dance partners left and right in some sort of bizarre, demented Conga line.
The crowd Congaed back as soon as the great rock & roller Johnny Halliday started singing accompanied by the one and only immortal singin’ screamer ‘Screamin’ Jay Hawkin’s’ as the Mayhem grew.
Jacquie and Steve tried to fit in with the local inhabitants and the beer and wine flowed with the help of overweight, red-nosed waiters and big
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boned angry waitresses always smiling… the problem was…
Even with Jacquie’s French ‘Les Halles’ type work clothes and the possibility she works in the slingin’ sides of beef on hooks sections of ‘Les Halles’ she couldn’t tone down her drop dead beautiful ‘girl-next-door’ good looks.
Steve, on the other hand looks like he caught a slingin’ side of fast-moving beef with his head… when the baby spotlights were exactly right.
“Listen Steve, there is something I have to tell you about President De Gaulle that only his closest confidants may know. Perhaps he does not know himself. He is—”
“Look Jacquie, if it’s about that idiot punch drunk boxer assassin that you think is on De Gaulle’s personal security team… don’t worry about it. You point the personal security team out to me, and I’ll unmask the miscreant in less than a minute for you. If there is one?”
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“Oh, shut up flounder brain. Besides being a great President of France De Gaulle is a multifaceted genius at—”
“Excuse me, Jacquie. You’re so jealous at my winning first prize on that ‘Pays to be Ignorant’ radio program it’s fogging your focus. Plus, this case is open and shut for me. “
“Open and shut? That is because you are an idiot Steve,” Jacquie shouted with sparkling eyes and a disarming smile. “A one hundred percent blooming idiot.”
“Well, it’s about time you recognize my talent,” Steve, started to look for a mirror. But keep your Kudos for me down. We’re on a covert mission.
A big boned cigarette girl passed by asking if anyone wanted cigarettes, cigars, mirrors, or fuel for smoke signals, (Very popular as an added
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entertainment booster at Alma Frump’s Dump during the gayety days of the early sixties in Paris. All Intellectuals and ‘IN’ crowed people wanted to send smoke signals from their tables to be noticed by others. Thus, so many unexplained fires were the ‘important people’ hang out.}
No one could really hear the big boned cigarette girl in the bedlam.
Jacquie sighed one of those patented sighs that people sigh when they must deal with Steve.
“There is so much freaken smoke in this ‘Dump’ I cannot see—”
“Crapola? Ah yes De Gaulle,” Steve said thoughtfully. “Jock and Lik are not only going to confirm the exact time and place—”
“We already know the place,” Jacquie hurled a word-Javelin into Steve’s ear as the now Moulin Rouge Dance Music assaulted the jam-packed fast
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moving mob gyrating around the well rutted wooden/saw dusted floor.
“And the Spetznaz Russian soldiers disguised as…” Steve was interrupted.
“Disguised as what?” Jacquie asked as a fight broke out around their booth. The fight was swiftly swallowed up in a surging pandemonium of screaming French twirling Cancan dancing patrons and the combatants were kicked into Cancan unconsciousness or worse.
“Cardboard cutouts? Or cut-outs?” Jacquie laughed as she and Steve threw off, the last dancers from the fisticuffs that had landed on their table, hurling them back into the swirling mass of stampeding, dancing patrons. The last fisticuffers pleas for mercy and help were extinguished upon vanishing into the swift flowing merciless romping, vortex causing crowd.
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“Was Jock speaking of actual paper and cardboard cutouts, or real intelligence people cut-outs?” Jacquie demanded to know in a tight lip, spitting fire tone.
“Does it really matter?” Steve growled that low warning growl that only beautiful woman and jungle night prowling dangerous beasts can hear. “When it comes down to it, I believe they’re both the same thing.”
Jacquie, shaking her head in the negative, while looking at her white noise watch and covering her lips with a tissue answered, “After all this time as a Cloakroom agent maybe you are right Steve? There may be no difference between ‘Cut-outs’ and regular cardboard cutouts.
I mean Jock is the only person I have ever met that is ‘perhaps’ more stupid than you. As you always say, ‘Let it play out and see.’ “
“There, see,” Steve growled what seemed as it could be an almost happy deadly growl that even
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frightened ‘the Dump’s noise.’ “You feel better already.”
“I said ‘perhaps,” Jacquie, flipped her word in angry French.
“A little louder,” Steve growled, I still don’t think they can hear us at the Kremlin yet.”
“No one is going to hear us with all this noise. Besides, we have our white noise watches on. I am more concerned about Lip Readers.”
“Lid beaters,” Steve challenged. “What in the name of ‘Princes Summer Fall Winter Spring’ are you talking about? Lid beaters?”
“I said Lip Readers you… I am paying for the time in the field in Northern Finland when you were doing your morning briefing with those Finnish troops before we were to cross into the Soviet Union trying to locate that Russian defector and I
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forgot to yell ‘Incoming.’ Those Ruskie artillery shells are really loud.”
“What?” Steve yelled.
“And who is this ’Princes Summer Fall Winter Spring’?” Jacquie demanded to know. “I don’t remember a Princes with that—”
“Who?” Steve asked. “And who are these Lid beaters?
Jacquie slipped a small, dainty Derringer out from under her sleeve and fired at Steve just as Jock and his little group clambered in the smokey Café door. At the same instant one of the Apache dancing patrons, who was living in the past not able to change into Moulin Rouge Cancan steps fast enough, was thrown into Steve and Jacquie’s booth with Tornado F-5 wind force.
###
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DEBRIEF 4
15 August 1962
Wednesday. Almost Midnight.
Café Les Jardin de Poubelle. Alias ‘Ama Frump’s Dump.’
Les Halles, Paris.
“Hoot mon, am I still bleeding?” Jock asked as his head size stated to return to normal. “Who fired that shot and where did it come from?”
Just then there was a call to prayers wailing somewhere in the distance.
Jock and Lik were dressed normally in their black motorcycle jackets with ‘Lards of Flatbush’ written in ‘Brooklynese’ on the back in phosphorus and, of course, misspelled. Lik, wore her red shawl under her Motorcycle jacket. And their ensembles
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finished off their signature red woolen sweats and sneakers.
Major’s Short Step and Major Creature who was wearing a paper bag over his head for some reason, were attired in Soviet grey military jackets and grey Soviet military pants with long red stripes on the outside of each pant leg running into their black, spit shined cowboy boots.
Both wearing high, brown Russian thick fur winter hats that someone tried to stomp down to look like French berets. Major Creature looked particularly out of place as his stomped down Beaver fur beret highlighted the paper bag, he was partially wearing over his head.
With the help of ‘The’ 7/10th of a ton Alma Frump herself and her ‘Ally-Oop’ sized club, clubbed their way to their reserved table right behind Steve and Jacquie.
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It took a few moments to dislodge the Philonian patrons who were sitting at the reserved table… but after a few seconds of Lik swinging her Golumpi and Alma beating them to a pulp the intruders lay on the Café floor. All that was left on the table was a blood or red wine trail and a half-finished bottle of Beaujolais until some Big Boned waitresses dragged the limp bodies away into an open but clogged sewer almost outside the Café.
Alma Frump bellowed to no one particular. She had an explosive urge to paint a midnight seascape, but she couldn’t find the right color as she charged into the back room of her establishment following her big boned blockers who forcibly led the way.
“No, my brave hero. The bleeding has stopped. The spent shell only grazed your beautiful vacant bean and damaged the little power box on your elastic kamikaze band wrapped around your
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noggin. The bullet must have ricocheted off something--”
Lik was interrupted as a patron was carried out on a stretcher nursing a Deringer belt buckle wound.
“This is one hell of a tough place,” Jock cried out in his usual high operettic voice causing ear damage within a one-meter zone of pain.
Just at that moment an alarm went off in the car battery Jock was carrying jolting him a few inches off the ground and causing, what looked like, chard hair fuzz to appear on his bald head.
###
DEBRIEF 5
16 August Thursday, 1962.
A little after midnight
PARIS, FRANCE
LES HALLES
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Café Jardin de Poubelle. Alias ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’
“Ah here we are,” Jock announced in his high-pitched squeak as he an Lik slid into their side of the booth. Major Miroslave ‘Short Step’ Elias, who needed to sit on a Paris Phone book, slipped into the booth seat right behind Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Stanchovsky.
“Someone bring me a Citronade you bourgeois swine bar keeps, Major ‘Short Step,’ demanded in British English. “Remember, my name is Lucy Dead. I am a filthy American big-time swine gambler-tourist from the state of Oyeoh.”
“Me too,” Major Frantisek Stanchovsky echoed in a South Moscow Russian accent. My name is Lucy Dead. I am a big riverboat gambler from Oyeoh. My friends, if I had any, would call me
‘Madmick’—”
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“Whaaa?” Lik challenged, “You both cannot be in disguise as the same person. And what the hell is a Madmik? For that matter where the hell is Oyeoh?” Lik, nervously started to cradle her Golompi under her red shawl.
“The idiots mean ‘Mavrick’ from an old western TV show from 1959.” A voice came from Miroslave ‘Short Step” Elias’s winter Russian fur hat, the one that was stomped down into what was supposed to look like a French beret.
“Who said that?” Major Shot Step yelled.
“You did you moron,” the voice sounded off again.
“I did?” Major Short Step interrogated himself unsuccessfully. “I did?”
“Yes, I did,” The voice came again this time from Major Short Step himself.
“Okay, If I said so I guess I did,” Major Short Step announced as he agreed with himself guzzling a sip
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of his Citron-aide a Jolly, red nosed, medically obese garcon just brought him. Then yelling in Russian, ‘Russians Go Home.’ “
Lik, just sat there observing as her double-jointed lips began to toss and turn into the most tightened complicated kaleidoscopic designs.
“You said you are from Oyeoh?” Lik’s dry ice crunching words that had a strange sounding rattle to them like a sound you might hear from a frozen rattlesnake just before it delivered an almost thawed strike. “Do you mean Ohio? And Lucy is a women’s name. A name that that displeases me…
Ah So, you are not sure you are related to Misses Rutherford B. Hayes by any draw of the cards?”
Upon hearing the code words ‘Ah so’ and two threatening claps that were meant for the Russian Majors from Lik, Jock began marching in place looking around for a passing parade to protest in.
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‘Who?” Both Major Short Step and Major Creature spoke at the same time. I thought Lucy is a name winning gamblers use on your American swine river boats that sail up and down Misses Sippie.
“Major Short Step and Major Creature both looking at each other and shaking their heads. Then because they said the same thing at the same time they both said an ole Russian saying. “What goes up the Chimney?” Before they could answer the question Lik not only twisted her lips but also her eyes into an almost perfect square knot. (Oh, some will argue it was more like a sheepshank knot} Twisting her lips and eyes seperately like an assassin would twist their blade between the third and fourth rib of a target.
“Do you mean ‘Lucky’ by any chance,” Steve, using his ventriloquist voice again asked.
Jock demanded to know with a follow up question also ‘if you hombres have any spare stilts on you?”
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“Now how would we know that”” Major Creature asked sternly.
“Nonsense,” Lik said in that cold sound dry ice makes when one slaps a slab on one’s head for fun.
Lik, crying repeat volumes of the ‘Hokey Pokey in reverse. I suspected you were her when you ordered a Citronade. That is French for Lemonade. You are her. Rutherford B. Hayes wife that only drinks lemonade in your temperance movement. And not only that you are from ‘Oyeoh’… I mean Ohio where she is from.
As Lik attacked Major Short Step unmercifully, but with a seeming elegance, with half a bottle of Beaujolais, Jock began to rant as his head trembled and swelled with an orange bluish tint and a teal glow.
“Wait,” Jock cried out, “I am not an American. I am Japanese. No…vial Bavarian lederhosen accordion players are filling my head. Great
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Angolan War Lord Agostino Neto is beating a War kettle drum all wearing empty shoe boxes sizes four and a half to 18 triple E…”
In the excitement Jock… well the circumference of his head seemed to expand exponentially as his head turned the color of teal—
‘Wait,’ came another garbled war cry from Alma Frump’s office as she looked out her upstairs office window overseeing the mayhem. Seeing Jock’s swelling head and a teal-ish orange glow. That color. That is the color I need for my seascape midnight painting. Bring that color to me.” Alma, instead of opening her office door smashed through it. Like a bull elephant in rut. Alma and her big boned waitresses followed by a number of her Jolly; medically obese, red nosed waiters charged toward the teal-ish color sending patrons flying in all directions. It was ghastly. Like a human tidal wave of flesh heading toward Jock.
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“Steve,” Jacquie whispered closeup and personal. I just remembered that Major Creature carries around with him vials of acid and magnesium, jellied fire starter when they are mixed. He does a somersault in here it’s all over.”
Then it’s your job to keep him upright in here,” Steve growled back close, and I must say, under the situation, very professional.
“Idiot,” was Jacquie’s retort. “Wait,” Jacquie screamed to be heard now. Pretending to dab her lips with a hankie in case any of those roving gangs of ‘Lip Readers’ were about. “OAS men coming towards Jock’s and Lik’s table right behind us.”
“That’s Georges Walrus,” Steve said, quietly almost without moving his lips but Jacquie read his mouth.
“Alias ‘The Pygmy Hippo.’ Steve growled in a low warning.
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“You mean Georges Watda… I thought Watda was another alias for the ‘The Jackal’ or ‘the Jackass or something like that?” Jacquie mouthed her question in a way any errant Lip Reader could not read her lips. “Steve, we are going to have to break this up.”
“No. Maybe Walrus and his OAS boys will—”
Before Steve could finish Alma Frump and her tsunami of big boned waitresses and medically obese, jolly, red nosed waiters smashed into Jock and Lik’s booth after Jock’s Teal colored enormous ninja head. Destroying several booths, liquor, splintering wood, sawdust flying and blasting patrons far, far away into other unexplored recesses of the Café.
As Jock’s circumference of his glowing head expanded exponentially so rapidly breaking the kamikaze type of elastic strap launching Jock’s, Deringer bullet-injured recorder/projector power box at incomparable speed causing those who
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were still able to put their hands over their ears to repel the sound of buzzing jets noise turning after burners on as they roared away. Some patrons, big boned waitresses and not so jolly, medically obese red nose waiters being swept away in the vacuum the noise caused, perhaps, never to be found again. Other dazed patrons seem to speed float in half size shoe boxes and disappear in little flashes. Only to return moments later as unconscious lederhosen Bavarian accordion players. Magnesium and acid mixed as flames exploded out of some idiot’s pocket. Then partial ceiling collapse.
###
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DEBRIEF 6
17 AUGUST, FRIDAY 7:00 HOURS
CAFÉ PETIT FOU, ACROSS THE STREET FROM
PETITE-SALPETRIERE HOSPITAL, NEAR THE MAZARIN ENTRANCE. THE OLD CHARENTON ASYLUM FOR THE CTIMIMALLY INSANE (LUNATIC SECTION PARKING ONLY.) RUE de la BOURRASQUES de (SQUALLS.)
“Steve,” Jacquie asked, after just getting their hearing back somewhat, nursing several bruises. “What in the name of Angles and Saints just happened last night? I could have sworn there were no accordion players in Alma Frump’s Dump last night when we entered.”
The waitress interrupted bringing two chocolate chauds and two croissants to their window table.
“Then that strange eardrum stinging noise like a squadron of jet aircraft blasting off,” Jacquie continued in that soft killer French accent.
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“Bavarian accordion players. The place was filled with bizarre looking shoe boxes… half sizes shoe boxes floating around. Jock’s head turning that ghastly teal orange—”
Steve, squinting his eyes, still not sure where he was. “Huh? Jet after burners engaged full throttle, Accordion players disappearing and seconds later appearing. It was like being inside Jock’s head. All I remember is seeing Jock’s excruciatingly tight kamikaze head band snapping launching at warp speed his recorder/projector into the deep, dark recesses of Alma Frump’s Dump.”
“My head hurts and we’re all covered with soot and sawdust and whatever this sticky stuff is… Steve you sure you do not have any leaking head wounds?
That is it Steve,” Jacquie shouted, hurting their ears. “Your nose and right ear are bleeding.”
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“I’m sorry,” Steve growled. “I just had a building collapse on me.”
“Steve, you are such a wimp. It was only a ceiling that fell on us… and everyone else in ‘The Dump.’ You do not hear anyone else complaining.”
“That’s because I can’t hear didley. And most of them were unconscious or taken to the hospital across the street.”
“Look, Chowder Head… what you said before, ‘It was like being in Jock’s head.’ What if that box being pressed against his head by the kamikaze elastic band was smashed into smithereens when the kamikaze elastic snapped, and the box flew off into the great unknown of Alma’s Dump—”
“And there really was some antimatter
released— No one really knows what effect a small amount of diluted antimatter would have when it is released into matter… other than destroying the universe. I think.”
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“No—” Steve started to say as Jacquie felt one of Steve’s soliloquies coming beginning on a subject that he knows nothing about.
This time Jacquie cut Steve off. “Causing those bizarre happenings. No wonder the maniacs at Edgewood Arsenal wanted Jock to test the contraption wrapped around his head at White Sands Proving Grounds. They were not worried about a nuclear explosion, but they were concerned that what was in Jock’s brain might escape. The stupid things he is always thinking about would be worse to civilization as we know it than any nuclear explosion.”
“Well Jacquie, I don’t think half size shoe boxes and mad Bavarian accordion players in lederhosen could actually destroy anything… except possibly the minds off all earthlings?”
“Tell that to the people still missing at Alma Frump’s Dump and the patrons that vanished in flashes of light. Like an invasion of human
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‘Lighting’ bugs. And how do people reappear before they vanish in flashes of light?”
“You mean ‘Lightening’ bugs,” Steve groaned in pain rubbing his head and dust from his eyes. “In Brooklyn we say ‘Lightening’ bugs.”
“Who cares what they say in Brooklyn,” Jacquie shrugged off Steve’s correction. “We do not have Lighting bugs in France anyway.”
“Ahh,” Steve throws his right hand up. Well, you did a great job keeping that KGB idiot Major Creature upright so he wouldn’t explode with those magnesium and acid vials he carries. I don’t think there were any major fires. No pun intended—”
“I did not do anything to keep Major Creature upright. I was under that freaking, splintered- ceiling with you and everyone else. But you know what was strange now that you remind me… I
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thought I saw Alma and her crew charge toward us just before Jock’s elastic kamikaze band snapped sending it, as you said, ‘to the far reaches to previous unknown parts of the Café Poubelle, then everything… everything blew up. But why was Alma Frump and her obese waiters and big boned waitresses attacking--“
“A question hopefully never to be answered,” Steve growled taking a sip of his chocolate chaud. Jock has the ability to bring out the ‘killer’ instinct in a saint.”
“I wonder where Jock and Lik are now. I hope they made it out of the debris field,” Jacquie said almost thoughtfully as she blew whipped cream off her cinnamon stirrer stick. “Oh well, if they made it out, they are probably lurking in some shadows on Rue Morgue waiting for their next victims.”
“What I could get out of one of the ambulance drivers and a couple of the firemen—”
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“Firepersons,” Jacquie interrupted.
“Huh?” Steve growled weakly rubbing his head injuries.
“Nothing,” Jacquie coughed.
“Anyway,” Steve continued, his growl coming back. “They’re taking all victims back to the mental hospital across the street for a triage or something? Then police and scientist questioning.”
“Ah, yes the lunatic asylum,” Jacquie said softly looking out across the Rue at the Mental Hospital from the table they were sitting at through a large picture window of the coffee shoppe. “How apropos.”
“Yeah, whatever?” Steve said finishing his Chocolate chaud. “I still feel a little dizzy. But I know Major ‘Short Step’ was taken here. They’re keeping him until he regains consciousness.”
“Those were some pretty heavy duty blows Lik gave him.” Jacquie mumbled with her napkin held
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close to her mouth in case there were some Lip Reader survivors from Alma Frump’s Dump about.
“I’m not sure what happened to that other idiot Major Creature,” Steve growled following Jacquie’s lead as he held a napkin up to his mouth. Then realizing what he was doing roared, tossed the napkin with prejudice, “What the hell am I doing. Don’t start that Lid Beater double talk again.”
“How stupid can you be?” Jacquie slashed. “No,” her words were scorched as she raised her hands. “Do not tell me. I know you haven’t reached your full potential.”
Steve, ignoring Jacquie’s tribute to him went on. “The last time I saw a smoking Major Creature as they were trying to pull him out of the ruble next to me… the emergency Recue Doc was posturizing, ‘Whatever hit this poor soul in the head had to be traveling so fast it went through his head cauterizing skin, skull and every vital organ causing no concern-able damage… I guess he was lucky he
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was wearing a stomped down Beaver on his head covered a bit with a slow burning paper bag over his head.”
“Jacquie just looked at Steve with an unbelieve stare and said, “Now I believe you reached your full potential.”
“Thanks Jacquie but this is no time for giving me kudos.”
This time it is believed it was Jacquie that growled in unbelievable frustration.
“Listen Steve, we have to get back to Chatellerault to washup and change our clothes. It only takes a couple of hours by train.”
“Regarde Jacquie,” Steve, still a bit unsteady on his feet, growled. “Over there by the hospital barb wired fence and the criminally insane warning signs, ‘LUNATICS MAY BE LURKING ABOUT.’ That very tall guy with the strange gait, bandaged head
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lurking in the morning shadows. He’s sneaking off down the street. Do you think that’s the Soviet KGB Major Creature Strachovsky?”
“Of course, it is,” Jacquie’s sarcastic reply ricocheted off the windowpane they were peering through. “Who else could it be? What else walks and runs like that aside from the Jackal? Stiff legged, unable to bend his knees, or arms at the elbow. Now he is running like that. After him Steve.”
“Why?” Steve asked.
“I have to get back to Rue de la Croix Rouge to change my clothes—” Jacquie’s explanation was interrupted.
Unfortunately, a rock with paper around it thrown through the window hit Steve on the head as he tried to steady his feet, for the pursuit, rendering him unconscious.
###
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DEBRIEF PART 7
18 AUGUST, SATURDAY 1962
AFTERNOON
ATLANTIC OCEANSIDE SEA RESORT
ROYAN, FRANCE.
HOTEL AU REGAL, 15 RUE PIERRE-LOTI
OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE BRIAND, ROYAN 17
TEL 05. 06. 07.
After a stop at Onze Rue de la Croix Rouge in Chatellerault for a change of clothes, nuclear powered showers Jacquie put together on the spot and an unexpected stop at the ‘Bittersweet Private Hospital for Dramatic and Traumatic Nuggie Injury and for Individuals Unable to Jump’ located in Dange, France; the specialists there agreed Steve would eventually remember who he was. But
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there would be short lapses as Steve slips into other identities until the swelling goes down.
On the way to Royan Jacquie had to suffer Steve remembering he was La Mont Cranston alias the ‘Shadow.’ Charles De Gaulle and ‘The Norman Looboff Choir.
Jacquie and Steve finally made their way to a small, charming hotel a bit off the Atlantic Ocean coastal beach resort of Royan, France. Jacquie was about to Savate kick Steve in the head to try and get him to get his memory back with Savate encouragement.
“What is this note you keep talking about?” Steve Mumbled. “Dud I read it?
“Of course. You read it when you regained consciousness. Lucky the Lunatic hospital was across the street so they could help you tout suite.”
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“Yeah, lucky me. I was seeing double. I couldn’t make out the scribbling. Wait till I get my hands on those two morons,” Steve rubbed the left side of his goose-egg head as he groaned. If they were outside the Café we were in, why didn’t they just come in and hand us the note or just tell us?”
“I do not know Steve. They are your contacts. Listen Steve while you are still yourself…”
“Huh? Wait a minute. This note is for someone named Steve. My name is… don’t tell me.”
The men in white jackets and carrying butterfly nets. chasing Major ‘Creature seem to know you Steve—”
“Chasing Major ��Creature.’ Did they get him?”
“No, I do not think so,” Jacquie said softly. “There was so much excitement and confusion when you got knocked out. I had to focus on you. I did not know you could yodel when unconscious… or, conscious for that matter.”
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“Yodel? What are you blabin’ about? Anyway, I have a lot of contacts.”
“You know, now that I think about it, I never met one of your contacts that wasn’t weird.”
“So, what,” Steve replied not realizing he was answering her in slang Swahili.” “Do you think any normal person would be in the kind of work we do?”
“No, I suppose not,” Jacquie answered Steve back in a nonchalant Swahili. “But you have so many contacts in zoos around the world. I mean not only people but all kinds of animals.”
“A contact is a contact,” Steve growled still in slang Swahili.”
“I suppose,” Jacquie said, in a far way scientific tone speaking a more formal Swahili as she inspected Steve’s head for leakage. “Hmmm, Steve have you been in a more recent contact with
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‘more’ sawdust… I mean after the Frump’s Dump?”
DEBRIEF 8
18 AUGUST SATURDAY 1962
EVENING
HOTEL AU REGAL
15 RUE PIERRE – LOTI
OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE
BRIAND, 17
SUITE 12 TOP FLOOR
TEL. 05. 06. 07.
“It was a dark, windy almost moonless night. The Merengue dancing tree branches made spooky sounds on the deserted streets below urged on by a low-pressure grid tumbling its way off the Atlantic Ocean as electric lights flicked.
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In suite 12, Jacquie and Steve sat around a large oval table. A giant iron extremely hot pot of Bouillabaisse was simmering on the stove. There were several lighted candles from birthday size to Opera candle size that helped the large room to reek with moving shadows from the breeze entering through the open terrace.
Steve frowned at the aroma of the fish stew, or whatever type of Sea Monsters bubbling away, and the attacking scent being tossed about by the breezy jabs and uppercuts of the percolating stew. Jacquie and Steve are discussing their next move, through the fog of Bouillabaisse horror, as they waited for Jock and Lik to show up.
“I made this Bouillabaisse for its nutritional value in restoring your mind to normal stupidity from being beaned on your head with that rock they threw through the Café window.”
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“I’m going to kill those two before this mission is over.
Now that I’m all better tell me why you insisted on making that foul fish stew,” Steve sneered a growl which is difficult to do for most humans.
“I just told… Never mind,” Jacquie sneered back in that most charming and patient French accent that sounded as if she was ordering a firing squad to open fire.
“All these buildings in Royan look fairly new even in the growing darkness,” Steve said moseying over to the terrace balcony and pushing the blackout curtains all the way aside as he gasped for more air.
“That’s because Royan was bombed by the Allies during the war by mistake. Then rebuilt after the war.
Steve, did you notice the headline on the newspaper?”
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“I notice everything,” Steve said in a low menacing tone as he leaned out over the balcony railing. “What headlines? For that matter, what paper?”
“Steve do not lean out that far. “We are four floors up. ‘STILL NO EXPLANATION WHY TIME SEEMED TO STAND STILL FOR 7 SECONDS LAST NIGHT AROUND LES HALLES IN PARIS!’
And get this… The paper reports… ‘the epicenter was at Les Halles. People seemed to vanish but returned before they disappeared. Many victims report seeing the Café Poubelle, locally known as Alma Frump’s Dump was being flooded by nightmarish Bavarian accordion players in Lederhosen. Also, victims state the, what is now known locally as ‘BAP’ (Bavarian Accordion Players) disappearing before they appeared.’ Steve, how can that be?”
“Who cares. Journalistic sensationalism,” Steve growled as his voice seemed to fade away.
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Then Jacquie heard a terrible scream like a Tarzan call when he swings through the jungle in one of his movies.
‘Steve, what did you say,” Jacquie asked in deadly charming French as she looked up from the newspaper. “Steve, Steve… Where are you now?”
###
DEBRIEF 9
18 AUGUST SATURDAY 1962
21:45 HOURS
HOTEL AU REGAL
15 RUE PIERRE-LOTI
OFF BOULEVARD ARISTIDE
BRIAND 17,
SUITE 12 TOP FLOOR
TEL. 05. 06. 07.
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“I tell you Jacquie I’m not hurt,” Steve mumbled bitterly. “You forget I’m Lord Greystone or is it Lord Stovepipe? Ah, just call me Tarzan.”
“You fell off the Balcony. Four floors.”
“Nonsense. I leaped. A mere pittance for the Lord of the Jungle,” Steve roared as he sat down on a portable davenport next to the huge table. Jacquie had been reading the newspaper by candlelight. “Besides the trees broke my fall.”
“You could have been killed… leaving me to explain what happened. You know what would have happened then. Both the French and American governments would have left me out in the cold. And I would have been put in… How do you call it? A Bobbie Hatch.”
“You know Jacquie, for some uncanny reason this reminds me when I fell off the roof of Adverk Castle in Scotland.”
“Idiot.”
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“Wait a minute,” Steve ordered. “I remember. I was looking over the balcony and saw a cat burglar climb out a window across the Boulevard and shadow lurk towards the hotel carrying a mouth full of Sterling silver.”
“Sounds like those trees did not break your fall enough Lord Stovepipe,” Jacquie spoke in a tone of wisdom.”
“Lord who? Are you okay Jacquie? You sure you weren’t the one who fell off the balcony?”
“Look moron, how do you know he was a cat burglar?”
“I recall he was dressed like a cat?”
“You truly are ‘The’ professional idiot. And do not tell me to save my Kudos or ‘Who cares,’ “Jacquie went back to charting an algorithm of Jock’s thinking progress on the newspaper she had been reading.
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“Now what are you doing,” Steve growled in an exceptionally low voice.”
“More precisely that recorder projector on Jocks head those torturers at Edgewood Arsenal screwed around with. According to the newspaper ‘went through some previously unknown barrier of light or time.’
“Look Jacquie, when Jock’s head expanded exponentially… well mix that with antimatter in your algorithm you come up with… I don’t know. Stupidity, or disaster like we just experienced.
“Steve, there is something still missing.”
“Did you include Lik’s left ear in your algorithm? And what the hell is an ‘algorithm’ anyway? Where did the cat burglar go?” Steve challenged himself.”
“Still there is something missing about Jock’s thinking process. I cannot get it to fit any algorithm,” Jacquie said in a thoughtful French.
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“I’ve always theorized there are speeds faster than light in our universe… even faster than warped-mind speed. And we might even be dealing with ‘Time Inversion.’ Jock’s brain after being bombarded with antimatter may hold the key. I wonder if his head is still intact?”
“Never was,” Steve mumbled as he got up and searched the street below.
“Stop hanging over the balcony Steve and sit back down. It may account for the inmates of Café Poubelle returning before they disappeared. Quick Steve, I need more paper for the algorithm formula I am developing.”
“Yeah, right Jacquie,” Steve growled as he gave her a raised eyebrow and eyeroll.
Then there was a knock at the door. Four rapid heavy knocks that meant nothing to anyone.
Moments later Jacquie, Steve, Jock, Lik and someone none of them knew were all sitting
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around the large teak wood table discussing how sorry they were for knocking Steve unconscious with a secret message tied to a rock back at the Petit Fou in Paris.”
“Rock,” Steve roared. “It was a boulder. Morons. You wiped out the whole Petit Fou place.”
“Let us not exaggerate Steve,” Jacquie smirked in French. “Little damage was done to your head.”
“Baloney. And who is this Steve you all are yappin’ about?”
“Except for that,” Jacquie smiled as she shrugged her shoulders. “I think he is Lord Stovepipe ‘King of the Jungle.’ “
“Who?” Lik asked in a breaking icy tone.
Jacquie shook her head in the negative. “Forget it. It is of no import.”
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“Anyway,” Jock said angrily in a high pitch tone while blowing smoke from three cigarettes, we have to wait until next year when the folks at Edgewood Arsenal fit me for a new hologram projector recorder with updated antimatter and a better mini secure capture holder so I can record a year in the life of my wife’s left ear.”
“Yes,” Lik said, as if again two icebergs were rubbing against each other as they passed each other somewhere in the North Atlantic. “The boys at Edgewood Arsenal building 355, you know the criminally insane division are going to have Jock surgically self-implant it between his eyes himself so when he gets angry, or cannot understand what is going on around him and his head expands, we won’t have to concern ourselves with any kamikaze rubber-elastic bands breaking and interfering with any of those stupid space-time continuums.”
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LIk, sitting back in her chair in a relax mode, whipped her Golompi out and flung it up into the ceiling. As they were on the top floor it did penetrate the roof. There seemed to come a yelp from the roof.
Lik continued as Jock’s all-weather fruit flies finally caught up with him and could be heard swarming outside the door or perhaps it was the small neon sign advertising the hotel although I think not.
“All that would happen then would be the projector/recorder sending holograms of what is in my Jock’s head to the ionosphere as recordings of the old American 1950 Cisco Kid TV shows back to Earth did or who knows where. Did anyone see what I did with my Golompi when I came in?”
“In the ceiling Lik,” Jock said casually in a high-pitched scream that caused everyone slap their hands over their ears. “Is that boiling bouillabaisse I hear?” Jock asked as smoke engulfed his head from new cigarettes, he recently lighted.
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“For dinner,” Jacquie answered softly in French. I know you all must be hungry.”
Steve seemed to gag a bit.
“Be a big boy Steve,” Jacquie said softly in kind of Pau village French. “I could have made Andouillette.”
“That reminds me of the old Bouillabaisse song, which is the official theme song of Neptune,” Lik said in a matter-of-fact icy way as she catapulted onto the table then leaping high into the air retrieved her Golompi and some pieces of ceiling and roof tar with perhaps a schemer of Epsom Salts on the tip along with some human gluteus maximus flesh and a blood spat?”
“Please Lik, no more.” Steve’s voice sounded like one of the menacing low jungle noises one hears at night but can’t detect where it’s coming from. “Even I can’t stand it. Now please report on what you two found out about REDCOM and what the Soviets are up to… if it’s not too late already. At
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least before I seek my revenge for conking me with that stone you threw through that Café window outside the hospital in Paris.”
“Hey, I would like to have one of those things implanted between my eyes.” The masked, around his eye’s only, man, partially dressed to look like a grey cat, demanded in a kind of disturbing meowing tone. Smoking an American Raleigh cigarette stuck to his upper lip. His face carried a strange Joe E. Brown bazoo. A piece or two of miniature silverware on the side of his mouth dangled before he whipped them to the other side without disturbing his Raleigh.
“Who is this?” Jacquie demanded to know from Jock and Lik.
“Have not the foggiest,” Jock said in another high- pitch scream.
“Nor have I,” Lik’s icy tone caused everyone to chill. “We thought this thing was with you. Said he
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was the hotel’s official greeter… Or was it the official stealer?”
“By any chance are you ladies proposing to me?” the stranger purred? Then he mumbled something incoherently in a whisper as his head shifted quickly left to right his bazoo dropping a miniature sterling silver dessert spoon. He interrogated. “But why quibble about dessert?”
“Who cares who he is,” Steve growled low and menacing. “Can we get on with this.”
“I shall make arrangements for a small but elegant double wedding. I am known to the French authorities as –”
“Can you make a souffle Japanese style… you know, without cheese or eggs?” Jock screamed in a tone that was unusually high even for him.
“I am not zee cook you fools. I am Monsieur Le ‘Couchon Cnout’ alias ‘The Home Book of Verse’ also known as the ‘World’s Greatest Criminologist.’
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But I demand to know again, why quibble about this dessert. You may call me by my other alias… ‘The Home Book of Verse.’
“Now, I recommend you people stop talking about whatever you idiots are babbling about, order me one of those things you put between your eyes and allow me to recite the poet Robert Owens starting in the middle years and then spreading out in both directions at once. I will give you all comprehensive tests when we finish in two or three wee—”
That’s all he would say as Jacquie smashed his head into the table with a high Savate kick from behind knocking him out. Then shoving a lighted king-size cigarette in his bazoo to replace the Raleigh that was crushed. Pulling his chair and body to a bay window overlooking the dark rainy Blossac so he took on the position of an alert but unconscious Centennial. “
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“We are Wasting time,” Steve growled. “Throw him over.”
“Not to worry Steve,” Lik crackled. “I Know him. He is The Russian.… Known by his other aliases as the ‘Pygmy Hippo…’ and the ‘Pretend Jackal’
In the back streets of Downtown Moscow. You know by Boris’s---"
“I thought he was alias ‘The Schnauzer” Jock pussyfooted his question in a high fingernail across the blackboard society-snobby manner.
“Who cares?” Steve growled a warning growl that vibrated through everyone. “I don’t know what the hell anyone is talking about.”
“Well anyway,” Lik continued in a voice that sounded like Eliza again crossing the ice but this time with fairy wings. “Whoever the idiot is, or who he reports to… they will make their move, that is, Project REDCOM begins on the 22nd of August starting at Les Halles in mid-morning and
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culminating, with the assassination of De Gaulle, near, Petit Clarmart--.”
“August already past,” Steve argued. “I think It’s gonna be tough to prevent that.”
“Thank you, Steve, for sharing that bit of stupidity with us.” Then Jacquie, turning to Jock and Lik said in a sweet French tone, “Obviously I Savateed the wrong persons head into the table.”
“I meant August 1961 passed last year little Miss know-it-all.” Steve growled as his eyes followed something invisible crossing the ceiling. “I just momentarily forgot what month August is in.”
“Thank you again Steve for sharing your words of wisdom this time. And one cannot end a sentence with ‘is in.’ ” Jacquie purred with a smile “You know it is ‘you guys’ fault for hitting him on the
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head with that rock-message back at the hospital in Paris.”
“Jacquie, how many times do I have to tell you to save your kudos for me until I figure out what’s going on,” Then turning to Jock and Lik whispers, trying to blow away Jock’s smoke and suicidal fruit flies that squeezed through the cracks of the door, and in a low muffled kind of growl, “She has me on this pedestal that no… no man could live up to.”
“Steve,” Lik iced her words, “You have come so close to a dangling participle—”
“And not only that added, “Jacquie added, “as soon as the Russians assassinate President De Gaulle they will make their move to take over West Berlin as the allies will be caught off guard unless we get moving.”
“The Allies are always caught off guard,” Jock said in his angry Japanese/Scottish accent. Grabbing another lit French cigarette from behind his right ear and shoved it in his mouth which made three
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maybe four he was puffing on at the same time. He still had two more lit ones behind his left ear.
“Knock off that accent,” Jacquie demanded. Her words carried the threat of an unpleasant death.
“Which one?” Jock angrily hit a high note as glass seemed to break someplace. He immediately took up the Gobi Pretzel self-defense position (A bit more sophisticated than the regular International Pretzel Self-Defense position) Jock’s head began to tremble and turn a dark shade of tealish pumpkin orange. Lik, quickly grabbed a small burning candle and shoved it in his mouth twixt the French cigarettes. Jock seemed not to notice, or at least he calmed down.
“Do you have a confirmed day in August of this year when the assassination takes place?” Steve asked again.
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“No,” Lik stated. “That is aside from Wednesday
August 22nd and a name of Georges Watda the faux mastermind and also known as ‘The—”
“Stop,” Steve roared, sending shivers throughout all inmates of the hotel. “No more freakin’ aliases.
I have a hard enough time trying to understand what the hell is going on and I’m the mission leader. Let us just keep Georges Walrus the faux mastermind. Whatever the hell that is.”
“But Steve, “Jacquie corrected, her words smacking him across the knuckles. His last name is Watda not Walrus. Georges Watda and he to claims to be ‘The Jackal as well as a ‘Pygmy Hippo.”
“What did I just say Jacquie. No aliases. Just stick with Walrus. This is beginning to sound like a job for a zoo not a bunch of crack assassins.”
Jock began to spit hot wax and sticky pieces of tobacco out of his mouth. “I resent being called
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‘cracked,’ ” Jock’s words were almost lost in the smoke and pain coming out of his bazoo.
“I said ‘crack,’ “ Steve shot back.
“Quiet Jock. Well Steve,” Lik’s words were again like some fairy tiptoeing across an icy birdbath. “Besides what I just told you the answer to your question is no. We know nothing. We are ashamed.”
“Soooo,” Jacquie said in that soft killer French accent. “Aside from the date of Operation RedCom, the assassination of President De Gaulle which you said Wednesday August 22nd and a name Georges Watda, excuse me… Walrus for those of us not operating with a full deck. You don’t know when the assassination of President De Gaulle is going to take place and who is the faux mastermind behind the assassination?”
“We cannot know everything,” Jock sputtered in an operatic ear-piercing tone. “Who shoved a burning candle in my mouth when I was not
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looking?” Jock tried to spit out his waxy fire. His high note opera question relaxed him, a bit, from his International Gobi self-defense Pretzel stance,
“Is there anything else you do not know?” Jacquie asked in a pleasing soft French accent.
“Quiet Jock,” Lik said, this time, in a cold cold tone. “All we know Jacquie, or… do not know is our contacts Miroslav Elias and his Russian KGB buddy, the moron that looks and walks like Frankenstein’s creature and a group of about 10 OAS (Secret Army Organization} members have a Russian Look-a-Like of Premier Pompidou who we believe is President De Gaulle himself. They will install the fake in President De Gaulle’s place once he is assassinated by the OAS people. Which will be installing the real De Gaulle in his own place, even though he was assassinated.”
“You see Steve,” Jacquie said softly, “the Russians do not know that De Gaulle already is his own double, and he is also Pompidou.”
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“I don’t get it,” Steve said in a voice someone would use in reporting seeing a flying saucer in a chorus line, “If they assassinate De Gaulle, which we will prevent, why would they put Pompidou in De Gaulle’s place? I’m sure someone would notice. I mean if the fake imposter De Gaulle is, in actuality, the real De Gaulle morphing (quick-changing) into Pompidou the real assassinated De Gaulle… won’t someone the real De Gaulle is dead if Pompidou isn’t moving? Wait a mo. Which one of you doofuses hit me on my head with a rock back in Paris?”
Jock jumped up, stood at attention almost dropping the three, maybe four, lighted cigarettes he had in his mouth. Bowed politely. Excused himself and ran screaming into the WC, followed by a swarm of suicidal fruit flies, stuck his head in the toilet bowl to put out the burning candle wax fire in his mouth now beginning to rage into flames of destruction.
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“Excuse me,” Lik said, in a ho-hum manner “This has happened before… not being able to reach the flusher chain. In these hotels the flush chain is high above his head. He has congenital slow reflexes when this takes place.” As Lik sashayed toward the WC she slammed her machete into the wall where she was sure one of Rutherford B, Hayes Pinkerton men was hiding.
“Assassinated?” Steve questioned. His tone verging on ‘Covert Agent’ radicalism rage. “I mean whom is being assassinated? Pompidou or De Gaulle?”
Jock, returning to the table as Lik dries his bald head with an electric hair dryer attached to an extendable cord, High Hatted the room as he was refreshed from being flushed on.
“But there is no Georges Pompidou you fool,” Jock screamed out in words of smoke and what sounded like ‘Hysterical High Latin.’
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Lik, let the smoking hot electric hair dryer touch his head causing third degree burns.
Jock went on to painfully explain, “It is De Gaulle that plays both roles and now includes a third role of the Soviets fake De Gaulle. Have you never noticed De Gaulle and Pompidou walk alike? Talk alike, speak French, almost the same height. Look exactly alike… except for that beauty mark De Gaulle has. Take away that beauty mole and you could not tell them apart.”
“Couldn’t tell who apart? Let me get this straight Jock,” Steve growled in his low deep tone sounding as a man that intended to commit suicide but wasn’t sure how to get out of bed. “You’re saying De Gaulle is his own double? But the Soviets have a fake De Gaulle look-a-like who, thanks to French Intelligence and us, is the real De Gaulle acting as Pompidou and the Soviets fake De Gaulle? I mean… I don’t know what the hell I mean. Tell them what I mean Jacquie.”
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“Try to keep up with the conversation Steve,” Jacquie said angrily, “tell me again why you are on this mission with me.”
“What mission?” Steve looked around suspiciously rubbing the now retreating goose-egg on the side of his head where he was knocked unconscious earlier when the Unita’s threw that rock through the Petit Fou Café window front with a message tied to it, back in Paris earlier.
“That is because De Gaulle crouches down a bit when he morphs into Pompidou’s walk.” Lik’s words hung frozen in her icebergs scraping tone. “You always see them together and not necessarily at the same time.”
“Oui,” Jacquie collaborated. Her sweet French tone this time carried the pain of a tire iron across the knuckles. “I have seen them stand together, walk together, talk together. I have even seen Pompidou sitting while De Gaulle is giving a speech standing next to him.”
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“If De Gaulle and Pompidou and the Soviets fake De Gaulle are one person, how can one bestanding and the other be sitting at the same time,” Steve questioned with angst.
“Mirrors,” Jock spit out the high note scream as if he were spitting out an orange pit. The WC wall mirror cracked. Thunder began rumbling.
Lik, began applying mustard to Jock’s head burns until Jock passed out from burning head pains.”
“What the hell are you people talking about?” Steve roared as lightning flashed somewhere offshore and a chilly wind blew the balcony dark blue curtains aside.
From somewhere within the hotel came sounds of kettle drums being played as everyone who was conscious in the room looked around cautiously realizing a Mau Mau attack was very possible once the Kettle Drums stopped. (Steve, Jacquie, Lik and Jock had spent too much time in jungles alone.)
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‘Steve,” Jacquie whispered to him almost in rhythm to the hypnotic beat of the kettle drums what was happening on the mission. It was as if she was explaining the ‘Cabra First Test’ to the James gang. (This was a test concerning nuclear powered Xray lasers that scientist first theorized about at the Alamo Testing Grounds…circa 1945. The James gang refers to Jesse James and his boys.)
LATER THAT NIGHT:
“So, Jock,” Steve growled that low jungle cat warning when someone gets too close to where the big cat is crouching in their fight or flight mode.
Jock who was now conscious and smoking four French cigarettes in his mouth with two new lighted ciggies behind each ear lay sprawled out on a soft blue divan with matching pillow.
“Let me get this straight… again,” Steve continued, “You’re telling us the first part of the Soviets Project REDCOM, the assassination of Charles De
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Gaulle President of France will begin on the morning of 22 August this year by having Soviet Vasaltnicki groups, (Russian Agents disguised as next-door neighbors etc…) who will be told they are making a documentary of Les Halles and will be acting as ‘Smoke Police.’
They will put up ‘No Smoking’ signs all over Les Halles along with Smoke Police Cardboard Cutouts of Gorillas dressed as Gendarmes, so they look more threatening.
I mean the Gorilla cardboard cutouts will be ‘Smoke Police’ along with live action Vasaltnicki Soviet covert soldiers/agents and forcibly disarm Frenchmen of their cigarettes preventing them from smoking.”
“I… I do not remember saying all that, Steve.” Jock pleaded. But yes. Was I mumbling when I was unconscious?”
“How diabolical.” Jacquie said.
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“Diabolical?” Steve roared. “Try stupid.”
“You do not understand the French mind do you Steve?” Jacquie interrogated.
“Don’t pull that High School Psychology on me Jacquie. I don’t even understand my own mind.”
“Jock is a licensed Angolan Psychotherapist,” Lik advised in a burning dry ice tone. “As well as a former Mau-Mau Witch Doctor before he was discovered and chased out of Uganda if that helps Steve.
I remember that night. Idi Amin, we called him Da Da, in his underwear, swinging his ‘Poor Man’s machete, and his merry band of peculiars carrying tubs of tar and live chickens chasing and hobble dancing Jock and I through the night jungle. Just because Jock accidently hit him with a curse of ‘The Old Man’s Dance.”
Lik volunteered her story flinging her machete straight up again deep into the ceiling and piercing
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the roof where a tourist Frau Herzlich Wilikommen was taking an unauthorized Sist bath on the roof. There was a scream followed by a long deep roll of thunder. More like a painful horse Winnie of a frightened mare with a cold makes when startled.
“Look siphon apterous brain,” Jacquie snapped eyeing Steve.
“See,” Steve beamed, “that pedestal Jacquie has me on gets higher and higher. I’m gonna need a seatbelt at this height. I mean, don’t get me wrong Jacquie. All these Kudos you’re giving me are making my head swell. No offence Jock.”
“Huh?” Jock screamed with a ‘Knight of the Roundtable’ eloquence.
“And” Steve marched on, “as the commander of this mission, I would even be greater if I knew what the hell you people were talking about.”
Jacquie got up and went over to the kitchen’s Cold Storage door. Opened it, turned the light on then
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yelled, shook her head, looked around, slammed the light switch down, banged the door shut, regained her composure said to herself ‘And we called him Da Da.”
Returning, she alighted on her chair like a floating elegant leaf. Then continued: “Taking a cigarette away from a Frenchman will cause an explosion the likes not seen since Marie Antoinette allegedly said, ‘Let them eat cake.’ Jock can tell you a thing or two about the Jacobian Club.”
“You go Jacquie,” Jock screeched.
“Shut up moron,” Jacquie responded calmly but posed to attack unmercifully.
“What Jacobian Club?” Steve roared. “Where did that come from?”
“Jacquie’s is right,” Lik said in her usual ice cracking underfoot tone. “It is diabolical and right out of the old 1789 Jacobian playbook. Any French child knows that.
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The French police will be tied up for hours if not days. Riot police squads will be called to Les Halles from all over the country. I am sure the French Government will call out the Army. Even pulling the security details off De Gaulle as he travels. Leaving the pathways wide open for ‘The Jackass’ or any Alias to strike and allow the Russian propaganda machine to tell the world the French are pulling out of West Berlin weakening the Allies hold on the rest of West Germany. This confusion may even cause France to pull out of NATO.” (NATO: North Atlantic Treaty Organization.)
“Now wait a mo,” Steve demanded. Even his deep growl sounded bewildered. “Let me catch up. The only thing I understood is the name ‘The Jackass.’ ”
There was a deep sigh by the group. Even ‘The Home Book of Verse’ seemed to sigh although he was still unconscious.
“If all this happens,” Steve growled, “that is whatever the hell you guys are yappin’ about, how
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are these disguised Soviet Vasaltnicki undercovers… How are these Smoking Police phonies gonna escape? Think about it. Copenhagen has a population a bit over nine hundred thousand. If they’re caught it will be soon found out they are Soviet Vasaltnicki troops and that will cause an international incident and will solidify the Allies even more.”
“The sewers of Paris,” Jacquie said in her soft killer French. “The sewers of Paris crisscross under Les Halles going in hundreds of directions and miles. Not to mention they connect with the catacombs and have many escape tunnels to the Metro. Even sanitation workers have been lost never to be found.”
“That would be fine if we were in Paris,” Steve growl snapped. “But we’re in Copenhagen.”
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“We are,” Jock’s tone hit one of those torturous high notes that can cause ears to bleed. “I thought we are in Paris.”
“Oui. We are,” Jacquie whispered, her ears burning as were the others. “Steve will be back with us in a while.”
“Paris,” Steve questioned in a base voice that seemed to make the table vibrate. “Okay, that’s better. Then it seems we might have the correct logistics. One will have the detail maps to the nearest manhole covers. And theoretically so would the Soviet Vasaltnicki troops.”
“Right Steve,” Jock said in a moderate scream timbre. Now down to smoking two cigarettes at the same time. Even so his enunciation was quite eloquent. His words showing signs of advanced ‘hyperthermia.’
Thanks to Lik’s machete Golumpi we have copies of the Sewer Escape maps the Soviet Vasaltnicki troops intend to use to make them vanish like a
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herd of stampeding Yak disappearing in the Himalayas as they go over a cliff. My mouth tastes like wet candle wax.
“Let me see that map, Jacquie ordered in a voice that made everyone at the table figuratively jump to attention.
Perusing the map Jacquie started to say, “This map is—”
Suddenly the divan pillow Jock was resting his head on burst into flames.
“Quick thinking Jacquie and Lik,” Steve said as the ladies carefully lifted the brewing pot of Bouillabaisse over Jock’s head to extinguish the flames over Jock’s screams of drowning in pain. The matching blue Divan pillow is destroyed as was one side of the Divan. The aroma of the fish stew seems to fog their minds.
Jock, now sitting on the other end of the Divan was rocking back and forth mumbling old Johnny
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Holiday Rock and Roll songs to himself in Japanese. Then looking up he said in English “What is that leaking from the sealing?” It tastes like Epsom Salts.
“Thank God,” Lik said with an Icey sigh blessing herself “Jock, that must mean you still have one taste bud left.”
Jacquie, Steve and Lik sat back down at the large table once again after the smoke and the scent of burnt Divan hair cleared a bit and the spilled Bouillabaisse ate up the linoleum in the kitchen area. Jock was somewhere out in space and not ready to rejoin the group.
“Political assassinations very rarely work,” Jacquie proffered again in a soft ‘by the by’ tone.
“I still don’t understand this double stuff about De Gaulle and Pompidou,” Steve served his words as if he kicked a 3-point field goal. And don’t give me static about not understanding the French mind.
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De Gaulle being his own double and his own Soviet fake double and disguised as Pompidou?
That means if the terrorist succeeds in knocking off Pompidou, they still are knocking off Pompidou… I mean De Gaulle… I think. I mean they are still accomplishing their goal.
Wouldn’t it be better if Georges Pompidou disguised himself as De Gaulle? Then if, and don’t stop me if I’m wrong, Pompidou disguised as De Gaulle gets knocked off leaving De Gaulle is still alive.”
Jacquie, Lik and even Jock in his bizarre state of mind looked at each other as if Steve missed the whole point.
“Let me try to explain it to you again,” Jacquie said in a voice that would make one feel warm and comfy. “I have been trying to tell you something especially important about De Gaulle since we started on this mission. But I have difficulty getting through all the cement.
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There is no Pompidou. Imagine you are one of the terrorists about to assassinate De Gaulle as he goes by in his car—”
Lik interrupted: A Citron DS 19. De Gaulle calls it ‘La Deesse.”
“The Goddess,” Jacquie translated.
“I speak and understand French,” Steve’s words gave a warning growl. “At least I did until we started to work together.”
“Really Steve?” Jacquie smiled an understanding smile one uses when a patient Lion tamer tries to teach an unruly man eater to sit up.
“And yes, Lik,” Jacquie added, “the Citron Goddess has a wonderful transmission and suspension system. I rode in De Gaulle’s Goddess limo several times along with his wife and Pompidou who is of course really De Gaulle.”
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“Well… aren’t you so special,” Steve chimed. “And don’t start that De Gaulle being his own double stuff again.
“How I hate you,” Jacquie, slightly shaking her head, served her words with a touch of hemlock. “Anyway,” Jacquie went on. “Make believe you are the terrorist and just as you, the terrorist, is about to squeeze a round off with your Dragonov Soviet sniper protocol rifle you see your own terror leader who organized this assassination plot in the first place in the back seat, where De Gaulle should be sitting as the President in De Gaulle’s limo, the Goddess how would you react? Would you take the shot?
Or maybe you see yourself in the back seat where De Gaulle sits, or Georges Watda, or in your case Walrus, waving a white hankie at you in a Toddle-Doo manner.”
“Toddle-Doo manner?” Steve growled. “And?”
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“Would that not throw your aim off?” Jacquie’s comment this time was served with sweet thick peach syrup. “But now things get complicated.”
“Now?” Steve challenged.
“Yes, Jacquie snapped French style. “According to Lik and Jock the Soviets have a look-a-like of De Gaulle. So that means there are two De Gaulle’s but only one can morph into Pompidou and—”
“Wait a mo,” Steve stood up at a posture that seemed to be ‘Dress Right Dress.’ “All three including the Soviet De Gaulle are really the real De Gaulle. Jock or Lik or all of you said there’s no Pompidou. De Gaulle is not only himself… Maybe? But he is his own double, and he is Pompidou. Did I say that right?”
Jacquie and Lik looked at each other and shrugged. “We do not know,” Jacquie said cautiously. “The
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French mind is beautiful and occasionally beyond comprehension.”
“One must be married to a French woman to understand the French mind. And it makes no difference,” Lik said in a tone of someone stirring crushed ice in an empty glass.
“Makes no difference,” Steve snarled. “And wait another mo, where did this guy Georges Watda… I mean Walrus come from. How’d he get into the Goddess limo with himself… and De Gaulle? Why would he be waving a white hanky at me the assassin? And why ain’t I in the limo with everyone else?”
“You are right Jacquie,” Lik continued her tone of crushed ice being stirred in an empty glass. “Steve doesn’t understand the French mind. I wonder if there is any Bouillabaisse left.”
“You see Steve,” Jacquie tried to, in a soft French accent, and in one syllable words or less, explain. “President De Gaulle, unbeknownst to the general
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public is a master of the ‘quick-change.’ He can be in De Gaulle’s Goddess limo as Pompidou or Watda… Walrus for you Steve… or, as an assassin waiting along the side of the road to shoot himself in his Goddess limo as it passes.”
“Ya know,” Steve growled in a low tone, “this is the first time I realized my whole team is freakin’ insane. How could I have missed that when I first interviewed you… loonies. I’m swearing off French Fries.
Answer me one thing Jacquie,” an exasperated, yet bewildered Steve asked in an ‘Assassin’s Covert Rage.’ “There’s five people in De Gaulle’s limo driving down the road. De Gaulle’s wife, De Gaulle himself,’ this white hankie waving guy Georges Walrus, De Gaulle’s driver Moreau and Georges Pompidou who is in reality… Wait… don’t tell me. Ahhh,… I don’t know. And De Gaulle waiting down the road disguised as the terrorist Georges Walrus
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to shoot himself in the limo as he passes himself on the road.
Now he can’t be all these people no matter how fast of a quick-change artist.”
“Theoretically you are correct Steve,” Jacquie said as if she was putting forth some unsolvable equation. “But in practice—”
“But what about Pompidou?” Steve growled in a painful tone as if an overweight Encyclopedia salesperson holding a complete set of the World’s knowledge was standing on Steve’s bootless toes.
“There is no Pompidou,” Jacquie, Lik and a mumbling and crying Jock all yelled.
“That’s right,” Steve bellowed. I forgot about that. I think it’s all beginning to make sense to me in some delusional way?”
There was aloud banging on the door. “It is the ‘Nimrod.’ Open the door.”
###
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DEBRIEF PART 10
18 August 1962
Saturday Night
23:00 HOURS
SAME LOCATION
“Who?” Steve growled.
“The police,” Jacquie said in a harsh tone of ‘What now?’
“Open the door,” the voice on the other side of the door shouted again as if he was calling a garcon to take back his fish dinner.
“It is open,” Steve roared back as he flung open the door… “now,” he continued in a more mellow growl.
Rushing in the police officer in charge said loudly,
“ I am Sargent Brouillard, ‘IOSOPND.’ “
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“International ‘OffShore’ Ocean Police, Nimrod Division,” Jacquie said gallantly with a smile
“Is there anything you don’t know?” Steve demanded in a surly voice as he gave Jacquie the Brooklyn stare.
“We have had complaints about the strange noises and screams from this suite,” Sergeant Brouillard
Said in a deep, fries frying in a pan voice. And someone staring out your balcony not moving. And smoke coming out of the side open windows on your balcony.
This poor fellow,” pointing at Jock still mumbling and rocking back and forth still smoking his two French cigarettes, “has smoke coming from his hair and ears.”
“How quaint,” Jacquie whispered with a sigh.
‘Can you explain this?” Sergeant Brouillard shouted.
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“No,” Steve growled, “Now if you must bid us Adieu, I am sure you folks can find your own way out.”
“My men will search this place. I demand again have you any explanations? Wait I smell Bouillabaisse.”
“Ah, you changed your mind about leaving,” Steve said disappointedly.
“Hey Sarge, this nonmoving guy all dressed in grey-cat like…, smoking a Raleigh,” Officer Fan Tann said with a rusty throat sound, “but not inhaling starring over the balcony has a two-inch ash hanging on his lip… don’t we know him?”
“Hey Sarge,” IOSOPND Corporal Louiggi Laplander commented. “Let’s set up a pool to see who comes closer to guessing when this cigarette ash falls on this schnooks lap.”
Count me in,” Steve snapped in a low but twig snapping tone.
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“Why you young nitwits this is the famous Cat Burglar of Royan.”
“You mean Sarge he is the—”
“Right Fan Tann… This nitwit is the famous ‘Home Book of Verse.’ Alias ‘The Cat Burglar of Royan.’ His real name is Count Chochon Cnout… Also alias ‘Puss and Boots’ alias ‘The Umbrella of Cherbourg,’ the greatest criminologist in the world until he went off his rocker. We have been trying to catch him since… Say, are you people part of his gang?”
“That cannot be Sarge,” IOSOPND private Fan Tann interrupted. ‘The Home Book of Verse’ always works alone.”
“Right, you are Fan Tann,’ “Sergeant Brouillard said in a strangely happy tone. “Well, it looks like you people will be getting the reward. Your photos will be in all the newspapers—”
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“Look Chief,” Steve growled, “We don’t want any reward. We didn’t even know he was here. If anyone deserves a reward, it’s private Fan Tann.
Just then a strange, heavy set rotund woman wearing a bed sheet exploded through their front door with a large white laundry basket over her head screaming, “Police, my unmentionables… Look.”
###
DEBRIEF 11
ROYAN BEACH THE NEXT MORNING
19 AUGUST 1962
SUNDAY 0800 HRS
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“Watch you don’t get sun-burned,” Steve said as he read the Sunday morning funnies.
“Steve, we are under a giant beach umbrella that is big enough for a family… So, Steve, what do you think?
“About what? These Katz and Jammer Kids are just too much.”
“Forget the Sunday Funnies. Madame Trevi’s unmentionables being leaked on by the hole Lik put in that Frau, what’s her name? Frau Herzilch Willkommen’s Sis bath with Lik’s machete she blasted through our ceiling and partly the hotel’s roof.
” Relax, Jacquie. We convinced the Nimrod’s offshore police crew that all the damage was due to the idiot ‘The Home Book of Verse.’
“Oui, I suppose,” Jacquie sighed. “Not only he is going to be hit with all that second story stealing when he wakes up but a large laundry bill for all
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those unmentionables. Medical stitches for those women’s derrieres unmentionables.
And structural damage to the hotel. I do not know why Trevi’s unmentionables were spread out on the roof like that. It was dark?”
“Let alone why Frau Wellkommen was taking a Sis bath on the roof when a storm was coming in from the ocean. And what were the Nimrod offshore division IOSOPD doing on shore in the first place?”
“I admit Steve, when you are around strange thing things cozy up to you.”
“Cozy,” Steve growled the word.”
“Oui, Jacquie challenged. “Is that not an American word. It means—”
“I know what it means. What I don’t know is… why this mission is starting to get a wee bit strange? That’s another thing I don’t know… where Jock, his stilt and Lik are now? And come to think of it what the blue blazes are we doing in Royan?”
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“Boy,” Jacquie sighed again in French. “For a leader there is a hell of a lot you do not know.
“And your crack team of… I mean ‘cracked,’ team of security specialist can’t find an ex punch-drunk boxer out of seven suspects.”
“Jock is in the local hospital, Steve, recovering from his wounds as usual. Lik and her Golumpi are out looking for Rutherford Hayes. ‘The Home Book of Verse’ alias whatever is under Nimrod arrest. Whatever that is?
Listen Steve, we have the Royal Luncheon security meeting at the Chamber of Deputies this Wednesday the 22nd of August, And I mean this August not last August.
We still have not figured out who the assassin is on President De Gaulle’s security detail.
All I found out from my contact, as I tried to tell you before, was that the assassin on the security team was a contagious punch-drunk ex-boxer and
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sparring partner that has undergone extreme face-lift plastic surgery at some very deep underground Soviet futuristic hospital. The hospital is so deep below ground the rumor is this assassin still suffers aftereffects of the ‘Bends’ for a mishap in the elevator that brought him up to the surface too fast—”
“Wait a mo,” Steve said in a low warning growl. “You still harping on that? You mean your French Intelligence can’t pick out a contagious punch-drunk ex-boxer, suffering from…
‘Elevator Bends,’ ” Steve barked. “If this guy exists, I’ll pick him out at the Royal Luncheon Wednesday the 22nd of August this year not last year. Wait a mo. Contagious for what?”
###
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THE ROYAL FRENCH PRESIDENTIAL LUNCHEON
DEBRIEF 12
Wednesday, 22 August 1962
13:00 HOURS
‘
Paris France
CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES
MAIN DINING ROOM
‘THE GREAT HALL’
Formerly ‘The Robespierre Great Hall.’ Formerly
‘The Thermidorian Great Hall.’ Formerly ‘The Hebertist Great Hall.’
Over ‘The Great Entranceway’ is a quote from Robespierre, just before he tried to Guillotine
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himself without the use of gravity, inscribed into the reddish/gray ‘marbleish’ stone.
(Roughly Translated)
‘REGARDE YA MORONS
YA CANNOT HAVE PEACE AND LIBERTY WITHOUT
TERROR’
In attendance: Three hundred and fifty-two high ranking government security forces, a dozen or so politicians and their wives. Also, in attendance was a four-hundred-and-fifty-pound undercover sumo wrestler who was also a plumber and a practicing Ninja. For the record. His name was Octavus Uncontous. He sumo wrestled under the name of ‘Ah So.’ (No relation to the code Ah So.)
Jacquie April, Steve Ptah, Lik (Lethal Intensity Kon) Unita and Jock Unita were all sitting toward the end of one extremely long marble rectangular table covered with beautiful silk tablecloths. Each
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high-back royal oak chair with greenish-blue cushion and backrest.
The service was exceptional except for several hard-working bus boys seemed to be falling behind.
Jacquie, Steve, Lik and Jock, arguing about the Boxer Rebellion and its similarity to the Soviet operation REDCOM set for later this evening were all seated at the far end of the table far away from President De Gaulle and his entourage and security team.
The security team are seated all around President De Gaulle, his lovely wife Yvonne and Georges Pomoidou.
It was strange as it seemed De Gaulle and Pompidou kept changing seats at Herculean speed. Even Madame De Gaulle had to request a neck brace after a while to keep up with the conversation with her husband and Pompidou.
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For some reason, large, thin, almost invisible, possibly ‘Fun House’ distortion mirrors were set up around the President and Pompidou.
***
“How do I look Lik?” Jock, blowing smoke and all-weather fruit flies still attracted to his aftershave, demanded to know. His tone was in the extreme high ultra-sound range only migrating Blue Wales, Lik and wondering forest minstrels could hear.
Jock, dressed in formal high luncheon attire modified tuxedo over a lemon/white shirt, Black leather motorcycle pants and obsidian colored engineer boots completed his ensemble. Jock sighed in escaping helium filled-Scottish breath.
Only Lik seemed to be able to understand Jock… Sometimes when Jock spoke Japanese with a highlander accent… marbles could be heard rolling around his old bean as if they were inside a blown-up balloon.
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“Well, my sweet’s,” Lik said coldly waving her hand in front of her to make a passageway through the fruit flies, smoke and coughing a bit gasped.
Lik, dressed in a white blouse with a red rose design, red shawl, red scarf and still displaying her well off-center coiffure smiled a smile of simplicity and yet of terror that would send cart pulling oxen stampeding to their doom.
Her red scarf hiding her machete ‘Golumpi’. A wide looping black widow skirt, black running ankle boots continued in her usual ice crackling tone.
“Except for the scars caused by the brewing bouillabaisse fish stew Jacquie and I poured over your head to put out the fire on your… your swelling head. And the three temporary skin graft chewing gum tattoos on the top of your head and ears I Got from Gist and Sons Candy Store… Well, you look as handsome as ever. But to be honest I do miss your one long una-brow eyebrow.”
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“My head does not swell. It blimps into a ninja brain. But for some reason I cannot get the taste of burnt Epson Salts and melted candle wax out of my mouth.
“Sweetie Jock, not only do you not have whisper of a brain in your antique head, but you are as bald as a cracked white billiard ball.”
“Lik, who is this bald sweetie Jock that you have me mixed up with? Hoot Mon, my name is… er, Jock. Not Sweetie Jock.”
“Steve,” Jacquie whispered into Steve’s ear, “I just received the word that everything is in place to repulse the Soviets operation REDCOM early this evening at Les Halles.”
“What? How?” Steve hiss growled. “How did you ‘just receive word?’ I didn’t hear anything. I would like to know how you just got word… Did a bug fly into your ear, or… you are hearing things again?”
“Will you shut-up moron. I will tell you later.”
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“Oh, you always say that, but you never do. I want to know how you received an idiot message in the middle of the Presidential Royal Luncheon surrounded by hundreds of pompous tushes
and—”
“Never hiss-growl at me again with one of your stupid question or you will be walking backwards for a month.”
“Huh?” Steve’s jerked his eloquent reply that there is no defense against. “I can’t hear crapola what De Gaulle is saying. Let alone what you are mumbling about. We’re too far away at this end of the table. We might as well be sitting in a fast-moving taxi in the middle of Borneo,” Steve announced in a roar.”
“A fast moving taxi? Steve,” Jacquie spat back, “Just because you are wearing an ‘abnormal psychology 101’ dark-dark tuxedo with black cowboy boots—”
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Applause, from the normal guests interrupted Jacquie.
President De Gaulle just finished up his welcoming his official luncheon Guest, Count Guido Passato of Andorra. Or, perhaps it was the Honorable Sans Culotte from some unpronounceable, but important in the development of number three artist street-chalk, village in East Wales. There seemed to be some confusion whom the official guest was. It was typical Washington D. C. speak… French style.
“Steve,” Jacquie whispered ignoring Steve’s sparkling repartee about him not being able to hear ‘crapola.’ “When are you going to point out who the traitor is on the President’s security team? They are all up there with him now?”
“Patience Jacquie,” Steve answered in a murmurous growl. “If there is one. The time is not right.”
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“Oui right, like I believe you. Just as I knew. You have no idea who… Hey, is that not that Madame Telelsi and Frau Herzilich Willkommen from Royan?”
“I can’t see that far down the table in this dim chandeliers’ lighting, “Steve grunted angrily.”
“Here Steve. Take my opera glasses,” Jacquie’s words were as sweet and soft as a monarch butterfly making a crash landing on a milkweed. “I keep forgetting how ancient you are.”
“Opera glasses? Who brings opera glasses to a Royal Luncheon?” Steve volleyed back in an amazing two sentence growl. Peering through Jacquie’s opera glasses Steve confirmed the sighting. “They must be the wives of the General’s they’re sitting next to.”
“Wonderful Steve. I often wondered why you are the commander on this mission. Now I know. There were not enough imbeciles on our team,”
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Jacquie announced in another soft butterfly crash landing.
“Hold your kudos for later Jacquie,” Steve growled. “This mission is not over yet. Does this… Arch- Duke Hayes of… crapola ever gonna finish his toast?”
“Who?” Jacquie challenged.
“I hope he knows Jacquie is white-toast intolerant,” Lik whispered in an icy-rain murmur.
“His joint’s must have stiffened-up,” Jock screeched, as the giant Sumo wrestler Ah So (not the code Ah So} got up to stretch then accidentally sat back down on the speaker’s head. The speaker had bent down to deal with an errant shoelace.
“Did you see that?” Jacquie asked rubbing he eyes. “How could that happen.”
“I can’t see crapola,” Steve regurgitated again in a
menacing low grunt.
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“Aw shut up,” Jacquie whispered under her breath. “You are missing the whole mission. I wonder if that was a sign?”
“Is there a doctor here at the Royal Luncheon?” President De Gaulle called out in a loud authoritative voice?”
“I am a doctor. I have a Pygmy following of—"” Jock shouted in a voice so high only animals at the Paris zoo, a few miles away, could possibly hear him. And perhaps a few Telegraph plants at an arboretum over a hundred miles away. Or so goes the later newspaper reports by, Squint News investigative reporter her under the cover name ‘Gallapuchi Pup’ a Rootie Kazooti officiate.
“Sit down moron,” Steve interrupted Jock’s sentence using a warning tone of an annoyed tiger, “We are undercover and there are several doctors attending to Arch-Duke Hayes—”
“Who?” Jacquie asked again. “Steve, where did this Arch-Duke Hayes come from?”
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“From the last war. How do I know.”
“Did someone say they saw Rutherford B. Hayes,” Lik, grabbing her Golumpi, blurted out in a chilling, blizzard-hale tone that could only be explained as a five-hundred-pound icicle breaking off a roof, while hitting, in mid-air, an extremely large flight of high note bells hanging 30 feet below.
“No, no, no. No one said anything about Rutherford B. Hayes,” retorted Jacquie in a hard but restrained din.
It was too late, Jock and Lik had vanished from their assigned Royal Luncheon seats. The fading song of ‘Put your left hand in and shake it all about’ being sung backwards could barely be made out coming from under the table.
“Oh no,” Jacquie murmured softly but not without hopeless anger. “Lik, is going into her berserk time and with her moronic sidekick.
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“Double teaming like a tag team wrestling match of giant intellects. This is the world’s ‘intelligencia’ represented in action,” Steve’s growls had a grin to them.
“Steve, you might find this stupid but I—”
“I still can’t hear crapola Jacquie. We’re too far—”
Suddenly, giant gongs exploded all over the Great Hall creating vibrating reverberations causing everyone to cup their ears and do a seated shimmy-shimmy.
“Can you hear that moron?” Jacquie snapped with the sharpness of Lik’s machete plunged into Steve’s ear.
“French ‘Great Hall’ guards wearing thick Royal Blue ear protector muffs poured out of every conceivable ‘Great Hall’ orifice. All guards were attired in tall blue hats, blue uniforms and black spit-shined boots. Shouting, giving orders to each
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other which helped in not disarming mass confusion.
The Chef and Sous Chef, the Dessert Chef stepped out of their deeply recessed kitchen as they thought all excitement and noise was applause for their gastronomic delights. A surprise after-dinner celebration for their wonderful Royal Luncheon. Taking bows and blowing kisses to their appreciative panicked diners.
The Chef known as Monsieur Coq Du Beau-Jolais Novay. Madame Sous Chef Shanghai La La Ren-Min-Bi Ptomaine and the Dessert Chef… ‘Miss Candy Bon Bon’ known affectionately as ‘La Fille Au Cul Doux’ were all immediately arrested and blown away to the old Bastille now a museum by the running to and fro Great Hall guards. No one really understood why the Chefs-Extraordinary were arrested.
The Gongs stopped as fast as they had started. President De Gaulle, always in-command, was
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informed what had happened and called for order and quiet. Assuring the Royal Luncheon guest that all is well and to return to your seats. With the help of the ‘Great Hall’ guards clubbing into silence a few of the dining guests. Well actually many were clubbed into silence. Calm was eventually restored.
Georges Pompidou stood up and accidently knocking over one of the large, almost invisible, mirrors. Then immediately sat down in a funny blurry way.
President De Gaulle shot up at what looked like at the same time in the same blurry way and explained:
“My Dear, Dear dinning guests. Those of you who are still conscious. A terracotta priceless butt of Robespierre by Deseine, on loan to the French Government by the Musee de la Revolution Francaise has just been stolen from one of our display holders… Er… What was that Pompidou?”
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“My Dear, dear dinning friends. Dear, dear Georges Pompidou just corrected me. It will be his last correction. It was not Robespierre’s Terracotta priceless ‘Butt’ that was stolen. It was Robespierre’s Terracotta priceless ‘Bust’ that was stolen. It weighs about 30 kilos and ‘yea’ big. I am afraid this means everyone must be searched.
There was immediate rumbling and leftover fruit cup throwing from the elite dining gusts who were conscious and puffing furiously on their Gauloises and Gitanes possibly effecting their fruit cup aiming.
President De Gaulle and Georges Pompidou taking very quick turns trying to restore order to the insulted guests who were secretly returning silverware to their table. Sliding their Ill-gotten items under their large, crumpled linen napkins.
Jock and Lik who had disappeared during their ‘berserk’ attacks creeped from under the table
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back to their original seats next to Steve and Jacquie.
Jock’s presence still accompanied by dozens of suicidal fruit flies, some still exploding from Jock’s sweat laden head that had the backup lighted ciggies behind each ear igniting the fruit flies seemingly doing battle with Jock’s head. Many fruit flies plummeting in fiery death spirals. Others just suicidally racing full speed, with kind of a ‘ziz’ noise, into Jock’s head and exploding. It was horrible.
“Where were you two?” Steve demanded to know in that Royal deep growl of his. “You missed all the demented excitement.”
L[k, cold as ever, added in a voice of a last plea of a semi frozen pigeon falling out of a tree, “I heard a rumor that Rutherford B. Hayes is about. I thought I spotted the eternal rascal, but it was only a man with a limp. Now he has the limps on both legs. Right Goulumpi.”
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“You two are freaken insane,” jacquie started to say as she rubbed her face. But before anything really happened like Golumpi answering an out-a-breath Lik, Jock heaved up his words.
“Hoot Mon, Steve hold this.” Jock’s high-pitch squeal in joyous Scottish shoved a weighty, heavily wrapped in burlap object on to Steve’s lap.
“What the?”
“Oh Steve,” Jacquie snapped in a ‘Quelle Surprise’ tone. “What kind of nincompoopery is this? Again.”
“Don’t blame Steve,” Lik said in a ’cracking ice cube tray in half’ voice, “my Jock became a French Herbertist… a furnace maker came to power during the French Revolution. The French Reign of Terror about 1793. Jacques Herbert wanted the world to worship furnaces. I suppose because he was a furnace maker.
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Well anyway, there was this indoor tennis court at Versailles where all Jacobians (French Furnace Makers) took an oath to overthrow the King. Jacques Herbert ordered furnace makers and other assorted Jacobians not to disband in 1789 until a new French Constitution was accepted to make sure the French never ran out of wine. Or something like that.
Of course, this teed off the King Louis XV1 to no end. King Louis XV1 was a tea teetotaler like Rutherford B. Hayes wife. Evidently, the Jacobian crowd refused to obey the King’s order to ‘disband and to ‘Knock it off.’
Then the King’s wife added, while eating a piece of cake on the palace terrace above the milling crowd was, “Get lost you pinheads, and find some cake to munch on.” (It loses a bit in translating French into French.)
“It does not loose enough in the translation, you idiots.” Jacquie flash-danced her words across
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their faces. “French into French. Complete morons. And I do not believe Marie Antoinette said, “Go find some cake to munch on.”
“What the hell are you all talking about?” Steve’s roar was of a wounded Grizzly sitting down on a thorny bramble bush. “I didn’t ask for a history lesson. And I’m telling you morons the same thing King Louis said to his people, “Get lost you morons.” Steve opened the heavy burlap cloth a sweaty Jock had dumped on his lap.
“Steve,” Jacquie re-proclaimed. “What is wrong with you?”
“Me?” Steve questioned indignantly.
“Never mind,” Jacquie’s tone was of French sweetened sadness, “We do not have time for a complete psychoanalytical session. That would take centuries.”
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‘Will you stop talking about yourself,” Steve snapped. We have a mission. Now what the hell is this? Someone’s head in clay.”
“Did you guys steal this?” Jacquie whispered? “This is what all the ‘gong’ alarms are about and people panicking? Steve wrap it up again before someone sees it.”
“Hoot Mon, Jacquie. I took the bust of my hero Robespierre. I could not help it. I am a Jacobian at heart,” said a puzzled Jock in a soprano tone.
“I thought you are a Heberitist at heart?” Lik murmured in a slow-moving ice jam chill. Taking her Golumpi from under her cloak and with an express train thrust shoved Golumpi into the head of Robespierre’s bust. Obviously, the only place left to hide for the illusive Rutherford B. Hayes.
“A Heberitist? Moi? That was last year,” Jock cried in Angry Red Army Brigade Japanese as his head
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started to expand and turn, this time, a rather strange shade of turquoise-orange. He lit up a stale Jacobian cigarette.
Jock’s head disappeared in a veil of cigarette smoke and immolated wretched fruit flies that all seem to join in a terror-glee obscuring one’s vision.
“Actually, I am thinking of becoming a Thermidorian after reading the Thermidorian Law of 22. And how much I enjoyed my Lobster Thermador.” (Themidorian 22 July 1794 passed by French parliamentary revolt caused ‘The Reign of Terror’ and Robespierre era to eventually collapse.)
“Jock, your lobster bib is on fire,” Lik mentioned nonchalantly in a calm tone of someone stirring shaved ice in a cracked ceramic bowl.
“You know how much the ‘Great Terror’ means to me.” Jock went on as his lobster bib flamed to ashes. Lik threw a jug of water in Jock’s face and on the still smoldering bib ashes.
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Jock continued unaware he was just splashed but the fruit flies weren’t. They became even more furious as they seemed to renew their Blitzkrieg.
“Unfortunately, Jock continued, “Robespierre’s Jacobian, plan egged on by the Jacques Hebert and the Hebertist, was to have everyone in France Guillotined even the executioner. Due to a slight miscalculation Robespierre forgot to have himself guillotined before the executioner guillotined himself.
Try as he might a delusional Robespierre could not get the damn Guillotine to work to guillotine himself. Of course, his disbelief in gravity from childhood may have worked against him.
Later, Robespierre lost interest in the Revolution and furnaces and became obsessed with stilts.
But I have this Japanese Red Sun Angry Army Brigade Loyalty as all the Red Sun Angry Army Brigade have loyalty to Maximillian Francois Marie Isidor de Robespierre.
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Still, I desire to become a builder of furnaces as Jacque Hebertist. Publish my own revolting newspaper ‘Le Pere Duchesne,’ never run out of wine and be a heroic model for all fictional working-class furnace makers… well I do not have to tell you what that means.” Ending his desires, memoirs hopes and dreams with a Bonsai suicidal scream that was felt throughout the Great Hall.
Fortunately, the pain of Jock’s scream and echo in the Great Hall prevented anyone to exactly target where the great scream came from.
All the Royal Luncheon guest were seen dapping their ears with hankies and tissues to stop little drops of blood from running down the side of their faces. Even the great giant Sumo wrestler Ah So (not the code Ah So) was brought to his knees holding his ears.
“Oui, you do Jock have to tell us what all that means, but not now. I do not know what the hell you are talking about,” Jacquie snapped as she
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Steve and Lik finally stopped their ears from bleeding.
Jock Unita, still smoking a stale but damp Jacobian, three dripping wet Gauloises at one time and numerous, partially soaked lobster legs, and lit ones behind each ear for backup, spoke his above mesmerizing, ignoble and heroic words as his head expanded a bit more. He was showing head colors of blazing orange, hysterical dark blues, irrational scarlet, and other eye-burning hues perhaps never seen by humans before.
“Who were you yappin’ about? Secondhand furnaces” Steve growled a warning shot across Jock’s brow. “What the hell are you babbling about you—Look out your head is about to—”
Just then Lik grabbed a heavy silver tray from one of the ‘out-a-breath’ bus boys and creamed Jock a stunning blow, that would have put down a 1500 pound charging South African water buffalo in heat, over Jock’s expanding dome causing a
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shallow, hollow metal sound; killing dozens more swarming fruit flies and unfortunately crippling Jock’s ability to count to six.
“Lik,” Jacquie put forth her words as a Raptor might utter a warning to baby Raptors. “You know Jock’s head really does not swell that much when he gets angry or confused. You should stop hitting him on the head with heavy items like steam engine parts.
The colors of deep shaded ghastly Pumpkin orange, irrational scarlet, frigid blue and other strange colors that are not even possible…
Well, just giving the appearance his head is ballooning up.
Not forgetting though the brutal antimatter bizarre happenings at the Jardin De Poubelle Café the other evening.
Now I have definite proof my hypotheses are correct that other things in the universe are faster
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than light. Although, the alleged release of antimatter should have wiped out our existence as well.”
Steve, looking at Jock’s undercover slumped smoking body hanging partially over their part of the table said in a long deep voice, “Maybe it did Jacquie. Maybe it did.”
“Steve, how stupid can you be?” Jacquie demanded to know. “Wait. How disappointing. We still have not pushed you to your full capacity of stupidity… yet. And I thought we had.”
“Huh?” Steve countered with his famous one-word sledgehammer repartee shield.
“Hmmm,” Jacquie retorted,” I am still working on my hypothesis. But oui, there are things in this universe that are faster than light like—”
“Like stupidity,” Steve mumbled-growled. “One never wants to experiment with antimatter when there are morons about.”
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“Oh, do not be so hard on yourself Steve,” Jacquie sighed in Riviera French. “Almost not everyone thinks you are a moron. I just do not know how I put up with Steve’s martyr complex. Of course, it is Steve’s theory—”
“What? “I don’t have a martyr complex. Nor do I have any theories about anything. I don’t even know why you people are talking about that idiot’s noggin. Stunning colors. Swelling head. What about my problems? Mutinous crew on my mission. And—”
“Steve,” Jacquie, said sweetly but sternly, “I thought I made it clear about my sage.”
“Whaa?” Steve jungle roared. “Are you saying Jock is your sage?”
“Jock?” Jacquie said somewhat surprised. “Who is talking about idiot Jock? You just mentioned ‘The Noggin.’ My Pen Pal in a place called Cobleskill in the States. Remember, I told you I met ‘The Noggin’ when I became lost on tour, a few years
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back, through Pennsylvania coalmine country. He saved my life once when I was thirsty for water. Minersville, Pennsylvania I believe. I started out from Pottsville and for some reason I ended up in Minersville.
I also seem to remember a headless mule running around. He calls himself ‘The Noggin because he is so brilliant. His head stores so much knowledge there is no room to grow hair.”
“What? The Headless mule? Jacquie, headless mules don’t have noggins to grow hair,” Steve announced in a fiery blast, and shaking his head. Please don’t crackup on me. I can’t take anymore headless noggin mule Sage moments. We have a mission to complete.”
“Swine,” Jacquie said, “The Noggin is not the headless mule. You do not even understand what is going on.” Jacquie’s words carried the punch of an outta-control-wrecking ball.
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“Hoot Mon,” Jock cried out pushing himself up from the table and belching French, wet ciggy smoke, what look liked, from every opening he had in his head.
“Jock grabbed for some soggy but still lit cigarettes and lobster legs from behind his ears. Also taking with him dozens of his aftershave fruit flies with his grab.
“Be a good fellow Steve and return this bust of my former hero Robespierre back to the stand I took it from,” Jock spoke in perfect very-high pitch delirious Punjab. Fortunately, Jackie was there to translate. “Being a Jacobian is not as much fun as I thought it would be.” Then Jock passed out again on his part of the table. A big red lump appearing on the top of his ole bean.
“You idiot,” Steve growled shoving the Bust back onto a collapsed Jock’s lap. Jock stated to move and sit up again. “How am I gonna put this ton of Bust…Robespierre’s head back without being seen
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especially now that it has Lik’s Golumpi stuck in your hero’s temple. Pull it out.”
“Former hero,” Jock screeched, blowing French ciggy smoke like a steam engine trying to pull an immovable load even for a ‘Yes I Can’ small steam Choo Choo. Jock tried to re-shove the Bust back to Steve.
“Impress me my hero Jock Unita,” Lik pleaded in her thin ice cracking underfoot timbre as she dislodged Golumpi from Robespierre’s head.
Unfortunately, Lik had to use her two feet pressed against Robespierre ear and with a mighty tug retrieved Golumpi as her Royal Luncheon Chair tipped over backwards spilling Lik, the Bust and Golumpi to the stone floor causing a disturbance again to the guests near them.
“What is wrong with you people?” One of the guests, Major Duisieme Crape-Plait, demanded to know as the rest nearby back area Royal Luncheon guests schooshed them.
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“What’s wrong with us?” Steve growled in that low warning big cat threat. “There isn’t enough time to tell you—”
“I thought this was supposed to be an undercover mission,” Jacquie whispered in sweet soft French.
“Forget it,” Steve shot back.
“Get down on your hands and one good knee Jock,” Lik’s tone was that of deep ice, deep ice. The kind of ice a submarine reports while traveling under the Arctic Circle and looking for a place to surface. Lik straightened up her chair and secured Golumpi then continued,
“We will help strap it to your back and then crawl back under the table toward President De Gaulle’s chair. Then put the Bust under his seat.
Jump up and scream ‘J’accuse’ as you point to President De Gaulle. Everyone will think he stole it and tried to blame it on the Royal Luncheon crowd.”
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“That is the length of a soccer field,” Jock screamed in Angolan slang as Jacquie and Steve attempted to reassure the Royal Luncheon’s sitting near them that it is just the way they ‘burp’ in Angola.
“What happened to my lobster bib and why does my face feel wet?” Jock demanded. “Did someone throw a jug of water in my face?”
“Relax Jock, “Jacquie whispered, “It is just your imagination.
“Great plan Lik,’Steve low-balled his ballyhoo. As Steve gently, well almost gently, shoved Jock off his chair and crunched him under the table with Lik’s help.
Through an onslaught of cigarette smoke, fruit flies and ‘Angolan burping’ both Lik and Steve lifted the Jacobian Bust that was now under the table. Pretending to look under the great table for a dropped table napkin. Steve then hoisted the 30-kilo bust onto Jock’s back.
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This caused Jock to collapse immediately.
“Jacquie,” Steve coughing through the French ciggy smoke with watering eyes growled,” don’t just sit
there. Help us get him back in a crawling position.”
“Idiots,” Jacquie exhaled. “There is no drama in this stupid plan. Remind me never again to attend a Royal Luncheon with you morons.”
Jock, complaining and ‘Hoot Mon-ing’ and blowing cigarette smoke and fruit flies out of every conceivable opening in his body chugged his way under the extremely lengthy luncheon, silk linen, table-clothed, great marble Royal Luncheon table toward President De Gaulle’s chair.
“You can do it,” Lik cried out, her head under the table, voice sounding like skates in a hockey match cutting through the ice. “Just keep saying, ‘I think I can,’ ‘I think I can,’. I think… therefore I am. I think…er…What was I saying?”
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“Too bad we couldn’t find a strap for Jock to keep that heavy load balanced on his back,” Steve, growled mumbled.
“Not to worry Steve. My Jock has exceptional balance even with only one fully operational knee.”
MOMENTS LATER:
President De Gaulle, continued his idea with his guests:
Ladies, Gentlemen, Military Officials, Honored Guests, I your President Charles De Gaulle have come up with a better solution for finding the missing Robespierre Bust. I am going to order the lights turned off for 30 seconds. And all drapes closed. The person or persons who… accidently… er…stole the irreplaceable Bust of Jacobian Robespierre is to place here on my table in front of me the missing Bust. No questions asked.
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The President then turned to Pompidou who was seated next to him and whispered, “Remind me later to check for fingerprints.” (Actually, many people believe he might have been whispering to one of those almost invisible Fun House mirror’s or to himself.)
A few seconds after the lights were turned off and drapes drawn in the Great Hall there were horrific screams in high-pitched Angolan.
Simultaneously, there was a heavy crashing thud and yelling of two elderly female voices. One voice cursing in German, the other in French. One legged hopping could be heard. It was dark in the Royal Great Hall, very dark.
“Turn the lights back on,” Georges Pompidou yelled then coughed. It was a dignified cough. A cough that sounded familiar to De Gaulle’s closet friends.
“Turn on the lights,” came the words from almost, but not quite, the same sounding voice.
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As the never-ending rows of ceiling chandelier lights came back on, Frau Herzilich and Madame Teleski were hopping around on one foot cursing in German and French. A distorted Bust of Robespierre was laying out in the open. A dent in the side of his head where a machete had been.
Many of the dining guest, being politically correct joining in with hopping of their own in a show of sympathy chanting, ‘We feel your pain.’
“Arrest those two medically obese hopping miscreants,” President De Gaulle cried out. There was a struggle of epic proportions.
Back at Jock’s empty chair Jock’s hands came out from under the table grasping the Royal green blue of his cushion seat.
“Hoot Monnn…Help.”
“What happened?” Lik’s frozen tone of melting ice refreezing asked.
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“I do not know. It felt as if someone hit me over the head with one of those heavy silver bust boy trays as I was crawling,” Jock moaned a helium swallowed moan.
“But that was a while ago my frayed hero,” Lik’s words were cold and barren.
“Hoot Mon Lik,” I just felt it now when I was crawling under the table. And then… I tell you as I was limp-crawling back someone else was under that table in the dark and threw a jug of water in my face.”
***
PREIDENT De GAULLE CALLED FOR ‘LE SILENCE.’
Except for Madame Teleski and Frau Herzilich who stopped hurling expletives but were still hopping, in pain, on one foot after refusing to be arrested there was only a rumor of silence.
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Then one could only hear in the rumor of silence a single elephant trumpeting softly far, far away. Possibly from the Paris Zoo or even, Les Halles.
“And now for what I promised you Jacquie,” Steve
whispered a whisper-growl that would cause shrieking terror in any normal person where there was now complete silence. Then a pin was heard dropping.
Raising a large metal soup ladle and picking up the now deformed silver tray from the floor that Lik used earlier as a weapon to halt the expansion of Jock’s head.
Steve smashed the ladle into the silver tray in the dead silence producing the sound of a loud bell, one would hear at a boxing match.
One of President De Gaulle’s top seven security guards named Jean Cantelaube sitting at the corner of the large marble-ish table by a standing President De Gaulle and his sitting wife Yvonne
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and a sitting Georges Pompidou, Jean Cantelaube rocketed on to the top of the Royal luncheon table.
Coming out of his corner swinging wildly. Throwing hard punishing punches and yelling in Arabic Egyptian the way only the Zizib Kid could yell before the Zizib Kid hit the canvas, hard like a 75-millimeter shell hitting a cement bunker, for the count. And bubbling ‘let me at the bum. I will rip him to pieces ‘then giving the final assassin’s salute before being counted out as Jean Cantelaube bent over in pain from elevator Bends and hit the canvas (The Royal Luncheon marble tabletop) like that 75 millimeter hell hitting a cement bunker, we just mentioned above, cracking the Royal Luncheon marble tabletop.
###
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DEBRIEF 13
LES HALLES
DOWNTOWN PARIS
WEDNESDAY
22 AUGUST 1962
1657 HOURS
SOVIET ATTACK REDCOM IS ABOUT TO BE ACTIVATED:
LES HALLES was frantically busy as usual. Knockout aromas carried by French cigarettes. North African Cigars, British pipe smoke, regurgitating sewers, animal waste, minor unexplained occasion explosions. The scent of the infamous cooking of Andouillette blood sausage stampeded about. All intertwined with what sounded like poor-man’s painful ‘Tarzan Jungle
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Yells.’ (Similar to Steve’s when he fell off the balcony back in Royan.)
Sporadic small arms fire, trucks moving about and burning metal barrels with bizarre looking characters staring into the Penrod-soaked blazing hemp.
People singing the 1958 ‘Beep-Beep’ song by the Playmates. Accompanied now by the Old Timers standing a bit back from the fiery spark smokey spray coming from the red glowing metal barrel as they tried to harmonize with the old French Beep-Beep melody by humming Tchaikovsky, opus 39 Number three.
Strange sounds like loud ricocheting pinballs being battered to and fro. Voices of all timbers and directions blasting and echoing throughout the great marketplace. All participating in shouting battles to be heard.
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Cows, sheep, chickens, some documented Yetis, and other creature’s strange exotic and not so strange or exotic protesting their treatment. All joining into the sounds of metal grinding on metal, cement and wood.
Cars honking all framed by piano music coming from the now, partially being rebuilt by men who seemed to be dressed as trolls, the infamous and famous ‘Jardin de Poubelle Café,’ still known affectionally to international foreign agents as the notorious, ‘Alma Frump’s Dump.’
Three tenths of a ton, Alma Frump herself, in a modified body cast with a straitjacket thrown casually over her shoulders Hollywood director’s style. Sporting a new permanent wave dyed ‘Tint Hair Number 9’ and being lifted around giving orders from an ambulance type forklift. Signing eight by ten glossies to passing awe struck peculiars with her signature X. Yelling to impatient
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tourist that crowded around her forklift, “If you want my signature go look in a dictionary,”
Yes, the old ‘Jardin de Poubelle’ which just illegally reopened after the curious happenings concerning an alleged ‘speeds faster than light.’ Trashed by hauntings of dissatisfied Spirts and accordion players in short pants. Now the Moulin Rouge music, escaping from ‘Alma Frump’s Dump,’ was amplified.
More tourists were drawn to the rebuilding and remnants of ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’ seeming to crowd out the usual locals. The tourist came to possibly hear splotches of occasional low-grade machinegun fire. Experience outrageous time travel. In hopes to inhale gagging sulfur smells. Perhaps to experience explosions of antimatter being released, unexplained hauntings and dozens of other weird things.
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It was a wonderful time to be in Paris in the early sixties.
Two top KGB Soviet agents, Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias and Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky are just passing a giant metal bin of sheep heads in Les Halles.
“They all look like they are peacefully sleeping, some even smiling at me. Swine sheep,” A twisted and held together by scaffolding ‘Major Creature’ noted as he peered from a smoldering brown paper bag.
A bandaged and scorched ‘Major Short Step,’ under severe Kremlin order’s makes Major ‘Creature’ wear over his head when they are just lurking in public together.
“I would say defiant sheep heads not smiling, rather definitely laughing at you ‘Creature,’ ” said Major ‘Short Step’ in a voice that only those who are in horrible pain of abusing Haldol would use.
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“I told you not to call me ‘Creature’ Miroslav. You know my men call me that behind my back.”
“Everyone calls you ‘Creature,’ Why do you think I order you to wear a slow burning brown paper bag over your head filled with increment when we go out together or accidently tramp through our restaurant Major. Do not forget we are both Majors in the glorious Soviet Union KGB but I outrank you by thirty-two seconds.”
“Ahhh Phooey. Thirty-one seconds you… I thought I was undercover KGB. Ordering me to wear that brown burning bag over my head in public is an insult to the KGB. After all I am the best of the best.”
“Nonsense you idiot. I cannot stand the horrifying cries for mercy and all the throwing up when people see your face.”
“Surely you jest.”
“Jest? Your troops have the longest morning sick call line in the glorious Soviet Army.”
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Now look Miroslav you short piece of… Oh oh I am getting a nosebleed from my tallness again Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky bellowed. I feel my knee joints stiffening. I cannot bend my knees when I walk. Oh no Miroslav my hands are beginning to turn a green pallor. In the name of Stalin’s Chiken feed stuffed bags he uses to have shoulders. Look, I am having a creature attack. I need another brown burning paper bag.
“You idiot ‘Creature’ I have not received the new brown, slow burning paper bag material yet from Moscow. Our beloved Soviet Union is running out of matches and slow smoldering brown paper bags because of you.”
“Aw, it is just everyone we pass tries to put the smoldering paper bag out by stepping on my head—”
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“Wait,” Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias ordered. It is time.”
“Time?” Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky questioned. Surprise splattered all over pieces of his smoldering brown paper mug.” You mean it is ‘Howdy Doody’ time that Americans watch on their Soviet made televisions about this time? My watch must be fast. I do not understand Miroslav, we are wearing the latest Soviet no hour hand time pieces,” ‘Creature’ asked staring at his Soviet watch. “Oh no. Now my elbows and fingers stiffened up. And my fingers are hard as 7 penny nails.
Slow down ‘Short Step’ I am not able to walk as fast as you even though I am seven times taller than you.”
“No, you moronski,” Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias yelled. “It is not ‘Howdy Doody’ time. Stop watching the latest Hollywood movies on fantastic Soviet TV. It is REDCOM time. A glorious day for
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the hammer and Sickle. And stop sneaking the peaks from under your brown paper bag.
“Ah yes, Hammerski and Sickleski two of my favorite Soviet musical composers. As Major Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky started to whistle the opening tune of ‘The King and I’ one of his favorite Soviet musicals before he was high stomped kicked by one of several hundred fake antismoking police who thought he was smoking under his smoldering brown paper bag.
The fake antismoking Soviet police excreted out of their tourist busses they had hired like a bad phlegm cough.
Many Russian Spetnaz troops, that were not attired in fake antismoking police cardboard uniforms, were dressed in Arab clothing started doing Russian ‘sit-down’ squat dance (Kazachok style) shouting out in Russian accented English
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“Pardon me little lady, the sea is tossing this Missis sippi gambling Riverboat around like the glorious rush to get into Lenin’s tomb.”
The Soviets moved forward spreading out like squat dancing Lemmings about to commit suicide over high cliffs into a hungry sea. All this action to avoid suspicion of them being nuts.
From sewers and manholes in and around Les Halles they swarmed. Sticking up fake life-size cardboard cutouts of Gorillas wearing French police outfits with antismoking police sashes.
Unfortunately, the police uniforms, the mean-looking gorilla cardboard cutouts in police uniforms are uniforms that the police wore in the Napoleonic era. A minor slipup in Soviet political intelligence.
Thanks to Jock, Lik, Jacquie and Steve’s vital REDCOM dossier the real French police, French
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military, French, American and British undercover agents were ready to stop Soviet REDCOM.
Several swat teams of mental health experts from Vienna carrying Sears and Roebucks catalogs were at the ready on the roofs of neighboring buildings. As were several dozen animal shrinks and whisperers and rumor specialist and assorted peculiars parachute ready to leap off rooftops naked if called into action. Also, the Paris Bingo Club providing rooftop refreshments and parlor games.
There were melees in all directions. Running, fighting, screaming, jousting, cursing, calls for medics and Philip Morris’s cigarettes.
Animals making their last-ditch efforts to escape and succeeding. Herds of bovines and non-bovines racing in Les Halles with exotic parrots on their backs seemingly urging the animals the four-
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legged ones onward. Stampeding, snorting animals and humans, enormous tropical parrots riding anything with two or four legs that were charging, squawking, “we’re fwee, we is fwee.”
The notorious Jardin de Poubelle Café (alias ‘Alma Frump’s Dump’) no longer in freefall quickly taking advantage of the chaos putting out yellow signs with red lettering in French, English, Russian and in some type of ancient script reducing the price of their famous Jambon sandwiches and vin rouge, French cigarettes, bird seed and wooden milking stools ‘for this riot only’ were bustling with business and fights.
Many locals broke into ole French ‘Slap and Hurdle’ Apache dancing. Old French Cancan music could be heard coming in waves from the Café’s inner core.
Thousands of French smokers resisting the fake antismoking Soviet soldiers dressed in their
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Napoleonic era police uniforms. Resisting with extreme force.
The fake antismoking Soviet troops did not expect such brutal, horrible resistance when someone tries to stop a Frenchman from smoking let alone a French woman.
Many of the disguised Soviet troops, even the cardboard cutouts, so it seemed, started looking at their underground escape route maps which were, as Jacquie alluded to earlier, seriously out of date.
Manhole type coverings that had been blocked off for years, some for centuries were pried open thus allowing fumes and sounds of the past to enter the brouhaha.
Many Soviet fake antismoking agents wound up floating in the Seine River. Some locals say the Soviet agents vanished into other dimensions as they floated underground in the crisscrossing
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sewers below the Jardin de Poubelle Café which was ‘Rockin’& Rollin’ away just a few feet above the doomed miscreants.
Other miscreants, it was noted later by rescue teams became permanent guests of the French catacombs. Then things started to get strange.
Hiding in an overturned bins of hog jowls and flowers Miroslav ‘Short Step’ Elias and a nonfunctioning stiff Frantisek ‘Creature’ Strachovsky trying to raise their Soviet ‘Kremlin-at-Large contact on their Walkies Talkies.
“Calling Colonel Zaitsev. Calling Colonel Zaitsev at REDCOM command. This is Major Elias reporting on my Walkies Talkies. Project REDCOM is doing well. There is just one little Agghhhh…”
“We’re fwee. We is fweeee…” came an orchestra of squawking shriek calls from Parrots and
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screaming Macaws and pounding hoof and shoe beats.
“Fwee?” Colonel Zaitsev roared, “Are you two idiots saying, ‘you are defecting?’ “Colonel Zaitsev raged. “Allo. Allo comrades?”
It was a very good time to be in Paris in the early sixties.
###
DEBRIEF 13
THE ASSASSINATION OF CHARLES De Gaulle
PARIS
22 AUGUST
1850 HOURS
LOCATION: BARRIQUE DE GENDARMERIE GARAGE
CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES GROUNDS
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President Charles De Gaulle and entourage are going to a small airport at Villa Coublay near Petit Clamart South of Paris.
Petit Clamart is a suburb of Paris. The Presidential limousine, an unarmored stretch Citron de 19 La Deesse (The Goddess) had a super hydropneumatics system. Automatically adjusted height that keeps the limo level in almost all terrain and can adjust any sane weight load. The stretch limousine can hold up to 12 persons if necessary but not advised by the manufacturer.
Once fully loaded, The Goddess, held up momentarily after a small weight and balance delay, and the President congratulating Jacqueline April for pointing out the assassin in his security team, departed almost quickly.
The Goddess burned rubber out of the police garage at the Hall of Deputies onto route 306
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heading toward Petit Clamart and Villa Coublay Airport. President De Gaulle wanted to spend a few days at his farm after a very upsetting Royal Luncheon. It was getting dark, and the night was crying.
“Do not look so smug Steve,” Jacquie said in a low poisonous tone. I knew Jean Cantelaube on President De Gaulle’s Security team “was the punch-drunk assassin all the time.”
“Of course, you did,” Steve said in a low
whispering growl and a sly smile.
“I really do hate you,” Jacquie whispered calmly without looking at him. Okay, Honor due. Clever the way you exposed the traitorous assassin.”
“How many people, animals and junk are in this Presidential moving van?” Steve growled scaring the small flock of elite champion
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roosters and chickens President De Gaulle ordered to be taken with them to his hobby farm. Not to mention his prize-winning calf, Elsie.
Jacquie mocked Steve for complaining, “Obviously you have never traveled in a Presidential limousine before.”
Steve did have a point for piled in the Citron stretch DE 19 Goddess was the Chauffer Morrow. Next to him was a marvelous Autumn orange kitchen sink made by El Sink-Ole of Panama City, Panama to be installed in the President’s hobby farm and Dubois ‘The Midget.’
Monsieur Dubois preferred to be known as ‘The Midget’ among his Government Security team because he wanted to strike fear and discipline. The unspoken rumor was that he was just nuts but a top security agent. The
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spoken rumor… well, he is he is a giant that suffered a serious accordion accident.
The Presidential limousine had a small sunroof opening above the latest kitchen sink. Dubois ‘The Midget’ sat on the Autumn colored kitchen sink and peered out the sunroof with his oversized special operation ‘Macho Man’ night goggles.
Dubois ‘The Midget’ kept yelling at Morrow the chauffeur to turn off his headlights as they interfered with Dubois ‘The Midget’s’ night visibility goggles.
“But Monsieur Dubois ‘The Midget,’ ” protested Morrow, “if I turn my headlights off then I cannot see where I am driving.”
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“Ah,” Dubois ‘The Midget’ shouted, “Civilians. Ya got to love them. Then turn off your headlights and just use your dimmest running lights you fool. And cannot this thing go any faster?”
“But Monsieur ‘The Midget, if I am driving With just the running lights on I need to slow down to see where I am driving.”
As the front seat arguing went on, squeezing in next to the Autumn orange sink and Dubois ‘The Midget’ was Lik Intensive Kon Unita and her partner Jock Unita compressed into the passenger side front door. Sitting on Jock’s lap was a security team member Monsieur Pont Neuf. His head compressed into the windshield.
“What’s all the hysteria about up in the front?” Steve growled. “I can’t see crapola.”
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“What are you growling about Steve?” Jacquie’s stern voice drilled its way through human and animal flesh and heavy cast iron metal Autumn orange sink like a dentist tooth-drilling hitting a major nerve. “You are in the front section.”
“I am?” Steve challenged. “I seem lost in this menagerie of—”
“I need air for a moment,” a loud voice in Japanese blasted like a foghorn in an impenetrable fog as a sound of a side window exploded throughout the Presidential limo. A rush of fresh swamp aroma air fought its way in as the racing vehicle seemed to weave a bit.
“I need air,” came the tortured cry again. Octavus Uncontous, alias Ah So, (no connection with the secret Code Ah So) Sumo wrestler extraordinaire, and hobby farm guest of President De Gaulle bellowed.
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President De Gaulle’s champion calf Elsie, he was also taking to his Getaway farm, started mooing uncontrollably. This mooing caused the small flock a Blue-Ribbon chicken to start to cluck insistently and flap their wings loosing many feathers in the now careening Goddess.
In the back row sitting next to the right-side passenger window was President De Gaulle, his beautiful wife Yvonne. Squeezed in next to her sat Georges Pompidou. We think. President De Gaulle and Georges Pompidou kept changing seats with each other at unbelievable quickness.
Madame De Gaulle passed out from ultra-dizziness. Or, it might have been from the stack of thin Fun House mirrors in front of Madame De Gaulle she was forced to stare at during the trip.
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Jacquie, who wasn’t quite sure where she was sitting in the speeding Goddess, and after the limo hit an outrageous bump realized she was now sitting on Steve’s lap with two other horizontal ‘Team Security’ men.
Somewhere scattered in President De Gaulle’s limo were other ‘Team Security’ people in various positions. Soft cries of help seem to go unanswered.
Rummaging through the crowd but well-behaved mob, coming out of nowhere and unauthorized was the crawling of a lunatic. Party number 60508 Publicist partially attired in his 14th Century Knights outfit hysterically screaming ‘I warn you,’ and snapping blinding flash bulb photos.
“Someone just punched me,” roared Octavus Uncontous. His huge left arm smashing, this time, the rear most window of the limousine.
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Just then the security car door alarm blared ‘A Car Door is Ajar.’ Followed by a psychedelic blinding light show from inside roof spelling out ‘A Car Door is Ajar.’
“Someone is trying to break in,” Steve blasted out.
“Idiot,” Jacquie quipped, “There is no room for anyone to get in the limo let alone the fact we must be travelling at 120 kilometers an hour moron.
“Always with the unimportant details,” Steve growled.
The calm smooth voice of President De Gaulle came over the speaker, “Remain calm everyone.” Then in an assured tone of peace
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and tranquility addressed the chauffeur Morrow.
“Morrow, use your training of escape driving skills to dislodge anyone attempting to assault the Goddess.”
After 10 minutes of anti-assault maneuvering, driving up back alleys of small unnamed villages, unexplained blinding flash bulbs continuously exploding accompanied by excruciating painful repartee of ‘I warn you.’
Racing across partially moonlit landscapes of heavy forests, high hard bumps on non-existent roads, rickety wooden bridges, President De Gaulle gave the order, over cries of help and mercy, to return to the main road and resume to normal lunatic speed.
“The now broken light on the ceiling stating, ‘A Door is Ajar’ is off. And if you all would notice
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the annoying voice repeatedly sounding ‘A Door is Ajar’ at super-supersonic speed has ceased.
Whomever the scoundrel, or scoundrels were trying to break-in to the Goddess Limo have been eliminated by the quick driving action of my professional security chauffer who has once again saved the day. May I suggest a hefty round of applause. And if you are able give yourself a round also.
All that could be heard were muffled moans and more cries for medics and Veterinarians.
“Morrow,” Georges Pompidou demanded, “Where are we?
“I have not the slightest idea Monsieur Pompidou. I do not think I have been driving for the last three minutes. I think Iam in the back seat next to you.”
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“Dubois,” President De Gaulle shouted. “Where are you?”
“We lost Dubois ‘The Midget’ guy after the first hard bump as he went through the Sunroof.” Morrow gargled.
“Okay then. Everyone is accounted for,” Georges Pompidou announced.
After a few minutes everyone started to settle back down into the chaos before someone or a group of ‘someone’s allegedly tried to break into the speeding limo.
###
AMBUSH DEBRIEF FOLLOWS
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BELOW
AMBUSH DEBRIEF
LOCATION: ON THE ROAD (N306}
APPROACHING PETIT CLAMART
WEDNESDAY
22 AUGUST 1962
2050 hours
“It is past sunset, they should have been here by now,” Georges Watda, a member of the OAS by proxy, known as ‘The Lame Woman,’ alias ‘La Boiteuse.’ Also known as the ‘Jackass’ and ‘The Real Jackal’ and other aliases squeal.
Georges Watda an assassin who likes to dress up in women’s clothes, which for some reason makes him walk pigeon-toe and limp. Georges Watda also alias ‘The Limp,’ ‘The Lump,’ Clampit Rabinowtz, ‘The Jackass,’ and of course ‘The Real
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Jackal,’ (Not Fat Eddie Illich Ramirez as Fat Eddie’s publicist claims.) complained as they sat on the side of the road in front of the Café Trianon in a yellow Renault Este Fette van in Petit Clamart.
Aside from Bastien Thiry alias ‘The Thorn’ who was the inconsolable boss and supposed to be a shooter and George Watda, a shooter. Galan de la Tonaye, with an alias that was unpronounceable, another shooter in the yellow van and the driver alias ‘The Driver’ who also handled Walkies Talkies communications with the two other road vehicles. The Lookout car and the chase car incase Georges Watda and the other two shooters miss. In all there were 10 known assassins.
“We should call this whole thing off,” Georges Watda mumbled in non-understandable British to Bastien Thiry, leader of the assassination squad and a member of the Vieil Etat, also a retired
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Major in the French Army and of course, Clinically Depressed.
The Vieil Etat, (The Old Way/Condition) is a clandestine organization within another secret organization the OAS (Organizational Army Secret} with dubious connection to officers in the French Army. To belong to this supersecret Vieil Etat one must have traceable roots that reach back to ‘The Jacobeans’ and Robespierre. To be an officer in Vieil Etat one must be able to put a furnace or boiler together blindfolded.
“You Vieil Etat and OAS people are incompetent,” Squawked Georges Watda. After all I am the ‘Jackass’… er I mean ‘The Jackal’ the ‘Pigmy Hippo’ if you wish… the best assassin in the world. I must get out of this van so I can breathe.
“Regarde ‘Jackass’…or ‘Jackal’ or whatever the hell your name,” pleaded, Clinically Depressed, Bastian
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Thiry, “Wait… I thought I was ‘The Jackass… I mean ‘The Jackal.’ “
“How many times must I remind you?” Georges Watda yelled, “You are the Red Panda.”
“Red Panda? Where the hell did that come from? I thought I was also ‘The Thorn’?” A clinically depressed Bastien Thiry cried out.
“Bastien Thiry continued, “Listen, you…you ‘Tete de Viande’ Watda, you are being paid beaucoup money to knock off De Gaulle as he passes by. Do you want to by a pair of American Dungarees or HiFi’s? Dirt cheap. I am overstocked back in my bedroom cellar of my parents apartment in Paris.”
“I still do not understand why I am being paid in Japanese Yen,” Georges Watda alias ‘The Jackal’ or ‘Jackass etc… cried out. I will have to carry my payoff in six suitcases. U.S. dollars Or French or Swiss Francs would be much better.”
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“We went all over that, and I am not getting embroiled with you again,” a still Clinically Depressed Bastien Thiry shouted. “Are you sure I am not ‘The Jackal?’
Bastien Thiry made some bubbling noises with his mouth and insulting gestures with his arm and fingers, but not without Georges Watda returning the same arm and fingers gestures almost missing President De Gaulle’ speeding van, “Now about two hundred meters behind us is our lookout vehicle. The Hungarian, Palmpilpest alias ‘The Hungarian’—
“Stop Thiry… If you give me one more freaken alias I will assassinate you. Right here. Right now. I am beginning to feel sorry for De Gaulle.” Georges Watda wailed. In the distance a dog wailed back.
“Okay. Okay,” Bastien Thiry started to cry. “The
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Idiot Palmpilpest will signal us by Walkies Talkies when he spots De Gaulle’s limousine approaching any minute now. De Gaulle always sits in the back seat on the passenger side. All you have to do with your high-powered rifle is fire into the backseat as he passes.
The Hungarian is in the lookout vehicle, and he will give you plenty of notice. Now if you miss
De Gaulle, we have a chase vehicle.100 yards or so down the road that will chase them and machine gun everyone in the Limousine. No survivors.”
“I do not miss,” Georges Watda snorted defiantly. “You have my money ready.”
“There are six suitcases stuffed with Japanese Yen in the back of this Renault, all for you when De Gaulle is killed,” Jean Bastien Thiry started to cry again.”
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“Japanese Yen,” Georges Watda, alias the Jackass, the Jackal the Pygmy Hippo, or whatever sounded off. “I ought to shoot you morons. Give me my confirmation and reservation for my room for the Wolf Hotel in Munich. Is my grey Deushbowl Citron 2 CV AZLM escape car waiting for me?”
“Oui, as promised,” a bleary-eyed Jean Bastien Thiry alias ‘The Red Panda’ or ‘The Thorn’ sniffed. “Behind the Café. With your phony license plate FL775 and your flip switch to revolve into a different license number.”
“Now where the blazes is De Gaulle? It will be very dark in another half hour,” Georges Watda, alias the Jackass or the Jackal or the Limp, etc… sneered. “You idiots said he would be here at sunset. We should call this whole thing off.”
The assassin’s Yellow Renault Este Fette van’s Walkies Talkies started to crackle as reports came
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in from the Lookout and the Chase car wondering where the hell is President De Gaulle’s Limo?
Jean Bastien Thiry, laughing like a hysterical, tormented Jackal, thus his alias also, quieted everyone down by saying ‘We are all going to be killed.’ “I am going to wait in the café Trianon. Good Luck. The driver, alias ‘The Driver’ alias ‘The Fiasco’… will take you to your ‘Jumping Off Point’ behind the Café Trianon place transfer your Yen after you assassinate De Gaulle.
A shot rang out creasing Jean Bastien Thiry’s skull.
Watda could not believe he only creased Thity’s skull at such a close distance.
“I have to get a drink.” Jean Bastien Thiry left the van in tears due to his morbid clinical depression and morbid grotesque faces he was making holding his bleeding head.
229
Georges Watda, still giving Jean Bastian Thiry arm and insulting finger gestures as Thiry stumbled away. Thiry also returning Watda’s insulting gestures.
Watda laughed, blew smoke away from his rifle barrel inside the yellow van.
Jean Bastian Thiry was refused entry to the café Trianon because of his fast deteriorating mental and physical condition. And also, because the large waiter at the café’s entrance thought Thiry was giving him the insulting gestures as Bastien Thiry tried to enter the establishment.
Bastian Thiry wondered onto the main highway toward a TV store across the wide road, stumbling and holding his head.
“Attention…Attention came the excited voice from the lookout vehicle. “Hey Watda, what are you
230
doing sitting in the back seat of De Gaulle’s Limo? Looks like you guys are having one hell of a party in the passing limo. A lot of screaming and jumping around inside the passing limo.”
Grorges Watda prepared to fire again, this time at De Gaulle. He also wondered how he could have missed Thiry’s head at such a close range of six or seven inches. “What are you talking about you moron? I am here in the shooters van ready to fire.
As Watda, fired at the passing Limo, President
De Gaulle’s Limo showed some idiot smashing up and down into the ceiling of the Goddess limo a number of times as he held a 12-volt sparking battery shocking everything in the Presidential Limo.
Simultaneously, flashbulbs kept popping among the shouts of ‘I warn you,’ animal noises, Sumo
231
grunts. All like a weird nightmarish celebratory horror dream.
The Presidential Limo started to pass the assassins yellow onRenault van. Georges Watda and others to open fire, blasting away, the Presidential Limo which swerved to miss some crying stumblebum, holding his head, staggering across the main highway toward a TV store on the other side of the street.
That crying stumblebum, holding his head causing the Presidential Limo to swerve probably saved everyone’s life in the Limo at that point. The was later award ‘The Unknown Pathetic Stumblebum Award’ for saving the President’s Life.
More shots rang out followed by more shooting from the yellow Renault.
“Yikes! That is me sitting in the back seat. I just shot myself,” Georges Watda ‘The ‘Jackal’ alias ‘The Real Jackal’ screamed-cackled.’
232
President De Gaulle’s Limo flew by with shattered windows and many bullet holes in it. An ear-piercing suicidal Bonsai scream emanating from the Limo faded as the Presidential Limo shot by.
After the shooting stopped, there was complete silence. A dark grey ‘Deutsch bowl’ chase car, about twenty meters past the assassin’s rifle smoking yellow Renault van, was parked on the side of the road. The silence broken as the ‘Deutsch’ bowl’s engine tried to turnover and start to no avail. Cursing of several rifle-toting Hungarian men, as they tried to start their car, could be heard.
A lamppost light showed a tired breeze urging a torn piece of old, damp, dirty Paris newspaper crossing the bullet shell covered road.
The item of interest read in part… “Have You Seen This Man?’ It was an artist sketch of Jock Unita wanted for questioning in a 10 million Franc bank
233
checking fraud case. ‘May be disguised as a woman dressed as ‘Mother Hubbard wearing a straitjacket.’
### END OF DEBRIEF ###
I’ll always remember the craziness. Love ya kid,
forever… bill,
ONZE de la croix ROUGE
copyright
19 APRIL 1300 hours 1963 Original cc
02 March 1500 hours 2010: Updated. cc
Classified Material Removed by U.S. Department
of Defense. Section 8 Division.
###
Love letters to follow:
Nanny Lud Has Just Been Murdered… Again. cc
Hysterical… The Precursor to ISIS. cc
Jerkwater U.S.A. cc
The Cobblers Ville Proposition. cc
Secrets of The Ancient Stone Forest. cc
Etc…
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Top 10 batman writers?
With particularly honorable mentions to Steve Englehart (his Batman wasn’t itself up my alley - though his Joker is another story altogether - but his significance is undeniable), Greg Rucka, Jeph Loeb (Hush was fun, dangit! Or at least it was fun to young entry-level DC reader me, which I understand has been its general underappreciated function over the years among fans), Peter Milligan, and Matt Wagner, as well as Dwayne McDuffie and Christopher Nolan outside of comics:
10. Scott Snyder
This’ll be a controversial one, no doubt about that. Look, Scott Snyder is easily one of my favorite superhero writers out there, and his Batman run is a favorite of mine. But judged as a Batman run specifically as opposed to a rip-roaring superhero book in general, his take is rather…specific. As he develops his voice on the character, his Bruce Wayne moves further and further into the territory of beleaguered 80s action hero, constantly freaking out and in over his head but always ready with a fast quip and a solid fist. His grasp of Batman’s thematic underpinnings is second to none, but while his execution of those ideas is just about always a blast, it’s surprisingly rare it feels on-point for the character as he’s existed elsewhere over 78 years. But I still can’t exclude the dude who wrote Court of Owls and Zero Year.
9. Bill Finger
Finger makes it by default; while I’m surprised myself that I’m putting him so low, that in and of itself is only a testament to the versatility and enduring power of the world and themes he built. But make no mistake, he’s not just here as a matter of being grandfathered in: aside from being one of the best done-and-one adventure writers Batman ever had, stories like The Origin Of Batman and Robin Dies At Dawn pack an emotional punch that resonate to this day.
8. Denny O’Neil
About as close as you can get to the founder of Batman as we know him today, aside from maybe my next pick. O’Neil hasn’t batted a hundred over the years, but when he’s on-point he’s as good as it gets, swinging between giddy pulp adventure and pitch-black noir that set the definitive template for what it is we expect out of Batman, and his interactions with several of his most important loved ones and enemies.
7. Frank Miller
In terms of characterization, Miller’s Batman is maybe best thought of in the same terms as the Golden Age comics - instrumental to Bruce Wayne as we understand him today, but recognizably not quite that guy yet. But Miller energized, mythologized, or outright invented a truly staggering degree of the fundamentals of Batman’s world, punctuated by moments of pure, distilled Batman-as-unstoppable-vengeance, whether hauling two hundred and twenty pounds of sociopath to the top of the highest tower in Gotham, bursting in on an upper-class mob meeting to deliver his statement of intent, or recalling what it takes to make the world make sense as he drives his best friends’ face into the Crime Alley pavement, with just enough humanity in there (accepting and nurturing Carrie Kelly as Robin, telling the kid not to swear, saving the cat in Year One and stopping a punk from falling off a fire escape and catching a beating for it) to keep it palatable.
6. Alan Brennert
If Miller defined the myth of Batman as we know it today, Brennert was the unsung hero who gave him his heart. While his work was minimal, the weight it carries in certain circles can’t be overstated - his Batman was emotionally raw like none before and few after, confronted with his traumas and the walls he had built around himself, and forced to confront himself and his relationships or lose everything. For The Autobiography Of Bruce Wayne alone, Brennert handily secures his place among the greats.
5. Darwyn Cooke
Cooke didn’t do a tremendous amount with Batman before his passing in terms of writing, but what there is is work for the ages. With his recreation of Night of the Stalker! he captures Batman at his brutal, haunting noir best, but it’s with Ego that his seizes his position in the top five with a comprehensive, insightful, and truly spooky look at the center of Bruce Wayne’s mind that says more about Batman with a single one-shot that most of his writers do in their entire careers.
4. Paul Dini
If you’re talking about drawing the straightest line between a writers work towards Batman as we know him today, perhaps no one has more of a claim to fame than Paul Dini. One of the braintrust behind Batman: The Animated Series and later a writer on the main books, he’s been behind armfuls of iconic, fan-favorite Batman stories of every genre permutation that solidified the caped crusader as we know him today: stoic, determined, brilliant, compassionate, and possessed of a jet-black wit that while sparsely deployed perfectly offset the horror surrounding him on all sides. Kevin Conroy is the Batman we all hear in our heads, and Dini put some of his best lines in his mouth before taking that skill to an underrated run on Detective Comics that deserves a spot among the greats.
3. Warren Ellis
EDIT: This was written prior to allegations against Ellis. While I’m not changing the list as this is a reflection of how I felt as I was making it, and the actions of the author don’t change the quality of the material now that it’s out in the universe, that qualification feels necessary.
I’ll be upfront with all of you: I am as surprised as anyone that Ellis is placing so high here. Hell, his first Batman story, a two-parter in Legends of the Dark Knight early in his career, was notably lackluster by his usual standards, and it makes up a significant percentage of his output (even if you count his Moon Knight run with Declan Shalvey as de facto Batman comics, which I absolutely do). But I thought about his other Batman stories - the first-ever Black and White feature with Jim Lee, and the Planetary crossover - and asked myself one by one, “are you better than X writer’s entire cumulative, often revolutionary Batman output?” And dammit if the answer didn’t keep being “yes”. What it comes down to is that he is to Batman as Garth Ennis is to Superman: a writer without much love for the superhero genre (though Ellis seems to have come to terms with it as a perfectly acceptable storytelling delivery system, as opposed to Ennis’s more pronounced disdain) who in a couple fits and spurts found the one character they seem capable of genuinely investing in, and whether people noticed it or not absolutely rocked it beyond comprehension in their time with them. Ellis found through Batman a perfect conduit for his righteous anger with the cruelties of the world, nailing his cunning, his cool demeanor, his vicious humor, his anger, his sympathy, his ability to inspire fear and awe in equal measure, and in the best Batman scene of all time, he articulated better than any writer before or after him why Bruce Wayne fights, and what for. Combined with his Moon Knight as a window as to how he might handle the character on a month-by-month basis that became an all-time great run unto itself, plus his excellent showing in Ellis’s arc of JLA Classified, and I just can’t make myself rank him any lower than this.
2. Tom King
The newest entry to the list, Tom King already had plenty of love when he came onboard thanks to Grayson, Omega Men, and Vision, but he was stepping into some of the most titanic shoes in the industry in Scott Snyder’s wake. But not only did he live up to that standard, he’s soared far beyond, with a thoroughly human and determinedly unconventional look at the degree to which Bruce has hindered himself emotionally for the sake of his mission and the toll of a neverending war on his mind. Ranging from fist-pumpingly cool to unrelentingly grim, profound to self-consciously silly, and managing to be soul-curdlingly cold and shamelessly tender in equal measure, Tom King not only finds the heart of Batman as few others have, but does so through one of the characters’ boldest, most technically spectacular, and refreshingly honest runs.
1. Grant Morrison
Just as much as he is with Superman, Grant Morrison simply is The Batman Writer. I’ve written at extensive length on his work here before, so in short: Morrison’s Batman is the best run a major Big Two character has ever received by miles and one of the best in comics period. He writes Batman as a mystery, as a thriller, as a pulp action romp, as sci-fi, as psychedelic spy warfare, as pure superheroics, as lurid horror, and as one man’s attempt to transcend himself through the ideal his symbol embodies and its ability to inspire others. He played with the symbols and themes underpinning Bruce Wayne like none other, he not only perfectly nailed Batman’s character but imposed a character arc over the whole of his publishing history, he touched on every corner of his world while carving out entirely new and unique spaces, and he left behind an honest-to-god epic that’s visibly influenced every major comics take since. There is simply no comparison of his work to anyone else’s, and I sincerely question if there ever will be - even more than his work defined Superman for me (and his Superman work includes my absolute favorite work of fiction period), his Batman is the Batman that lives in my head.
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