April
2008
By Douglas Kent,
Email: doug of
whiningkentpigs.com or diplomacyworld
of yahoo.com
On the web at http://www.whiningkentpigs.com – or
go directly to the Diplomacy section at http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/. Also be sure to visit the Diplomacy World
website at http://www.diplomacyworld.net. Check out http://www.helpfulkitty.com for official
Toby the Helpful Kitty news, blog, and links to all his available merchandise!
All Eternal Sunshine readers are encouraged
to join the free Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group at http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/
to stay up-to-date on any subzine news or errata.
Quote Of The Month – “Open your goddamn
mouth when you speak! Fucking
ventriloquist.” (Clementine
in “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”)
Welcome
to Eternal Sunshine, the only Diplomacy subzone you need if you’re lost in the
wilderness. Use it to start a fire, roll
it up and flog a small animal to death for food, and when nature calls you can
use a few pages as toilet paper. You
might consider reading it first, but that’s a matter of personal taste (or lack
thereof).
There’s
a bunch of stuff in this issue, so let’s get down to business. The 7x7 Gunboat Tournament, run outside of
the subzone, is in full swing. I plan to
offer another one when this one nears completion, so keep your eyes open. Our first Diplomacy game chugs along nicely with
some awesome old-style press, and the By Popular Demand and By
Popular Opinion games continue as well. By
the way: anyone is welcome to submit press to the Diplomacy game, as it uses a
Black Press format; it doesn’t matter whether you actually play in the game or
not! Anyway, as I was saying
before I rudely interrupted myself, the only things we’re really light on are
book and movie reviews. Heather started
a new “fast track” math class this month, and with close to three hours of
homework every night that’s really eaten into our reading and watching
schedule. Plus there have been very few new movie releases that we wanted to see, so
it’s been a lot more of Netflix and a lot less of AMC and the Angelika. Send some positive thoughts in her direction
– some of this math stuff, crammed into such a short period, can be a bit
overwhelming. But she needs to get
through this and one more math class so she’ll be able to apply for the
Veterinary Technician program she wants to get into so badly, which starts in
the fall.
Speaking
of animals, most of the news in this issue is cat-related, so let me start by
plugging our new web site and merchandise.
Toby now has his own line of products, his own blog, and his own web
presence. Visit http://www.helpfulkitty.com/ for links
to all of that. If you want to see the
products directly, as well as a few special Whining Kent Pig bonus items, you
can see them at http://www.cafepress.com/helpfulkitty,
although the Helpful Kitty site has a links to all of that anyway. I’m even considering adding some Eternal
Sunshine or Diplomacy World products…it doesn’t cost anything to add more junk
to the item list, after all! Now, on
with the cat updates.
As
I’ve mentioned here a few times over the past year, our sweet little girl Tigger was of quite advanced age: almost 21 years old. She is the only cat I ever adopted as a
kitten, as both Mara and Heather agreed that kittens were more work and (most
importantly) easier to find families for.
So instead I always tried t stick with adults. But from what I remember, Tigger
was nearing the end of her allotted time when Mara and I saw her, so we decided
she’d make a good potential friend for our favorite cat at the time, Ubber.
Two
decades later, Tigger has finally had to leave
us. About seven months ago we thought we
were losing her, as Tigger had experienced some
noticeable weight loss and increased vomiting.
But that was diagnosed as hyperthyroidism, and treating that was not a
difficult procedure. Well, it was
actually difficult for a few weeks, having to force the pills down her throat
when she didn’t feel like licking up some Cheez Whiz
where we’d try hiding the pills…Tigger became quite
angry with me about that, since I was the one giving the pills, and she would
hiss and run away if I tried to do anything except for petting her on the
head. Once we’d discovered the miracle
of Pill Pockets, however, everything got better and life quieted down. A few minor tweaks of the medication level
were all that was required. Tigger gained a touch of weight, stopped howling at night,
and while she was no longer quite as affectionate as she once was, she seemed
to have settled in to a grumpy- old-person-style of living (or old cat). Whether it was getting old or a grudge from
the pills, Tigger stopped climbing onto my lap each
morning for a petting and love session, but I couldn’t blame her. Instead I just did my best to accept her
various eccentricities…like not wanting to be petted, running to her cat bed,
and then whining to have you come pet her there. A small price to pay for
such a long period of companionship.
But then, the bottom fell out.
Really
we’re rather fortunate; Friday the 7th she was fine. Saturday the 8th she started
drooling a bit more than usual, not eating much, and her breath stunk. I thought maybe she had another dental
problem. She was willing to eat some
chicken and sliced turkey, but no cat food.
Then Saturday night she threw all of that up,
and would not eat again. Drinking was no
problem; in fact she drank more than usual.
We could tell she was sick, and my guesses were either heart disease or
a dental mess of some kind.
Monday morning I
dropped her off at the vet on the way to work, and asked that they call me when
they had some idea what was wrong.
Heather and I both said goodbye to her Sunday night, as they way things looked, it would take a miracle for her to get better. Even if she was suffering from something
treatable, there was then the quality of life question we would have to
face. How much more deterioration could
a cat of her age handle?
About
an hour later the vet called me at work.
There wasn’t much to talk about.
She had suffered acute renal failure.
Her kidneys were no longer functioning properly. Water went through her like a faucet, but the
toxins were building up rapidly in her system.
They’d already gotten so high that they were beyond the testing limits
in the lab. The vet said this had to
have come on suddenly, especially since we’d checked her toxin levels only a
few months ago. She offered the
possibility of trying to put her on subcutaneous fluids full-time for two or
three days there at the vet’s office, but didn’t think even that would be
successful in lowering her levels. But
we knew Tigger had simply had enough. It was time to say goodbye for good. The photo above is the last I took of her,
the night before. She was still walking
around, and a bit affectionate, but the decision was obvious even then.
They
gave Tigger a shot to control her nausea, and kept
her comfortable until I could get back there in the afternoon. I spent some time with her, and even got her
to eat a few crumbs of her all-time favorite treat: blueberry donut. Then it was time. The vet had already put a line in her leg, so
there wouldn’t be any fussing at the last minute. I kissed her goodbye, told her how much I
would miss her, and how much she had meant and would always mean to me. Then it was a simple process: inject some
saline to make sure the line was clear, then a thick-looking white substance
which was an anesthetic, literally putting her to sleep (she laid her head down
immediately), and finally the lethal shot, stopping her heart less than 20
seconds later. Then she was gone. Her eyes were open, and she made a bit of a
noise twice as air escaped her lungs, but the spark of life had departed her
body. Still, I was left alone with her
for a good five minutes to cry my eyes out, and retelling the story I am crying
again. As I go through my day I have no
problem, but when I stop to think about the sweet little fuzz-ball, who whined
way too much and who remembered me the moment I walked back in the door after 2
½ years away…well, my heart aches for her.
I petted her soft fur, kissed the top of her head, cried, talked to her
some, and then left. Goodbye Tigger, I’ll never forget you.
And,
in a way, that’s a goodbye one of the last true ties to my old life, my time
with Mara. Whatever else might be left
is still sitting in my storage unit in Palmer, which I am slowly digging
through and disposing of things whenever I get a chance. Out with the old, in with the new, I guess.
…which leads us to Sanka, the new addition
to our household. The fact is, we had been talking for quite some time about how Toby
needed a friend and playmate. Tigger was never up to the task, and wasn’t at all
interested in the first place. By the
time Toby entered her life, she was more than 20 years
old and had just recently stopped playing altogether. Not even the “red dot” (the laser pointer
light) could get her moving. So all of Toby’s attempts to incite her into friendly play, or even
simple chasing each other, were met with hisses, growls, or general
disinterest. But we didn’t want
to consider bringing another cat into the apartment until Tigger
was gone. She deserved better treatment
in her last months than to deal with a new intruder. Just deciding to adopt Toby took quite a bit
of thought and consideration, albeit in a short time, but he seemed so perfect
and friendly and loving (which he was, and is) that we couldn’t pass him up.
Even
while Tigger was still with us, Heather made regular
trips to petfinder.com to see what kind of cats were
available from local rescue groups. We
knew a kitten was out of the question, not just for the reasons I mentioned
earlier but also because Toby needed an adult cat to deal with, or at least
fully grown. So Heather had been
focusing on any local cat who caught her eye from the
photo or personal story. There was one
“plus size” black female she liked, but I pointed out to her that she’d been on
petfinder.com for over two years…that suggested either she had behavior
problems or (more likely) that she’d been adopted or passed away and never
removed. So now Heather had narrowed it
down to two cats she wanted us to look at, Khali and Sanka,
each being cared for by a different rescue group. Personally I was ready to accept whatever cat
Heather decided on, as long as she was different enough from Tigger for me to not mentally consider her a
replacement. We weren’t replacing Tigger; we were just looking to get Toby the friend he
needed.
Khali’s
foster family was out of town for a week, but in the meantime after a couple of
days we did hear from Sanka’s foster mother. She actually lived right down the street from
Heather’s job. Eileen (the foster
mother) had been caring for Sanka for maybe 10
months, and since she was only about one year old that was a good percentage of
her lifetime.
Eileen said that Sanka was sweet and
affectionate, and that her main drawback was her tendency to be underfoot…like
what cat isn’t? Heather went by and met Sanka, and I am sure it took about 90 seconds for them to bond
completely. That afternoon I drove over
and picked the little fuzzball up, taking Sanka back to her new forever home.
In many ways, she is
a little Toby. She’s terribly loving,
purrs like a motorboat (Toby has a very quiet purr by comparison), plays all
the time, likes to be held, and gets into mischief. Sanka even likes to
have her tummy rubbed, which most cats hate (but which Toby loves too). The two of them are getting along pretty
well, although Toby plays a bit rough with her sometimes, and gets jealous when
Sanka takes his favorite resting places (like next to
Heather in the middle of the night). But
I doubt there is going to be any trouble…as you can see in this photo (Sanka is the one to the left) the love to watch the birds
out our patio window together. And Toby
was completely exhausted by Sanka, as they chased
each other around the apartment for hours.
Sanka has never had this much space before
(and remember we live in a tiny 3 room apartment) and living with a foster
family this is the first time she’s had to share attention with only one other
cat. It seems to be a perfect match!
As
for Khali…well, we never did get over there to see her, since we can’t add
another cat to the household right now.
Two is plenty…for the moment. You
never know what the future holds!
Crushes
For
Christmas, one of the things I bought Heather was the just-released DVD set of
the complete “My So-Called Life.” If
you’re unfamiliar with it, the series was a 1980’s-era drama starring a young
Claire Danes as a 15-year-old High School student, trying to make it through a
difficult age. Highly regarded by those
who watched it, the series did not last very long. I suppose a semi-accurate portrayal of
teenage life isn’t particularly escapist, which most successful television
seems to be. Besides, the show lacked
some of the truly dark and achingly cruel truth of, say, “Welcome to the
Dollhouse.”
So
we started watching a few episodes recently, and it got me thinking more about
my time in public school, and my experience with girls, and the fact that I
don’t think I had the same outlook on them as other guys (or the same point of
view towards guys that most girls had).
Or perhaps I simply think I’m different, when I’m not. There’s always a lot of that going around
too.
I
never had that period as a youngster where I thought girls were gross. In fact, long before puberty, I would think
about girls in a romantic sense. Not a
sexual sense – I’d simply imagine some girl I liked in my class being my
“girlfriend,” with
no real specific idea of what that meant except that we both liked each other
and wanted to spend time together. I can
remember having a few declared “girlfriend” in the 2nd or 3rd
grade: Wendy O’Connell being the first that comes to mind. But there were others I’d think about a lot:
Annie Williams, Sara Briggs, Sandy Sullivan, April, Tracy…and there was always
the unattainable Patty Shepherd. Even at
this young age, I realized certain girls were out of my league. Whether it was that they were from a very
wealthy family, or simply that they openly demonstrated disdain for me (or my
family), some girls were beyond me even as simply friends. Of course, at this age I didn’t know what a
mess my family was, and obviously without that realization I couldn’t have
possibly known how some of the down looked at us with a combination of pity,
trepidation, and repulsion.
During
those years, girls were generally a part of everything we did. Oh, they wouldn’t play baseball with us
during recess, but they were always invited to birthday parties. In my elementary school classes, we had a
seeming peculiar habit of gently scratching each other’s backs when we sat on
the school floor watching movies or filmstrips.
There was no hesitation of doing that to a girl, or having her do it to
you…you just asked, and they did it. If
someone asked you, you did it. “Sex” was
a foreign concept, so it wasn’t sexual.
It was basic, friendly, comforting human contact. I sometimes wonder how that changes the
development process, now that we live in an age where children can’t even hug
or hold hands or any of the other things we did on a regular basis. Then again, I only did those things in
school…at home, we NEVER touched each other.
Touching meant someone was hurting you, or about to do something nasty
like drop a bug down your shirt or stick a piece of skunk cabbage under your
nose.
I’ve
tried my best to figure out when my point of view on girls changed. Probably around 6th grade, when we
moved to New Jersey. There I could
actually fantasize about girls in a sexual way.
Maybe I didn’t consider the idea of having SEX, but instead kissing and
holding and being affectionate. I know
there were a few females I lusted after.
Margie was the main one. I
thought she was the cutest, most wonderful being on earth. At this age I still talked to other boys
ABOUT girls, and I remember myself and Ed swapping desires: me for Margie, him
for Lisa. We found the strength of the
infatuations we had to be amazing, like a whole new world had opened up to
us. My happiest moments were when she
and I were on crossing guard patrol together for a week or two. She talked to me, laughed with me…but in
typical Kent fashion I never told her that I “like liked” her. At the end of the school year she transferred
to a private school (I think) and that was that. I saw her somewhere – some school function –
a year or two later, and realized whatever attraction
I’d held for her was completely erased.
I guess I had moved on.
Somewhere
between 6th and 7th grade, as I moved from Elementary
School to Junior High School (referred to as Middle School in some places), I
changed. I don’t know why, I don’t know
how, I don’t know what caused it. I
suppose puberty had started full force, although the awful plague of acne I’d
do battle with for years didn’t really start right at this point. Perhaps it was just going to a school with so
many more people…I have no idea. But it all
changed. Girls were no longer
attainable. And they never would
be. Oh, I could still think about them,
list after them, fantasize about them like all heterosexual boys did…but it was
the same as fantasizing about a movie star or a rock star. The odds of me connecting with any girl I went
to school with were about as likely as me finding myself in a romantic
encounter with Jodie Foster or Olivia Newton John or Chrissie Hynde or one of the Go-Go’s or Patty Smyth or Claire Grogan
or that woman from “Buck Rogers.” In
other words, zero.
Maybe
I just realized how utterly out of step with the rest of the world I felt. Even with my friends, I felt like an
outsider, or being included seemed to be done out of pity or social obligation
more than anything else. Or, even with
good friends like Fritz or McDougal or Richard Rives Howe Jr., I always
(rightly or wrongly) sensed the attitude that while my being around was fine,
they’d be equally as happy if I wasn’t.
They could take it or leave it.
The only time I didn’t feel that way, some of the time, was with my wargaming buddy Steve.
Aside from occasional arguments, we could spend nearly unlimited time
playing games and ringing doorbells or talking.
Like everything else, that would change over time, but for a couple of
years it was good to have.
So,
while I’d fantasize about some of the marvelous, magical, mystical females in
my world – Patrice, Synda, Beth, Ashley, Elana, and especially Helen – there was never the slightest
hope that I could do more than pass them in the hall. Even when a female seemed less other-worldly
because they were openly friendly and sweet – Caroline, Gabby, the other Beth – I wouldn’t allow myself the luxury of
thinking they could be anything but friends.
I did, in fact, find myself developing a few close friendships with
females. Ayla
comes to mind – I loved talking to her, listening to her, discussing life and
relationships and anything else with her – but that was a true friendship. It was completely non-sexual, and was
different and wonderful in its own way.
In the years to come I’d find myself forming similar friendships with
other women, but that was the first of its kind for me.
Even
later, when I met Mara and started dating her, the idea of any of the other
women around me being attainable seemed ludicrous. In fact, I don’t know if that has ever truly
changed. I’ve jokingly complained to
Heather that I wish women would hit on me once in a while…but the fact is, women could hit on me day in and day out; I wouldn’t have
the slightest idea that anything was going on.
With me, a woman needs to make the first, second, third, and maybe the
fourth move. Not that I need women
making moves on me anymore; Heather might take issue with that!
So
what is wrong with me? Was I simply born
without the gene to recognize a female’s interest in me? Or do I think so little of myself that the
idea anybody wants to be with me is laughable?
I used to think it was the latter.
But now, as I’ve gotten a bit older, I really think it’s the former. It is one of my many genetic birth
defects. But as to the history of
fantasizing about females, I am curious how different my experience is from
everyone else’s.
Funny Games – Naomi Watts and
Tim Roth star in this remake of Michael Haneke’s 1997
Austrian-language version. Haneke is at the helm again, in a tale of a wealthy family
at their vacation home being held captive and terrorized by two young adults
who seem determined to kill them. It’s
hard for me to go into more detail without giving portions of the plot away. But I found the entire process to be somewhat
generic and obvious. There are some
attempts by Haneke to comment on the violent world we
live in, and on the way some believe a generation raised
on violent movies, games, and television cannot distinguish between reality and
fiction. Or, to put it another way, some
violent criminals (especially younger ones) live their lives as if they are
“the star of their own movie” with dangerously egocentric attitudes towards the
wel-being of others.
I imagine his earlier version may have succeeded, but this one fails in
almost every regard. I never felt the
terror of the family despite the accomplished cast (although Michael Pitt and
Brady Corbet were rather good as the
psychopaths). And the major “gimmicks” did
nothing for me. I’m not even sure I
recommend this movie as a DVD film…unless you want to discuss the way the film
missed the mark, and the overall big-picture topics it did nothing to enlighten
you about. Skip it.
Seen
on DVD
– Street Trash (C+, as far as Troma films go this one is rather weak, but the “shoplifting”
and “keep-away” scenes make it worth watching ever 10 years). Paris Je T’aime (C-, a series of
unconnected Paris vignettes written and directed separately. A few moments but generally
just not very engaging). Witness
for the Prosecution (B+, after seeing this butchered by a local theater, it was
great to watch the classic screen version, with Charles Laughton in all his
glory). 28 Weeks Later (A-, about as good as the first film, with the high
level of chaos and the freakish cinematography of the Rage sufferers keeping
the movie a fast-paced thrill ride). North By Northwest (A-, got a DVD to
replace my old VHS copy, still a terrific movie and always will be). Miss
Potter (B, decent story about Beatrix Potter and her entry into
publishing. I’m not sure what was wrong
with it, but perhaps a different actress would have pulled it off more
powerfully). Waitress (D, the woman who made this film was murdered in NYC just
before it was released. I could make
some bad jokes here, but I won’t bother).
Waking Ned Devine (B+, cute
and low-key Irish comedy, finally got around to seeing it).
Suburban Legends – Sam Stall – “True
Tales of Murder, Mayhem, and Minivans.”
A fun and fast collection of stories of the “urban legend” type, but all
taking place in the suburbs. Actually,
most of the stories are more about ghosts, paranormal experiences, and a few
murders thrown in for good measure. A great bathroom book if nothing else. I give it a B+, and I think Heather liked it
too.
God is Dead – Ron Currie, Jr. –
Some interesting fiction, all short stories.
A few stand on their own, but the rest are all tied to the premise that
God assumed human form, doed on Earth, and the world
has since become aware of that in a very strange way. The stories aren’t really haunting, as they
don’t stay with you for that long, but they are interesting and sometime
unsettling. I’ll give it a B, maybe a
B+.
The Melancholy Death
of Oyster Boy & Other Stories – Tim Burton – Burton
can do a hell of a job as a director, building an entirely new world around a
script and transporting you into it. But
as a poet, in the vein of Lewis Carroll or Edward Gorey,
he is a bust. A few of the drawings are
cute but the prose is useless. The only
thing it did was make me want to find a copy of Beastly Boys & Ghastly Girls so I can read that again. I’m off to look on eBay right now. Give it a D.
Chosen by P.C. Cast and Kristin Cast – The third in the
House of Night series. Exciting and suspenseful.
I finished it in one day because I couldn’t put it down. Now I’ve already pre-ordered the next book in
the series! Okay, this is really a
“teenage” book, but for lighter reading I love this kind of stuff. 4 ½ pumpkins. 
Animal Friends by Christina Jirak O’Donnell – A sweet
collection of short stories about rescued animals, and the joy they bring to
the people who bring them into their lives.
The people rescue the animals, but in many ways it is the animals who
rescue the people! 3 ½
pumpkins.
Creepy old people.
Dark humor.
Sabotage.
Deteriorating neighborhoods. Murder. What could be more fun?
“Homebodies” was one
of those 1970’s movies which HBO ran over and over again just as cable TV was
making its way into suburbia. I must
have watched it over 40 times as a kid, and it was only recently that I was
able to procure an old VHS copy to enjoy all over again. Heather didn’t care for it – there’s no
accounting for taste – but I still found it very amusing.
The
plot is rather simple. A neighborhood is
being demolished, building by building, to make room for new high-rise
development. The movie focuses on one
particular building. The residents
simply do not want to leave. And they
are willing to do anything it takes to get what they want.
There
are plenty of laughs along the way. Some
of it is slapstick, like when Maddie tries to drive a
car for the first time in decades. And
some of it is simply nasty fun, like when they chop a developer’s foot off to
fit him in a construction form.
The
stars are all creepy, and will ne unrecognizable to most of you. Ruth McDevitt had a
recurring role on Kolchak The Night Stalker, and
appeared in The Birds. But it’s Paula Trueman as Maddie who steals the
show, and while she has screen credits in films like Paint Your Wagon or Annie
Hall, I don’t remember her in anything but this. This is, without question, a dark comedy…but
I love it just the same. I think I heard
it may be on DVD again soon, so keep your eyes open!
Andy
York: I
enjoyed the latest ES, great job as always. Regarding the David Lynch for
President campaign, where are the rabbits? I'm sure
they're "hopping" for a victory in November!
I think they left the campaign over a disagreement
about how much coffee must be provided, and of what caliber.
The story about the run-up to your "mandatory
extended vacation" was interesting. I was surprised you have to pay your
way to the prison. I figured you'd turn yourself into the local Marshall's
office who would, in turn, make "the
arrangements" to get you to your final destination. Did you have an
option, or was the only choice you were given was to appear at the front door?
I was lucky to have the option, believe me. Otherwise you get the Federal transportation
treatment, including holdovers for weeks at a time (like 4th class
mailbags), terrible conditions, no family contact, and the nightmare of the
methods of transportation. Often you
stand out on the tarmac for an hour at rifle-point while inmates of all
security levels are loaded into a plane.
Ever see Con Air? A prison pal
nearly had a nervous breakdown in his trip…he was standing on the tarmac during
a less-serious transfer, mainly of low-security inmates. He’d been stuck in one spot for a few weeks,
and had spent a lot of time talking to one of the guards. He noticed some fluid dripping from the tail
section of the plane he was about to board, and asked the guard what it was.
“Oh, that’s hydraulic fluid. It always drips like that on this plane, it
has a leak somewhere.”
“But how do they know when they’ve lost too much
fluid?” he asked.
“Easy,” the guard replied. “When it stops dripping.”
Not the kind of experience you volunteer for. Anyway, since I was on pre-trial release for
a non-violent crime, I wasn’t a flight risk.
If I was going to run I would have done it long before then!
I agree, Juno was a good movie (gave it a B+). I'm
glad it got at least one Oscar, well deserved!
I've not read any of the books Heather's reviewed.
Is she into horror, gothic, vampire or ?? I don't
really read much in those genres, but there are a couple of Straczynski
horror books that I've read based on the author. Quite good,
and disturbing.
She likes gothic, vampire, supernatural romance, and
especially any of the teenage-marketed books.
She says they’re great for a quick, fun, semi-mindless read. And like a soap opera or television drama,
they often put cliffhangers at the end of one book, helping her to look forward
to the next one that much more. The more
serious, bloody vampire books are good too.
But she reads lots of other things as well: animal books, humor,
fiction, biography, historical books when of a subject she is interested
in…it’s just that she gets on her little kicks, and right now it’s a vampire
kick again.
I can't help with the two movies,
they don't ring a bell at all.
I am not surprised!
Robert Lesco: Zoot Allures was my first Zappa
LP. I bought it shortly after it was
released and a couple of the guitar solos are still favorites. I am stuck for an answer as to which is my
favorite album. Maybe the Shut Up And Play Your Guitar series but I'm not certain.
Hearing some of the songs redone in the Thing Fish
project was interesting. I believe Black
Napkins and The Torture Never Stops were two of my
favorites off Zoot Allures. Lately I’ve been sticking with the same CD’s
over and over: Rain (the new Joe Jackson), Dulcinea
by Toad the Wet Sprocket, Popular Favorites by The Talking Heads, the Once
soundtrack, and old standby CD’s like Conjure One’s Extraordinary Ways,
Choirgirl Hotel by Tori Amos, and Van Morrison’s
Saint Dominic’s Preview. I don’t buy new
CD’s all that much, so I have always hesitated in adding a brief “playlist”
section in this rag.
Balkan Wars VI (Black Press): Signed up: Jack
McHugh, Graham Wilson, Brad Wilson, Brendan Whyte, needs two more. Rules and map on request.
I may offer
a new game of Diplomacy or another Gunboat 7x7 soon, so keep your eyes
open. Other options are a game of
Youngstown or some other map variant.
Diplomacy
“Wouldn’t It Be Nice?” 2008A, Fall 1901
Austria
(Kevin Wilson): A Ser S F Alb-Gre, A Tri-Vie, F Alb-Gre.
England
(Jeremie LeFrancois): .F
Nth C A Yor-Den, F Nwg-Nwy, A Yor-Den
(Bounce).
France
(Alexander Levinson): F Mid-Por, A Gas-Spa, A Mar-Bur.
Germany
(Graham Wilson): F Hol S A Ruh-Bel,
A Ruh-Bel, A Kie-Den (Bounce).
Italy
(Don Williams): F Ion-Tun, A
Apu-Ven, A Tyr-Mun.
Russia
(Melinda Holley): A Mos-Sev (Fails), F Sev-Rum (Bounce), A Ukr S F Sev-Rum, F Gob-Swe.
Turkey
(Brad Wilson): A Smy-Arm, F Bla-Rum
(Bounce), A Bul S F Bla-Rum.
Ownership of supply centers:
Austria:
Budapest, Greece, Serbia,
Trieste, Vienna.
England:
Edinburgh, Liverpool,
London, Norway.
France:
Brest, Marseilles, Paris,
Portugal, Spain.
Germany:
Belgium, Berlin, Holland,
Kiel.
Italy:
Munich, Naples, Rome,
Tunis, Venice.
Russia:
Moscow, Sevastopol, St
Petersburg, Sweden, Warsaw.
Turkey:
Ankara, Bulgaria,
Constantinople, Smyrna.
Unowned: Denmark, Rumania.
Austria:
5 Supply centers, 3 Units: Builds
2 units.
England:
4 Supply centers, 3 Units: Builds
1 unit.
France:
5 Supply centers, 3 Units: Builds
2 units.
Germany:
4 Supply centers, 3 Units: Builds
1 unit.
Italy:
5 Supply centers, 3 Units: Builds
2 units.
Russia:
5 Supply centers, 4 Units: Builds
1 unit.
Turkey:
4 Supply centers, 3 Units: Builds
1 unit.
Winter 1901/Spring 1902 Deadline is April 29th
2008 at 7:00am
Winter will be separated on two requests.
PRESS
Heart of Darkness Saloon: The woman behind the bar snorted as she loaded sasparillas onto a platter. "Here!" she
ordered a server. "Take these to those three guys sitting by the
west window. And watch out for that Frenchman, Robert."
"What about that group on the
other side of the room?"
There was an evil cackle.
"Oh, I'll take care of them, sonny boy."
Rome to Vienna : Sorry, friend, but rumor has it you were looking for a
little canal-joy-riding and we couldn’t have any of that. If we bounced,
consider yourself lucky that I’m so forgiving by nature and understanding by
education. If we didn’t bounce, well, then I’m thinking I’m lucky that
you are so forgiving as well.
Somewhere
West of the Hobby: Too long. Way too long,
he thought. He’d been riding a three weeks now
and the desert was winning the war of man against nature.
Eternal sunshine, be damned, it was hot out here, the kind of
hot that could make a man go crazy in the head. The sun blazed nearly
straight overhead, causing a fata morgana
mirage on the eastern edge of the desert. Dry hot winds blew up from that
direction. Even his shadow seemed to be searching for someplace to avoid
the blazing sun. He squinted hard at the east, his destination.
Somewhere across this forsaken and blasted desert plain was his destination,
his desire and his damnation, all rolled up into one.
The heart of Darkness Saloon. And
the infernal woman who ran the place. He spurred his horse and
moved out further into the shifting sands of the desert.
WILLIAMS to WILSONS :
Best two allies out of three? (Sorry Graham.)
Wilson to Williams: OK, I’ll ally with you.
FLEET STREET: We regret to inform you that we neglected to inform you that we
meant to inform you that the information regarding the fleet flotilla formation
formed to formulate a foreign foster state in Denmark was misinformed in its
malformation. Put laconically and with less bombast – but tragically
lacking the ability to show off our command of the mother tongue – Ooops! Jutland revenged! Hail Britannia!
Somewhere
West of the Hobby: Wouldn’t it be Nice
if you could see it? But you
couldn’t. It was just out of sight, off
in the distance, almost…if the light was right and the sky not too cloudy. If the paper was a bright white, not the
beige recycled stuff some people were using, and if the fonts weren’t too
big…yeah, you could almost see it. There
to the east, always to the east. The Hobby, swelling up with its history, its pride, its grand
tradition of games…and gamesmanship.
Just always over the horizon, unseen, but you knew it was there, always
to the east. But, we were off to the
west here…not exactly sure where.
Somewhere West of the Hobby…
“S’ym!,” the high pitched screech
declared, “there must be an inch of dust on this piano!”
“Well,
yes’m,” replied the fur clad bartender stoically, “we
haven’t been open for business in nigh on twenty years…” As soon as he said it, he knew it was the
wrong thing to say. His head swiveled
slowly in the pervasive, temperature dropping silence. It seemed the only thing moving in a suddenly
still tableau. Moving his head,
dreading, slowly around brought his field of vision into a panascopic
visual inventory of the bar…the deer head and antlers above the bar, the
cracked mirror behind the bar, and the single spigot to the keg at the back. It also brought into view his boss, Miss
Kitty Holley, the voluptuous and wanton proprietress of the saloon.
“What…exactly…are
you trying to say,” she asked. She fixed
him with the gaze of her amethyst blue eyes as surely as you could bayonet a bug
on a fencepost. She leaned forward in
her intensity, practically unaware of bringing her vast cleavage to bear on the
situation.
“I’m
just thinking that the beer we put up would be appropriately aged. Even that scotch we had going in the bathtub
last time we printed should be good to go by now.”
“Oh,
“ Miss Kitty
smiled, “good thinking. Scrounge up some
bottles then. Twenty year old scotch
should give this place a little class.”
She
went back to cleaning the window, polishing the gold gilt lettering …Heart of
Darkness Saloon…picked out in curly script, gold on black on the thick paned
windows…and through the window, past the dusty, tumbleweed littered streets,
past the horse troughs, and the low gables of the Austrian Arms Hotel &
General Store, past all of it and off to the east…just beyond sight…
“Do
ya ever miss it?” intoned S’ym,
who had come up quietly behind her.
She
looked back over her shoulder at him and smiled brashly…”Hon, I was never
gone.”
CORRIERE DELLA SERA TELAGRAMMA POSTALE: to MUN: I know what I told you STOP Had way
too many people suggesting it STOP Couldn’t help taking a shot
STOP Had to give it a go STOP Stop STOP
TURKEY to TURKEY : I have a great idea. I think I’ll write to you and
only you and then I won’t have to lie to anyone.
Somewhere
West of the Hobby…Wrote Hard and Put Up Wet: *ching* ching * ching*
You
could hear the ching with each step the dust covered
boots took, as they slowly trod down the street. The steps, sure and measured, moving unperturbed past the tumbleweeds and horse
flop. Past the horses tied up at the
rail with the WP brand.
*ching* ching * chi----
---and
pausing, slowly turning. The turn took a
moment, because it was also slow and measured, and because he was tall, okay
and broad, the shirts maybe fitting a little too snug nowadays, but he still
cast a long shadow…especially at twilight.
Now, no reason to go and get melancholy.
His
slow measured turn brought him around facing the building. The Heart of
Darkness Saloon, and a smile crept across his slightly
pudgy, ill-shaven face. Unbelievably, he
had never actually been in this town before, never set a dust covered boot step
within its city limits before, yet he knew it like the back of his hand, almost
like he had wrote it…or at least five to ten percent of it. His steely gaze swept the building front and
he could make out the bullet holes from past gunfights, and the memories came
back; there on the boardwalk where they had just painted over the blood stains,
there the water trough where the water only went so high because that was where
the Judge had been pinned down and no one had ever patched the holes. There, where you could see where the new
panes of glass in the window front didn’t quite match up with some of the older
panes…a chair through the window if he recalled correctly. Yeah, he felt like he was practically at
home. He Flicked
his Wrist a little, working out a cramp…maybe a little arthritis; he was
getting too old for this shit. But a job
was a job.
As
he perused the front of the building he saw a petite alabaster hand reach up in
the window and pull on a chain. The
delicate fingers with their fire engine red nails released the chain and it
went skittering back up…abruptly the red and blue “Brothel Open” sign lit up.
He stepped toward the Saloon…
*ching* ching * ching*
and up the steps, and his big meaty hands
pushed the swinging doors aside and he stepped into the darkened saloon.
“Hmmmm, hhmmmm,”
the sound of throat clearing, “it’s the Heart of Darkness Saloon.”
“What? Pardon me?” the tall dusty stranger (yet also
somehow familiar) said.
“Your
monolog…you said you stepped into the darkened saloon, it’s the Heart of
Darkness Saloon.”
He
looked at the speaker, apparently the bartender, only because he was standing
behind the bar with a bucket and a Scotch bottle with a funnel stuck in the
top.
“I
was only trying to say it was dark in here, y’know
not so well lit,” he explained, “I was pausing at the door. Letting my eyes adjust, actually its quite a tried and true western story entrance. I thought I did it quite well.”
The
bartender looked at him, “So. Have your
eyes adjusted?”
“Are
you covered in blue fur?”
“Except
for a bald patch on my ass…yeah,” replied S’ym.
“In
that case, yeah, they’re adjusted.”
He
walked toward the bar…
*ching* ching * ching*
The
big blue bartender squinted at him, “You know you’re not wearing spurs, right?”
He
looked down at the boots that had dust, but no metal on them. “Yeah, I
know. It’s…”
“for effect,” finished S’ym. “A tried and true cliché of
the old west.”
“Exactly!”
beamed the gunslinger.
“So,
ya’ want some Redeye,” he jiggled the funnel out of
the bottle of scotch and tapped the last few remaining drops in.
The
gunslinger waved his hand in the negative.
S’ym reached under the counter and picked up
the placards and walked to the single spigot on the wall. He shuffled the placards…Miller, Stroh’s,
Bud, Coors…
“Ya want a brew?”
“Nah,
I’m on the wagon,” replied the gunslinger.
S’ym peered out the front window and into the
street, “I thought you walked here?”
“Just
a glass of water would be fine. Maybe with a lime in it.”
“Ya want me to find the little umbrellas first?”
The
gunslinger was about to retort when his keen senses heard the swish of silk,
the distinctive whisp it makes as it slides over
chiffon. His nose, the famous nose that
could detect a Taco stand miles away perked at the musky scent of
perfume…expensive French perfume, Chateau le Bimbeaux,
if he guessed correctly. A smile crept
over his face, yes, almost like he’d been here before.
He
turned, slowly, measuredly (measuredly?)
and took in the view. He started at the
perfect coiffure and worked his way down; the keen, alluring blue eyes, the
rouged cheeks and perfect makeup, the luscious, full pouty lips glossy with
rich, red lipstick…slightly parted so you could see the perfect pearly whites
and just the tip of her tongue. The long
stem of her alabaster neck, the shoulders begging to be caressed revealed by
the off-the-shoulder gown (a Versace?), and the…wow! Hubbeda,
hubbeda…the décolletage that heaved almost out of the
plunging neckline, huge, smooth, and pressed together to make a truly
stupendous cleavage, this the famed “Grand Canyon of the Press.”
She
looked him dead in the eye, “If you like the Grand Canyon, maybe you’d like to
shoot the rapids?”
He
stopped abruptly, and looked at her sheepishly. “Was I monologging
again?”
“Just
a little,” she pulled a perfumed handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped at the
drool running from the corner of his mouth.
S’ym set down his drink on the bar and walked
off, shaking his head.
“Miss
Kitty, it’s a pleasure to see you...I mean, really….a pleasure.”
“I’m
afraid you have me at a disadvantage stranger…though you do seem oddly
familiar. You are a long, tall drink
of…” her gaze fell on his glass, “…water?”
She
stepped back to look at him, her gaze running an assay of him like a revenuer
going over your books. She started at
the dusty spurless boots and worked her way up…you
could tell a lot by a man’s shoes and his were….big. She smiled; she might have something to work
with here. The pants were dusty as was
the Mississippi gambler jacket that did little to hide the two low slung six
guns strapped to his thighs. A button
strained a little at his midsection, but she didn’t hold that against him,
she’d strained a button or two in her time, and he might be packing a derringer
by the looks of that bulge…she hoped it was a double shot. The bump of his back pocket, just barely
visible because of the coat belied he was carrying a wallet, by its size she
figured two tens, a twenty and three ones. She squinted…no four ones. She worked her way up to his ruggedly
handsome face, and noted the lines around the eyes. Eyes that had seen a lot of death, looked into the depths of shallow characterizations;
read a lot of bad press. (Hey, what are you trying to say?) She kinda liked
that look, like he’d been wrote hard and put up
wet. Up past the pudgy nose to the wide
brim gambler’s hat with a feather stuck rakishly in the band. Was that a duck feather?
That’s
when it hit her…the duck feather.
“You’re
the Duck of Death!”
He
blushed, “that’s Duke, mam. The Duke of Death, and that’s just a nome de guerre that my writer made up. The name’s Williams.”
“Don
Williams…” finished Miss Kitty, she fanned herself with the kerchief, “but what
could possibly bring you out here, west of the Hobby? There’s been no trouble since the gold rush
played out years ago. The Judge cleaned
up the town; all the soldiers of fortune are gone.”
“You
saw the WP brand on them horses outside?”
She
nodded her head, “Yeah, that’s the Whining Pig spread just outside of
town. He’s bought up all the pages
around here, this whole town’s in his szine now.”
The
Duke of Death nodded solemnly, took a swig of water, and adjusted his
derringer, “yeah, and I heard the Wilson boys are riding for him.”
Miss
Kitty’s eyes widened, she recalled the old days…the gunfights in the street,
body parts flying like some bloody child’s toy, horses hung from the gallows,
cattle raped and women rustled, the barfights every
night, the violence and death…
“S’ym!” she screeched, “order up
some more glassware, finish bottling that scotch, and get ready for
business. This is gonna
be fun!”
She
smiled a really chilling, yet beautiful smile.
Wilson to Wilson: Why don’t you write any
more?
Somewhere
West of the Hobby…A Damsel in dis’
dress:
Wouldn’t it Be Nice if dollars were donuts? And quarters were those thin mint
chocolates like the ones the swanky hotels put on your pillow at night? And taffy…wouldn’t it be nice if taffy came
oozing from the faucet like hot and cold water.
Make that saltwater. He smiled at
his tasty bon mot. Jeremie
teetered back in his swivel chair and, pushing with his toes on the big desk,
spun around.
“Wheeeeeeeee!!!”
Wouldn’t
it be nice if you spent candy and ate money?
He pivoted about, visions of sugar plums dancing in his head.
“You
called, Yer Bankership?”
asked Marlow from the door to the office.
Jeremie sat up, bringing his spin to an abrupt
halt. His head spinned a little longer.
“Er, no …no, ahem, I didn’t ... I mean yes, Marlow. I did.
Is my four thirty here?”
“Yer four thirty is in the lobby, Yer
Bankership.”
“Ah, the four thirty. Excellent!” He rubbed his hands together, “Most
excellent!” His eyebrows went up
expectantly, “And did she bring, ahem, muffins, Marlow?” Her muffins were extravagantly large, round
and warm … he could hardly wait.
A
brief smile crossed Marlow’s face before he answered, “Yessir,
I reckon she did at that.”
“Well,
then show her in, Marlow, show her in.”
The
lobby of the bank was stereotypically western (ya’
think?) with its scarred hardwood floors, a black pot belly stove in the
corner, and a short counter of three bank windows with little bars separating
the tellers from the customers. The only
remarkable thing in the lobby was the beautiful woman in the flamboyant
backless, practically frontless, strapless gown. It was a rich, vibrant blue. Two of the town’s ladies huddled as far away
from her as they could get in the small lobby, making quiet clucking
noises. The clichéd kind of clucking
noises you find in a story like this.
Miss
Kitty took a last calculated look at her attire. She approved.
She had prepared for this meeting with the banker; she had applied the
right amount of make up for office lighting, she had plucked and primped, she
had rouged her cheeks and her nipples, she had sprayed on just the right
amount of the pricey French perfume, Chateau le Bimbeaux
(imported from Paris the muleskinner had said), and she had chosen her favorite
blue dress, because it brought out her spectacular … eyes. (Yeah, that’s it.) S’ym called it her
‘Salute to the Fleet’ dress because when she leaned forward you could
see her navel. The
slits up the sides of the gown revealed petticoat all the way up to your thigh,
if you chose to wear a petticoat. If you were going to talk to a man
about money, she thought, it didn’t do to have all his blood flowing to his
brain. She flipped closed her compact as
she saw Marlow retreating from the office in back toward her.
“Well,
Marlow, we miss you over at the Heart,” said Miss Kitty.
“Shucks,
thanks Yer Busomousity,”
said Marlow, “but it was time to move on.
When I worked at the Heart of Darkness I was always being told what to
do … Marlow wash the glasses, Marlow empty the spittoon, Marlow mop up that
puke, Marlow turn on the Brothel Open sign, Marlow drag that body out back ...
you know, like that. But here, Miss
Kitty, I’m the teller … and I get to tell people.”
“I
don’t think that’s what it actually means, Mar …”
“See? Like now, where I’m telling you His Bankership is ready to see ya’.”
Marlow
showed her the way to the office which brought them by the two town women. Miss Kitty smiled and nodded, “Mrs. Peabody,
you give my best to Earl. Oh, and be a
dear and tell him I found his lucky rabbit’s foot. He was so distressed when he, ah, when he
misplaced it. He can pick it up as soon
as it dries out.” The woman blanched
and Miss Kitty continued on her way.
“Yer Bankership,” said Marlow from
the door, “Miss Kitty is here.”
Jeremie Lefrancois,
President, owner and operator of the Chacol Noire
First Trust, the only bank in town, stood up to greet his guest. He stopped in mid-stride, a look of
puzzlement on his face.
“You’re
not the lady from the bakery?”
“Hmmmmm, hark, spoit,” Marlow
cleared his throat and spit into the spittoon in way of interjection, “Mrs.
Babcock canceled, Yer Bankership,
so I let Miss Kitty here have the four thirty.”
“But
… but … I thought there were going to be muffins … large, round, warm muffins.”
Miss
Kitty wriggled her body to emphasize her ... her point.
“She
brings them in, and they’re bulging out of the top of the box…”
Miss
Kitty inhaled.
“And
it’s like you can barely keep your hands off of them, they look so plump, so
tasty, so soft.
You just want to grab them.
They’re quite impressive muffins,” he shook his head sadly.
“Are
you blind?” she asked the banker.
“No,
no … it’s okay. Just a little, ahem, disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” Her eyebrows went up in surprise. She needed to kick this up a notch. Now. She leaned forward,
just the right amount … the old salute to the fleet would do the trick.
“Oh,
does your back hurt? I’m sure it
must. Here let me get you a chair…”
He
moved to the front of his desk and pulled aside an elegantly padded armchair
for her.
Now
we’re getting somewhere she thought. She
would make sure to move close to him, to let him inhale the intoxicating scent
of le Bimbeaux. She moved in with tiger like smoothness, going
for the kill, gliding to the chair so that it brought her body into contact
with his for the briefest, yet lingering moment, and just as she did so she
tilted her neck away, just so, to expose the alabaster curve of the skin and
give an optimum sniff zone. She
anticipated a reaction…
His
nose wrinkled and his eyes squinted. He
gave a little cough in his throat and backed up a step.
Not
the reaction she anticipated. Things
were not going well.
“So,
Miss Kitty, is it?,” said Jeremie,
taking his seat behind the impressively large desk, “what services can the Chacol Noire First Trust offer you?”
“I
own the Heart of Darkness, and we’re expecting an up tic in business. So I wanted to expand, buy more glassware,
some new sheets, more mirrors would be nice, add a few paragraphs, maybe a
page. I was thinking of a loan…”
“OH,
the Heart of Darkness,” exclaimed Jeremie, “that’s
the little bistro down the street.” His
eyes were bright again.
“Well,
it’s not actually a bistro…” again the crestfallen look, what was with this
guy, then it clicked and she leaned forward, “but we do have a menu of sorts.”
“Reeeaalllly?” and he leaned in to listen.
Somewhere
West of the Hobby…Prospects are Bleak: “Wouldn’t it be
Nice to get a cold beer and a fat steak?”
Mosey, the old
prospector, licked his lips at the thought.
A cold beer and a fat steak. He looked at the rising sun through one
squinted eye as it broke over the header of the previous page; it brought out
the stark contrast of white and black, the letters casting long shadows on the
page, and bringing out the eye hurting whiteness of the paper. Soon it would be up in the sky, one…two
paragraphs and the desert would heat up, turning the knob on the boilerplate
from simmer to hot, and then to broil.
The gunslinger Flicked his Wrist and a gold
coin somersaulted into the air. Mosey
watched it rise and fall, the twinkling intermittent gleam as it ascended into
the morning sun and descended back to the palm of the gunslinger’s hand.
“All you have to
do is tell me where I can find Greedy Wilson,” continued the gunslinger.
Mosey weighed his
options. He eyed the man with the gold
coin and the duck feather stuck rakishly in his hat, he thought about another
day out in the dust and the dirt, and he thought about that cold beer and that
fat steak that he could get in town.
What could it hurt?
“Yeah, I was
partnered up with Greedy,” he admitted, “we was
working the wash outa’ Mazzer
Gulch. There’s
them that thought it was played out from the old days, the old Fiat Bellum
strike come and gone. But Greedy, he had a hunch…and he’d always been good on
them hunches. Hell, that’s how he got
his name.” The old prospector pulled off
his begrimed hat, contemplatively rubbed its brim. He spit towards the mule as he reconstructed
his memory.
“Heehawh!!!” brayed the mule.
“Sorry,
Jasper,” said Mosey, and continued, “well, sir, we wus’
havin’ a good day.
We’d got two bags o’ dust, coupla’
good nuggets. As an erudite friend of mine once said, “if you get into this...there was some gold to be
mined.” He wasn’t far wrong, but Greedy,
true to his name…he wanted more. Well,
there was a backwash up the gulch, all deep in the brambles and the scrub. Ol’ Greedy was deep in it, one foot on a rock in the stream
and the other on a fallen tree log. He
was spread wide like one of those high falootin’
whores at the Heart o’ Darkness that ya’ gotta spend yer hard earned
nickel fer.
That’s when it happened…”
The gunslinger
leaned in, “he fell?”
“Aw, hell no,”
replied Mosey, “ that cuss had better footin’ than a mountain goat. Better than ol’ Jasper here…”
“Heehawh,” brayed the mule.
“No offense
Jasper, Ah’m just sayin’. Anyways, no some damn rattler that’d been
sunning itself gets takin’ aback at Greedy’s pomposity. Movin’ into his
territory and all, so he just jumps up and bites Greedy in the dick.”
The gunslinger
self consciously adjusted his derringer, “really?”
“Oh,
hell yeah.
When I come up on him he was caterwauling sumpin’
awful and holding his crotch. He said to
me, Mosey, go get Doc Jenkins. Ah’m dying Mosey, get the doc! So, I got on ol’
Jasper here and tore ass into town.”
“Heehawh,” wailed the mule.
“No,
offense Jasper.
Moved rapidly that is,” he amended to the gunslinger. “Anyways, when I get ta’
town the Doc is elbows up in Mama Babcock’s hootie. Apparently, Mister Babcock doesn’t plow all
his furrows off the plantation, if ya’ get my
drift. This one here’s her third
bambino…”
“Heehawh, Heehawh, Heehawh, Heehawh,” brayed the
mule.
“No,
Jasper, yer’ right. It’s her fourth blessed event, but it’s all cattywampus…a breach that is, and the Doc, he can’t leave
her and I got my best friend mortally fanged in the desert. The Doc looks me dead in the eyes and he seys to me, Mosey, you got a knife? I whups
out my bowie and shows him shore enough I do.
He says you get yourself some alcohol, some whiskey or such and pour
over the blade, or toast it up over a camp fire. Then, he says, you gotta
use the knife to make an ‘in-ci-sion’, turns out
that’s like a cut. He says to me, make a
cut over the bite like an “X”, like when you signed your will the Judge drew up
fer ya’. Then he says you gotta
suck the snake’s poison outta the wound. He says to
bandage it up and bring him back in. He tells me ride, ride back to the gulch
and get there quick like my friend’s life depended on it. So I did, I jumped on
Jasper and we tore ass back to the gulch.”
“Heehawh,” brayed the mule.
“No offense,
Jasper, but we was movin’ awful fast. So I gets there and
get down next to Greedy and I kneel down next to him, and I take off this here
hat, and he looks up at me with those grief-ful, pain
filled eyes and he says, “what’d the doc say?”
“He said you’re gonna die.”
“And…”, said the gunslinger.
“What do you
mean, ‘And’? That’s it, end of
story. You want to know where you kin
find Greedy, I buried him off behind that cactus there,” he held up his hand, palm up, for the
gold coin.
……After he had
paid off the prospector and was heading back to town the gunslinger pulled a
rumpled piece of paper from his vest pocket.
It seemed to be a list of names, some had hashmarks
through them, some didn’t, but what they all had in common was that they all
ended in “Wilson”. He pulled a pencil
from his pocket and struck through the name ‘Greedy Wilson’ on the page. He refolded the paper, put it back in his
pocket and continued into the rising sun.
His steps, sure and measured, carried him toward the next chapter.
*ching* ching * ching*
By
Popular Demand
Credit goes to Ryk Downes, I believe, for
inventing this game (although his original version had the GM supply the
starting letter as well). The goal is to
pick something that fits the category and will be the "most popular"
answer. You score points based on the number of entries that match yours. For
example, if the category is "Cats" and the responses were 7 for
Persian, 3 for Calico and 1 for Siamese, everyone who said Persian would get 7
points, Calico 3 and the lone Siamese would score 1 point. The cumulative total
over 10 rounds will determine the overall winner. Anyone may enter at any
point, starting with an equivalent point total of the lowest cumulative score
from the previous round. If a person misses a round, they'll receive the
minimum score from the round added to their cumulative total. And, if you want
to submit some commentary with your answers, feel free to. The game will consist of 10 rounds. A prize will be awarded to the winner.
