May
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 – “I kinda sorta wrecked your car.” (Clementine
in “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”)
Welcome
to Eternal Sunshine. You mission, if you
decide to accept it, is to read this issue and suppress all urges towards
self-mutilation. As always, if you are
killed or captured, this editor will disavow any knowledge of your
actions. This subzine
will self-destruct in five seconds.
Geez,
one day I think I’m way behind on this issue and it will be empty, and then I
open my Word file and realize that I’m running too many pages as it is! There were a number of things I wanted to
talk about, and a few others I had under consideration if space allowed…which
obviously it won’t. Oh well, let’s run
through the topics as quickly as possible.
The Texas Rangers.
They are terrible. This has to be
one of the worst baseball teams I have ever seen play, and that includes those
miserable Mets teams of the 1970’s. It
isn’t that they can’t pitch. In fact,
their starting pitching has been much better than expected. It’s everything else. The bullpen is average at best, and hlas blown some leads that should
have been more than enough to win. They
can’t hit with runners in scoring position to save their lives. And the fielding, the base-running, missing
the cut-off man, ignoring the coaches, swinging at the first pitch when our
pitcher just had a long inning…a mid-level college team can handle the
fundamentals better than these guys.
Like one of the local radio hosts said, this
team plays so distracted it is as if there’s a bunch of naked women running
around the field which nobody but the Rangers can see. So what can you do? I don’t know, but I think firing Ron
Washington is a start. He over-manages,
makes terrible pinch-hitting and bench decisions, and has no command of this
team. Meanwhile, you watch people we
traded away like Chris Young and John Danks succeed
elsewhere. Very
depressing. Josh Hamilton is the
only bright spot…well him, and the success of Kevin Milwood
and Vicente Padilla so far. If they keep
it up, we need to trade both of them.
Be
sure to take a moment and check the links in the Eternal Sunshine
masthead. The one in particular I would
like to call your attention to is the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group. It’s free to join, and you’ll get occasional
notices about game errata, new game openings, deadline reminders, and the
release of new issues. You can set your
membership to never get more than one email per day (the setting is called
Daily Digest, where Yahoo combines any messages that day into a single
email). Considering there aren’t that
many messages in there each month to begin with, the group is a simple way to
stay up-to-date with Eternal Sunshine.
So please go there and join.
While
you’re on the internet, stop by the Helpful Kitty merchandise store at www.cafepress.com/helpfulkitty. Not only will you find mugs, shirts, and
other stuff featuring Toby the Helpful Kitty (and Sanka),
but there are two special sections at the bottom of the store: one with Whining
Kent Pig designs, and another with Diplomacy and Diplomacy World designs,
perfect for your next Diplomacy convention or face-to-face game day. It isn’t like I make any real money on them –
they’re set to be $1 per item above cost – but I have fun designing them, and
I’d love to know people out there found a few of them worthwhile. Any suggestions on future designs are
welcome.
Finally,
our wedding photos should be here any day. I will probably not put in any this issue, but
I plan on posting a bunch of them to my website. So if you’re interested, visit www.whiningkentpigs.com
and look for a Wedding Photo section in the navigation bar.
I’ll
close by mentioning that I plan on opening a new Dip game, 7x7 Gunboat Tourney,
or some variant by next issue. So if
you’re interested sign up fast when the time comes. Some of these games take forever to fill (if
ever) and others fill almost instantly.
See you next month!
My
First Day – Part One
Once
I stepped from the ordinary parking lot into the cold, brick building which
contained the “R&D” department, I was officially a Federal inmate. I believe R&D stands for Reception and
Diagnostics, but in effect in is the department which handles the initial
intake, release, and transfer of inmates.
In some facilities this can be a very complicated process, including
housing an inmate in a segregated facility for up to 30 days as a form of “quarantine”. Fortunately for me, the process at Allenwood was generally much simpler.
The
two R&D officers who were there to process me could have been brothers or
cousins, based on looks and attitude.
Each of them was terribly overweight, almost apple-shaped, with grey
hair and moustaches. And they both
carried a sarcastic, arrogant sense of humor which might have intimidated some
people. I didn’t find their attitude
being a problem for myself, though, since my personal sense of humor was very
similar. But that wasn’t about to give
me the idea that I could mouth off to either of them. On the contrary, my Dad’s advice stayed in
the back of my mind at all times: behave yourself. I was still pretty much numb to the entire
experience anyway, so my mind wasn’t quite as sharp as it would normally be.
In
this room I learned my first lesson about the CO’s I was going to be dealing
with for the next few years: they size you up very quickly, and it takes some
time to do anything to contradict that first impression. In my case, they saw I was nervous,
compliant, respectful, but not in a patronizing way. I simply treated them the way I wanted to be
treated, and it seemed to work.
As
they had me filling out a few forms, one of them started in on me with an
aggressive attitude, which I suspected was simply a front. “Why they hell are you here at noon? We don’t normally like to process new
arrivals until two. You’re screwing our
schedule up!”
I
could have apologized, but instead I looked him in the eye and calmly told him
the truth. “Well, when I called here for
driving directions a few days ago, whoever I spoke to told me I had beet show
up early, because if I made them stay late they’d beat the shit out of me.”
The
other R&D CO laughed. “Yup, that
sounds like something you’d say!”
He
just laughed. “Yeah I think I remember
that conversation. Okay, let’s get
through this, it’s no big deal.”
Surprisingly,
he was right. The process was very
simple. I filled out a few forms, gave
them the cash I had on hand (about $150, which was deposited in my inmate
account for future use), and had fingerprints and a photo taken (the latter was
for my inmate ID card). Then I stripped,
and collected my clothes in a plastic bag.
These were carried out to my Dad so he could take them home with him,
along with my watch and my Driver’s License.
They checked for contraband, having me open my mouth, lift
my legs one at a time to reveal the soles of my feet, and spread my ass
cheeks. Finally they gave me some
terribly worn clothes: a blue t-shirt, a pair of whitish socks, brown pants
with a drawstring, worn white briefs, and a pair of slip-on blue sneakers. They also handed me a bedroll and a worn
brown coat. That was basically it…the
two CO’s pointed me in the direction to go, told me to look for someone in
charge, and sent me off with a simple statement: “We don’t want to see you down
here again until it’s time for you to go home.”
I didn’t have the experience to really understand what they meant, but I
correctly surmised that if I got in any kind of serious trouble I’d be sent
back to R&D someday. As I learned
later, before being transferred to a higher-security facility or to the “hole” (the SHU – Special Housing Unit or Segregated House
Unit) I’d have to be processed by these two gentlemen. So the vague warning they gave me was meant
for my own good…and for theirs, since the fewer people they had to process the
less work there was for them to do.
That
last item turned out to be a very common motivating factor among the staff; if
they could find a way to avoid work, they would. That wasn’t necessarily a negative for the
inmates either; it worked both ways, depending on what kind of work you might
be dealing with at the time. One thing
was for certain – if a CO was going to do a lot of work because of you, either
you’d really pissed them off, or you were about to.
I
wandered up a path to another building, where I found some inmates who directed
me to the Unit Manager’s office. The
prison seemed to be rather laid-back compared to what I had expected. There were four or five inmates sitting at a
metal picnic table, smoking cigarettes, and a few were off in the corner
playing cards. The temperature was a bit
chilly to me, especially as I’d just spent the last 9 years living in Texas;
the worn clothing I’d been given wasn’t helping matters either. So I hurried inside to warm up and find this
Unit Manager’s office.
The
Unit Manager talked to me in his office for about two minutes. He was an ex-Marine type, but seemed pretty
straightforward. His instructions were
rather simple: follow the rules, stay the hell out of his way, behave myself,
and if I had any questions I should direct them to his clerk (an inmate) first
before I bothered him with anything.
“You’ll
be able to pick it up as you go along.
The rules are rather simple.
Follow the lead of the people around you, but be careful who you
associate with until you figure out the lay of the land.”
Apparently
an orientation for new inmates had taken place a day or two earlier, and the
next one wasn’t scheduled for two weeks.
But Mr. Faulkner, the Unit Manager, strongly suggested I take an
abbreviated, ad-hoc version so I wouldn’t have to sit in my bunk for two weeks
and could instead be assigned work right away.
Also, it seemed obvious that for me to refuse the “suggestion” would be
causing him a minor headache, so of course I agreed. I didn’t much want to spend my time sitting
by myself doing nothing anyway; I had quickly realized that for me to make it
through this sentence, the busier I could keep myself the better. I hadn’t considered that I’d be assigned a
job, so this was actually a pleasant surprise.
I just needed to go through a few 5-minute orientation meetings and get
medical clearance.
The
medical clearance part was my first hurdle, as I was quickly summoned to the
medical department so I could meet Dr. Walker, the head Mental Health
professional (and, as I learned soon after, the guy who ran the Residential
Drug and Alcohol Program – RDAP for short).
Dr. Walker was troubled by two of the answers I had given on my forms in
the R&D paperwork. First, I’d
answered “Yes” to whether I felt depressed, and second I’d marked “Yes” to
whether I had ever experiences suicidal thoughts.
I
couldn’t understand why the first answer was such a surprise to anyone, as I
explained to Dr. Walker. “Of course I’m
depressed. This is my first day in
prison, and I’ve got a 46-month sentence!”
But he was quickly able to determine I was not a danger to myself or
others, and that the suicidal thoughts were from years ago. It was at this point, however, that I first
learned of the complete disconnect between the outside world of criminal
justice and true life under the jurisdiction of the Bureau of Prisons.
Let
me go back a few months in the story.
After I had pled guilty in court, I had to undergo what is known as a
Pre- Sentence Interview (PSI) with an appoint court official. This interview, in conjunction with other
material gathered from my Pre-Trial officer, my lawyer, my family, my
prosecutor, and forms filled out when I was first arraigned, would be used to
write up my PSI Report. That report
(barring any objections by my lawyer or the government) would be used to
determine how long of a sentence I received, what security level facility I
should be designated to (if space was available), and any other important
information relevant to my time as an inmate.
When
I went to have this PSI, my lawyer (a public defender) went with me in case
they asked questions he didn’t think I should answer. He told me the woman who would be conducting
the interview was very professional and understanding, and that he’d worked
with her on prior cases with no problem.
“Before
we go in there,” he told me, “I need to explain something to you. There is a Drug and Alcohol Program available
in some Federal prisons, and it is entirely voluntary. If you successfully complete the program, you
are eligible to get some time off your sentence, from a few months to almost a
year. But here’s the deal: if you want
to be eligible for this program, you need to tell this woman about your alcohol
and drug use today. Evidence of your
problems needs to go into the PSI for you to be eligible. The BOP doesn’t want inmates trying to
qualify for the program after they get to prison and find out they might be
able to get a few months off their sentence.
So you need to decide now whether you are interested. There’s no answer you need to give today
about whether to want to actually sign up, but if you want to be eligible at
all, you need to go in there and be open about your past. She won’t mention the RDAP program to you,
but anything you say may affect your ability to qualify when the time comes. Speak now or speak never, basically.”
So
we went inside, and I figured, what the hell…I may as well tell her my whole
life story. And I did, at least in an
abbreviated form, and as directed by the questions she asked. I talked about my parents’ alcohol use, how I
started drinking when I was ten, my drug use, my mother’s mental disorders,
Mara and all the problems she’d been through (and the ones we went through
together), my divorce, my depression, and anything else that came to mind. I cried a bit, but that was to be expected,
as I hadn’t talked to anyone about a lot of these things in years (if ever).
As
we left the interview, my lawyer looked sort of pale. “Did you make any of that up?” he asked
me. I told him that not only was it all
true, but that there were plenty of details and stories I didn’t bring up
wither because she didn’t ask or there wasn’t enough time. “Wow,” he said. “I had no idea.”
The
next morning I got a call from my Pre-Trial Officer, asking me to come in for a
meeting. I arrived the next day, and he
explained to me that the woman I had interviewed with was very concerned about
my mental state and my overall well-being, and that she had requested that I be
put into some kind of therapy or counseling immediately.
“Look,”
the officer told me, “you’re going to be in prison in six weeks anyway. By the time we get the paperwork done, find
you some program to go to, and get the judge to approve it, you’ll have time
for maybe one appointment. Are you doing
okay? I think it’s best if we just wait
until you get to whatever facility you are assigned to, and you can get
counseling and treatment there. Just
tell them what you need; they have all kinds of programs for that. Are you okay with that plan?”
It
was all find with me, since I wasn’t feeling any worse than usual anyway. The urgency was coming from the woman who
gave me the PSI, not me. So I waited.
Now
jump back to my first day in prison.
After Dr. Walker was convinced that I was okay to join the general
population, I briefly told him about my experience with the PSI, and how I had
been told to make it a point to ask for counseling appointments or whatever
other mental health support might be available for me.
All
I got in return was a blank stare for a moment, and then a confused reply. “We don’t have counseling or therapy or
anything like that here. There’s nothing
we can do for you. You can go back to
the Unit now.”
I
just shrugged my shoulders and left.
Welcome to the BOP!
A
combination of Heather’s school schedule, the lack of attractive new releases,
and a late-month virus which knocked me down hard resulted in us once again not
making it to the movies this month. We
did watch plenty of DVDs though! I was
surprised at how few movies we wanted to see this month in the theater, but
really with school and my illness weekends (our normal movie time) have been
times of recuperation and homework. The
one weekend we really could have gone to see a movie was the one where I took
heather to see the “Dracula” ballet at Bass Hall in Fort Worth.
Seen
on DVD
– Maxed Out (B-, not a bad piece
when it comes to the predatory practices of credit card companies, but when it
made attempts to tie that with Katrina and the “need” for socialism, or when it
ignored the fact that the U.S. Congress is not the branch with has legislative
power to spend money, it lost me and got me yelling at the screen). Jindabyne (B-, very slow but not awful movie about a group
of Irishmen living in Australia who find a body on a fishing trip). Halloween
III – Season of the Witch (B-, always fun to watch despite how stupid it
is. Silver Shamrock!). Child’s
Play (B+, another one Heather had never seen, great fun, dark sense of
humor, I can do without the sequels but the original is a riot). The
Notorious Bettie Page (C+, kinda quirky but left
most of the interesting questions unanswered).
Klimt (D, story was random
and uninteresting, and the camera work was irritating). La Vie
en Rose (C, she did a great job playing the role at so many ages, but I
simply didn’t give a crap about any of the characters. I felt no pain in their miseries and no joy
in their triumph). Lady Jane (B-, a bit lightweight but I did enjoy this 1986
romanticized version of Lady Jane Grey’s
nine days as Queen. Too bad a good part
of it is inaccurate, but that’s doesn’t ruin it too much).
A Book of Curious
Advice
– Ruth Pepper Summers – With a subtitle of “Most Unusual Manners – Morals –
Medicine from Days of Yore” you shouldn’t be surprised that this is a
collection of short notices for the public at large about how to maintain good
health, attract a spouse, prepare food, and other necessary advice…all from the
1800’s. It is actually interesting to
see how positive some people were about the dangers of eating fresh fruit, or
how others felt that putting arsenic in your hair was a wonderful way to induce
follicle growth. Some of the odd recipes
(pigeon pie, or the massive “To Dress a Turtle of a Hundred Weight”) remind us
that in those days nothing was wasted. I
just wonder why they always cooked their vegetables for four hours or
more. Give it a B+. Good fun in short doses.
All My Patients are
Under the Bed – Memoirs of a Cat Doctor by Dr.
Louis J. Camuti – I loved this book. Musing from a wonderfully
cantankerous cat doctor, a terrific combination of stories about him and his
patients. Mostly I liked it
because he was crusty (in a good way). 4 pumpkins. 
The Vampire Queen’s
Servant by Joey W. Hill – Hot3! Vampires, sex, and male submission, what more
do you want? Definitely need to take a
cold shower after this one. 4 ½ pumpkins. 
The Mark of the
Vampire Queen by Joey W. Hill – I cannot believe it,
but it’s even better than the first one!
Hotter with more erotic sex, more vampires, and male
submission with a tiny bit of female submission thrown in for good measure. Best of all, love and vulnerability are mixed
in, and some awesome revenge. 4 ½ pumpkins. 
Jim Burgess: Care to expand on that cat pill product you mention,
what is it again?
They're
called Pill Pockets, they carry them at Petco and PetSmart (and online just about anywhere). The product is
sold in bags of 40 I think. They are
cylindrically-shaped soft cat treats, chicken or salmon flavor. One end of the cylinder is open, so you put
the pill in there and close it up. Most
cats will swallow the treat whole since it is soft and cats generally don't
chew soft food. Even with Tigger's missing teeth, 4 times out of 5 she took the Pill
Pocket easily. I find it works much
better than trying to hide the pill in Cheez Whiz or
something.
Kevin Wilson: I’m
trying to locate a quote. I’ve tried googling
for it and some quote sites but I’ve not had any success so far. I
thought the readers of ES might help me out. I believe the quote was by a
sci fi author like
Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov or some other but it could have been a scientist as
well. The quote was making the point of the importance of space flight
and space research. It went something like, if the human race wanted to
be around more than just an instant in the time of the universe, then for the
majority of our existence the word “ship” will mean “spaceship.” Maybe
someone will recognize it and point me to it.
I don’t know that particular quote offhand, although
for some reason I link it in my mind with Harlan Ellison. For some wonderful space quotes, however, try
this site:
http://research.lifeboat.com/space.quotes.htm
John Colledge: So, which did you mean? ‘English’ monarch, in which
case only 9 of us got it right and the rest got it wrong, or ‘British’ monarch
in which case we got it wrong!
I
meant whatever people wanted me to mean…that’s the fun part, I can mean
anything or nothing, but to win you need to base your answers on what you think
other people will decide I mean!
I
once caused a minor international incident in the Chicago Art Institute when I
asked which museum would be the best to visit if I wanted to see Native
American exhibits. The young lady on reception didn’t know, but asked her
supervisor. I happened too hear her say, ‘There’s an English gentleman….’ When
she returned I thought I was being very amusing by my way of it by suggesting
that calling a Scotsman English, was just like calling and American a Canadian.
I thought the cheeky smile on my face would make her realize I was just
kidding, but she was sooooo apologetic. It took me a
full ten minutes to calm her down and make her realize I was only pulling her
leg. It does make me wonder just what some Americans have against Canadians
though! J
Welcome
to the land of political correctness…apparently one of the clauses in the U.S.
Bill of Rights is the right to never be offended by anyone.
I
was so sorry to hear about poor old Tigger. We become
very attached to our little furry friends, don’t we? We have never actually
owned a cat of our own, but we have always been fortunate enough to have neighbours who did. That way we have the best of both
worlds. They give us their love and affection, but we don’t have to pay the
vets’ bills… for the cats that is, not the neighbours!
When
you consider how few people I’ve known for as long as I knew Tigger, it isn’t hard to understand why I grew so fond of
her!
Kevin Wilson: A
couple of other comments from BPD last time.
The family group discussed last time was the DeFranco
family. Doug was right, the song was
“Heartbeat, It’s a Love Beat.” That song
was BIG some time during my early school days and I
can still remember some of the lyrics:
Heartbeat, it’s a love beat and a love beat is a good vibration… Why do useless thinkg
like that stick in our brains and important things like my daughter’s social
security number refuses to find a home on my memory? For the food last time, I didn’t think of
lobster. That was an excellent
answer. I eat it now and then out and have
never eaten or prepared it at home.
W.
Andrew York: You are correct, it was "Heartbeat, It's a Love
Beat" - great memory!
Now if only I could use that for good instead of
evil.
Kevin Wilson: I
was sad to hear about losing your cat Tigger. I
can relate a bit to how you feel. A few years
ago we lost our dog Baron. He was a weimaraner
and, like many large dogs, had hip problems and in his final days couldn’t get
around without one of us holding his back end up for him. We found
ourselves with little choice but to do as you did with Tigger
and let him go. I cried knowing what was coming. I cried as it
happened. And I cried every now and then for a few days after. We
held off on a new pet for a couple years and had just begun thinking of a new
dog when our two cats entered our lives. Since I’ve enjoyed hearing of
the stories of the feline members of your family I thought I’d share a bit
about ours.
The first to come to the family was Missy. She
apparently got caught in our neighbor’s garage one cool fall evening.
They found her the next morning. They had two basset hounds in the house
so couldn’t bring a kitten into the house so they came to us next door.
She was clean, didn’t look malnourished and was very friendly so we figured she
had just gotten out of someone’s house nearby. We searched the
neighborhoods for signs about a missy kitty. We took her to our vet to
make sure she was OK and to check to see if she was chipped. We checked
with the humane shelter and animal control but couldn’t find out where she came
from so we adopted her. The vet estimated her age at 9 months +/-.
She was small but very friendly and just about the softest cat I had every held
or touched. She was pretty needy in those early days but that was to
change. She is a black and white and like many black and whites she had a
calm disposition and never seemed to get too frazzled regardless of what was
going on. She took to the house and us quickly, settling right in.
It only took her a few nights and she was sleeping on the bed with us.
We had Missy about two months when we
decided she needed a playmate. We went to the humane shelter to see if we
could find another young female to provide company and came home with
Gracie. Gracie is a yellow tabby and about the same age as Missy.
Where Missy was cool, calm and graceful from the beginning; Gracie was noisy,
underfoot and a bit clumsy in her need for attention, hence the name Gracie
being somewhat “graceless” at the start. It took about two weeks before
Missy would have much to do with Gracie but soon they seemed to be getting
along fine and after a while were even sleeping together. I’m sure it
helped they were both females, of similar ages and sizes.
They are very different cats.
Missy is now a bit aloof. She likes to be in rooms separate from the
action. She rarely climbs up on things, other than beds and the
occasional chair back. She prefers sleeping on anything cotton. She
likes attention in the morning but not much at other times. She’s a
dainty eater, almost never runs through the house unless the two of them are
playing. She has a soft quiet purr that you don’t hear much.
Sometimes she will sit still for a long time, allowing you to comb her.
Her coat is thick, she sheds all the time so I
suspect the comb feels very good. She rarely sits in your lap but will
occasionally jump up on your chest while you’re in bed.
Gracie is not aloof. She’s always underfoot, in the
room with the action. She’s the climber. She likes window sills,
tops of shelves, chairs, countertops, tabletops, anything above floor
level. She likes paper and cardboard boxes. Give her any occasion
where gifts are being opened so there are boxes and paper everywhere and she’s
in kitty heaven. She likes attention all the time, but especially at
night. She eats like a dog, her nose in the bowl, not coming up until the
bowl is empty. She runs and comes when called. She purrs constantly
and can be heard across the room. She can’t sit still, unless she’s
asleep. About the only thing in common with Missy, other than age and
sex, is she too sheds all the time. She just won’t sit still for the
comb. Gracie too likes to sit on your chest but you don’t have to be in
bed. Any prone body will do.
Gracie and Missy were with us before
Rachel (3 ½) and Grant (1). Both adapted well to kids in the house.
Gracie tolerates them, even getting down in the floor with them. Missy
just goes to the other room. Hopefully they’ll be with us long enough for
the kids to get older. I think it will be fun for all of us.
Keep the stories of our two coming and
if ours should do anything interesting, I’ll pass it along.
It’s funny the way most cats know “little feet and
hands” (children) = potential danger.
Toby and Sanka are getting along great
now. They clean each other, they like to
sleep next to each other, and they roughhouse all the time. I am happy to see they’ve learned to do so
without using their claws, so there isn’t any screaming anymore and only a
small amount of fur flying. Actually
that’s one thing I don’t miss much: medium or long hair cats gets matted and
need to much extra brushing, while with these two we can simply pet the loose
hair off of them. Toby loves having a
new playmate. The only negative for him,
aside from Sanka trying to eat all the food, is she
simply tires him out sometimes. He has
taken to finding new hiding spots (inside the box spring, using the lining as a
hammock, as an example) in order to sleep peacefully. Half the time she wants to curl up with him
or clean him, and the other half its PLAY TIME!
And, as it turns out, Sanka is almost as
“helpful” as Toby…it actually seems like she watches her “older brother” and
learns from him.
Dane Maslen: Sorry to hear about Tigger. Some friends of mine recently lost one of their cats (in my opinion the most affectionate one) to renal failure. They're now down to a mere 7 cats. At one time they had 10. Yes, that's right, they're completely mad! They might, however, be slightly saner than my cousin and her husband. They have three dogs (all quite large), a cat, two rabbits and two gerbils.
The most I ever had at once was five cats, when Mara and I were still married. That would be Biff the Persian, Tigger, Whisper the little Calico (who Sanka reminds me of in many ways), Bibby the HUGE Tuxedo cat (who Toby takes after in size, but not in manner), and Footy the giant black stray (who turned into a balloon as soon as we had her fixed, and who wouldn’t keep her fur clean so she always smelled of urine…she also wouldn’t use the litter box consistently). Now being down to two seems perfect, although I am not 100% sure whether two or three is the best number for us.
Balkan Wars VI (Black Press): Signed up: Jack
McHugh, Graham Wilson, Brad Wilson, Brendan Whyte, needs two more. Rules and map on request. If nobody signs up for this by next issue I’m
closing this opening down, so SIGN UP!
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, Winter 1901
Austria
(Kevin Wilson): Build A Budapest, Build A Trieste.
England
(Jeremie LeFrancois): Build F London.
France
(Alexander Levinson): Build A Brest, Build A Paris.
Germany
(Graham Wilson): Build A Berlin.
Italy
(Don Williams): Build F Rome, Build F Naples.
Russia
(Melinda Holley): Build A Warsaw.
Turkey
(Brad Wilson): Build A Constantinople.
Spring 1902 Deadline is May 27th 2008 at
7:00am
Unit locations:
Austria:
A Budapest, F Greece, A Serbia, A Trieste, A Vienna.
England:
F London, F North Sea, F
Norway, A Yorkshire.
France:
A Brest, A
Burgundy, A Paris, F Portugal, A Spain.
Germany:
A Belgium, A
Berlin, F Holland, A Kiel.
Italy:
A Munich, F Naples, F
Rome, F Tunis, A Venice.
Russia:
A Moscow, F Sevastopol, F
Sweden, A Ukraine, A Warsaw.
Turkey:
A Armenia, F Black Sea, A Bulgaria, A Constantinople.
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.
PRESS
ROME to VIENNA: Clever.
You know, I’d feel a lot better about the border if we built a nice,
long fence. With a
moat. And maybe
a force-field or something equally science-fictiony
from the ‘60s. I liked the move
away to A TRI-VIE move, but building in Trieste sort of starts things up all
over again.
THE PALE WRITER –
Part 2 - He’d
spent the better part of the night with his head on his saddlebags, his ears
alert for coyotes, his eyes searching the stars of the open western sky, his
hand on his Colt. He’d slept only
fitfully, his dreams stirred and swirling with strange dreams and wisps of long
ago times. Memories stirred, like the
dregs at the bottom of an old wine bottle that had long settled, then been jolted back into suspension. He didn’t like it much, this feeling of déjà
vu. It felt like an old stale story line
that had come again to life. He didn’t
know what it was, but he knew it somehow had to do with her. Muffins. And a banker? Lots of clichés. An old joke with a
prospector? Where the hell had
all that come from? He wiped the anxiety
from hi eyes as he broke camp, ready for a long day’s
ride into the town of Darkness. Back to her. She was
at the heart of everything. He used the
last embers of his campfire to light the stub of cigar, then
clenched it in his teeth. He kicked the
fire apart, then mounted his horse for the final leg
of the ride into the story. His horse,
Flash, whinnied in the pre-dawn cold as he started down the arroyo. (Or was it
a gulch? He could never quite figure the
difference.) He rode slowly as the sun’s
rays breached the horizon, his poncho flapping slightly in the morning breeze
that blew away the cool night air and replaced it with the heated wind of the
coming day. Something was in the aim,
something he could feel more with his mind than his senses. And she, no doubt, was at the heart of it.
Somewhere West of the Hobby…Queen of the West - Wouldn’t it be Nice if they could
just get it right? Only hours before
opening and the rehearsal was going so, so…badly.
“Girls, girls! Ooooh, I need a
sherry,” he squealed, pulling the beret from his head and twisting it in his
little fat fingers. “You really must concentrate…it’s kick, kick, stab, turn
around, bend over…then thrust, “ he yelled shrilly at the line of petticoats
that swirled above his head, he clapped his hands in time with his words,
“remember…thrust with your tush…not with your
tits!”
“That’s right girls,” drawled Miss Kitty
from the staircase, “save the tits for the ones buying drinks.” The line of girls giggled at that and
reformed to their starting positions.
One of the girls had to turn another girl a
little to the left, as she wasn’t facing the chairs and tables of the
saloon. Slightly off
kilter and her eyes unfocused.
“You should just wear you’re glasses,”
whispered Ashley, “don’t be so vain.”
Elana stubbornly shook
her head, “the frames don’t go with this green dress.”
Ashley looked her up and down, “that’s a
blue dress.”
“Well, they don’t go with the blue one
either!”
Patrice pushed Synda
in the middle of the line, who then bumped into
Caroline.
“Girls, girls, stop fidgeting,” he shrilled
at them, “the clock is ticking…tick, tock.
Beth step forward, no one can see you back there. Don’t hide your light under a bushel basket!”
One of the girls stepped forward.
“No! No! The other Beth,” shrieked the
instructor.
“Yeah, the one wearin’
the bushel basket,” drawled Gabby. All
the girls started giggling again. The
other Beth shyly stepped forward, and the first Beth retreated.
He wasn’t doing half bad, thought Miss
Kitty, in fact, he was making quite a bit of progress. The girls, who had come in farm girls and
milk maids were now professional dance hall
girls. If he could teach them to dance
and she could teach them to sling a little beer and ass, things were going to
go well. They were shaping up fine…especially
Helen. She would have to keep her eye on
her.
When the little fat man had first answered
her ad, showing up at the saloon in his beret and pencil thin mustache wearing
his shiny suit with its wide, pointed lapels, she had been unsure. He had presented his calling card; “Herr Gunther von Bader…Maestro of the Danse”,
but she couldn’t believe that his short portly form was one familiar with the
ballet, the can-can, or the famed electric slide. She had him pegged for a charlatan, a
quacksalver, here to run some scam on her.
Probably here to garner “ass or assets” as she always
warned her girls. She had
insisted on a demonstration, figuring he would be unable to perform (something
she had seen a time or two). But when he
had put down the petite satchel he carried, and carefully withdrew from it the
pink toe shoes and the one white glove, his whole persona had changed. An eerie calm had settled into his pudgy
cheeks and he had looked straight (momentarily) into Bruno’s eyes and said
firmly, “Let’s do this thing.”
Bruno gave a half smile, stretched his
neck, and popped his knuckles. He ran his hands through his slightly receding
hairline and then poised them above the keyboard. “What do ya’ want
to do it to?”
The Maestro snapped the last toe shoe into
place, “do you know ‘Put Some Sugar on Me’?
The strong beat exploded from the piano and
pulsated through the Heart of Darkness.
The candle flames flickered in the chandelier and the sconces as if in
time to the music. The glasses and mugs rattled and shimmied along the bar, the
dog laying by the fireplace, whimpered and scampered
out the wing doors of the saloon. The Maestro was up and strutting away from
Miss Kitty, then dramatically stopped and tossed his head, looking back over
one shoulder, he wailed;
“Step
inside! Walk this way!
You and me babe. Hey! Hey!”
“Pour some sugar on me….” He flounced
across the saloon floor, kicking the straw aside and grabbed a chair from the
poker table. He spun it around between
his hand and the floor, reversed it and suddenly sat, straddling it, legs
emphatically, wide, apart. He ran one
finger over his mustache and cocked his head to the side,
“Listen!
Red light, yellow light, green light…go!
Crazy little woman in a one man show.
Mirror
queen, mannequin…”
He was up again, prancing to the bar. S’ym, the big blue
bartender, was a stunned frozen tableau, one unmoving hand holding a cloth
inside a mug, held in his other unmoving hand.
Not polishing the glass. The
Maestro grabbed the carved wooden column that supported the ceiling next to the
bar, he leaned back…far, far back and arched so that his inverted head, beret
still in place, was looking directly into the bartender’s frozen face. He winked.
“I’m
hot! Sticky sweet!
From
my head, to my feet…”
Then he was up, spinning on the pole so
that his feet almost touched the ceiling and hanging upside down, his stomach
sagging now to his chest, his pudgy legs wrapped around the pole holding him in
place. He flung his hands wide apart.
“You’ve
got the peaches, I’ve the got the cream…”
Miss Kitty leaned toward Bruno at the
piano, “It certainly looks like the little Maestro Bader has the beat.”
Bruno nodded, “It certainly does.”
“Pour
some sugar on me…
Get
it, come and get it.
Pour
your sugar on me….”
He came off the pole, in the finale of the
last stanza, in a spinning move that landed in an arabesque penchee,
from there en pointe and a bow toward Miss Kitty and
Bruno at the piano.
“Impressive,” enthused Miss Kitty,
“absolutely fabulous!”
“I thought the thong was a bit much,” said S’ym, in a low voice from behind the bar. He had returned to polishing the mugs.
“So,” asked the Maestro, as he walked up to
the piano, mopping at the sweat on his brow with a dainty perfumed handkerchief
he had withdrawn from his breast pocket, “do I get to help you put on the
Revue?”
Miss Kitty sniffed, looked at the
handkerchief and sniffed again, “Is that Chateau le Bimbeaux?”
“Why, yes it is,” nodded the Maestro, “I
find the scent intoxicating…especially under the right circumstances.” He clicked his teeth together, as if biting
at something.
Miss Kitty chuckled in her throat, “Honey,
I know exactly what you mean. I think we
have the beginning of a fabulous relationship.”
They walked back to one of the tables to
work out the details, Miss Kitty sashaying in her billowing, silken dress and
the Maestro walking alongside her, hitching his step and tugging with one hand
as he tried to work the thong out from between his cheeks.
And now here they were, after a half page
flashback with just a few hours before the Revue opened. The show was shaping up, but the Maestro was
a nag on the details. The Maestro pulled his short fat form up onto the stage,
“Girls, now pay attention. Here follow me. Okay, Bruno! From the top…”
Bruno
hit the keys on the piano and as the quick time music filled the saloon the
Maestro kicked first one short, stocky leg high above his head, then repeated
it…”and smile, the boys love to see you smile.”
He dimpled one cheek with his finger and smiled toward the empty chairs
and his imaginary audience, “now stab,” he pumped his hand, “pivot!” He did a perfect pirouette, his rotund form
belying his surprising agility, “bend over and…thrust!” He snapped forward at the waist and pushed
his posterior toward the chairs, up and out, in an energetic, inviting
and…seemingly well-practiced maneuver.
He
straightened up and looked at the dancers, “and that is how you
do the Diplomacy Stab & Thrust.” He snapped his fingers twice emphatically and
spun to face the bar, “S’ym. Where is my Sherry?”
“Maestro,
I’m Sherry,” said the petite blonde on the left end of the line.
He
spun back to face the dancer, “Wrong bottle, sweetie.”
S’ym reached under the
counter for his placards, and flipped through them…Stroh’s, Miller,
Budweiser…he didn’t think he had one for Sherry. He picked up a marker, flipped over the
Stroh’s placard and wrote Sherry on the back.
He then hung it on the single spigot in the saloon wall and pulled a
nice big mug of…Sherry.
“Nice
head on it,” he mused, “I might have to try a Sherry myself some time.”
“Ahem…Ex…Excuse
me…” a deep drawl came from the right end of the line.
“Yes?”
“I
don’t understand why you need me up here,” the voice was gruff, perfectly
matching the scarred and roughly shaven face of the cowboy.
“Astoria called in sick,” answered the
Maestro, “Doc Jenkins says she has a case of the accolades.”
S’ym looked at Miss Kitty and raised one blue
furry eyebrow.
“The
Clap,” she answered the unspoken question.
“So,
we have to fill out the line for the rehearsal…I need everybody to know their
marks,” continued the Maestro.
“Well,
yeah,” answered the cowboy, nodding, “but why do I have wear this here frilly
petticoat to do that?” He pulled his
wide brim hat from his head and scratched his scalp. The hat contrasted against the red silk gown
with the poofed out crinoline petticoat that showed
just below the hem, the plunging neckline revealed a mass of hairy, well
muscled chest, and just the hint of an old bullet wound.
“Ooooh, you didn’t have to.
I just thought you looked absolutely divine in that red,”
the Maestro answered, one hand pressed against his face, “the way it brings out
the blood in your cheeks…like how it is now.”
The girls all giggled.
The
cowboy stepped out of the chorus line and headed for the dance coach. “Why I’m gonna bring out the blood in your cheeks.”
“Logan!”
Miss Kitty called from the bar, “don’t you break something I’ll be needing later.”
The cowboy stopped, took another halting step, stopped again. Simmering, he returned to the end of the
line.
“Actually,
you’re very good at this,” said the Maestro, he emphasized his
remarks by flailing his hand at the wrist, “your kicks were the best
of all the girls.” The girls in the line
all looked toward Logan and nodded agreement, a synchronized line of bobble
heads in multi-colored chiffons.
“Wull… I have had a little practice kicking…” muttered
Logan.
“And
the way you stabbed,” gushed the Maestro, “you really sold it!
You had me believing…I could practically see the stiletto in your hand.”
“Gosh,”
stammered Logan, he scuffed one dusty boot on the stage floor, “I have had a
little practice stabbin’…”
“And
the way you thrust!”, effused the
Maestro.
“You
kin just stop right there,” said Logan, suddenly grim.
The
Maestro had a sip of his Sherry that S’ym had brought
him, “oooh, nice head. I’ve always loved good head,” he twirled his
finger musingly in the foam for a brief second.
“Okay, break’s over. Girls…”
“Ahem, hmmmm,” from the right
side.
“…and gentleman.
From the top!”
REBEL to TURKEY: Oh pooh! That, Brad Darling, was a terrible
mistake. I’ll have your head on a plate
or my name isn’t Melinda “Rebel Yell” Holley!
You are going down.
REBEL to KEVIN-BOOS: Sweetie, you
wouldn’t mind helping me crush Brad Darling like an insect, now would you?
REBEL to DUCKY: Hey, Featherhead, how ‘bout you make good on
that promise of F NAP and sail it over this way for a visit? I hear Brad Darling likes Pasta a la
Bayonet. Oh, and be a Dear and bring a
plate? We’re going to need it before the
party is over.
"The German Empire" (Sung to the tune of
"America Pie"):
Long before Fall 1901
I can still remember when
Germany's future looked so bright
And I knew I could have the prize
Of in the first year, doubling in size
And doing so without having to fight
But Italy had a plot cooking
And took Munich while I wasn't looking
I lied to England, and he paid me back
By stopping my Danish attack
I think I may have hit the floor
When my center count was only four
I thought I really deserved more
I might just lose this war
So bye bye to my German Empire
As my neighbours and my allies all around me conspire
If England, France
and Russia want a piece of the pie
Then this will be the year that I die
This will be the year that I die...
(Humble apologies to Don Mclean)
Con to
Lon: Well, are you? Or what?
HEART OF DARKNESS SALOON
- Kitty stomped into her pride and joy. Wrathfully looking around, she
spied S'ym ducking behind the bar.
"There'd better be beer on ice by the time I get back down
here!" Skirts swishing around her trim (yet firm) ankles, she
proceeded up the stairs then stopped when she saw the man sitting at the back
table playing a mean game of solitaire.
Leaning over the railing, Kitty batted
her lashes (courtesy of Maybelline). "Hello, Ducky...I mean Dukey." Flushing at the lazy smile
given in return, she sayshayed back down the steps.
"Guess you heard there's gonna be a rumble in
the jungle." Turning to the bar, she squealed at S'ym.
"Get all those jungle decorations up from the cellar!" Fanning
herself, she smiled. "Yeah, that was one hell of a Halloween
party!"
Turning back to the smiling man, she
reached forward to take his glass. Sniffing, she smiled.
"Ah! Vodka Marguerita
with a shot of Cap'ns Jack and Morgan."
Sipping, she coughed then wheezed, "And a lemon twist."
After a full-body shiver, she patted the man's cheek. "You'd best be
deciding where you're gonna stand, Ducky...I mean Dukey." She raised the glass in a salute.
"Otherwise, you might get Byrned."
IL DUCKY to GOOD OL’
KAISER WILSON: It was an accident. We’ll clean up the mess, have the housekeeper
come by, and you’ll never know we were near the place.
“Wouldn’t it be Nice to get to there already!” They were moving slowly through the desert,
the horses ploddingly pulling the giant contraption of a wagon up the grade of
the hill. Cactus and small syllables
littered the landscape as far as you could see.
“Thoon, Mathter,” soothed the hunchback, from the seat next to the
speaker, “thoon.”
“Are you trying to thooth
me?”
“Jutht a
little.”
“Do you even know where we are?”, he asked, irritation in the tone of his voice.
The hunchback squinted
one eye and furrowed his brow in concentration. Needing more brain power he
scrunched down in his seat, and stuck the tip of his tongue between his
teeth. A low humming sound emanated from
him, and he tapped the fingertips of one hand against the fingertips of the
other hand.
“Let’th thee,” he
calculated, “we’ve been croththing this dethert for pageth and pageth.”
“Yes, I know,” snapped the other. “It’s
past EPISODE Five and we’re not even in the story yet!!”
“We left the Hobby, moving weth at thix mileth
per hour. We paththed
the prothpector with the athth
moving eath at theven mileth per hour…”
“Athth?”
“Mule,” answered the hunchback, “I think hith name wath Jathper.” He
continued calculating, “tho, theven
divided by the Eternal Thunshine page count, leth the header, carry the thix
and multiply by…how many people chothe armpit as the uglieth body part?”
“Three.”
“Multiply by three, in which cathe that means we’re exactly…
WILSON to WILSON
& WILSON:
Which of us is the “good” Wilson and which of us is the “bad” Wilson?
WILSONS to WILLIAMS: If there’s only
one of you, shouldn’t it just be William?
BE NICE to WILSONS: As I see it,
there’s a good one, a bad one, and an ugly one …
Thomewhere Weth
of the Hobby…”“That is the most idiotic, moronic, hare-brained …”
he halted in mid-tirade as the wagon crested the hill and they came into sight
of the town. It’s
buildings played out across the pages below them in a panorama of a simple
western hamlet getting by on the edges of civilization. “…AB-SO-lutely
brilliant calculation!”
“Thank you, Mathter.”
The man reached down next to his seat and
came back up with an extremely long brass telescope. He extended it and peered at the town, “dust
and hovels,” he muttered. His gaze fell
on the sign naming the town at the outskirts, but it had fallen into disrepair.
Literally, it was a bare post and a pile of planks.
“Time to make our GRAND entrance,” he said
to the hunchback. He pulled his tall stovepipe hat off his head and beat the
dust off of it, brushed more dust from his short cape, appearances were
important. He pulled on the curls of his
mustache and instructed the hunchback, “I’ll settle the wagon. Simon, you help the old girl GET dressed.”
“Yeth, Mathter,” the hunchback scrambled from the seat, up the
short ladder to the roof and hopped along the gangplank that ran between the
gleaming brass sets of the calliope pipes to the back of the wagon. At the rear, atop the piled
baggage, sat a large red crown…too large for a man to wear. Simon hefted it with a grunt and turned to
face the elephant that was chained to the rear of the wagon.
“Hello, Thumbelina.”
Meanwhile, the tall thin man in the
stovepipe hat swung down from the seat and walked around to the side of the
wagon. He used his cane to reach up and
flip a latch at the top of the wagon that held a roll of fabric. Released, it unfurled down the side of the
wagon, and he stepped back to admire the gold lettering on the red velvet. He smiled, and pulled on the curls of his
mustache.
“ Professor Alexander’s Medicine Show”
Limited
Availability of the Hobby’s Most Modern
Patent Medicine
Secrets
of the Orient COMBINED
with Science
Electro
Magnetic Bathing Fluid derived from SNAKES, radiated with Galvanic Electricity
Blood,
Liver & Stomach Renovator – Cures Female Complaints - Good for What Ails
You
(Used
Exclusively in the Sultan’s Hareem- Odalisque tested and approved)
In
smaller print; Bottled
exclusively by Flat Evil Enterprises.
Cheater’s WhiskeyTM
In
much smaller print; Not
liable for effects not solicited by imbibee’ Guarantee not valid outside of the Hobby.
Unseen
on the back; side effects may include partial paralysis, incontinence and in
some cases death.
He scratched his chin thoughtfully, “I
wonder if I could add an endorsement from THE QUEEN?” He decided to decide later and went on with
the preparations. He attached the calliope
bellows to the crank on the rear wagon wheel, went around the wagon to drop the
banner on the far side. As he rounded
the wagon he banged on the window, “Get a MOVE on in there!” A muffled
inaudible response came through the wood siding.
Soon they were ready. They had put the blue
silk drapes and the blue feathered head-bands on the horses. They had raised
the flagpole on the wagon that was topped with the anemometer, it didn’t do
anything, but it looked ‘scientific’.
Thumbelina, the elephant, was dressed and Chowder, their shill, had
already left. They were ready, he just had to decide
on the tact he would take, which approach fit the town. The Professor was using his telescope to size
up the motley assortment of buildings that lay below.
‘The approach’ was the matter of
penultimate importance. Only outranked by ‘The escape’. He panned the telescope back and forth across
the buildings below, looking for schools, churches…houses with paint on them;
indicators of the intelligence, moral fiber and work ethic of their occupants. He didn’t see any. He was encouraged.
It wasn’t always the same; each town was
different. Some towns were “smarter” than others, for them you played
dumb. Others were good, for them you
played better. The ones that were poor,
you played rich…but if they were rich, you didn’t play poor. It was a complicated algorithmic formulae he had worked out through playing a myriad of
Diplomacy games. It was a math based on
human natures; greed over gluttony, multiplied by lust, divided by envy,
subtract out sloth, and of course multiply for wrath and pride. He called it Levinson’s Axiom of Acts and
Actions.
Of course, you also had to roll a twenty
sided die and two D6 and check against the Critical Modifier Table. You take
all that, quantified by the happenstance of current conditions. Measuring the quotient of how much the people
wanted to move the status quo, or if they didn’t, you had to provide that
impetus. It was all rather simple
really.
Some towns were just begging to be took,
this one…. Hmmmm. He could see that it had been around awhile,
it had issues and issues of detritus laying about, but
it didn’t appear as prosperous as it had once been. Some of the plots hadn’t been finished and he
could see a few sagging storylines, but many of the buildings showed activity;
others appeared empty, like a narrative not yet filled in. A town fallen on hard times, he mused…a town
without hope.
He smiled; what do you give a town without
hope?
But.
Where to start? He could make out the
smattering of buildings that played out across the page, there the laundry,
there the bank, there, aha! He twisted
on a curl of his mustache.
“That has to be a SALOON,” said the
Professor to Simon, “Lot’s of horses tied up out front, half naked women in the
upstairs windows, SMOKE from the CHIMNEY and people going in and out…one laying
in the mud next to a HALF filled water trough.
THAT’S where we’ll head,” he made out the sign. “HEART
of Darkness.” He smiled, “Already
a crowd, AND they’ve been drinking.” He
collapsed the spyglass decisively and put it down. Simon reached for the brass telescope.
The Professor’s gaze had also fallen on a
lone figure, off in the distance, entering the town on foot, with sure and
measured steps. There had been something
familiar about him.
The hunchback had fumbled open the
ridiculously long telescope and was unsteadily scanning the town. “Did you thay
half-naked women, which half? Topthies or bottomthies?”
GYPSIES IN THE
PALACE, SPECIAL COMMENTATORS ON UNFOLDING EUROPEAN EVENTS: How can you keep
them down on the farm after they’ve seen Munich? Crisis? What crisis?
While the rest of Europe manfully swept aside the small independent
(formerly) neutral nations of the continent (notably, only Rumania and Denmark
retained sovereignty, and that only through the luck of the bounce of bombastic
belligerents) those impetuous Italians traipsed merrily across the Austria Alps
– apparently with Vienna’s blessing – and attacked previously friendly
Germany. By this event, Italy earns the
early sobriquet of “The Fighting Fool” and wins the hardly coveted “What Were
They Thinking?” Award for 1901 by being the only Great Power
to invade another Great Power. And not just once, but twice. The response from Austria and Germany is
awaited.
Somewhere West of the
Hobby…Let Sleeping dogs lie, cheat and steal - “Wouldn’t it be Nice to be a land baron,”
asked Marlow out loud. He was on the
boardwalk, in front of the Chacol Noire First Trust,
washing the dust off the windows.
“Yep, yep, yep,” replied Cyril (an as yet unintroduced minor character inserted here to spur the
dialog. Spur…get it? Western pun. Fine, back to our story)
“I reckon I could change careening paths agin’,” continued Marlow.
“After all, I used to clean up at the saloon…lookit
me now. Now I’m cleaning up at the bank.”
“Yep. I knew a guy cleaned up at the bank afore,”
interjected Cyril. “Hark, spoit,” he spat tobacco juice into the dust of the street.
“Course now he’s doin’ 3 to 10 in Yuma.”
Cyril looked over at Marlow cleaning the
part of the window with the bank’s name and logo on it. It was an image of a big black dog with the
number one across it, and the words ‘First Trust’ above it.
“Why a dawg?”
“Well, hmmmm,
hark, spoit,” this time Marlow spit into the street,
“I always figured the dog, being man’s best friend and canine companion and
all, denotated the trust and loyalty the bank would
have for its patrons. Y’know, like a
retriever. Ya
give him something, like a bone, or the bank yer
money, and then when you come back in, we goes into the vault and retrieves it fer you.”
“Yep, yep, yep,” said Cyril, “I kin see
that. You being a dog
and all. It just don’t look like a friendly dog. All teethy with
those choppers and that snarled up nose.”
“Wull, that’s
easy,” answered Marlow, “would you want a friendly dawg
guardin’ yer wurldly goods. Right
this way, Mister Robber, wag, wag, let me show you where the bone is buried…oh,
and don’t forget the good silver. And
the one,” continued Marlow, “wull, because they’s the First Trust here in
town…”
“Should be called the Only Trust then,”
retorted Cyril.
“Reckon it could at that, but there ain’t no number ‘Only’ ” nodded Marlow and cleaned at the
bottom of the logo, “and here at the bottom, where it says ‘Alors
Coup”…I reckon that’s Frenchie for in-cor-POE-rated.”
“Well, that number ‘one’ looks more like a
knife to me,” said Cyril, “All pointy at the bottom and all.”
“Probably just a fancy Frenchie
one,” responded Marlow, “all fleur-day-sissy like.”
*ching* ching * ching*
The two looked into the street as the
gunslinger walked back into town from the previous chapter, his steps, sure and
measured. He strode with purpose, but
unhurried, he knew he had time to kill.
They were only in the second game year, no one
was close to dying yet.
“Itn’t that, that
Duck of Death fella,” Marlow asked Cyril.
“Yep, yep, yep.”
“Y’know, that tain’t his real name. It’s just a nom de queer.”
“Yep, yep, yep. But I don’t like getting’ all into anyone’s
sexual proclivities,” said Cyril, “after all, this is the wild
west. I’ve been known to drop my longjohns a time or two.”
“Probably the Heart of Darkness,” said
Marlow.
“Yep, yep, yep. It was at the Heart of Darkness at that, now
that you mention it,” said Cyril, “back in the old days when Loose Lips held
sway. Not that she held it much…it
swayed and swayed.” The two chuckled
together about the old days.
“Actually, I meant that it looked like that
there gunslinger feller wuz headin’
to the Heart of Darkness.”
“Oh, so he is,” nodded Cyril, “things
should start to get interesting around here.”
“It’s about time. Hark, spoit,” spit
Marlow. “These long preambles wear me out.”
Hark, spoit, spat
Cyril, and looked back at Marlow, “Land baron, huh?”
“Yeah. I heard His Bankership
talking about the Whining Pig spread outside of town buying up everythin’ heres abouts,” said Marlow. “So’s I
says, that fella must be loaded, deep pockets,
throwing cash everywhere like a cow pissing on a flat rock, but His Bankership says nope, it’s just all on paper.”
“Yep, yep, yep.”
“Well, I figure hell. Everything’s just paper
around here. Pages
and pages of it. ”
“Yep, yep, yep.”
“Wouldn’t it be Nice to be a land baron?”
Somewhere
West of the Hobby…One night in Bangkok Wouldn’t
it be Nice to…hic…wouldn’t it…hic…be Nice…to…hic…aw’ ta
hell with it.
So Mosey had found that the gold coin would
go further than a cold beer and a fat steak. He had eaten his fill and drunk
some dang Sherry beer the big blue bartender had pulled for him and now he
found himself in an inebriated state.
There were a line of shots in a row in front of him that he had been
assured was twenty year old Scotch, but he didn’t think he could drink that
much. He closed one eye and the number
of shots halved; that was more like it.
He had begun to feel that perhaps female companionship might be in
order.
“Well then darling,” said Miss Kitty,
sidling up next to him, “you are in the right place.”
“Did Ah say that out loud,” asked Mosey?
“No hon, I just
keep an eye on the press lines,” smiled Miss Kitty, “when I read that you have
gold and that you’re horn..uh…yearn for female
companionship I just do my best to provide excellent customer service.”
“You cuss to me for service? Hic.”
“No, sweetie, unless of course, you like that sort of thing. Here have another drink,” Miss Kitty helped him elevate the
glass to his lips. “So, what is it you
like in a woman? I’m assuming it is a
woman. Though I have recently come into the services of a
very talented gentleman.”
“Heehawh,”
interjected Jasper from the hitching rail in the front of the saloon.
Miss Kitty’s head swiveled, “what was
that?” She looked for the source of the
bray but saw nothing.
“Don’t mind him, he’s jes’
lookin’ out after my interests,” answered Mosey.
“Ears like a dang rabbit.”
“Heehawh!”
“Ah’m just sayin’,” yelled Mosey, apparently to no one. “Nah, Miss Kitty, I wuz lookin’ for a piece of strange tonight…jes’
not that strange.”
“Well, what did you have in mind?”
“You got any of them slanty
eyed whoors?”
“The Heart of Darkness is a top of the line
brothel, and we’ll have none of that discrimination against race, creed or
color here!” stated
Miss Kitty. “So yes, we have poontang in every color of the rainbow. When they tried to put that railroad through
here in the old days,” she stopped briefly, almost imperceptibly, recalling a
certain flashy young Captain that had headed up the survey…”they used some
Chinese labor. Some of them stayed
over.” She waved her hand to a young
buxom woman at the back of the room.
The woman came over; her long green silk
dress tight against her body, it was emblazoned with a golden dragon that
draped across the fabric and her fabulously pendulous breasts. The dress was so
tight it left little to the imagination, less to the leering eye, and made her
take short mincing steps. It took her
longer to get there and everything that could jiggle,
did jiggle, in the sojourn. Her head was
slightly bowed so that her silky long black hair fell over her face, obscuring
it in an almost teasing fashion. Mosey could barely make out her oriental
features, and met the stare of one deep green eye peering out from the
hair. She met his gaze with an
insouciance that stirred his deep insides.
Deep, and prevalently south.
“Mosey, Mai Ling,” introduced Miss Kitty.
“She’s cute as a tic,” said Mosey. Miss Kitty assumed that was a good
thing. He continued on, “and you say
she’s from China?”
“Bang cock,” said Mai Ling.
“Damn, straight to the point, ain’t she?” said Mosey, “So what is it that ya’ll like to do there in Chinaland?”
“Bang cock,” said Mai Ling.
“Wull, that could
explain why you got about a million little yeller brothers and sisters,” said
Mosey. “So how long have you been here since you came over from the Chinaland?”
“Bang cock,” said Mai Ling.
“Damn, Miss Kitty,” whistled Mosey, “she’s
got a one track mind, a natural at this.
I kin see why ya got her on yer staff.”
“The question is whether you want her on
your staff,” answered Miss Kitty.
“I’ve always wanted to have one o’ them
girls from China land…hic”.
“Stupid round eye,” said Mai Ling. Miss Kitty shot her a stern look.
“Whuh..what wazzat?”
“Bang cock,” said Mai Ling.
“Shore then, let’s saddle up. Show me them stairs, take me to Chinaland heaven…hic.
The Forbidden City, the land that time forgot,
things that go bump-ugly in the dark…and some such…hic.”
The couple, trollop and prospector, moved
unsteadily toward the stairs to the upstairs rooms; the ones you could rent by
the hour. Mai Ling navigating the
drunken prospector in a circuitous and staggering route through the crowded
saloon and around tables…sometimes just around. As they came by the cowboys
playing roulette at the Bourse table they jostled into a small group; one mean
looking cowboy swung around, his hand immediately on his gun butt, a toothpick
aggressively clenched in his teeth and a set of hard, cold, killing eyes
glaring at the drunken prospector. The
crowd suddenly hushed, Bruno’s hands were stopped, poised in mid tune above the
piano keyboard. Even the deer head above
the bar seemed stiller.
“Ya want a piece
o’ me?” asked the glaring, angry cowboy. Spit flew from his lips as he spoke
and his fingers twitched and curled above his pistol.
Mosey closed one eye, so that he could tell
which of the two cowboys were talking to him. “Hmmm, where’d the other one go?”
Whispers could be heard among the people
watching, whispers of “whisp, whisp,
whisp, Wilson boys, whisp, whisp, whisp, Deadeye Wilson, whisp, whisp, whisp.”
“Wull, what are
you gonna do now?” groused the cowboy, he leaned toward
the prospector. The tension rose, a deafening crescendo of silence filled the
air.
Mai Ling stepped between Mosey and Wilson,
smiled brightly, “Bang cock.”
The crowd laughed, the tension broke, and a
smile spread slowly over Wilson’s face, “Hell, I’d be in a hurry too then, if’n I was fixin ta’ wet my rope…y’know, brand me
a filly, plow the field. Tie one on, then down and then the ol hee-haw! If’n your little yeller ears kin unnerstan’
what ah’m saying,” he guffawed.
“Yeah, like you’re real subtle,” answered Mai
Ling.
“Huh?
Wazzat?”
“Bang cock,” smiled Mai Ling brightly.
“Ha, ha. Well off ta’ work
with you then, ya’ little yeller devil,” he tipped
his hat and turned back to the Bourse table.
Mai Ling half hoisted Mosey and they continued to the stairs.
“Stupid round eye,” she muttered. They got to the bottom of the stairs and she
looked up the steep incline and over at Mosey, she had gone from half carrying
him to three quarters carrying. Oh,
well, she hefted, cantilevered him over one shoulder and started slowly trodding up the stairs, one sure and measured step after
the next.
“They all stupid round eyes, who put whore
house on second floor,” Mai Ling muttered, “hell, should be in basement with
damn slide down to it.”
“Whuh…what wazzat,” asked the befuddled Mosey.
“Bang cock.”
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.
