September
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, advice column, blog, and links to all his
available merchandise! Links to all of
the books and DVDs reviewed can be found by clicking on the Amazon Store button
in the main menu of
the Whining Kent Pigs website.
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 – “This is working like
gangbusters.” (Joel in “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”)
Welcome
to Eternal Sunshine, the official zine of the worst
pitching staff in the Major Leagues, that of the Texas Rangers. Not to say we never have any good pitchers…its just that they don’t become “good” until we trade them,
or release them outright. Then suddenly
they want to battle for the Cy Young award. Chris Young, Edison Volquez,
John Danks, Galarraga..okay, I shouldn’t mention Volquez
because we traded him for an amazing player.
But the rest?
We traded Danks for Brandon McCarthy, who is
made of glass, and we traded Young (and much more) so we could watch Adam Eaton
sit on the disabled list and then sign elsewhere. Galarraga? We released him to
make room for some spare veteran who sucked and then got hurt almost
immediately. Fun fun
fun!
It
looks like this will be a shorter issue, as I haven’t found the time or energy
to write anything yet. Still a couple of days to the deadline though. I’d like to find an hour or two to write
about working on the landscape detail in prison, so I’ll keep my fingers
crossed. Life has been rather hectic
lately, as Heather bashed her head against the wall for two months to finish
her final Algebra class…she got an A by the way! Now she’s starting full-time in the
Veterinary Assistant program, and finishing her Associates degree at the same
time (she only needs one or two more classes for that). After a year, if she’s happy with the
Assistant program, she can continue on and complete the Certified Veterinary
Technician program. There are only three
certified Vet Tech programs in the state of Texas, so that would be a real
achievement if she completed that program.
Then, at long last, she’d be prepared to realize her dream of working
with animals. So wish her luck!
Besides
that, work has been a madhouse (although my coworker Marian is due back from
maternity leave in a week), but otherwise I have no complaints. We managed to get through another birthday of
Heather’s without her killing or divorcing me, so that’s a minor miracle. I’ve been speding a
lot of hobby time on my new Postal Diplomacy Zine
Archive. This is an area in the
Diplomacy section of my personal website (http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/)
where I am scanning and posting postal Diplomacy zines from every era. This means I’ve got the very first issues of
the first Diplomacy zine every published – John Boardman’s Graustark –
on up to zines from the 1990’s. And I’ve
got a ton more material to scan and post.
I’ve even been getting some assistance from long-time hobby members;
Craig Reges, for example, has scanned
and emailed me a number of zines I did not have. If you’re interested at all in hobby history,
be sure to check the collection out.
And, if you happen to be one of those people in the midst of the whole
DipCon/NADF/Hobby Organization debates – which I’m not going to go into here –
I think some of these zines will give you some very enlightening historical
perspective, both to explain why some things were set up the way they were back
then, and highlighting the fact that this hobby has been dealing with the same
basic issues, again and again, since the earliest days.
Keep
an eye on the Game Openings listing elsewhere in the zine. I’m open to suggestion. There isn’t much point in my listing games
there which nobody has any interest in.
I’m also willing to provide space for someone to guest-GM a game, or to
write an occasional (or monthly) column.
If that gets your pulse racing, please get in touch. Okay, that’s it for the opening
foolishness. If you’re in the U.S.,
enjoy your Labor Day. See you in
October!
Grab a Shovel – Part
One
In
the Federal prison system, at least at the security levels where I was, you had
to work. Everybody had a job. Those with medical problems were given tasks
like wrapping tableware in napkins, but everybody else had a true job. At Allenwood I started on the painting crew,
and soon was moved to the plumbing detail (the CO in charge ran both details). When I transferred to McKean, I took a job on
the orderly detail, where I stayed until I got tired of all the rackets being
run there (see “The Sunglasses” and other stories in a prior Eternal Sunshine
for details on that experience). That’s
when I decided to sign up for Landscaping.
At
Allenwood, the “punishment detail” was called CSS (Compound Sanitation
Service). They walked around the
compound, using brooms, mops, and dustpans to clean up any trash they found;
the inmates called it Goose Shit Patrol, because that was really what they had
to do all day – sweep up goose shit from the sidewalks. Allenwood was overrun by wildlife, from geese
to starving deer to stray cats to lots of other various birds and animals. The job sucked, and nobody wanted to do it,
so all the troublemakers got moved to CSS.
At
McKean, Landscaping had the same reputation.
If you were fired from your job, or caught stealing food or some other
offense, that’s where you were sent. It
was considered a terrible assignment, mainly because the inmates on Landscaping
actually had to work. McKean was in the
middle of the Allegheny National Forest in Pennsylvania, so there were
literally tons of leaves to rake up, lawns to mow, lawn trimmings to bag or
crate, bushes to trim, and branches to collect.
But in the winter, the REAL work started. Aside from the typical snow you expect in
that part of the country, we were close enough to Lake Erie to be subject to
“lake effect” snow, which could dump multiple inches on us every hour, all day
long and night long. Some members of the
crew (or members of the Garage crew) would plow and salt and sand the roads,
but who do you think had to manually shovel all the sidewalks and stairs, and
spread sand, everywhere from the main office all the way to the Admin building
at the Medium Security facility? You got
it: the Landscaping crew. The “front
circle” (which was the entrance to the Medium Security prison) was where you
spent most of your time. There was a
large front sidewalk area, plus sidewalk ¾ of the way around the circle, and a
long steep stairway up a hill to the staff parking lot. There was also a short sidewalk in front of
the flagpole, in the center of the circle.
The snow could literally fall so fast that by the time you pushed a
shovel from one side of the front sidewalk area to the other, you’d turn around
and find the path covered in white powder all over again. Shoveling snow at McKean was a losing battle.
Even
when it wasn’t snowing, winter work on the Landscape crew was a real pain in
the ass. If it was icy (which it often
was) you had to crack the ice buildup on the roads and sidewalks and shovel the
ice away. Use of salt to melt the ice was
extremely limited, partially to save money and partially because of environmental
concerns from being in a national forest.
So you were expected to spread dirt only, in order to give people a bit
of traction, but that was it. So we had
ice chippers which we’d crack ice with, then shovels to try and move it. Or, if it had warmed above freezing, you had
the pleasure of using big brooms to sweep up all the dirt and gravel that had
accumulated on the roads during the last storm, which we then shoveled into
trucks. There was always something
to do, and if there wasn’t, Burger found something.
Burger
was the CO in charge of Landscaping, and was regarded as a real hard-ass. He loved to berate his inmates, and had no
tolerance for laziness or shitty attitudes.
Since almost everyone on the detail was there because of punishment, the
lack of effort most crew members demonstrated was rather apparent. But Burger took his job very seriously. Winter weather was no joke to him; he wanted
to keep everything clear in any area where staff members had to drive or
walk. If the inmate areas were a bit
badly attended to, well, that could almost be tolerated. But I suppose
that was more because he couldn’t see their condition as easily from his pickup
truck, which he drove around all day long checking on all the crews working in
spread-out areas. You never knew when
Burger’s truck would sneak up on you, so it was best to keep moving.
For
me, none of this was really a problem.
My time in prison went faster when I was busy, which is why I had done
so well on the plumbing detail at Allenwood.
My CO there learned quickly that I’d do my job properly, fix what I
could, report to him when a job was beyond my capability. He treated me very well, and I know a lot of
that was because I understood he had placed trust in me and if I abused that
trust I was showing HIM a lack of respect.
Much of my plumbing work was unsupervised, and often involved going into
restricted areas. I could also be
awakened at any hour of the night, or called upon at any moment on weekends, if
an emergency arose. But my days would
move by quickly, which was the real goal anyway. That, and the fact that I was paid a lot more
than 12 cents an hour because of the quality and quantity of my work.
All
of this entered into my decision to be one of the only two people I knew of to volunteer
for Landscape detail at McKean. The
other guy had been refused by Burger; he knew anybody who volunteered for his
crew had to be a little nuts. But with
me, partially on the recommendation of two guys already working for him, he was
willing to roll the dice. Obviously I
had to be a little twisted, especially as this job change took place the day
after we’d had our first light dusting of snow.
Why would anybody want to spend their days pushing a shovel around when
they could be inside the housing unit, cleaning floors and finding ways to
avoid work? The look I got from the
manager in the Administration office when I brought him my job change request
after Burger had signed it was priceless.
I asked him if anything was wrong, and he shrugged his shoulders as he
countersigned it, saying “No, I’m just wondering what the fuck your problem is,
volunteering for Landscaping. But if you
want to kill yourself, go ahead.”
With
those words on encouragement, he handed me the BP-8 form back, and I marched
out of the office and back to the chow hall, where Burger was waiting. I was now officially on the Landscaping
detail…for better or for worse. And I
knew that it was life joining the Mafia: once you were in, there was no way to
get out. You were a member for life,
until death do us part.
To Forgive or Not to
Forgive – That is the Question
Where
does somebody learn the concept of forgiveness and how to use it? Is it something we learn in childhood, or is
it a genetic or chemical reaction?
Something to do with the way our brain is wired? I wish I knew, because I have a very flawed
sense of forgiveness. I seem to have
very little trouble forgiving anyone else for things that they do, if they are
sorry and express remorse…and often even when they don’t. If I am slighted, forgiveness is rather
simple, since I put myself on such a low level anyway. Those who offend my friends and loved ones
may have a harder time gaining my forgiveness, but it is possible.
The
problem is, I cannot forgive myself. I
simply do not know how…or else I do not believe I am worthy of that
forgiveness. To forgive myself would, in
effect, be letting me off the hook. And
using whatever warped measuring stick I have in that brain, I have not yet
earned that forgiveness…not for anything.
Memory
is a tricky thing. Why we remember one
thing or another, but forget most of what we say and do is beyond me. But I seem to have a knack for remembering
things I wish I could forget. Big
things, small things, embarrassing things; regrets clog my mind for years at a
time. I cannot forget them, and I have
not learned how to forgive myself for them.
It
could be once when I kicked my brother Jon in the side as kids, in anger, and
watched him cry. Or, it could be nearly
cutting my finger off with another brother’s pocket knife and claiming I fell
on it (which is stupid, because I know that my father did not believe that
story; he yelled at my brother for leaving it where I could get at it, but I
still have not forgiven myself for lying and blaming him). For stealing a comic book from a friend when
I was eleven. For pulling a dog’s hair
(even though he bit me for it).
Then
there are the big things. All the
moments I see as failure in my relationship and marriage to Mara, moments where
I look back and wish I had said or done something different. Sometimes I wasn’t kind enough, sometimes I
was too kind and too accommodating…eventually becoming her enabler, all the
while carrying the burden of her deadpan statement that if I ever wanted a
divorce, just to let her know so she could kill herself. So many decisions I wish I could
redo…thousands of them. Even not being
strong enough to break up our marriage years earlier; that too is something I
have not forgiven myself for.
Not
going to college. Not succeeding in
business. Not making more money. Not having more friends, being more
popular. I blame myself for feeling like
an outsider all the time, as if I chose to not fit in. For having no fashion sense. For being oblivious to social rules and life
lessons that somehow I should have picked up on.
And,
of course, for committing a federal offense.
For putting my family, and Heather, through the pain of me being in
prison. For being a burden to anyone,
anywhere, anytime. For not being there
when my father died. For not being there
when Mara killed herself. I even hold
open a spot of blame for things I don’t know I did, or damage I may have caused
unknowingly.
For
others, I easily accept that they are human.
They make mistakes. They
err. They’re just stumbling through
life, doing the best they can, sometimes making poor or selfish or just unlucky
choices. Mara cheats on me? Okay. No
problem. Andrea forgets my birthday, or
gives me nothing on Valentine’s Day – not even a card? It’s okay, I forgive you.
The
only one I demand perfection from is me.
And as that never occurs, I am eternally a failure. I am responsible for all bad things; I am
powerless to provide any good. And when
I do, like when I love Heather and treat her well, or when I am charitable, or
when I care for animals…well, I get no credit, because those were my natural
inclinations. It’s like Schindler’s
List. I could have done more. With this ring, I could have saved one more
life. Nothing is ever enough.
Or,
as Rip Torn explains in Albert Brooks’ masterpiece defending your life “If I
change your flat tire for you, and three years later I lose your garden hose,
by your logic I get no credit for the tire.
I’m just the dumb guy who lost the hose.”
That’s
me. I’m the dumb guy who lost the hose…a
million times.
This
is a new section in Eternal Sunshine, where I will offer a hypothetical
question or situation. Sometimes it will
be based on things that happened in our life, and other times they’ll just be
silly (or gross). I hope at least a few
readers will write in with their answers.
Be sure to explain your choice fully so we can understand your logic
behind it.
Okay,
this time, here’s the situation. I’m
using gender neutral terminology as much as possible so it fits everybody. You’re out with your significant other or
spouse, and another couple. You have
your dinner in a booth at a noisy Irish restaurant where there is a live band
playing, but you’re seated in a booth with walls so there is some privacy. The waitperson has to get in close to hear
everything. The meal is a social one,
with lots of talking and joking. The
waitperson gets involved here and there, making physical contact with you
gently a few times, grabbing your arm and so-forth. Probably innocent, and you think nothing of
it. You’re the only one not
drinking. You’ve decided to treat the
other couple to dinner without telling them, so you excuse yourself to “use the
restroom” and find the waitperson so you can settle the tab before anyone is
the wiser. When you do so, the
waitperson offers you their phone number as well as the check, with a sly
smile. How do you respond? What specifically do you say or do?
I
know MY answer, but I won’t reveal it or explain it until next issue. Heather feels my answer is inappropriate,
maybe she’ll explain why next issue too.
American Teen – When I first saw
the poster for American Teen, I immediately lost all interest. It looked like some sort of updated parody of
The Breakfast Club. After seeing the
trailer, however, I felt quite the opposite.
This documentary by Nanette Burstein gives us an insider’s view of
Middle America, and life in High School.
Instead of trying to draw any judgments or conclusions about the
teenagers featured, American Teen simply lets their actions speak for
themselves. The good, the bad, and the
ugly; we see it all.
Major
players in the film, set in Warsaw, Indiana, are Jake (the geeky Band nerd);
Hannah (the rebel/artsy girl who feels completely out of place); Colin (the
jock); and Megan (the class Princess).
There are other teenagers who make there way in and out as minor
players, but those four are the center of the action. Amazingly, while no teenager is
one-dimensional, all of them fall generally into the stereotypical categories
you might expect. But, as in The
Breakfast Club, each deals with their own pressures, their own insecurities,
and their own demons.
Hannah
hates Indiana, and dreams of going to film school in San Francisco. But she is terrified of developing the mental
illnesses her mother suffers from, and she’s basically living on her own,
without a solid support system. Jake
can’t find a girl, and feels utterly insecure and beaten-down. As he puts it, he “sucks at life” and is
looking for a “sock to be paired with.”
He has terrible acne, is short, and spends most of his time playing
video games. Colin cannot afford
college, so he needs to shine on the basketball court and get a
scholarship. Otherwise, its probably the
army for him. And Megan constantly tries
to derive power over, and support from, her circle of friends, while agonizing
over whether she’ll get into Notre Dame (where her father and all but one
sibling attended college).
There
are many sweet moments in the film, and some which leave you scratching your
head wondering if these teenagers will look back at their actions in
shame. To those of us who grew up in a
different time, the lack of real connections between most of these kids is frightening. They break up by text message, or sit and
text message other romantic interests right in front of their boyfriends and
girlfriends. When one girl sends her
boyfriend a topless photo, it quickly is seen on every area cell phone, and
eventually on its own web site. Yet
later in the film, that same poor girl is sitting happily at a table with the
girls who distributed it. Everything
means everything, and yet nothing means anything.
American
Teen has gotten rave reviews, and I’m happy to join in the group of those who
thoroughly enjoyed the film. Go see it.
Henry Poole Is Here – Luke Wilson films
can be hit or miss. Some of his broad
comedy falls flat, but when he plays the decent, human character he can be
terribly effective. In “Henry Poole is
Here,” the new film written by Albert Torres and directed by Mark Pellington,
we’re fortunate that Wilson has found some middle ground. It isn’t a monumental film, but a sweet
one.
Wilson
plays Henry Poole, who is buying a house in a quiet California
neighborhood. He doesn’t want to haggle
over the price, have any repairs done, or anything else. He simply wants to buy the house, move in,
and be left alone. As he tells the real
estate agent (Cheryl Hines), “I won’t be living here that long.”
Like
Finbar McBride in “The Station Agent,” Henry just wants to be left alone. Unless you learned it from the trailers, the
reasons for his melancholy state and desire for solitude are revealed to us bit
by bit. But solitude is the one thing
Henry is not permitted. On one side of
his house is a troubles child who does not speak, and her mother (Radha
Mitchell). Millie, the daughter, likes
to tape record the conversations that take place in Henry’s yard. Henry clearly is attracted to Millie’s
mother, but he is not willing to pursue the relationship.
The
brunt of the activity, however, comes from his neighbor on the other side of
his house, Esperanza (Adriana Barraza).
A close friend of the former owner, Esperanza discovers what she
believes is the face of Jesus in a water stain left in the stucco job on the
side of Henry’s house. She invites over
the local Catholic priest (George Lopez) and soon has a number of believers
invading Henry’s yard. Aside from the
interruptions, Henry is enraged by the blind faith of the group. “Your hope will not save you!” he yells.
Overall
the film has some laughs, some drama, and some lessons. It also has some insightful comments on the
way we think, the way we validate our own beliefs by having others believe
them, and the human desire to fix the present by reliving the past. As I said, Henry Poole is not a terrific or
important film. But it’s decent
entertainment.
Boy A – Before we went to
see this film, I started to read a favorable review of it. In its first paragraph, the review stated
that in order to properly experience Boy A, you really need to only have the
slightest notion of what it is about.
Any description of the plot, any knowledge of the things which may or
may not happen, will cause you to spend too much time trying to figure out what
WILL happen, instead of just experiencing the moment.
This
happens to be a major problem for me with many movies. If I’ve seen a trailer, I remember the scenes
and part of my mind uses those scenes to try and determine the course the film
will take. And having seen Boy A, I
happen to agree with that reviewer. The
experience of the film is better if you know little about it.
The
simplest, most generic synopsis I can give Boy A is Andrew Garfield plays Jack,
a young man who is being released from prison for a crime he committed as a
child. But in order to protect his
anonymity, he is creating a new identity for himself. That name, Jack, is the first piece of the
identity.
Boy
A touches on a number of emotional or complicated topics, ones in which there
is no true right and wrong, no black and white: rehabilitation, punishment,
redemption, the value of a human life, forgiveness, revenge, hatred,
blame. Are we what we did, or are we
what we do now, or are we what we feel, or a combination of all of those things? Are we how we feel about ourselves, or are we
how others see us and how others feel about us?
If we love, and if we receive love, are we worthy of love? If we are hated, are we deserving of that
hate?
The
cinematography and direction of Boy A is quite well done. Each scene carries with it the light and dark
of life. A nightclub can at one moment
be exciting and full of energy, and at the next a mass of bodies cramped together. Peacefulness can seem like loneliness. A functional room can be claustrophobic. A hero can be a villain. And a friend can be an enemy.
Boy
A is already disappearing from theaters, so if you miss it, watch fir the
DVD. And don’t read the back of the
box. Just rent it and watch it.
Seen
on DVD
– Alien (B+, still a fun movie to watch, but DAMN that Veronica Cartwright
makes me want to slap her in the face!).
Stonehenge Decoded (B, the
head of the project has some interesting theories, but I saw almost zero
evidence to support them. It’s all
conjecture. And Donald Sutherland’s
voice was a bit too mono-tone for narration).
The Idiot Girl and
the Flaming Tantrum of Death by Laurie Notaro – Funny reflections
on getting older. I still love the way
she writes. She has such
self-deprecating humor. Her older books
are even better. 3 ½ pumpkins. 
Farnham’s Freehold by Robert Heinlein – A good science fiction novel. You know how some science fiction books are
way too detail oriented, with names a male long, and you have to be s
upper-geek to enjoy them? Well, this
book isn’t one of those; which is why I enjoyed it. However, I must admit that the first time I
read it (20 years ago) I was much more impressed and intrigued. 3 ½ pumpkins.
Hocus Pocus by Teresa Roblin – Cute, light paranormal romance
book. Helps to illustrate the point that when women speak their mind, they do
become more attractive and sexy; the sexiest part of a woman’s body is her
mind. 4 pumpkins (partially because I
stayed up and read it all in one night)
Black Wind: Sean
& Bronwyn by Charlotte
Boyett-Compo
– The book itself is not written FOR young adults, but the story is a
paranormal romance about a girl and her High School sweetheart. Had a few twists, and some unexpected
tragedy. 3 ½ pumpkins.
Black Wind: Viraiden
& Bronwyn by Charlotte
Boyett-Compo
– Warning: if you want to read this book, read Back Wind: Sean & Bronwyn first…the book doesn’t warn you about
that requirement, but if you don’t, characters will be introduced as if you’re
already familiar with them, and you’ll get royally pissed off. I really liked it, even more than the first
book. Bronwyn is older here, and she
finds mystery and romance at her new job, with even more twists. 4 ½ pumpkins.
Dead Witch Walking by Kim Harrison – The idea for this book is great, but the
writing style is terrible for me. I
couldn’t make it very far at all. A
waste. Zero pumpkins.
The Greatest Albums
You Never Bought
It’s
1976, and disco is slowly decimating album-oriented radio and the record
business. It will be the 1980’s, after
near collapse caused by betting too heavily on Punk, that the music business
will stabilize and begin to grow again, pushed onward by a new force: MTV. But for now, many of the kings and lesser
royalty of rock and roll have hung it up.
The Beatles are gone, country music is big again, and Kiss hasn’t quite
hit the big time.
Enter
Grand Funk Railroad. In some ways, you
can compare them to Coldplay, but only in that the critics hate them but their
fans love them. Musically they are worlds
apart. Gold record after gold record
kept the train rolling, as Mark, Don, and Mel ignored the media and instead
toured the world, the first band to play Shea Stadium since the Beatles (with
opening act Humble Pie, featuring a young Peter Frampton I believe).
But
their day has passed. Now a foursome,
with keyboardist Craig Frost (later to join Bob Seger’s Silver Bullet Band),
most assumed Born to Die would be their final album. Its two singles, “Sally” and “Take Me”, were
only minor hits. Bickering among the
band members was a problem, and years on the road had worn everybody down.
In
1976, GFR left Capitol Records and released their TRUE final album, on the MCA
label. Produced by Frank Zappa, Good
Singin’ Good Playin’ sold less than 80,000 copies. But to many fans of the band, it remains
their finest work. Partially because of
the influence of Zappa, and partially because the band realized they had little
to lose (and were likely to see their swan song largely ignored), the music was
generally recorded live. GFR shows the
depth of their harmonies, the kind of sound only those who saw them live had
been able to enjoy previously. The sole
single to chart, “Can You Do It”, begins and ends with studio noise; a sign of
what Zappa wanted to do, capturing the band in its true unpolished
element. My personal favorites remain
“Just Couldn’t Wait” and “Pass it Around.”
The re-mastered CD, released in 1999, includes a bonus track –
“Rubberneck” – which feels more Zappaesque than any other track. The songs were generally negative or
depressing in lyric, but the music is tight, the singing is crisp, and the band
is having one last blast in the studio before going their separate ways. I’m a huge fan of many of their albums – in
particular “Survivor” and “Caught in the Act” – but this one holds a special
and necessary place in my collection.
If
you see the CD issue, or the LP, do yourself a favor and pick it up. You may not recognize any song titles (unlike
on smash albums like “E Pluribus Funk” or “We’re An American Band”) but I think
you’ll be far from disappointed.
Andy York: Question - how have your siblings
reacted to your writing about them? Just curious, no need to answer if it is a
touchy subject.
[[As far as I know they love
it. I’ve only heard from two directly
regarfing my writing (although they often pass along the sentiments of the
other siblings), but in general the family has always been supportive. Allison, the “stay” of “Peanuts for
Breakfast” in last issue, wrote immediately after it came out to tell me how
much she laughed reading it.]]
Dane Maslen:
So amongst his other crimes against humanity Richard Walkerdine was responsible
for encouraging John Colledge, was he? Goodness knows how he can sleep at
night with that on his conscience.
[[Walkerdine has no conscience. He feels nothing. When you look into his yes, there is just
blackness. No emotion, no human
compassion, no moral compass.]]
How
come almost nobody writes me anymore?
Must be my sparkling personality.
Diplomacy (Black Press): Signed up: Melinda
Holley, need six more to fill.
Treachery Diplomacy (Black Press): Signed up: None,
needs seven more to fill. Rules on
request.
There will be another game of By Popular
Demand when this one ends, although I think I’ll include a Joker this time;
that’s where you get to choose one category to double your score each
turn. I may offer another Gunboat 7x7
soon, so keep your eyes open. Other
options are a game of Woolworth, Youngstown or some other map variant. Also thinking about a game of Kremlin. In the Word Game category, I think I will
offer a game of Facts in Five next issue.
Oh, and if somebody wants to guest-GM a game of anything, just say the
word. If you have requests please let me
know.
PS – Anybody interested
in a game of “Sea of Despair?”
Diplomacy
“Wouldn’t It Be Nice?” 2008A, Spring 1903
Austria
(Kevin Wilson): A Budapest Hold, A Bulgaria Hold, F Greece
- Aegean Sea, A Serbia Supports A Bulgaria,
F
Trieste - Adriatic Sea, A Vienna Hold.
England
(Jérémie LeFrançois): F Belgium Supports A Holland, F Denmark -
Baltic Sea,
F
Edinburgh - Norwegian Sea, F North Sea Convoys A Yorkshire – Denmark, A
Yorkshire - Denmark.
France
(Alexander Levinson): F Brest - Mid-Atlantic Ocean, A Holland Hold,
A
Marseilles Supports F Spain(sc) (*Cut*), A Paris – Gascony, A Picardy -
Burgundy (*Bounce*),
F
Spain(sc) Supports A Marseilles (*Cut*).
Germany
(Graham Wilson): A Kiel - Holland (*Fails*), A Ruhr Supports A Kiel - Holland.
Italy
(Don Williams): F Gulf of Lyon - Spain(sc) (*Fails*), F Mid-Atlantic Ocean - English Channel,
A
Munich - Burgundy (*Bounce*), A Piedmont - Marseilles (*Fails*), F
Tyrrhenian Sea - Western Mediterranean.
Russia
(Melinda Holley): A Moscow – Warsaw, F Norway Hold, A Rumania
Supports A Bulgaria,
F
Sevastopol – Armenia, F St Petersburg(sc) - Gulf of Bothnia, A Ukraine Supports
A Rumania,
A
Warsaw - Silesia.
Turkey
(Brad Wilson): F Black Sea - Bulgaria(ec) (*Fails*), A Constantinople Supports F Black Sea -
Bulgaria(ec),
A
Smyrna Supports A Constantinople.
Summer and Fall 1903 Deadline is September 29th 2008 at
7:00am
PRESS
Somewhere
West of the Hobby…The Medicine Show - “WOULDN’T IT BE NICE
TO NEVER BE SICK AGAIN?” the voice reverberated, seemingly magnified by the
sudden silencing of the calliope. It
reverberated over and into the gathering crowd of townspeople, cowpokes and the
girls and patrons from the Heart of Darkness Saloon.
Even
the guests of the Austrian Arms Hotel, across from the saloon, had emptied into
the street. Simon, the hunchback, was
rolling a large red, blue, white and yellow drum; larger than he was tall, from
the rear of the wagon to the spot where the Professor stood, glorious in his
suit and tall stove-pipe hat. He chimed
in enthusiastically;
“To
never be thick again!” With that he
toppled the drum sideways between the crowd and the wagon, where it twirled and
thumped in it’s whirling until it slowly settled into the dust of the page with
a whumpa, thumpa, whumpa, thud.
Immediately the Professor jumped up onto the impromptu stage and raised
his cane theatrically in the air, his cape billowed out behind him and the sun
gleamed from the head of the cane, and from the wax in his long mustaches.
On
the second floor balcony of the Hotel was a well-dressed couple looking down
upon the fray. The man was attired in a
vest and evening coat, a bowler hat in his hand. The comely young woman at his side was
adorned in a splendiferous red satin gown, beribboned hair, and brightly rouged
cheeks. She brushed casually, in a jaded
fashion, at the air with the decorative fan in her hand; her aura of
sophistication and culture only belied by the manner in which she smacked her
chewing gum loudly and vociferously. She
looked sideways at the gent, “Ya’ sure dis is da place Webby?”
“TO
SHIRK THE FRAILTY OF AGE, TO CHEAT THE WEIGHT OF TIME AND DEFY THE
INDEFATIGUEABLE PULL OF GRAVITY!!” thundered the Professor.
“To
thirk the frailty of age, to choose to wathe the time, and defy the inde…the
inde, the tireleth pull of gravity!” echoed the hunchback, with both of his
short arms raised into the air. The
Professor gave him a cross glare with menacingly lowered eyebrows. “Thorry, mathter,” answered the hunchback
sheepishly.
“I
AM PROFESSOR ALEXANDER,” with a broad wave of his cane he indicated the red
velvet banner which hung from the side of the wagon, emblazoned with his name
in large gold lettering upon it, “AND I AM A MAN OF SCIENCE!” He raised the cane even higher, and the
crowd’s gaze followed it up so that they took in the whirling anemometer atop
the wagon. His half cape billowed out
from his body.
Ooohs,
and aahs passed through the crowd of onlookers.
They shuffled about to get a better view, craning heads to see the wagon
and the tall, elegantly clad speaker.
The
well-dressed man on the balcony of the Austrian Arms took it all in, and a slow
smile crossed his lips, he turned his head to the woman and nodded, answering
in his deep voiced drawl. “Ah say, this
is gonna cause more confusion than a mouse in a burlesque show. Assuredly, Madam, we are in the right place.”
“A
man of science is just whut we need,” said a voice in the crowd in a deliberate
and stilted manner. S’ym, who had at one
time or another, met or served a drink to every denizen of Darkness in his
twenty years in the town couldn’t place the voice.
“AND
I HAVE COME FROM THE EAST.” A sudden
thrust with the cane at Thumbelina, the elephant clad in silks and tassels and
wearing a large red crown upon her head. On cue she raised up onto her back two
legs and trumpeted mightily into the desert air;
“AAAAAARRRRRrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooooooarrrrrrrrhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
She
settled back onto all fours with a thud that sent reverberations through the
sentences under the townspeople’s feet, and her ears beat energetically back
and forth buffeting the crowd with gusts of wind. More emphatic ooohs and ahhhs. Mrs. Peabody, one of the town’s ladies
fainted into the arms of her husband.
“Heehawh!!!”
brayed Jasper, answering the challenge, from where he was tied up at the rail
in front of the saloon. Other horses
neighed and pulled at their reins.
Cyril
and Marlow were watching from the covered boardwalk of the Chacol Noire First
Trust across from the crowd. Marlow
leaning on his broom, Cyril sitting on the steps with a long bit of straw
between his teeth.
‘Hark,
spoit,’ Marlow spat into the dust of the page; “I figger’ Mister Peabody better
take his shot at the missus while she’s out.
That old biddy don’t lay down much.”
“Yep,
yep, yep,” replied Cyril, “wound tighter than my pocketwatch, that one.”
The
door to the bank opened and Jeremie Lefrancois, President and owner of the
Chacol Noire, bustled onto the porch. He
had a kerchief tucked into the neck of his shirt and crumbs were on his
chin. “What is all this fretful
commotion? I was having petit fours,”
said the banker.
“I’da
thought you was on ter yer petit fives or sixes by now, yer Voraciousness,”
answered Marlow.
“Why,
that’s Professor Alexander’s Medicine show,” said the banker!
“Cain’t
slip one over on you. Hark, spoit,” spit
Cyril, “what with the big sign and the elephant and all.” The Banker gave him a sidelong glance, but
the old timer looked steadfastly ahead watching the Medicine show unfold.
“…FROM
THE FABLED ORIENT. I HAVE CROSSED THE SEA OF PRESS, AND TRAVELED THE VASTE
WASTES OF THE TABULA RASA. I HAVE SEEN
WONDERS AND LEARNED MUCH!”
One
of the Wilsons nudged Deadeye in the ribs, “He brags more’n you do.” Deadeye didn’t answer, he just shoved the
speaker harshly, bumping him into another two people watching the show.
“I
just wander why he needs two elephants,” pondered Wandering Eye Wilson. Deadeye turned to look at him, but just shook
his head without saying anything.
“What
could a man of science bring our poor, little town?” said the slow, stilted voice in the
crowd. S’ym turned his head, his blue
furred ears springing up to full attention, trying to place where the voice was
coming from in the crowd.
“YOU
MAY BE ASKING YOURSELVES, WHAT COULD A MAN OF SCIENCE BRING YOU?”
“Woah,”
whispered Elana, one of the dance hall girls from the Heart of Darkness, lowly,
“it’s like he can read our minds!”
“You’d
have to have a mind first, girl,” retorted Ashley, another of the silk and
chiffon clad damsels.
“YOU
MADE AN ASS OF YERSELF IN A SÉANCE?” asked Tin Ear Wilson, with his ear horn up
against his head. The Professor glanced
toward him, momentarily paused, then pressed on.
“I
BRING KNOWLEDGE, I BRING THE CURE,” he held up a bottle of bright blue liquid
that almost seemed to glow in the sunlight, ”I BRING LIGHT TO DARKNESS!”
“He
is certainly a man of huge genius,” said the slow stilted voice in the
crowd. S’ym was moving through to where
he had last heard the voice, but now it seemed to have moved to elsewhere in
the crowd.
“HE
HAS A HUGE PENIS?” yelled Tin Ear.
“Really?”
said Elana, “AND he can read minds. He
would know exactly what a girl wanted.”
“It
would depend on which ‘mind’ he was using at the time,” said Gabby.
“Gentle
ladies, and you noble knights of the sage I bring you elixirs of vitality,”
said the Professor. He had dropped his
voice, had leaned in toward the crowd, drawing them in toward him. It was then that he caught the eyes of the
banker standing on the boardwalk of the Chacol Noire First Trust, and held his
gaze for a brief second and gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Jeremie Lefrancois suddenly straightened and
swallowed nervously. He brushed at his shirt front, his nervous fingers came
across the kerchief still tucked into his shirt collar and he pulled it out,
rapidly brushed his fingers over it and held it in his hands.
“Is
it mid-game already?” the Banker said, not realizing it was out loud.
“NOSTRUMS
OF PHENOMENAL POTENCY AND PROPRIETY,” continued the Professor. “I bring you
PROFESSOR ALEXANDER’S GOOD TIME HALLELUJAH VITALITY ELIXIR! This is NOT a
nostrum of nominal effect, this is no simple extraordinary elixir…it is more
than that. IT IS SUPER-EXTRAORDINARY!”
“Oh,
my. That is much better than extra
ordinary,” said a voice in the crowd, and S’ym just caught the top of the head
over the crowd. A large fellow. Moving again, odd in a crowd that stood still,
craning and standing tippy-toe to get a better look.
“That
IS much better than ordinary,” said Elana. There were mumbles of agreement in the crowd
around her.
“IT
HAS RESULTS THAT VERGE ON THE UNBELIEVEABLE,” the Professor’s voice lowered to
an almost conspiratorial tone and volume as he leaned into the crowd, “some
would say almost mystic.” Now, again
louder, “But it is NOT! It is a physic culminated from the greatest advances of
science known to man!”
“Oh,
my. That is much better than extra ordinary.” Again the slow, stilted voice and now S’ym
had him, a large fellow in blue dungarees, and S’ym had never seen him in town
before.
The
Professor gave a cross look to that part of the crowd and rapped his cane on
the drum stage. S’ym watched as the fellow
flipped a piece of paper over. “Errr,
what can such a wonderous cure do for us?”
“YOU
MIGHT BE ASKING YOURSELVES WHAT SUCH A WONDEROUS CURE CAN DO FOR YOU?”
“He
is amazing,” said Elana!
“WHAT
DID HE SAY?” shouted Tin Ear Wilson.
“My
good man,” said the Professor, looking down into the crowd at Tin Ear, “are you
as keen as you look?.”
“YOU
WANT TO LOOK AT MY PENIS?”
“That
is entirely unnecessary for this procedure,” assured the Professor, “I merely
intend to demonstrate the vitalic properties of my elixir.”
“YOU
WANT TO STRADDLE WHO PROPERLY WHEN YOU DICKS HER?”
“Please,
please…just step forward.”
“STOP
BEING FORWARD, YOU’RE THE ONE BEING FORWARD.”
But the crowd jostled Tin Ear to the front so that he was standing next
to the foot of the Professor’s stage. The Professor in a dramatic motion swept
Tin Ear’s crumpled hat from his head, “AHA!
Ladies and Gentlemen I present to you a bald pate.”
“I’M
GONNA GET BALLED ON A DATE. YOU AIN’T
EVEN BOUGHT ME DINNER!”
The
Professor deftly uncorked the bottle of elixir in his hand and poured several
drops of practically glowing azure liquid onto Tin Ear’s head and massaged it
in.
“EVEN NOW, the elixir works into the scalp and
penetrates the tissues of the skin,” explained the Professor, “it is made from
RARE products…”
“THAT
FEELS MIGHTY GOOD! DO YOU WANNA MOVE A LITTLE SOUTH?”
“…that
I can refine.”
“KIN
HEAR FINE?”
“HE
CAN HEAR FINE,” shouted the Professor, throwing his hands victoriously in the
air, “YOU HEARD IT YOURSELVES GENTLE PEOPLE, ANOTHER MIRACLE CURE!” He pushed Tin Ear away rapidly and beckoned
to one of the dance hall girls, “Young lady, step forward!”
“Me?”
asked Gabby.
“Yes,
you’re a fine specimen of womanhood, a willow among these dusty oaks” said the
Professor, practically leering.
“Shucks,
you sure talk pretty,” answered Gabby shyly.
“But
some women would desire to be, somewhat…better endowed, shall we say.”
“Like
Miss Kitty’s rack? That would be a fine
thing,” answered Gabby brightly.
“We
just take this elixir,” said the Professor, again popping the cork, “and
massage it onto your breasts.”
“Not
unlessen you pay me a dollar first,” retorted Gabby, ”Miss Kitty always says
lookin’s free, but you gotta pay to play.”
Simon, the hunchback, standing at the base of the stage, vigorously
searched his pockets.
“I’ll
just pour a few drops on,” said the Professor, “and you rub it in
yourself.” He dripped four of the
luminous blue liquid drops onto the alabaster swells of her breasts and watched
as she rubbed the liquid over the entirety of her breasts.
“Don’t
forget to do the underthide and the thnuggly partth,” said Simon
helpfully. The Professor pushed at the
hunchback with the toe of his boot, pushing him away from the stage.
“How
does that feel?” asked the Professor.
“It’s
all cool and tingly,” answered Gabby, as the alcohol evaporated off her skin.
“THAT
is the elixir taking EFFECT,” said the Professor dramatically, “here, take a
whiff of the elixir, breath it deep in.”
He held the bottle under her nose and she inhaled of the intoxicating
fumes, her eyes seemed to glaze over and the Professor turned her deftly toward
the audience just as she took a deep breath.
“Oh,
my,” said Elana, “they’re growing right in front of us!”
“Better
be careful not to sit in it,” said Ashley.
Gabby,
woozy from the fumes, had to be steadied by Patrice and Synda.
“IT
ALSO HEALS OPEN WOUNDS, STOPS JOINTS FROM ACHING AND IMPROVES YOUR NIGHT
VISION,” shouted the Professor.
S’ym
watched as the stranger in dungarees looked at yet another paper card and then
shouted into the air, “I MUST HAVE THREE BOTTLES FOR MYSELF!”
“I
am sorry,” intoned the Professor solemnly from the stage, “because the supply
is strictly limited we must ration one to a customer.”
“I’ll
take one,” said Deadeye, waving a hand in the air.
“Whut
do ya want to grow boobies fer?” asked Cookie, who had clicked and rattled up
next to the other Wilson boys.
“It’s
fer my aching joints, ya idjit,” retorted Deadeye, “you should get one
yerself. Yer knee is clicking sumpin’
awful.” Cookie shut his mouth, oddly
with no ready retort to Deadeye.
“I’ll
take a bottle,” said one of the townspeople.
“I’ll have one,” said another.
“Pass
a bottle back to me,” said Mr. Peabody, with one glance to his still swooning
wife.
“My
able assistant, Simon,” said the Professor from the stage, pointing at the
hunchback with his cane, “will handle the transactions.” With that and a flourish of his half cape he
alighted from the drum stage and headed toward the back of the wagon.
Soon
a long line of townspeople were trading their money for the bottles. The hunchback placing the luminous blue
bottles into their eager hands and thrusting bills and coins into a large bag
at the base of the stage.
“Well,
my dear,” said the man on the balcony, “I do believe the show is, as they say,
over. Ah say, it’s done.” He proffered
her his arm, she draped one satin clad arm over his and accompanied him back
inside the room.
The
Banker, Jeremie Lefrancois, stepped down off the boardwalk of the Chacol Noire
and made his way into the crowd, moving forward toward the large wagon.
“Wull
that was quite a show. Hark, spoit,” Marlow commented to Cyril, spitting into
the dust of the page. “Didja’ see that
nod the Professor gave his Crapulence there?”
“Yep,
yep, yep,..almost imperceptible.”
Somewhere
West of the Hobby… A Hole is where nuthin’
is supposed to be…
“Wouldn’t
it be nice to do that again,” asked Miss Kitty?
She sat astride the gunslinger, her pendulous breasts hung above his
head reminding him of boulders poised over a treacherous pass in the Badlands.
“Again?”
said the Duke. He lifted the covers and
looked underneath. “I might have to have
to eat something first.”
“Shucks,
it’s okay Ducky, you did just fine. It’s
not like I expected you to be like the German…”
“Like
the German?”
“You
know, famed Teutonic punctuality. Like a clock…straight up twice a day,” smiled
Miss Kitty.
“Well,
if you want to give me another twelve hours, I’m game,” replied the Duke.
“It’s
okay hun, I just wanted to give you a little something to unwrap for your
birthday,” said Miss Kitty, looking at the pile of chiffon and satin clothing
heaped in disarray at the end of the bed and spilling onto the floor. “Did you make a wish? You know how to blow out a candle, don’t ya. You just put your lips together and whistle.”
She
stood up, her spectacular body naked, and effervescent shimmering in a light
sheen of sweat picked out by the soft sunlight of the setting sun filtering
through the thin lace curtains.
“It’s
almost sunset, I have to get to work anyway,” said Miss Kitty.
The
Duke grabbed his pants and his gun and pulled them on. “Can I at least buy you a drink?”
“Sure
hon, you head on down. It takes me a few
moments to get put back together,” she held up the contraption of a corset and
winked at him. He understood; undoing
the thing had just about cost him an eye.
As
he stepped out the door of Miss Kitty’s room, he heard a second furtive
footstep on the landing. Looking to his
right he saw Mosey, the old prospector, coming out of the room next to him, his
shirt unbuttoned and his boots in his hand.
His sock clad feet placed quietly on the floor.
“Whut
did I miss,” asked the grizzled prospector, squinting at the Duke.
“Oh,
about eight episodes, I’d guess,” replied the gunslinger, “was it worth it?”
“Hell,
yeah,” replied the prospector in a whisper, “I got me laid by one of them China
girls…”
“Bang
cock!” said a shrill female voice from the darkness of the room that Mosey was
exiting.
“Hell,
thought she was still sleepin’, she is INsatiable,” he quickly shut the door.
“You
still owe me a dollar, Round eye!” could be heard muffled by the shut door.
“She
counts good too,” grimaced Mosey.
“You
got enough of that coin left to stand a beer?”
The prospector shook his head, sadly, no. “It’s alright, I’ll buy you
one.” The two headed down the stairs to
the Saloon part of the Saloon, where the crowd had started to filter back in
from the street, and the music had started back up, and the intermittent
cacophony of sounds and conversations filled the air.
Miss
Kitty came to the door of her room and watched the two descend the stairs, she
heard the creak as the door next over squeaked open and she looked and saw Mai
Ling standing there.
“Did
you do okay, Helen,” asked Miss Kitty?
“Yeah,”
answered ‘Mai Ling’, as she reached up and pulled the tape off her face that
pulled back the sides of her eyes, “I just don’t understand why I always have
to be the one that plays the ‘slantly eyed whore’.” She rubbed her fingers on her face where the
tape had been.
“You
the only one with theatre experience,” answered Miss Kitty.
“Yeah,
but I only had one line in that play,” retorted Helen.
“That’s
okay, you only have one line now.”
“Bang
cock!” said Helen and they both laughed.
They reentered their respective rooms to get dressed and head on down to
the saloon for the night.
Downstairs,
the place started to come alive again.
Bruno pecked out a lively melody on the barely tuned piano, and S’ym
sauntered behind the bar and picked up his barmop. He was back in uniform. Deadeye and the other Wilsons stood about the
door, and S’ym saw the banker nervously enter the Saloon, squint into the
darkness, and head for the bar.
“I
haven’t seen you in here before,” said S’ym to the fastidious, slightly paunchy
banker, “what would you like?”
“Well,
I’ve never had a strawberry donut, but I figured it would taste very…very,
American,” said the banker. He still
seemed ill at ease and looked nervously about.
S’ym
frowned, “we don’t have donuts here.”
“Well,
then,” Jeremie, the banker, rubbed his fingers together, and he thought about
his choices, “I will take a stabberou.”
“What’s
a stabberoo?” asked S’ym, his lip curled and one eyebrow arched. He hated fancy drinks.
“No,
it’s with a “u”, not a double “oo”,” explained Jeremie, “it’s my favorite
snack. It’s like a smore, but sort of
like an éclair too. It’s the absolute best of both worlds. Practically dreamy.”
“Yeah,
we don’t have that either.”
“I
don’t understand,” said the banker
slowly, puzzled, “Miss Kitty said you had tarts.”
“Oh,
we’ve got tarts.”
“But
you don’t have donuts?”
“No
donuts.”
“I
don’t understand. I loaned Miss Kitty
money from my bank for donut holes…she had this whole business plan to increase
her market by offering cream filled donut holes,” the banker was now obviously
flustered.
“Did
she actually use the word ‘donut’,” asked S’ym?
He leaned forward and watched the banker closely.
“Well…now
that you ask it that way,” the banker paused, his faced scrunched as he
remembered the conversation, “she said ‘cream filled holes’…but what else could
she have possibly meant?”
S’ym,
broad-faced, looked around the Saloon where the girls were keeping the cowpokes
and the townsmen company. They fawned
and flirted, and a couple of them were ascending the stairs, passing the
gunslinger and the prospector on their way down.
“Not
sure,” dead-panned the bartender.
Elana,
one of the dance hall girls, had come up during this conversation, and she
interjected, “maybe she was talking about some other sort of hole?”
“You’re
not as dumb as you look,” said S’ym.
“But…if
you filled it…it wouldn’t be a hole,” continued the dance hall girl.
“Okay,
maybe you are,” concluded S’ym.
The
banker was confused, “Miss Kitty wouldn’t lie?!!”
“Are
you new,” asked Elana?
The
Professor entered the Saloon, and stopping, inhaled deeply. “AH, SIMON, DO YOU SMELL THAT?”
“Vomit
and pith?” asked the hunchback from his side.
“NO,
COMMERCE! THE SMELL OF MONEY EARNED BY HARD SWEAT, HAULED FROM THE DEPTHS OF
THE EARTH ITSELF. IN THE MINES OR THE
TILLED FIELD, CULLED BY WILL ALONE AND SPENT…SPENT. CAN YOU HEAR IT? THE MUSIC OF THE TILL?”
“Inthide
voice mathter,” shooshed the hunchback, “inthide voice.”
The
Professor headed toward the back of the room, trailed closely by Simon, his
diminutive hunchback assistant. But the
two were suddenly separated as Deadeye, noticing Simon, stepped in front of
him.
“Lookit
that, it’s a dwarf!” said the cowpoke loudly.
He was slightly intoxicated and as always, belligerent.
“I
thir, am a little perthon,” said Simon indignantly!
“You’re
cute as a tick,” said Deadeye and hoisted the hunchback up into the air,
holding him above his head, “I bet you don’t weigh more than a can of beans.”
“PUT
ME DOWN!” yelled the hunchback.
“Okay,
you’re short and you talk funny,” replied the cowpoke.
“I
thpeak funny? You illiterate hick!”
Simon squirmed, and his feet trotted ineffectively in the air.
“You
might want to put those fellas down before they piss on your hat,” Wandering
Eye Wilson said to Deadeye.
Deadeye
stopped shaking the dwarf and looked sternly at Wandering Eye.
“It
is your favorite hat,” reminded Wandering Eye.
“It’s
mah only hat,” retorted Deadeye.
“That’s
sort of my point,” nodded Wandering Eye.
“I
had thix bottleth of beer for lunch,” threatened the hunchback, “I’m good to
go.”
“Alright,
alright,” surrendered Deadeye and lowered Simon to the floor, where he
hurriedly shuffled off to catch up with the Professor. He shot an ugly glower over his shoulder at
the cowpoke as he thtormed off.
The
Duke had by now got to the bar, with Mosey the Prospector, at his side. He felt there were still some things that the
old man could tell him, and maybe a beer or two would pry it out of him.
“S’ym,
I’ll take a sassparilla, and Mosey here will have a brew,” said the Duke.
The
bartender brought the drinks and set them in front of the Duke, “hey, you been
around. See that guy?” he asked the
Duke. He jerked his chin to indicate the large fellow, dressed in dungarees,
that S’ym had watched in the crowd outside.
“I’ve been here for nigh on twenty years and I can’t place him. Never noticed him until the Medicine show got
here.”
The
Duke’s eyes narrowed as he gazed down the bar at the big lug of a man. Large, and looks not helped out so much by
the broken nose and the cauliflower ears, and the glimmer of recognition seemed
to brighten at some hind part of his brain.
“Yeah,
back in the Hobby,” answered the Duke, “I saw this guy, Chowder…Chowder
Yarmouth, went three rounds with the Wichita Woemonger, back in the day.”
The
rest of the story was interrupted. The
Singing Cowboy, Bolt Cimmaron, climbed up on the stage next to Bruno at the
piano. His pristine white clothes and
hat, so white they shimmered even in the gathering darkness of the interior of
the bar, catching and reflecting the last of the setting sun through the
windows of the front. He had laid aside
his guitar and he hoisted a banjo on his hip.
“Ladies,
gents…small person there,” said the Singing Cowboy with polite interruption,
and a nod to the back of the room. Bruno
quit playing as the Singing Cowboy continued, “I got a little song here, I’d
like to play for you, called the Devil Went Down to Darkness.” His fingers picked over the banjo strings and
a quick, lively tune jumped in the air, and he began to sing:
Ol’
Scratch dropped into Darkness an’ he was looking for some dots to steal
He
was in a mood of foulest brood and he was looking to grease the deal
And
he came upon a game of chance in that hell-hole of a town
And
Scratch said “Boys, just drop those toys and I’ll tell you what’s going down.”
“I’ll
bet you didn’t know it but I’m a poker player too,
And
if you care to take a dare, I’ll make a bet with you
Now
y’all play pretty good poker, boys, but give Ol’ Scratch your ear,”
As
he put one hoof on the table and another on the chair.
“See
I’m a sportin’ man myself and this game I love to play
But
on the shelf I’ll put myself if you’ll start without delay.”
“Now you ain’t never met me, but I’ll tell
ya’ cause it’s true,
I’ve played a game against some names much
better at it than you.”
Players sharpen up your lies, hone your
treachery
Ol Scratch is here to teach you fear, and
the game of Diplomacy
If you win you’ll get a ribbon and a wooden
plaque
But if you lose, Ol’ Scratch your soul is
his to sack.
“You’re playing stud and hold ‘em, boy, I
see you’ve won a roll,
Cards ain’t shit when it comes to wit, and
won’t corrupt your soul.
Here’s a game that will test your brain,
your silver tongue and wit
Impelled by your driving will and your
unwillingness to quit.”
“So put away those cards of chance, your
chips and coin of gold.
We’ll start a game to put yours to shame;
dare you be so bold.
Just take these pasteboard maps, my
friends, and these colored blocks of wood
Place them on those dots, just so, where
they’ll do most good.”
“Each board has seven takers and there’s
boards enough for all.
And for the con I’m puttin’ on, this crowd
is mighty small.
Now here’s the stakes - those dots you’ll
take - the meaning of it all.
When the end is here, and death draws near
and the writings on the wall.”
Travelers and locals come play this game
obscene,
And starting from just three small dots
stab right up eighteen.
If you want that eighteenth dot to reach
your final goal,
You’ll trade your soul for a heart that’s
made of coal.
When the game is over, when all is said and
done
Where seven souls had started, at the end
there’s only one.
So if
you’ll sit down in that chair, right there, and let me tell you what
I’ll
show you the glory and the fame deriving from the dot.
My job’s
concerns and worries, now you just go have fun.
I’ll
keep the score, I’ll mind the door, I’ll tell you all who’s won.
I’ll assign the games, I’ll track the
names, I’ll tally up the scores,
I’ll get you food and drink, I’ll judge,
they’re just the tourney chores.
Now as I said, this crowds quite small and
I spy an empty chair.
It’d be a shame, make the game so lame,
were it to continue bare.
I’ll just sit, here a bit, to keep the
table warm.
And push some blocks in a round or two,
though it is not the norm.
Ol’ Scratch plucked from his case smoking
embers of darkened wood
that glowed from inner heat, and simmered
where they stood.
“These are blocks of my very own, whittled
from my soul,
Soaked with oil of envy and lit from my
heart of coal.”
“I bet you didn’t know it, did I tell you
I’d ranked eighth?
I know the records twelfth”, he says, “but
you can’t take that on faith.”
He pushed his blocks across the board and
they made an evil hiss
“I know you’ve made good moves, but you
weren’t expecting this.”
A game was done, then another won - all
settled with dispatch.
When all was said and done the tally
flattered Scratch.
“The tourney’s done, the games are won.
There’s the matter of the fee
It seems you all are losers, and your souls
belong to me!”
“The math is true and simple”, he said it
with a grin,
"I told you once, I’m a son of a
bitch, and the best that's ever been."
“I’ll don the wreath, and keep the fame,
adding laurels to my name
And the rest of you can just go hang your
heads in failing shame.”
So the con had come to pass, and we’re here
to ponder verse.
All in all, how the chips did fall, how it
could have ended worse.
So too, the lesson learned, true and simple
as the math,
You lay down in the mud with dogs, you’re
gonna need a bath.
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.
