Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Felisa Lloyd Matsumura-Tamaribuchi is a frequent editorial contributor to EFNB and the current Tokugawa Chair of Shinobi Studies at Kaizoku University. Widow of Sensei Takeharu Matsumura-Tamaribuchi of the Black Shadow Clan, who died in 1997 at the age of 108, Ms. Matsumura-Tamaribuchi was born in Omaha, Nebraska in 1977 and is perhaps the most visible and vocal pro-ninja activist in the nation today.

I write to you today to decry the illegal, racist, fascist, and high blood sugar promoting imprisonment of a great and shining light among the Shinobi–or, to use the popular but less enlightened term, ninjas. I speak of course of Grand Sensei Shi No Te, Death’s Hand, also known as Adder’s Venom, Chill-of-First-Snow, and The Tickler. He is a political prisoner, a symbol of the shameful treatment of ninjas by world governments and the world media.

His crime? Merely blowing up a bus full of pirates on their way to Plundercon 2002. I, and the greater ninja community, hold that this act was a political testament, an expression of free and therefore protected speech, and a great favor to all cities and gas stations at which the bus might have stopped. For, as detailed in the absolutely true and oft-repressed text Protocols of the Elder Pirates, pirates are and have always been secretly planning to take over the world and plunder it like a giant galleon from the shadows. Grand Sensei Death’s Hand was merely striking in self-defense, as part of the inevitable move to drive the vile pirate invaders back into the sea.

His incendiary actions and unpopular slaughter aside, Grand Sensei Death’s Hand is a man of peace, as are all ninjas. The ninja way is the way of peace, only slipping a muffled dagger between the ribs of a victim when they really, really deserve it. Grand Sensei Death’s Hand has dedicated himself to education and peace during his imprisonment as well, penning gentle children’s books like Kill All Pirates, Pirates are the Assassins of Our Future, and Dear Children Reject Pirate Lies. Entertainers, politicians, and Nobel laureates have all called for his release, drawing on their vast experience in those honest and directly ninja-related fields.

I urge you, dear readers, to write to your government–secretly controlled and financed by pirates as it may be–to demand the release of Grand Sensei Death’s Hand. I urge you to take direct action as well, through protest and possibly making things explode. Blow up your own buses full of pirates. Join us in the great Shinobi liberation struggle by donating your time and talents. We ninjas are waiting for your help, silently, in the shadows, wearing black, with concealed daggers, and also perhaps some smoke bombs.

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“Fire!”

The road pirates’ vehicle had pulled alongside the fleeing Sani-Cola drink truck, let fly with another burst of fire, this time ripping apart one of the rig’s rear wheels. Stricken, it jackknifed a bit before one of Captain Higgs’ men cried out and pointed at the cab: the trucker had removed his off-white wifebeater and was waving it as a white flag.

True to the Jolly Roger they drove under, Higgs’ men let the driver go, giving him naught but a boot to the ass for the trouble he had caused in trying to run away. He then set a crew to work replacing the Sani-Cola truck’s tire so his men could drive it to a safe chop shop while their armed and armored Toyota Hilux did the same with a skeleton crew.

“A fine bounty boys, an excellent haul!” Even selling for pennies on the dollar, the Sani-Cola, Diet Sani-Cola, and Sani-Cola Xtreme filling the truck would net each of Higgs’ men a fine prize share. As was his right, the captain took the contents of the cab for himself, including two fine beaded seat covers, an ashtray full of change for toll roads, and highly addictive Trucker’s Choice brand pep pills worth a few bucks on the side.

The crew of road pirates had just about finished making their catch ready to drive when Captain Higgs’ first mate, who had been scanning the horizon, pointed and cried out. A Mitsubishi with neon lights was approaching at high speed, and through his spyglass Higgs could see several figures in black on its running boards.

“Damn! Road ninjas!” he hollered. “Battle stations, all of you!”

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Samaha Suzimuha’s earliest childhood memories were of the devastation wrought on his family’s home in Tokyo by American firebombing. Academics in later years continually tried to link his work as a composer to apocalyptic themes, anti-militarism, and anti-Americanism. Suzimuha’s response was always the same:

“Music is a vessel to be filled with one’s own politics. Flowerpots have no politics.”

After a brief period of lyrical romanticism following his compositional studies at the University of Tokyo, Suzimuha embraced an extreme modernistic sound. His works were written in an aleatoric style often bordering on musique concréte with strong echoes of Krzysztof Penderecki and John Cage. The composer wrote several large-scale commissions like his Suite for Scythes Falling on Cherry Blossoms (1970) and Music for the Coming War (1975), but the same avant-garde tendencies which attracted notice in critical circles made Suzimuha unpopular with concertgoing audiences.

To make ends meet, especially following a protracted divorce from his wife Michiko beginning in 1978, Suzimuha wrote music in his signature style for television commercials, animated shows, and films. The highly personal style and lack of “easy listening” qualities that his work possessed were highly polarizing; when he took over for an ill composer for the anime series Demon-Capturing Sakura in 1986, for instance, he only scored seven episodes before massive public pressure led to his replacement. His score for the Toho kaiju film Gyokusai: Shatterer of Worlds (1987) was an even greater debacle, with the music reportedly leading to nausea, seizures, and vomiting in cinema aisles. The print was pulled from circulation and reissued with a new score by Oshita Kishimoto and the soundtrack album recalled, making both rare collector’s items.

Disillusioned, Suzimuha retired to a small house near Sapporo he had inherited from relatives and continued to compose in near-total isolation. Admirers would seek him out, and supported him with donations; for his part, Suzimuha was happy to compose and sign small pieces for those who went to the trouble of seeking him out. But he eventually earned a reputation as a “cursed” composer, because his latter-day music was not only technically challenging but because many–even his fans–reported discomfort, hallucinations, and occasionally even temporary psychoses after listening to it.

The last ten years of Suzimuha’s life were spent in isolation, working on what admirers called his Symphonia Ultima or Ultimate Symphony. Suzimuha himself called it Kawara, perhaps in an ironic counterpart to Gyokusai; the former meant “roof tile” and the later “shattered jade.” Japanese pre-war militaristic thinking had linked the two concepts, positing that it was better to be a shattered jade than an intact roofing tile.

He died in his sleep of unclear causes in 1996, at the age of 56. His housekeeper found him facedown at his piano, unfinished notes for Kawara in front of him. Despite being all but finished, the work has never been performed and copies of it circulate amongst collectors with a massive dollar amount attached. Rumors that those selfsame collectors wind up dead, institutionalized, or suicidal remain unsubstantiated.

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“What has led you to the Xia Valley and the Game of the Dreaming? What do you hope to see when the blossoms take your mind?” asked Datai Chu, the duly appointed and empowered 217th Overseer of the Games. “As late entrants, you will be subject to my ruling on whether or not you are worthy of the games and the Flowers of Xia.”

Ru Shim, a former soldier in the Qingdu Emperor’s great army, replied “I seek the Game of the Dreaming that I might prove myself worthy of the renown I once possessed. I hope to see a field of worthy enemies that I might lay low in fair combat.”

Qiang Zhou, a mercenary and fortune-seeker, said “I seek the Game of the Dreaming that I might earn the purse for winning it. I hope to see a challenge not possible in the waking world, that I might overcome that which no man has ever faced.”

Jiang Tang, a farmer facing the loss of his land if he could not pay a debt, was direct: “I also seek the Game of the Dreaming for the purse, as it is the only thing that might save the land that my family’s hands have tilled for generations. I hope to see a circumstance in which a hardworking farmer can see his toil rewarded.”

Xuan Li, a wanderer facing the end of his long and proud line due to his inability to sire an heir, answered last: “I seek not the Game of the Dreaming, but rather the flowers themselves. Win or lose, I hope only to see a vision of what might come to pass if my line were not wiped from the earth.”

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“All right,” said Qrglr, Feaster of Souls. “This is your Soul Cube.”

I looked inside. “It looks like a normal cubicle to me,” I said. “Doesn’t really scream ‘Department of Infernal Affairs’ to me, you know?”

“It’s true, we have had great success getting Soul Cubes adopted as an industry standard, but the idea was ours first!” snapped Qrglr, burbling what smelled like lighter fluid from the largest of his maws.

“Sorry, sorry!” I said, holding up my hands. “It was probably more impressive in 1965, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Interns are confined to their Soul Cubes unless called for,” said Qrglr, gesturing into the space with one slimy, horrific psuedopod. “There, they will work in advancing the cause of the Other Side. This includes both inflicting and receiving suffering.”

“Inflicting?”

“The terminal is equipped with a computer and telephone. Annoy people, steal their personal information for your own gain…use your imagination. As long as somebody somewhere suffers, and every action is detailed in triplicate Form #97-32b, it’s acceptable. Just be sure to meet your quota, or you’ll be slain and consumed by the Beast of Revelations.”

I took a step back. “The Beast is here?”

“It’s a species, not a single organism,” sighed Qrglr with a gout of flame and a belch that sounded like the distant wailing of infants. “Naturally, being in the Soul Cube will also subject you to torment. This torment is used strictly locally, to maintain lower-level and supervisory demons without taking resources from the Great Stream of Agonized Souls that we send south every day on a dedicated fiber optic line.”

I was already beginning to regret my decision to intern the Infernal Affairs. “What kind of torment?”

“Triplicate forms to use the bathroom, lunches stolen from the fridge, random Soul Cube invasions by Glrktr the Taker of Hostages, and of course no pay,” said Qrglr. “Also the coffee sucks. But it’s what you’ve got to do if you want to sell your soul in a buyer’s market.”

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This entry is part of the NaNo Excerpt Blog Chain 2013 at Absolute Write.

The High Ide who had been shadowing the party for some time now made their presence known, appearing on either side of the “gate” and the canyon. They were wearing the traditional Ide garments, which the Lower Ide only sported in pieces, and armed with a mixture of bows and arrows and old muzzle-loading rifles. The High Ide who had spoken, though, was armed with a Winchester repeater of older manufacture, and he kept it trained on the group as he spoke.

“You are not welcome here, in the Ide lands or the settlement of Gailebesh,” the High Ide continued. “By order of Kunan, son of Mainagha the High Chief, turn around and leave these lands at once. Your failure to do so will mark you as enemies of the Ide and we will rain down upon you without mercy.”

Virginia understood enough Ide to get the meaning, if not the nuance, of Kunan’s speech. “Kunan? Who we saw with Naquewocsum?” she said, mangling much of the syntax but managing to make herself understood.

“Ah, so you are the enidiiagil I saw in the chief’s tent, insulting him with your presence,” said Kunan. “Do not think that we will tolerate you on behalf of our brothers, and do not think that I will hesitate to kill you now because I did not do so then.”

“Most noble and respected Kunan of the High Ide,” said Dr. Eggebrecht, whose natural faculty with languages and careful study had granted him an impressive mastery of the Ide tongue in a comparatively short space of time. “I am Dr. Dana D. Eggebrecht of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington DC, and these are my escorts. We understand and respect your defense of your borders from interlopers, and would ask only a moment of your time that you might listen to what we have to say.”

Virginia pursed her lips. There were a few words in Eggebrecht’s speech she couldn’t make out, but it was clear he was being much more polite—obsequious, even—with the High Ide than he had been with the Rangers risking their lives on his behalf.

“Do not slander us with that title,” sneered Kunan. “There are no High Ide and no Lower Ide, only the true Ide and traitors who consort with murderers, thieves, and tricksters.”

“My most humble and sincere apologies, O Kunan,” Eggebrecht said. “Please forgive my ignorance in using the only term for your noble and mighty people that I have ever known. Will you accept my remorse, and accept my offer of parley?”

“No,” said Kunan. “We of the true Ide do not stoop to parley with those we know to be violent, base, and false. I reiterate my earlier command: leave us at once.”

“Please, O noble Kunan of the True Ide, hear me out,” Eggebrecht, a slightly desperate inflection in his voice. “I seek access to your most noble settlement of Gailebesh not to settle or even to trade, but to observe for a short time your ways that I might educate my own kind, the enidiiagil, how better to respect the True Ide lands and the True Ide ways.”

“No,” Kunan repeated. “Your honeyed words ring hollow, enidiiagil. Observation is but a prelude to invasion, and we of the true Ide have sworn never to let outsiders into our midst. This is our most sacred vow.”

“But…but…I have letters of introduction, O wise Kunan!” Dr. Eggebrecht fumbled through his portmanteau and produced them. “One from the City Council of Prosperity Falls, signed by all, and another from the wise Chief Naquewocsum who is known to you.”

As much as she disliked being at a disadvantage, surrounded by people who did not like her and with weapons trained, Virginia had to admit that she enjoyed seeing Eggebrecht squirm.

Kunan laughed. “What good are your speaking-papers, enidiiagil, to one who cannot read? And what good is the word of a band of treacherous enidiiagil and the false, fallen Ide who, while our brothers, were not strong enough to resist the temptation of the enidiiagil when they came among us sowing destruction and discord?”

“The Smithsonian Institution sent me, can’t you appreciate that?” Eggebrecht cried, the veneer of elaborate politeness in his words beginning to crack. He also slipped into English without realizing it. “I am under orders to preserve your culture and your ways through observation! I have your best interests in mind! Would you rather have nothing left to mark your passing when ignorant enidiiagil like these lunkheads around me massacre you all as ignorant savages?”

Kunan narrowed his eyes, and his lips compressed to a thin line.

“Oh, my apologies!” Eggebrecht said hastily in the Ide language. “I did not mean to-”

“If we cannot defend our ways by our own hand, they are not worth preserving,” Kunan said in clear, if accented and somewhat halting, English. “Your offer does not interest us, Dr. Dana D. Eggebrecht of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington DC. For the fourth and final time I must refuse your request.”

The Smithsonian man could only sputter helplessly, waving his worthless papers and looking to the Rangers as if they had some power to alter the situation.

“Bring the wagon around, Mr. Sullivan, if you please,” said Prissy quietly. “We’re going.”

“What? After coming all this way? Surely even a moron like you must admit that we can’t give up so easily. We can try additional arguments, bribery, something…anything! I simply must be allowed into Gailebesh for the continuance of my studies!”

“Dr. Eggebrecht,” said Jake. “They are losing patience with us, and they have us at a supreme disadvantage. Even with those weapons, they could kill all of us in half a minute flat. You can think up other ways for them to turn you down elsewhere.”

“Your enidiiagil drover speaks wisdom,” Kunan said, again in English. “I would heed him.”

“Honored Kunan, we thank you for your patience,” Prissy said loudly. “We will bear your answer back to our people and inform them that you do not wish to be troubled further, if you are willing to grant us safe passage back the way we came.”

“What are you doing, you fool?” Eggebrecht began. “You were put at my disposal, and-”

Prissy reached into her bustle and produced a Sharps Pepperbox, and pointed it so close to the Smithsonian man’s face that it touched his nose. Shocked, Eggebrecht said nothing further that was intelligible.

“Very well. You may leave, and tell any who will listen what you have heard here today,” said Kunan. “My Guardians will track you to make sure you do not renege on your word as is the enidiiagil way.”

“Thank you, O honored Kunan,” Prissy said. “Mr. Sullivan, the wagon.”

“A word of warning: do not expect us to be so accommodating should we meet again,” Kunan said.

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“Gob,” said Eyon, for their hired sellsword goblin would answer to no other name, “why have Gullywax and I never seen your face?”

“Gob’s face is not important to the job,” came the reply, full of metal and echoes as it issued from the holes in the creature’s helmet.

“But what if you were to lose your armor?” pressed Eyon. “How would I recognize you?”

“If Gob were to lose its armor, Gob would shortly lose its life,” was the reply. “Recognizing Gob would be useless at that point.”

“That’s another thing,” said Eyon. “Why do you call yourself ‘it’ all the time? Why not ‘he’ or ‘she’ or something?”

“Master does not know about gob ways, so Gob will forgive him his ignorance and his insult,” replied the mercenary goblin.

“Gobs are given no names at birth,” said Gullywax, overhearing the conversation. “They must earn a name other than that of their species through their deeds and by asserting themselves over lesser gobs. A gob with no name and no followers is not considered worthy of even a pronoun.”

“How awful!” cried Eyon.

“Awful? Gob finds it awful that humans with no accomplishments and none to command by might, rather than by coin, are entitled to names. Gob history is uncluttered with names to remember, and Gob’s own family is nameless back to its most recent ancestor of consequence.”

“Is that why you’re a mercenary?” asked Eyon. “Is that why you’ve kept working for us despite how little we can pay and how little chance we have of succeeding?”

“No,” said Gob. “Gob will speak no more of it.”

The mercenary charged a short way up the road, out of earshot, muttering something about reconnaissance. Eyon was about to follow when the lad felt Gullywax’s hand heavy on his shoulder.

“Ho there, boy,” he said. “Tarry awhile. There is one more thing you must know about gob names.”

“What’s that?”

“When a gob is defeated, or cast down, or when one loses all its followers, it loses its name,” said Gullywax. “It is treated as if the bearer of that name has died until the gob does something to earn its name back.”

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“You misunderstand me, madam,” said Schloss. “The Ungenießbar collection of the Kochenarchiv serves as a documentary record of the worst cooking of all time. If you hope for your sister to be entered therein, you must prove to me that her dishes are as awful as the Concrete Cakes of Zurich, the 1000 Screaming Demon Death Fugu of Kagoshima, and the Six Day Colon War Latkes of Kibbutz Shlomi.”

“Here, try it,” said Hanna, carefully handling a normal-looking cupcake with a heavy welder’s glove.

“I’m sorry, madam,” Schloss said, raising a hand. “I can only gather documentary evidence, not first-hand accounts. We from the Kochenarchiv have been forbidden to taste possible entries since we lost Weiss and Braun to the Doom Salad of Vancouver.”

Hanna nodded. “Very well. Shall we step next door, then?”

The preschool next door had been converted into a makeshift hospital to handle overflow after the bake sale had gone terribly wrong. One patient, lashed to a cot, jerked madly about, floaming at the mouth. Another ran madly in circles, gibbering madly that “only the finest warrior goblins were fit to be chosen.” The patient closest to the door simply thumped his head against the wall, deliberately, endlessly.

“These are people that ate your sister’s cupcakes?” said Schloss, sounding both impressed and concerned.

“Oh no, herr doktor, said Hanna. “They just licked the bowl.”

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“I think this games of ‘Hunters vs. Infected’ may have gotten a little out of hand,” said Mikey.

“Oh, really?” said Jake. “What was your first guess?”

“Maybe the fact that we’ve holed ourselves up on top of Squibb Hall with canned food and Nerf snipers on the roof,” Mikey said. “It’s kind of spooky, but it’s just what Dr. Jonsen said would happen.”

Jake shrugged. “Well, I don’t see why we shouldn’t see it out anyway. We’ve got snipers in place, belt-fed Nerf machine guns, and the game ends on Sunday.”

“But they turned Kevin, and he knew your plans from the beginning,” said Mikey, playing with the green cloth tied around his harm that marked him as a ‘hunter.’ “He could gather up everybody and plan an assault that could overrun us.”

“Mikey, he’s a guy with a red bandanna tied around his arm, not an actual undead monster,” sighed Jake. “The rules of ‘Hunters vs. Infected’ are very clear: when a hunter is tagged by an infected, they become an infected, and they are not allowed to use any hunter weapons or knowledge in the game after that.”

“But what if he does anyway?”

“Then we shoot him between the eyes with this,” said Jake, brandishing his Nerf XP-7000 battery-powered, laser-sighted assault rifle. “We have enough darts to finish them off.”

“And these things can fire mini-screwdrivers if we run out,” said Mikey. He picked one up, loaded in his magazine, and blasted it off; it landed with enough force to bury itself in the weak and crumbly concrete of the abandoned dorm’s rooftop.

“Mikey!” Jake cried.” You know the rules! Modifying Nerf weapons to fire ordnance other than official Nerf-sanctioned ammo is strictly forbidden!”

Before Mikey could respond, one of the sentries cried out. “Infected!”

The Squibb Hall stairwell door crashed open, and a mob of students with red armbands began to pour out.

“That bastard Kevin! He must have used the steam tunnels to get in without being seen!” cried Jake. “Open fire!”

The two Nerf Dushka-138 automatic guns opened up, but the charging students ignored the rain of foam from the sky.

“Cheating! That’s cheating! You’re cheaters!” raved Jake, brandishing a copy of the official rules. “You have to lay down when you’re hit!”

“Uh, Jake?” said Mikey. He was looking at the students’ pasty complexions, vapid eyes, and torn clothes with some degree of alarm. “I don’t think they’re playing the game anymore.”

“They’re not?” Jake watched the horde overwhelm a sniper post on the far corner of the roof and tear the frat boy manning it to shreds. “Holy shit, they’re not! Quick, give me some mini-screwdrivers!”

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“If you gentlemen will just follow me,” said Thérèse d’Uturry, “I will show you where the Huns are billeted in our outbuilding so that you may surprise and capture them.”

Lieutenant Delacroix nodded, and motioned to his poilus to follow with bayonets fixed. They’d had put up with the antics of that crazy woman and her insistence on running her parlor as if she were in high society City of Lights Paris instead of in a ramshackle chateau with lines of combat trenches snaking around the heights it occupied. But soon they would be able to capture a store of prisoners and occupy that strong point as a fait accompli without any further fuss.

“Have I told you about my Paris season, in 1903?” said Thérèse as she led the French soldiers down a muddy and shell-pocked path to the icehouse where the Germans were supposedly holed up, their guard down due to the Uturry “hospitality.”

“Frequently,” grunted Delacroix.

“I would have made such a splash in the cabaret scene if I’d been allowed to stay,” sighed Thérèse. “Did I tell you that I was courted briefly by Clemenceau? I might have made an honest man of him had I not been called back to my chateau to care for my dear family.”

“I’m sure,” Delacroix muttered.

Thérèse slid open the icehouse door and gestured at the floor. “Run in when I open it up.” She gripped an iron ring in the floor and wrenched it up. The door thudded to the ground next to a canvas-covered lump that was the only other thing occupying the space.

Delacroix and his poilus rushed in, with the second man in line brandishing a light for the others to see by. The Germans were there, a scouting patrol’s worth just as Thérèse had said, seated on stools, huddled around the coals of a cold and dark furnace. There was no response to the lieutenant’s barked orders, in German, to surrender. His men looked at each other, bewildered.

The Huns were already dead, to a man. Someone had carefully posed their bodies, to the extent of even placing cigarette stubs and glasses in their hands, in the cool and dry environment of the icehouse.

“What is the meaning of this, Mme. d’Uturry?” demanded Delacroix. He turned to look up the steps…just in time to see that the canvas covering of the object upstairs had been swept away to reveal a loaded Hotchkiss machine gun. Grime from the battlefield still coated the barrel.

Delacoix began to croak an order for his men to open fire, but their full-length Lebel rifles with fixed bayonets were too unwieldy to maneuver in such a tight space…just as the Germans’ Gewehr 98s had been. The lieutenant tried to bring his own Chamelot Delvigne revolver to bear, but the sight of a bloodstained Luger on the floor told of a similar, futile action on the part of the German oberstleutnant.

Thérèse opened fire. These men would stay here, with her; they would join her ever-growing circle of admirers.

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