Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Applause Cricket
Sloeclaeppa applausus

Unlike most true crickets, insects of the genus Sloeclaeppa have evolved to draw sustenance from human emotion. They tend to congregate in performance venues, concert halls, and anywhere else someone may be expected to perform, and whenever a suitable silence presents itself, they will chirp loudly and feed on the resulting embarrassment, shame, and other negative emotions. Some researchers believe that they can only hydrate themselves through flop-sweat, but this remains unclear.

“Applause crickets have been known to chirp in the interval between a performance and the resulting applause, as they are able to get by on the small amount of emotion generated there, but they tend to prefer unforgiving venues and comedy clubs which offer much greater engorgement. The Apollo Theater in New York has been trying to rid itself of an infestation for years.” – Dr. Phineas Phable

Quilting Bee
Planetoftha apis

Quilting Bees are unlike the closely related honeybees in that they don’t construct hives or produce beeswax, but rather use their stingers to sew a flexible clothlike structure used to contain honey and brood young. The cloth is renowned for its warmth and durability, and rural peasants have long been known to smoke quilting bees out of their blankets before winter in order to make use of the fabric and the honey it contains during the lean times.

“The bees’ quilts were very susceptible to clothing moths, which meant that even the most carefully maintained one never lasted but a season or two.” – Dr. Phineas Phable

Infinipede
Multitudius incomprehensibili

Infinipedes are seemingly normal millipedes, and have the same habitat, diet, and behavior as other myriapods. However, they literally have an uncountable number of legs, despite the fact that they clearly must have a discrete number based on observations. The Deep Brown supercomputer at the University of the Rift was designed specifically to automate the task of counting an infinipede’s legs, but it ran out of processing power after only 12 minutes of sustained counting.

“The first myriapodologist who attempted to count an infinipede’s legs was driven to madness, and had to be subdued after he tried to attack a mathematician while shrieking that number theory had failed the infinipede, not the other way around.” – Dr. Phineas Phable

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The most important thing to keep in mind in this age of social media and instant communication is the life cycle of information. Information has always had a life cycle, of course, but we are now in a position to study it as never before in real time.

We see the beginning of the aforementioned life cycle when a piece of information mates with another piece of information, after which the female information lays eggs. The eggs hatch in 12-24 hours into information larvae, also known as memes, which voraciously devour information of other species, including their own. Once they have grown and survived for a period of time, they will pupate in a chrysalis or cocoon, emerging as a fully mature information ready to begin the cycle anew.

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The first generation of the SCNF Mobile Artificial Intelligence Armor, or MAIA, had a sophisticated neural link system that housed a compact but scalable artificial intelligence. It was designed to learn from its user, adapting its preferences, controls, and other functions for maximum combat efficiency. In turn, the system fed the user information from an internal database of tactics, strategies, schematics, and tolerances.

In the earliest days of the conflict against the Vyaeh and their conscripted races and mercenaries, MAIA-equipped troops were hugely successful in boarding actions and other ship-to-ship combat. Their ability to fight in low or zero gravity gave the SCNF a decided edge once the opening ambushes and encounters of the war were over with, and they were decidedly superior to the Vyaeh Enhanced Marines or Tuy’baq Armored Skirmishers that formed the marine compliments aboard enemy ships of frigate size or larger.

Eventually, though, a key programming flaw became apparent: the flow of information between a MAIA operator and the suit’s integrated AI core was essentially unregulated thanks to the SCNF’s haste in designing and testing the neural link. As such, the AI rapidly took on the neural patterns of the operator and vice versa, leading to repeated incidents of operators going on a rampage when threatened with disconnection from their suits. SNCF Command was willing to overlook such incidents as long as the MAIA units were necessary to the conflict, but circumstances soon changed.

First, the Vyaeh were successful in reverse-engineering the technology, which resulted in the appearance of Executor and Adjudicator Armor among their starborne troops. A permanent fusion of genetically modified Jul-Thun or Ryteg subjects with advanced armor, the Executor and Adjudicators were far more complex and expensive but easily superior to the MAIA troops. Second, the SCNF introduced the MAIA-II, an improved unit that corrected most of the teething problems of the original.

When the SCNF attempted to demobilize and deactivate MAIA troops, though, there was open rebellion among their ranks. Hundreds were killed and an unknown number of MAIA units went rogue. The AI and organic portions thereof, freed from restraints and interference, essentially became a single being. As a result, the organic portion–the pilot–eventually atrophied and died. Sealed inside their combat armor, their corpses became mummified while the gestalt which the AI core had become continued to direct the MAIA armor.

They exist to this day, inspiring horror with their imposing visage of deteriorating metal and mummified organics, often working as pilots and mercenaries for those with no scruples. The current generation of MAIA units, the MAIA-IV, are occasionally deployed against their older brothers where and when they are found. The SCNF maintains an SOS (“shoot on sight”) policy toward all MAIA-I units to this day.

Inspired by this image.

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The mummified and discolored skin around the glowing points of light that were the lich’s eyes softened, the great sloping brow beneath what long and stringly strands of white hair remained to him lifting in surprise. “Lady Syn,” he croaked in a voice that was tomb and sepulchre doors creaking on their hinges.

“Lord Verice.” Dessicated flesh about the other lich’s sunken cheeks and her own ember-bright eyes grew gentle, even compassionate–and expression they had not worn for countless years of sorcery and undeath. Tentatively, she reached out a hand that was alive with dark magicks and ran it over Verice’s face, recoiling not at all when it rustled across parchment-thin spots or the jagged hole where once had been a nose.

“It has been so long,” Lady Syn said with uncommon gentleness.

“So long.” What might have been a tear, watery and impregnated with vile preservatives, slid an oily path down Lord Verice’s cheek.

“I have…done things,” Syn said softly. “As you can see. Things that not all would be proud of.”

“You have done what you must,” said Verice, sadly but firmly. “As have I.”

“Do you think…that perhaps…we could…?”

Verice shook his head. “It has been too long hasn’t it? Do we even remember how to feel the way we once felt?”

“The memory will have to be enough,” Syn croaked sadly. “Or the memory of the memory.”

Inspired by this image.

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Bear’s wounds were so great that he could no longer walk, no longer use his weapons. The gobs had assumed him to be dead, a piece of worthless fluff no longer worthy of the slightest consideration now that he had ceased to hack and slash at them. Bear had cannily maintained his silence while they were about, but once they had moved on in pursuit of the girl, he cried out for aid.

It was a risk, to be sure. He might attract more gobs, or something worse. But with his body torn up in battle, there was no other way for him to continue to serve the girl as he had since the day she had come home, when they had met on the playroom floor. His service, and the completion of the Unspoken Promise, was greater than any threat from within or without.

“Hello there, little toy bear.” A silhouette loomed over Bear, the size and shape of a small child, maybe half or less of the girl’s age. “Do you need help?”

“That is correct,” said Bear matter-of-factly. “I have lost my charge, she who is as my sister, she who I have sworn to protect and see through from birth to maturity in a promise unspoken to her parents on the day of her birth.”

“That is an awfully big promise for such a small bear,” said the shadow. “I can carry you for a bit, if you like.”

“That would be most kind of you,” said Bear. “I have no way of repaying your kindness, which makes the gesture all the more noble.”

It wasn’t until the shape picked Bear up that he noted something odd. The child-sized shape’s grip was watery and cold, and the presence of shadow and indistinctness of features did not dissipate with distance or the strength of light. “I hope you don’t think it rude of me to ask,” said Bear, after they had walked for some time, “but what might I call you, and what might you be?”

“I am a shade, and you may call me Shade, for you see I do not remember any other name I might have had,” was the reply. “Long ago, something dreadful happened, and I must wander from the Gobwood to Childhood’s End again and again until I can remember what it was.”

“That seems a terrible punishment for something unremembered,” said Bear in a kindly tone.

“It is not so bad,” replied Shade. “And it is much better with a traveling companion. I try to help others when I can, and the Gobwood is always full of those that need my aid.”

Bear saw the wisdom in this, and did his best to engage Shade in pleasant conversation as they walked. In time, the two came to the edge of a great crag overlooking a forested valley with jagged uplifts in the smokey distance. Atop one of them was the ragged shape of a great pleasure wheel.

“The Great Eye,” whispered Bear.

“Childhood’s End,” said Shade sadly. “The end of my journey, and the beginning of yours.”

Inspired by this image.

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Q: How does intellectual property change hands?

A: The process begins when one copyright lawyer approaches another. Bedecked in its finest plumage, the initiating lawyer will preen and present itself. If the other is receptive, it will allow the display to continue; if it is not, it will chase the other away, flinging handfuls of steaming lawsuits. Once the initiating lawyer confirms that the other is receptive, it will perform the Copyright Dance, an interpretive gyration that may or may not be protected by international copyright treaties and domestic statutes (depending on if it is recorded or not and whether the recording is transformative). If the Copyright Dance pleases the receptive lawyer, they will allow the transfer of intellectual property to begin.

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“Remember the Miss Highway Patrol Pageant?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. Misty Jennings adding another trophy to that dusty old shelf she’ll mope over when her looks finally go,” said Tess. “You and I both know that she buys those things by blowing the judges that swing her way and bribing the ones that don’t with half the prize money.”

“I’ll be honest and say that I didn’t feel that the Miss Highway Patrol Pageant wasn’t in keeping with the dignity of the station and the officers thereof,” said Greer.

“What she does is never in keeping with anything but her own vanity,” sniffed Tess. “The only thing holding her back is all those pretty college girls in Cascadia, with rich parents and plastic surgery. She knows she could never beat them in a fair fight, so she gets to beat all us here in Deerton in an unfair fight.”

“What if I were to say,” Greer drawled quietly but amiably, “that the state patrol is in possession of something which might tip the balance away from our favorite poster girl?”

Tess was quiet for a moment. “I’d ask what it is, and how much it would cost to let it off the leash.”

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Let me tell you a little story, and then maybe you’ll understand why we do things the way we do.

A tourist–a kid whose parents were tourists–found something that they thought was neat on the beach. A little seed with three lobes, radial symmetry. The parents didn’t think anything of it, let the kid bring the seed home in a bucket of seashells and sand. Customs didn’t even inspect them.

Week later, parents notice a little three-petaled flower growing in the kid’s bag. It smells awful, so they throw it out. Two weeks later, those smelly flowers are all over the dump and none of the garbagemen can breathe. Three weeks later, and weird-colored vines are showing up all over the town full of more flowers.

People start talking about things with three legs stomping around in the parts of town where no one can breathe after about a month. Not long after that, they get hungry and start dragging people in. Nobody gets a good look at them, because they breathe and sweat the same poisonous fumes that the flowers do. It’s not long before the whole place is a ghost town.

You might think that would be the end of it, but it’s not. The stuff just kept spreading, and soon there were flowers with three lobes, fish with three lobes, nasty predators with three lobes, and all of them were making things more poisonous by the day. They tried to blast them out, but that only spread the seeds further. Because they didn’t go through quarantine, the family that took a vacation on X-23 wound up unleashing a cyanide-based ecosystem at home, and the entire planet had to be abandoned.

That’s why we have quarantine, and that’s why it lasts as long as it does. Not to bug you or inconvenience you; to keep your planet from being colonized and destroyed by something you were dumb enough to bring home with you.

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CARL: This is Carl Drake, play-by-play commentator for NBS Broadcasting, coming at you live from the NBS Sports Channel 3’s telecast of the Cup of Worlds.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. This is Tom Hicks, color commentator for NBS Broadcasting, renewing my objection to the pointlessness of this endeavor while one of the left wings for Transylvania’s soccer team writhes in agony and calls for a priest in a futile attempt to get a time-out.

CARL: We’ve been over this before, Tom, we’re to call it “football,” not soccer, or NBS will stick us on the Canadian National High School Field Hockey tournament in Calgary.

TOM: That’s right, Carl, but I am long past the point of caring on this. “Soccer,” a contraction of “Association Football,” has just as much of an inalienable etymological right to exist as “football.” It’s not even an Americanism; they used it in the UK for 50 years before they began to root it out with the zealotry of a Salem witchfinder.

CARL: That may be so, but all the signs say “football” on the field and in the logo of our sponsoring organization, l’Association Mondial pour la Pratique du Football or AMPF.

TOM: That’s right Carl, but surely you can’t fail to appreciate the perversity inherent in a sport invented in the UK using an affected French name for its governing body, to say nothing of the sport’s name remaining untranslated therein. Linguistic perversity does seem to be a particular facet of this girls’ game.

CARL: Now Tom, you’re not going to tell me that you still hold to that hoary old American stereotype of association football being merely a sport for girls. It’s got a large and growing–and passionate–following among Americans of all stripes. In fact, many have predicted that it is finally getting a toehold in our society.

TOM: That’s right, Carl, but I for one am sick of the implication that not being as nutty about the sport as the rest of the world is a sign of some sort of innate inferiority. It’s a game, and telling someone that they are less of something for preferring a different game is like criticizing someone for not enjoying Super Mario Bros. It’s ultimately meaningless, and only the continued AMPF lusting after American dollars keeps it in the conversation at all.

CARL: Maybe we should continue this conversation at a later time, Tom. It looks like Picodegallo is about ready to drop the charade and rejoin the fray now that the referee has ignored his pleas to be administered the Last Rites.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. Perhaps we’re better off reflecting on the significance of the Cup of Worlds and what it means for the victors.

CARL: It’s certainly worth reflecting upon, Tom. As many of our international viewers are already aware, the winner of the Cup of Worlds–be it Transylvania or the People’s Republic of Katanga–will gain total control over the world’s resources for a year. They will also be granted dominion over the Great Portal, free to invade or demand tribute from any of the scattered realms of the multiverse during their tenure.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. They are both lusting after former champion Riograndia, which used the phenomenal cosmic power of the Cup of Worlds to annex large sections of the neighboring Republica Juliana and to set its president-for-life atop the Throne of Skulls.

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Introducing Crocodyne™ Ultra, the sports drink from the makers of the nation’s #1 sports-related beverage, Crocodyne™ Classic. Crocodyne™ Ultra still has the essential salts, sugars, and day-glo food coloring of Crocodyne™ Classic, ingredients and features essential to building a healthy physique and maintaining hydration when used alongside diet, water, and enough intense exercise to burn off the 320 calories from sugar in every bottle.

But the fans spoke, and we listened! Crocodyne™ Ultra also includes the remains of used up basketballs, baseballs, soccer balls, and footballs–at least 1% of each Crocodyne@ Ultra bottle is balls, guaranteed! That’s .5% more balls in your mouth than leading competitor PowerDyne™ Max! Crocodyne™ Ultra also includes authentic blood, sweat, and tears from actual athletes, harvested from such at Crocodyne Sportsatoriums, Sportsaterias, and Sportsgulags. By forcing them to sports so that we can harvest their essential juices, Crocodyne™ Ultra gives gainful employment to retired athletes who, thanks to rampant and chronic steroid use, are unfit to reenter society.

Crocodyne™ Ultra. For when you blindly accept unsupported claims and slickly repackaged Olympian imagery in the media.

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