Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

SENATOR ZEBULON T. MUDDLEFORD (D-FL): I like my hand. I’ll see you your “yes” vote on a highway appropriations bill and raise you one “yes” vote on a bridge to nowhere.

SENATOR RUTHERFORD L. CUBBS (R-NV): Page!

PAGE: Yes, Senator?

SENATOR RUTHERFORD L. CUBBS (R-NV): How many bridges in Senator Muddleford’s state equal the highway appropriation in the pot?

PAGE: 2.5, Senator.

SENATOR ZEBULON T. MUDDLEFORD (D-FL): Very well, “yes” votes on 2.5 bridges to nowhere.

SENATOR ALOSYIUS J. URSINE (W-IL): Is there even that much nowhere in you state?

SENATOR ZEBULON T. MUDDLEFORD (D-FL): We can always make some. Senator Ursine, are you going to ante up or fold?

SENATOR ALOSYIUS J. URSINE (W-IL): Getting too rich for my blood. Will you gentlemen accept an abstention on an ethics censure vote?

SENATOR RUTHERFORD L. CUBBS (R-NV): Throw in a “yes” vote on an authorization for the unconstitutional use of force and you’ve got a bet.

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“And so,” intoned Mwa the Mole gravely, “we take comfort in knowing that Mone the Mole died doing what he loved.”

Mone the Mole’s widow, Naabi the Mole, comforted her pups as Mwa the Mole continued his remarks.

“Digging tunnels and eating earthworms, those were Mone the Mole’s great passions. We all remember the stories about his tunnels, which seemed to get longer with each telling, and the fine earthworm sashimi he used to regurgitate from time to time.”

The pallmoles shuffled forward, bearing Mone the Mole’s mortal remains, still with bits of dirt from the cave-in and chunks of earthworm in his mouth. Mwa the Mola and Naabi the Mole were not sure if Mone the Mole had died from the cave-in or from choking, but either one counted as doing what he loved.

“And thus, we commend Mone the Mole to the air. Oxygen to oxygen, nitrogen to nitrogen.”

Gathering around the hole opened in the ceiling, the pallmoles reverently chucked Mone the Mole out of it.
moles “burying” their dead aboveground

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Sean saw it too late: his hiking partner had forgotten to douse the ashes of his campfire.

“Mike, wait!” he cried. But it was too late.

The high-caliber round put Mike down clean; he toppled face-first into the ashes, his blood quenching the embers that his fire bucket had not.

Half a mile away, atop a ranger watch tower, the bear regarded the scene through the lens of his 20x Leupold. His spotter nodded, and the bear ejected his 7.62mm brass into one outstretched paw. He then tucked it behind the band of his campaign hat.

“Only you,” he growled. “Only you.”

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“And if you stand here,” said the University of Northern Mississippi tour guide, “you can see the football stadium, the baseball field, and the student union all at the same time!”

She had led them onto a raised platform atop one of the four hills that made up the campus. While looking at the three visible landmarks simultaneously, an orienteer and soon-to-be freshman noticed a snaky pattern inlaid in brick below their feet. “What’s that?” she said, gesturing at the convoluted, folding-in-upon-itself design.

“Oh, that doesn’t mean anything that I’m aware of,” said the tour guide. “But the view is-”

She was interrupted by a loud harrumph from a nearby bench, where someone was sitting bundled up in a coat against the summer heat. “Doesn’t mean anything that you’re aware of?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a pretty symbol,” the tour guide said.

“I’ll have you know that is a labyrinth, designed after the famous Labyrinth of Chartres Cathedral, and one of the later expressions of a cultural shape that is innate throughout world history. From the Cretans to the Romans, to the prehistoric inhabitants of the Solovetsky Islands, the labyrinth–as distinct from the maze–has one of the richest cultural heritages of any symbol in history. This particular iteration is often thought to be used by pilgrims as a substitute for a costly and dangerous trip to the Holy Land!”

“Geez, it’s just a little squiggle,” the tour guide said. “Lighten up.” She led the group down the hill and away, with a sidelong look.

“Hmph.” The speaker took off their hat and jacket, shaking their snout and rubbing their horns. “Just a little squiggle to you, maybe. To a minotaur, it’s heritage. I bet you wouldn’t feel the same way if I said that Sigma Qoppa Nu was just a bunch of letters.”

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Q: Why was the triangular ratio unable to get a home loan?

A: Because it needed someone to cosine.

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Many people have wondered how the small town (pop. 137) of Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) in Mississippi got its name. The road signs for Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) were a constant source of amusement for out-of-towners and frequently stolen by pranksters until the town ordered them replaced with painted boulders to deter theft in the manner of Shitterton, Dorsetshire.

It has been suggestion, by analogy with the town of Bad Fücking in Saxony, that the name Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) is simply another language that seems scatalogical to English speakers. After all, Bad Fücking simply means “the baths of Fuecke’s people” after a long-dead merchant named Johannes Fuecke.

However, none of the theories about the origin of the name Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) have thus far held up to scrutiny. The oft-repeated tale that it has its roots in a Cajun place name, Beau d’Holey, neglects the fact that “Holey” is not a known word or place name in French. Another theory, that the town was named after a hole in a local butte, is belied by its location in board-flat Mississippi floodplain country. And despite the suggestion in a Saturday Night Live skit from 1987 that brought the town a burst of worldwide notice, there never was a “Cyrus Q. Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”), Esquire.”

Even the notion that the name was adopted with full knowledge of its actual meaning is troublesome, as the scatological term is unknown before 1859 (and then only in the West) while Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) was founded in 1822. No source reflecting on the humor of the name can be found in any contemporary accounts, even from the Union troops who occupied the area in 1863 and who would have had good reason for a laugh at their adversaries’ expense.

In the midst of all of this, the town of Butthole (pronounced “beaut-hoe-lay”) is laughing all the way to the bank. Despite being overwhelmingly rural, conservative, and Republican, the town nevertheless makes a healthy profit selling t-shirts and souvenirs in person and online.

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At Pelusium, when the Persians and Greeks shattered his lines, did Nakhthorheb have any idea that three thousand years of an Egypt ruled by Egyptians was coming to an end? Or that his defeated kingdom was only to suffer ten years under the Persian yoke before being made part of the largest empire the world had ever seen?

The Egyptians had a story in which Nakhthorheb fled the country, fled to Macedonia, and sired Alexander the Great, his eventual successor in secret. I prefer to think he watched the Macedonians parade through the Siwa Oasis from beneath a cloak, and smiled.

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The primary religious faith for humans in the Kingdom of Pexate and other states that were once part of the northern Crimson Empire is the Universal Sepulcher of the Creator, also known as the Universal Sepulcher, the Sepulcher of the Creator, or the Sepulcher of the One. “Sepulcher” is an obsolete word for a lavish tomb, and this reflected the overall belief among adherents that the Creator (whose holy name it was forbidden to speak) had been slain in mortal combat with Muolih, the Destroyer.

According to the most familiar version of the narrative, after crafting the world and its inhabitants, the Creator was challenged for primacy by his one-time right hand, Muolih. Their conflict spilled over into the world at large, and many of the sapients that exist in the world are held to be the result of their battle. Many humans believe, for instance, that goblins and orcs were created by Muolih as shock troops while ascribing elves and dwarves to the Creator to bolster Its ranks. Needless to say, this view is not shared by the sapients in question.

At a final great battle, Muolih and the Creator supposedly slew each other. The Creator was laid to rest in a fabulous tomb–the search for which has incidentally consumed many an adventurer–and Its servants now act in Its name to preserve the world. For, as the stories go, the Creator promised that It would return to life after an aeon of slumber on the eve of the fateful battle. At that time, all rights would be wronged–as they would for those souls who joined the Creator in Its repose.

Conversely, Muolih was consigned to the abyss after its death, but its followers are supposedly constantly seeking to revive it with offerings of souls and wicked deeds. Thus, for the Sepulcher’s faithful, good deeds lead to notice from the Creator’s proxies and eventual redress of wrongs, while bad deeds draw the gaze of the Destroyer’s minions and the possibility of consignment to its abyssal funeral pyre.

In Pexate, as in most of its neighbors, local groups build their own Sepulchers as focuses of worship, either to the dead and dreaming Creator, to Its still-vital intermediaries, or to those noble souls felt to have joined It. Memorials are held regularly, and many choose to take their devotion still further by taking up the life of a monk or friar.

The Sepulcher is regarded with varied feeling by other sapients. Elves often find it convenient to profess belief, especially if they are in high positions, while often remaining secretly devoted to the Eternal Way. Dwarves, whose religion was thrown into turmoil by the fall of the Shattered Isles, converted to the Sepulcher in great numbers though many remain dedicated to their native Twilight Courts of Dvangchi and Qingvnir. Orcs by and large regard the Sepulcher with contempt in favor of their atheist Hamurabash, though there are some converts in larger human cities. Goblins follow the precepts of the Sepulcher but in a unique way, seeing themselves as tainted by their association with Muolih and bereft of leadership and succor but what they provide for themselves.

And it goes without saying that just as the other sapients are not monolithic blocs, neither are humans. While the Sepulcher is the majority faith, the New Order (or often simply the Order) rules unquestioned over many of the southern lands of the Crimson Empire, and the Way of Being is also popular in areas along the great trade routes.

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Envy you the artists and their chosen canvasses
The writer poised at desk with quill in hand
The painter poised over palettes of mixed oils
The composer with liqid-flowing baton in hand
The photographer with viewfinder pressed to light
Politician, diarist, singer, and architect
Cook, stylist, surgeon, and businessman
Not for their gifts, not to envy them those skills
But for the simple fact that anyone who creates
Anyone who makes, anyone who crafts, anyone at all
Has made their mark upon our world, enduring
And will live larger-than-life, forever, eternal
So long as even a single creation remains

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There it was, again: the unmistakable outline of a cuttlefish, all eyes and tentacles beneath a looming mantle. Drawn in what seemed like chalk but indelible and raised to the touch–a paint pen, perhaps, or something similar. Like the others, it was on metal rather than the surrounding pavement, a street elevator door this time rather than a drainpipe or capped steam radiator.

I added another pin to the map that was evolving on my cell. Since seeing my first cuttlefish graffiti a month ago near the Modern Times bookstore, I had noticed them proliferate across the city where I worked as a delivery driver. Always on metal, always on white, always more and more of them.

Once, I delivered a package to a deli whose owner was trying to scrub one of the glyphs off of a standpipe. It resisted his best efforts with rubbing alcohol, turpentine, and even sandpaper. I lent him a bottle of the Goobusters liquid we use to get rid of sticker residue, and not even that potent petroleum distillate made a dent.

What initially started as an idle way to pass the time on my various delivery runs quickly became a mild obsession. As I saw more and more of the things, always on metal, always on something connected to the ferrous sinews that ran beneath the city, I began to feel increasingly uneasy.

The pins on my map were beginning to resolve into a discrete form, and it was not a form that bespoke a crude campaign of stick-it-to-the-man scribbling.

It was a form that suggested the closing of the world in a maelstrom of madness.

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