Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Look, the requirement is simple: to merge the teams, we have to do it.”

“I don’t care.”

“Both teams are losing money. A merger is the only way to perserve any of their legacy going forward. The new city’s already agreed to build a stadium, for Pete’s sake!”

“That’s fantastic, and I’m very excited about it. But I’m not going to budge on this.”

“It’s a simple contractua thing. We have to name the new team something that incorporates the name of the old teams, and this is the only possibility.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care if it scuppers the whole deal, I’m not going to manage a professional sports team called the Thundernuggets.”

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Daranikone’s favorite watering hole was the Mangy Dog. It was so for many reasons: the unpleasant name tended to keep the spineless at bay and out of his hair, for one. The water was murky but free of contaminants thanks to Canem’s skillfull distilling. The food was tolerable, if bland, and it was seared well enough to kill parasites that swarmed in more flavorful but less well-cooked meats.

But most of all, Daranikone liked the Mangy Dog because it served as a filter for those that wished to avail themselves of her services. If the name didn’t scare them away, Canem’s growly baritone often did. The murky water and carbonized meat chased away their fair share. And Daranikone’s familiarity with the regulars meant that the odd loose zipper that came in looking to “prove” his manhood by conquering a tough-as-nails ladytype more often than not left with that same manhood bruised, bleeding, and birdshot.

As Daranikone’s father had said when he was still teaching her to shoot: “It ain’t right, but a lady’s got to defend herself twice as often with half as much. That’s why you gotta give yourself every ‘lil advantage. Shoot first, shoot fast, shoot hard, yeah. But also know that sooner or later that gun’s gonna jam up, that bullet’s gonna misfire, or some trash that ain’t worthy of the name ‘man’ is gonna get the drop on you. And when that happens…the only way you’re gonna come out on top is if there’s people who got your back.”

The regulars at the Mangy Dog had Daranikone’s back. So when yet another man with a strange look came poking around with her name on his lips and on his lisp, she made sure he found here there, in her usual spot, back to the wall and hands on her holsters.

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George and Georgia were products of the 1960s, specifically their parents’ disinclinations to embrace the counterculture. Both their parents had been adamant that their children would recieve “normal names” in maternity wards full of children named Freedom, Autumn, or Elle S. Dee. There were no “Georges” or “Georgias” further up either family tree; both parents just decided to ground their children’s names as much as they knew how short of naming them “John” and “Mary.”

The result was that they both stood out in exactly the same way.

George was the only George in his class, and he was constantly made fun of for having an “old man’s name.” Kids would mock him behind (and often in front of) his back by putting a hand on their spine and gimping about like an elder statesman. Georgia, for her part, got a similar treatment but with poor puns in the mix “Georgia, you are in such a state today,” “Georgia, you are just a peach, aren’t you?”

By the time they met in college, both had enough.

The first thing to do, naturally, was to adopt a last name that differentiated them from the pack. They did this when they got married in 1985, adopting a name that, to their ears, sounded cool but had no prior meaning or association. The next thing was to name their child something that would make them stand out in the right way–bold and distinctive, but not too common or too uncommon. It took a few years, but in 1988 their plan came to squealing life.

This was how Alexandra Quint Dragonir came to be, and how her parents wrote a check with her name that she would struggle to cash for most of her young life–until opportunity and destiny came together to the door like Mormon missionaries.

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During General Hood’s aggressive attack on General Sherman at Mossy Oaks, a Union counterattack broke the Confederate lines and sent them to the rear in disarray. this was the first time in the battle for and investment of Atlanta that one of its key outposts was threatened: the Hartfield-Jackson International Airport.

By 1864, close to 90% of Confederate aircraft running the Union air blockade went through Hartfield-Jackson, with the chance of incredible profits luring pilots despite mounting losses. When the Battle of Mossy Oaks spilled over into the airport, the airline attendants and ground crew armed themselves with Enfield muskets smuggled in from Heathrow to help reform the lines and repulse the Union thrust.

They succeeded, but the front line had moved close enough for Union artillery to begin a bombardment of the Hartfield-Jackson runways. General Sherman’s men did not have the special anti-fortification shells needed to inflict permanent damage on the masonry, so they were unable to blast the airfield into closure. Instead, the Union artillerymen began carefully timing volleys of explosive shot to land just as aircraft were making their final approach. This crude but effective tactic led to nearly 50% of the incoming and outgoing aircraft sustaining direct hits.

True to his nature, General Hood attempted two further attacks to dislodge General Sherman from his positions around the airport, bolstering his forces with the security guards and gate agents freed by the lack of incoming or outgoing traffic. Each attack, made against well-entrenched Union troops, brought devastating losses the Confederates could ill afford. After an attempt to impound the remaining aircraft and fly them into the Union lines failed for lack of volunteers, the airport was closed.

General Sherman’s troops finally took the Hartfield-Jackson International Airport three days before Hood was forced to evacuate the city. They faced a skeleton crew of Confederates who nevertheless made the Union troops pay dearly in blood for each step. Resistance was particularly heavy in the food court and Cinnabon, to the point that an exasperated Sherman ordered the area to be leveled by point-blank double canister fire. One of the cannons used in this operation (the “Cinnabomb”), which cleared the remaing Confederate defenders in a matter of twenty minutes, is still on display at the airport today.

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“My name is Pearl,” said Pearl. “I wear these pearls because, well, people expect it with a name like mine. ‘Look for Pearl in the Pearls,’ they always say.”

“Well, my given name is Beatrix,” said Pearl, “but I’ve always loved pearls ever since I was a little girl. Go my family got to calling me ‘Pearl’ and that’s the name I’ve answered to for 40 years.”

“That’s all well and good,” said the man at the lost and found. “But it still doesn’t tell me who these pearls belong to. The guy that dropped it off just said ‘Pearl’s pearls,’ and that’s it.”

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Robert lay in a heap at the bottom of the grand staircase. His legs were limb, numb above the waist. Dimly, he recalled a meaty snap as he had plummeted: his spine.

“My dear! Oh, my dear.”

At the sound of her voice, Robert cut his way through the forest of pain closing in around him and tried to dig his hands into the floor, to pull himself away, toward the great oaken doors, toward safety.

“My dear! Oh my sweet, sweet dear.”

Orthodontia appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed only in her nightgown. She began descending slowly, making a grand entrance. A pair of silver sewing shears glittered in her hand.

“Stay away,” croaked Robert. “Stay away!”

“You’re not well,” said Orthodontia. “Come, dear. Let me sew you back together.”

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“It’s a shame to see Oscar winners and blockbuster stars shilling in commercials for sleazy pay-to-win cell phone games.”

“Hey, if it pays the bills, it pays the bills.”

“Are…are you playing one of those games right now?”

“I can’t help it! I love the rush when I stomp some n00b good because I’m paying a little bit more than they are.”

“Huh. Looks like you’re the one getting stomped right now!”

“Son of a bitch, you’re right! How did they get all those units?”

“Say, you know what? I bet those stars get a bunch of free credits in those pay-to-win games they’re selling out for.”

“Why’s that?”

“Look at the username. You just got beaten by Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

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It was not the being they craved
But rather the becoming
Attainment was a hollow
Pursuit was everything
Even whilst pursuing
In each new pursuit
Attempts to regain
Even an ember
Of that first
Fleeting
Spark

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Today’s post is in (belated) support of Unicorn Appreciation Day at Fish of Gold. Be sure to visit to express your solidarity!

The last (1975) seal of the Unicorn Society. Courtesy Library of Congress.

Everybody knows that unicorns are endangered, but how did they go from their former abundance to such scarcity, where every last one of them must be appreciated lest they vanish like so many sparkles in the wind?

The answer, as with so many other things, lies with sex. Specifically, reproduction. Unicorns reproduce in two ways: the traditional way, where a mommy and daddy love each other very much, and via tulpa. Tulpa, as the practitioners of ostentatious trendy Tibetan meditation already know, is the creation of matter from force of belief. If you believe in unicorns, more of them will come into being. If you don’t, their ranks will be thinned by natural predation by dark wizards and red bulls and the population will crash.

Recognizing this, naturalists led by John Muir established the Unicorn Society in 1901. Branches were quickly formed all over the United States and Canada, with a Mexican branch opening in 1914 and a European one in 1919 (sadly too late to prevent European unicorns from being slaughtered by dark wizards aligned with the Central Powers). Members met once weekly and participated in a variety of activities designed to increase belief in and awareness of unicorns. Belief Derbies, Belief Races, Believeathons, and even regretful Belief Hazing in the Unicorn Society helped swell the population to its highest levels since 1492.

But it was not to last. World War II sharply curtailed the Society’s activities and their Belief-Ins were no match for the swinging 60s and swingier 70s. The membership reduced to just over 5000, the Unicorn Society dissolved in 1980, merging with the Centaurettes and the Drakebund to form the Society for the Belief in Magical Creatures, which itself went under in 1993 after federal funding intended to help the United States win the dragon race against the Soviets was withdrawn.

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“It really is quite remarkable,” said Burgess, gingerly sipping his warm tea, which he had taken in the kitchen to avoid another staring contest with Mr. Forrestal. “I have heard of and seen many deformities of the body in the literature and as a boy at the freak show. But Melinda is no Mr. Merrick, no gross and twisted creature.”

Mary, who had been put at ease by a shilling and the promise of more, agreed over the sound of her washing. “You’d never think that she were a freak,” she said, “but rather that Master Peter’s wife had a naff with a blackbird. ‘Course that ain’t the case, as those what knew her father see plenty of him in her.”

“Surely there are ways to be…less dependent…on Mr. Forrestal,” said Burgess. “An anatomical curiosity such as hers could command a healthy living in the penny gaff trade, or as a curiosity at the London Hospital…”

A clatter of dishes. “Oh no, sir. Begging the master’s pardon, but that could never be so,” cried Mary.

“Why ever not?”

“Well, you’ve seen her. A delicate, gentle creature with the soul of a songbird. Such a cage would flatten her! And Master Forrestal would never allow it, besides. To see the family name besmirched, his secret shame revealed to all the world?”

“Yes, I suppose not,” said Burgess gravely. “Mr. Forrestal does seem rather concerned with appearances.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Mary said darkly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

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