Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

It was a longer and harder road than it once had been to get between the Outland Empire and the Eastern Empire. Bandits were a problem, as were the general lack of mechanics and spare parts. But perhaps worst of all for the poor souls attempting to drive from coast to coast was the near-total lack of entertainment options.

Winona Greenwood had aimed to change that for going on ten years now.

Her businesses, side by side, straddled the old road right as it emerged from the mountains. The one that people saw first was “Treasures for Lovers – Romanticals,” Winona’s combination adult bookstore, adult novelty store, and exotic dancery. If ever anyone needed a little extra push through the door, its sister shop “Treasures for Livers – Intoxicants” was there.

Quaddlebaum ran the businesses day to day for Winona. He had an accountant’s mind for detail and was the only one capable of managing the enormous amount of scrip that came through the door, everything from universal exchange e-credits to Outland Empire scrip to silver coins pounded out on some godforsaken die in Ativia. But only Winona had the showman’s eye, the nose for glitz, that such an enterprise demanded. Quaddlebaum, she often said, would have squeezed the life out of the business in one very profitable week.

When he came to her in the office she kept above Treasures for Livers (the alternative was too loud), Winona was sure it was another minor dispute to be smoothed over with a smile or a sixgun. “One of those Beral boys refusing to pay for diesel again?” she said on seeing his face. “Remind them that it’s not killing the earth if the damn thing’s already dead.”

“No, Ms. Greenwood,” said Quaddlebaum. His wispy hair, what remained of it, was in even more disarray than usual. “We have a joiner.”

“Tell them to get lost.” Many people thoughout the years had thought to work at Treasures for Lovers after stumbling out of the mountains. Compared to the hard work of crossing the continent, handing out novelties and pole dances to a paying crowd must have seemed a pretty sweet deal. Winona only hired locals, though. Until you put down roots, you had no business working for her as anythong more than a shovelboy.

“That’s just it, Ms. Greenwood,” Quaddlebaum continued. “She is…quite insistent.”

“Do I need to get Jacobs down there with his rifle?” said Winona. “You know how much good bullets cost.”

“Far from it, Ms. Greenwood,” Quaddlebaum replied. “The lady in question has taken Jacobs hostage with his own gun, and says that it’s employment for her or death for him.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Good evening, and welcome to Friendly Fire. I am your host and moderator, Dr. Poe Edminster-Caar, chair of the Undead Studies department at Ravensholme University.

Tonight’s episode traces the origins of the most vicious and long-running conflict in the modern world: the Pirate-Ninja conflict. While many of our longtime viewers will recall our previous roundtables, the fear is that constant reports of violence on the nightly news has desensitized our viewership to the conflict. And on this, the most holy day of the Pirate calendar and the 50th anniversary of the extremely controversial Pirate-Ninja War of 1966, it behooves us more than ever to understand the conflict.

Along the way, we’ll hear from NBS’s own Pirate Affairs commentator William “Black Bill” Cubbins IV, pirate-in-residence at the University of Plunder Bay as well as executive director of UPB’s William Kidd Center for the Study of Pirate Culture. Naturally, the ninja viewpoint will be represented by the NBS Ninja Outreach director, Ms. Felicia Lloyd Matsumura-Tamaribuchi, an activist with the Occupy Treasure Island movement, the Sharper Blades, Sharper Minds katana outreach program, and the United Ninja College Fund.

But first, let me remind you, as I always do: pirate ships launch and sink, ninjas assassinate and are assassinated, people talk like a pirate on Talk Like a Pirate Day and remain silent like a ninja on Remain Silent Like a Ninja Day. But in the end, they will all join the ranks of the undead, and either feast upon brains or be feasted upon themselves in the coming Zombie Wars.

And now, a look at the origins of the Pirate-Ninja conflict, starting with the Sea Peoples migration in 1200 BC and the destruction of invading fleets of Chinese pirates by the Kamikaze Divine Wind in 1274 AD.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Mr. Fasty
The world moves too slow for Mr. Fasty. He is always in a hurry, always has the pedal to the polyester. If it means getting there 30 seconds faster, he will push his car harder. You are too slow for Mr. Fasty. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the passing lane doing 10 over or stopped dead at a light waiting for a left arrow: Mr. Fasty means to pass-y, and he’ll tell you so through tailgating, honking, passing on the right, or passing on the shoulder. The cops never see Mr. Fasty, because the light leaving his car will not reach them for several years.

The Slowpoke
Hold your horses there, buckeroo. The Slowpoke is here to tell you that you needn’t be in such a big damn hurry. What is there waiting for you that couldn’t be put off a bit? In taking things easy, being so Type B that he slides over into C, The Slowpoke will drive as far under the speed limit as Mr. Fasty flouts it. Highways startle The Slowpoke into deerlike shock, causing him to pause on the onramp to look for predators. Semis also spook The Slowpoke, and he enjoys taking a long deep breath and a meditative pause before proceeding through a stale green light.

Jumpin’ Lane Jack
Predictability is the enemy of Jumpin’ Lane Jack. He’s always weaving and dodging, ducking and bobbing, looking for his next hustle. If he thinks another lane will be faster, or more interesting, or offer prettier oil stains, he’ll change in a second. Weaving more than a carpet maker, Jack doesn’t have time for frills like turn signals and mirror checking. If you’re in his way, it’s your job to fix that, even if he’s cutting across 6 lanes of traffic to make a sharper left turn than Bernie Sanders.

Blocky McGee
Blocky McGee’s dream of being a pro lineman may have died in high school, but the blockin’ urge is still in his blood. He loves nothing more than to match speeds with a car in the other lane and act as a blood clot in our nation’s arteries, gumming up miles of traffic at a stroke. Left-hand turns are also a rare opportunity for Blocky to use the full length of their car to cut off multiple lanes of traffic, or to leave a generous section of their tush peeking out of a turn lane. Blocky is never more at home than when he is sitting in the middle of an intersection after a red, blocking all opposing traffic forever. Watch out for his cousin Blinky McGee as well, a man for whom blinkers only cease when the car is towed to the junkyard.

Distractio Banderas
A car is not a car for Mr. Banderas. Rather, it is a phone booth, a movie theater, a makeup cabinet, a hair salon, a restaurant, a nursery. Life in all its unfairness has dictated that he must drive; very well. But Mr. Banderas will not let that stop him from doing what is neccessary: gossip, The Fast and the Furious 7, foundation, cowlick wrangling, Taco Bell, Distractio Junior. The road will alter itself to suit his whims, and if it does not, at least he will die doing what he loves: texting Cheryl about how he is not doing anything tonight.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The Lanzknecht, the Imperial Lancers, were for many years the dominant military force in the Restored Crimson Empire. Originally, the term was simply descriptive: they were servants of the nominal Emperor who tended to carry lances that they employed as heavy cavalry or in hedgehog defensive formations as infantry.

However, the requirements for becoming a Lanzknecht were substantial: a potential recruit needed to furnish their own horse, their own lance, and their own training. The Empire would only provide uniforms and food, and in many cases the candidates preferred to do these things for themselves as well. In the following years, a Lanzknecht became synonymous with a minor noble, often a younger son of an established lord, who was rewarded with lands as the result of military service.

In practice, the Lanzknecht came to serve as a sort of middle nobility, serving as enforcers, landlords, and foremen through which nobles governed. The ceremonial Imperial Lance, made to a standard pattern but often ornately–and uniquely–decorated, became a common and often hated symbol of the Lanzknecht, with its presence being required at any official functions.

Such was the symbolic power of the Imperial Lance that, when the northern provinces of the Restored Crimson Empire rebelled, the Lanzknecht that were captured tended to be run through and left to rot on their own symbols of office.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Sverdlovsk-83,” said Yuri. Even with headphones it was difficult to hear him over the roar of the Crocodile’s rotors. “Down there.”

Jen looked out the window. The snow was blinding at first, even with the goggles she’d been issued, but once her pupils painfully jerked smaller she could see a number of structures casting stark shadows against the snow. “How far are we from the actual Sverdlovsk?”

“We call it Ykatrianburg now. Hundreds and hundreds of kilometers away!”

“Why did they call it Sverdlovsk-83 then?” Jen said, shouting a little to be heard. “They didn’t really brief us very well,” she added.

“Of course not, why brief you when we have a nice long quiet helicopter ride?” laughed Yuri. “It was a closed city used for research. Aerospace and the space program mostly. They chose the name to throw people off the scent. But if you knew someone who worked there, they’d get their mail through post office box 83 in Sverdlovsk. Hence it has a name like an isotope!”

The Crocodile banked, and Jen felt her stomach protest roundly. “Does he have to do that?” she cried.

“Looking for a lading spot!” Yuri answered. “There should be an old helicopter pad, but it’s covered with snow!”

Jen pointed out the window. “There,” she said. “Right there. That’s the building from the schamatics I saw.” A large satellite dish loomed over the complex, pointed skyward. “That’s the RB-1 Reciever?”

“Correct,” Yuri said. “The centerpiece of Secretary Brezhnev’s plans for space, and the only one we ever built.”

“The original purpose of the RB-1 was communications with astronauts on the moon,” said Jen. “We ultimately didn’t need them for that, so they were never built. What was this one being used for?”

The Crocodile banked hard again. “You’re going to laugh at this,” said Yuri. “But it was intended to recieve transmissions from Soviet space colonies on Mars. He was an ambitious fellow, our Secretary Brezhnev. Loved medals. Never did anything small.”

“So what’s the problem?” Jen said. “The dish clealy isn’t calibrated properly anymore, and couldn’t be without major repairs.”

“The problem,” said Yuri, “is that last week, our RB-1 recieved a signal.”

Inspired by this.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Moulder cracked his rotted jaw back into place. “What’s so hard to believe about that? Billy Night the Wight says he saw a mailman in the Screaming Gulch behind Canker’s. We have video footage to prove it. It’s clearly normal forces at work.”

“Your problem, Moulder, is that you’re just too damn gullible.” Skully rolled the pinpoints of light in her empty sockets that served her as pupils. “The netherworld is paranormal. Nothing normal has ever been proven to occur. There’s always an illogical explanation. Always.”

“Is there an illogical explanation for why you wear a pantsuit when there’s nothing under there but dry ivories?” Moulder said with a crooked grin. “Or why you wear that red wig?”

“There is a perfectly illogical explanation,” said Skully. “I like to have something to scratch, hence the wig. I like to sport something colorful yet professional, hence the pantsuit. You might try taking the same care with your appearance.”

Moulder broke off a nethershroom eagerly growing through one of the many, many tears in his dark duster and slipped it into his maw. “Why’s that?” he said. “It’s just going to get torn up again.”

“Ugh.” Skully turned away in disgust. “Look, we’ve got a zombie or a white walker in a mailman suit to investigate. Just try to keep an unreasonable, weird explanation in mind, okay?”

“We’ll see about that,” said Moulder. “The normal is out there.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

MELINDA: Welcome back to Dragon Hoarders, I’m your host Melinda Doe. Now, Rustwyrm, tell me why you have this microprocessor from a 1984 PC Jr. on your hoard.

RUSTWYRM THE SCOURGE: Well, Melinda, there are trace amounts of gold in most computer circuits. As such, I felt this motherboard had a place in my hoard, until I could melt it down and refine the gold.

MELINDA: And how long have you had it, Rustwyrm?

RUSTWYRM THE SCOURGE: Since January 17, 1985, 5:17 AM MST. You have to understand, I was just starting out with my hoard at the time.

MELINDA: Do you really think, after 31 years, that you’ll ever go through the time and labor intensive process to refine it into gold?

RUSTWYRM THE SCOURGE: It also has sentimental value.

MELINDA: And the mountain of other motherboards?

RUSTWYRM THE SCOURGE: Also sentimental.

MELINDA: Rustwyrm, your cave is full and on the verge of collapse. You need to work with me on this. Now, be honest: keep, sell, or trash?

RUSTWYRM THE SCOURGE:…sell. I hear the Chinese pay a good price for this stuff.

MELINDA: Great. Now, what about this stack of Teenie Beanie Babies?

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“I have been thinking for some time about this,” Neltoq said. I had a hard time concentrating on what he was saying because his anatomy was really fascinating–the way his body was enshrouded by deeply interlocking layers of plates through which he breathed and spoke. He was and yet was not a simian made of living armor with four matte black eyes that were remarkably expressive.

“Why?” I said. “Why is ending your life on your mind?”

“Because, counselor. I feel–deeply–that I owe it to my species to reproduce. To take my place among the Garden of Elders and pass on my characteristics to the next generation. One Ultoq can aid the Project now, yes. But what about multitudes, my sons and daughters, when they are of age? Surely that’s better.”

I put down my notes. “I…I don’t understand,” I said. “Gelb told me you were thinking of ending your life. It sounds like you’re planning quite the opposite.”

“Oh, my apologies, counselor. I thought that you knew about my people’s life-cycle.” The wheezing rhythm of Neltoq’s voice sounded concerned rather than angry. “The Ultoqs that most know, like myself, are but larvae. Once we reach a late stage of growth, we undergo our final metamorphosis into an Elder. They are non-intelligent filter feeders, not unlike the sponges with which you are no doubt familiar, and which live only to send out vast quantities of young into the sea to begin the cycle anew.”

“I’m so sorry.” Professionally, I knew that I shouldn’t have said it, but it was the first thing that I could vocalize.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Neltoq said. “In time, all Ultoq feel the need to stop taking the grinyth that delays the final state. It is that which I have been contemplating–ending a life in once sense, but beginning another.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Secret Cat!
More secret than other cats! (which is an achievement)
Secret Cat!
He lives in the shadows! (other cats merely rent in the shadows)
Secret Cat!
An assassin for hire! (if you can afford his fee)
Secret Cat!
You can’t prove he exists (better men than you have tried)
Secret Cat!
He holds back the darkness of the universe! (behold it not for it bring madness)
Secret Cat!
He opposes Public Domain Dog at every turn! (intellectual property is a cornerstone of society)
Secret Cat!
Learn about his adventures once a week (but don’t tell anybody)
Secret Cat!
If you see him on the street, keep walking! (he is not your friend)
Secret Cat!
He holds the reins of the very globe! (don’t test him on this)
Secret Cat!
You may pet his back, but not his belly! (never his belly)
Secret Cat!
Too many secrets! (too many secrets)
too many secrets
too many secrets
too many secrets
too many secrets

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Valjean Un De Teau
A veteran “river rat,” Valjean owns a shallow-draft boat in Bullfrog Landing. When he’s not hunting frogs to sell for fillets, or kicking back a pint of Holin Testin Brew at the local watering hole, he hires his boat out to travelers along the lower reaches of Copper Creek and the swampy borderlands. His bleary eyes and roch manner mark him as a man few will trust, but is his reputation really deserved?

“Back-to-Nature” Johnson
A former gambler and dandy, Johnson decided, after a particularly devastating loss in a game of Faro, to go back to nature. He now wears a grass skirt (if he can be bothered) and bandana only, even if the temperature at Bullfrog Landing has plummeted. He earns his living as a spearfisher in Copper Creek and assists the brewmeister in making Hollin Testin. Rumors abound that he will spill secrets on his days as a gambler or a brewer for the right price.

The Brewmeister
The Brewmeister is the only one who knows the secret of the potent, acidic, and wildly hallucinogenic Hollin Testin brew popular among river rats in Bullfrog Landing. She sells the brew at a premium to all comers but reacts gruffly to any mention of her past and has been known to stab folks who poke too deeply into formula.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!