Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

On the night of August 11, 2010, a cargo steamer was struck by lightning on the Nile river south of Memphis and sank with all hands. An area with a huge concentration of Nile crocodiles, it was assumed that everything was lost–including the steamer’s precious cargo of foam Crocs™ shoes destined for laborers in the Sudan.

However, what the authorities failed to predict was that the lightning strike would impart a charge to the many foam sandals bobbling aimlessly amid the river waves, drawing in and binding the mystical essence of the crocodiles as well as the ancient river civilizations. For just a few hours, the Nile south of Memphis was charged with an incredible and mystic power.

And it was during those few hours that Dr. Omar Ghanem, vice-head of antiquities at the Memphis Mueseum of Cultural History, happened to be kayaking along that same stretch when he was upset by a massive Nile crocodile known locally as Firawn. Omar survived, but emerged from the reeds with incredible powers: the strength and resiliency of the Nile waters themselves, the brute cunning and toughness of the Nile crocodile, and the imperviousness and lack of fashion of Crocs™ foam footwear.

Thus began both the legend and the crime-fighting career of THE CROCONILE, mild-mannered professor by day, and avenger of fashion and footwear related crime after nightfall!

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Kia Eurydice
Slogan: “Never look back.”

Toyota Catbus
Slogan: “Your neighbor Toyotoro.”

Hyundai Icarus
Slogan: “Fly high.”

Renault Vichy
Slogan: “Never surrender.”

Mercedes Oedipus
Slogan: “The mother of them all.”

Mitsubishi Lemming
Slogan: “Take a leap of faith.”

Chevrolet Steer
Slogan: “One ballsy ride.”

Ford Black Widow
Slogan: “Love at first bite.”

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The foyer was muck like the exterior of the manor, shabby but elegant, a potent echo of a golden age that must have been a sight to behold. Codswallop walked in purposefully, politely clutching his umbrella. “Hello?” he said. “We mean you no harm, master or mistress of this house! We pray you take pity on a pair of poor put-upon travelers and forgive us our trespass, that we might have a bit of shelter for the night.”

“Is it really a good idea to go in shouting?” said Rags.

“If we came quietly, they might think us thieves or worse, cowering behind a door with an axe or a loaded blunderbuss,” said Codswallop. “I’ve always said that, if you’ve intentions, it’s best to announce them unless you’ve a very good reason to do otherwise.”

“A wise counsel, my friends.”

The voice came from atop the grand staircase at the far end of the manor’s foyer, where a lady had appeared. She looked at the low end of middle age but was attired in a grand outfit of lace and spun gold. In that raiment, and clutching an ivory cigarette holder besides, she would have fit in at any grand society ball within the last quarter-century.

“As I said, we apologize for intruding,” said Codswallop. “But I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage.”

The woman began descending the staircase slowly and luxuriantly, each click of heels on marble echoing through the grand hall. “You find yourselves in Exiki Hall, my friends, and I am its lady, Marquess Nyartha Exiki. Formerly of the noble Atege lineage before my marriage to my late husband, keeper of these grounds–such as they are–and sorceress of the fourth order.”

“A sorceress!” Rags said with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

She paused, smiling. “I forsee your questions. Don’t let that sorceress bit alarm you, my friends,” Nyartha added. “As part of the terms of my marriage to Lord Exiki, I agreed to be bound here, unable to exercise my powers if I leave the grounds and unable to affect the wider world thereby.”

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“You’ve led an interesting life, haven’t you Codswallop?” Rags said.

“Oh, I never much cared for prattling on about the past,” said Codswallop.

“Why’s that?”

The manservant cut through a fresh swathe of the torrid growth with a machete swing. “I’ve known men–good men–who did nothing but sit around looking back on what they’d already done. Their spyglasses were firmly fixed aft, to give an old expression from my navy days a bit of currency. I find that limiting prattle about one’s past keeps one looking forward.”

“But what if it comes in handy?” said Rags.

“Then, and only then, is a little prattle permitted myself, young sir,” Codswallop said. “But for the moment, I think we’d better concentrate on a few more essential things.”

“Like food?”

“We can go without food for some time, yet. But shelter and fresh water are essential.”

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With the small but deep cut made by the incision bleeding profusely, the man pressed his hands together and then brought them apart. In between, formed as if it had been flash-frozen, was a keen-edged blade, all one piece and falchion-bladed, but entirely of blood held in place by sorcery, uncoagulated but solid.

Rags could see a bright and devilish light in the man’s eyes. “I am the weapon,” he repeated, “and I will cleave your head from your shoulders for Her sake.”

“Look out!” The warning came from Codswallop, the manservant that Eyrie had shackled Rags with. In an instant, he was upon the sorcerous attacker, pulling a sword from his umbrella with the same nonchalant urgency that one would deploy the bumbershoot itself against a squall. The steel rang true against the assassin’s blood-blade even as the airship pitched downward at an alarming rate.

“Hang onto something!” cried Codswallop. “Try to go limp when we hit the ground!”

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A man once asked a tree a question
with no idea if it understood him or not.
His words were taken in, resonating through the bark
as they sunk in over the long slow lifespan of a tree.
And then, miraculously, an answer came forth
carried in the subtle warping of wood and branches
over a span of time that made sense to a slow grower.
One hundred years after the question was asked
and nearly as long after the questioner had died
the answer was complete.
“I F E E L F I N E.”

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Sam ran the gum over the scanner. It beeped twice, and two transactions appeared on the screen:

-1 HPY DY GM – $3.00.00.00

“Hm. $3 for Happy Day Gum? I guess they’re just having a sale.” He thumbed the scanner pad, approving the payment and agreeing to all terms and conditions without reading them, as per usual. The same old ‘overdrawn alert’ appeared, but that was to be expected–Sam was usually in the red until his paycheck arrived.

After he got off the train and up to his one-room apartment, though, he saw that there was a drone in Metromart paint waiting at his door. “Hello sir or madam!” it chirped. “Thank you for your purchase. Unfortunately, there were not sufficient funds to cover it. Metromart asks that you return its property.”

Sam popped a bubble with the gum and sucked it back in. “It’s not that much,” he said. “They’ve never sent a drone before.”

“Collections drones are used for amounts in excess of $1000 ND,” came the response. “Are you refusing to return the item?”

“I can’t. The item is damaged. It’s been opened and destroyed.”

“Metromart is sorry that you have refused to return the item.” The drone whirred and printed out a receipt. “We have remanded your case to a local collection agency for settlement. Have a nice day.”

Sam looked down at the receipt, which spelled out his purchase in slightly more detail than the POS screen had:

1 Happy Day Gum – $3,000,000.00 ND ($300,000,000.00 USD)

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As the mystery frigate pulled alongside Harris’s barque, it ran up a fresh set of colors: all black, with a grinning skull above two crossed needles and a spool of blood-red thread.

“Fiber pirates!” Harris cried. “Full sail! Get us out of here!”

It was too late, though. The pirates fired a shot across the bow, and from the quarterdeck Harris could see the enemy guns being run out before his men even had a chance to man theirs. The pirate deck also bristled with armed corsairs, nearly all women, and an unruly mix of humans, dwarves, orcs, and even elves with the occasional halfling.

“Ahoy there!” A strong voice called from across the shrinking gulf between the two ships. “This is Short Joan Silky aboard the good ship Armscye, and I bid you welcome!”

Taking up his glass Harris looked across the waters to the pirate quarterdeck. A dwarf woman, bedecked in finery and bearing a double brace of pistols, and a cutlass besides, stood on a box addressing him with a speaking-cone, likely one lightly enchanted for extra projection. From what he could see, Harris guessed that Short Joan was, true to her name, clad in expensive silks and a custom-tailored garment that was part peacoat, part petticoat, and all style.

“You will surrender to us all of your fabric and thread, all your garments and jackets, all your boots and leather!” Short Joan continued. “In exchange, we will leave you with your undergarments and your lives, taking only the materials we need for our trade and a few vittles for sustenance! Refuse, and we will run up the red flag and the black thread: all will be cut short and we will take what is our anyway.”

“Run up the white flag,” Harris muttered.

His mate balked. “But sir…!”

“Do it!” the captain snapped. “While there’s still time.”

His colors hauled down, Harris watched as the fiber pirates swarmed aboard, taking every piece of cloth, thread, and clothing that wasn’t sail canvas or underwear. In his skivvies himself, he was sat down opposite Short Joan in his own great cabin. The dwarf pirate kindly provided him with bread and water, but he winced at the sound of the fine bolts of runecloth being plundered from his hold.

“Tell me,” he said at length. “What do you do with all of your prizes?”

Short Joan laughed. “My crew is full of seamstresses, haberdahsers, and milliners. We make fine outfits and sell them at our ports of call, for fancy ladies and game fops, all while keeping the best finery for ourselves and our grand and secret balls on Topstitch Island, our home and port of call. Perhaps we will see you and your crew in some distant port, Captain Harris, and we’ll sell you our wares with no ill will.”

“I would report you as pirates and corsairs rather than see us sold our own clothes back,” Harris replied.

“Oh, captain…who would be able to look their lovely spouse or sweetheart in the eye after turning us and our products away forever? No, lovers of fine tailoring are always powerful, and they know not to trifle with us or risk us boycotting their ports.” Short Joan’s voice darkened a register. “And you’d best not cross us in any event, captain, lest we decide to make up a shortage in supple leathers from your very hide.”

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Caleb
Male, 40s

Gruff, laconic, but not without a sense of humor, Caleb is used to living off the land and using his wits. Many years of living with a changing and dwindling group of people after the collapse have made him aloof at times, and he is not always completely ready for the task of caring for the children. A crack shot and natural tinkerer, though his ability to work with electronics and programming is more one of trial and error. His torso and heart are enhanced, which gives him additional stamina and a bit more toughness.

Trace
Male, 12-13

Talks a lot, tends to babble. The closest to his “grandfather” in temperament. Feuds mightily with Sister. Has a mechanical arm, which he uses for climbing. Easily the most athletic and physically strongest of the children.

Transistor “Sister”
Female, 11-12

Intelligent and driven, but also argumentative and with something to prove. Tends to get into fights. She has a cybernetic leg with a springy “blade” similar to that used by amputee runners. She has an aptitude for mechanical items and is very interested in learning from Caleb.

Resistor “Tory”
Female, 10-11

Very close with Sister but easily led astray and with little regard for consequences. The most cybernetically enhanced of all the children, both arms and both legs are artificial.

Diode “Di”
Female, 8-9

The seamstress and stylist of the group, with a proclivity for making clothing and styling hair, often with disastrous results. One of her eyes and most of her left arm are artificial, which gives her an advantage in this area.

Switch
Male, 11-12

Very quiet and aloof. His eyes are both artificial lenses, giving him a great deal of visual acuity and insight, but he lacks confidence. Easily the best and deadliest shot.

Capacitor “Cap”
Female, 6-7

A natural programmer far in excess of her years, with a mechanical arm that vastly increases her typing speed and a mechanical leg that can serve as a data port.

Chip
Male, 6-7

Looks up to Trace and forms part of his “posse.” An excellent cook with a keen eye for food and a way with animals. Both of his hands are mechanical, and he has worked with the others to produce attachments useful in cooking and cleaning.

Breaker
Female, 5-6

Breaker has two mechanical legs, which she routinely disconnects in order to get into tight spaces. Has an aptitude for vehicles, powered or unpowered, and is often seen in her wagon.

Fuse
Male, 5-6

The other member of Trace’s “posse.” Fuse is very athletic and disdains reading or tinkering; possibly dyslexic. Fuse has a cybernetically enhanced neck, which performs his respiration and automatically filters out particulates. He speaks through a synthesizer, which warbles when overloaded. Thanks to his enhancement, he is capable of breathing water and can live without oxygen for a few minutes.

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