Excerpt


The lands of Haymet, crossroads between the oasis-hopping trade routes between the vast interior deserts of Rutas and the fertile valleys nearer the its coast, have been fought over for millennia. It was a motley collection of city-states and petty principalities when Islamic invaders swept through the area led by the great emir, and later self-appointed Caliph, Karim Al-Usman. The Usmanid Emirate embraced Sufism to an extent unrivaled elsewhere, and was therefore viewed as schismatic or bid’ah by other emirs and rival Caliphs, each of whom had good reason to covet Usmanid lands.

Haymet was also among the earliest conquests by Hamur, the great unifier of the orcish peoples and promulgator of the Hamurabash code under which most contemporary orcs live. Orcish memory halls are still rife with references to ancestors who fought at the great battles of Alyd, Garyssh, and Al-Khopesh, at which the Usmanid armies were annihilated and the last Emir, Tariq Al-Usman III, was captured and executed.

Hamur therefore inherited lands with a centralized administration and an institutionalized religion. Hamur himself was an atheist and his Hamurabash allowed private worship but harshly punished proselytizing. This was a problem for Haymet in particular, as the new orcish rulers found themselves suddenly in charge of an overwhelmingly human, and overwhelmingly Islamic, population. Hamur took an indulgent route, with relaxed standards on what he considered proselytizing; only areas that resisted the imposition of orcish rule had their imams massacred and their mosques converted for use as orcish memory halls.

After the death of Hamur, betrayed and murdered by his lieutenant Ramuh in his moment of victory at the Battle of the Kyssel Pass, Haymet was ruled by one of the cadet lines of his house headed by his son Aluhamur. In the years that followed, however, the fragmented Islamic rump states on the coast of Rutas were reunited and energized by the Fahimid emirs. The Fahimids launched a series of lengthy assaults on Haymet and gradually brought more and more of it under their control. This resulted in considerable strife on both sides: the orcs who had settled in the areas, as well as humans who had begun adhering to the Hamurabash, discarded Hamur’s tolerant stance and began aggressively seeking to suppress Islam in their territories. For their part, the Fahimids refused to consider adherents of the Hamurabash as Ahl al-Kitab, People of the Book.

As a result, anyone following the Hamurabash in the reconquered lands was viewed not as a dhimmi who was eligible for protection so long as they paid the jizya tax. Instead, such humans were regarded as apostates and orcs as musrikun, idolaters, who were required to convert or face execution. These two stances–the orcish authorities’ increased persecution of Muslims as “proselytizers” and the Fahimids’ insistence on the Hamurabash as apostasy and idolatry–led to an unprecedented slaughter and wave of violence throughout Haymet.

Though the Fahimids managed to conquer 85% of Haymet at one time or another, and counterattacking orcs in turn retook up to half of their former lands in return, the conflict eventually became known to both sides as “the open wound,” inflicting ruinous violence and occupation costs on both the Aluhamurids and the Fahimids. In time, both states collapsed; the increasing desertification of the interior of Rutas ruined the orcish state, which had no solid access to the coast, while the Fahimids fragmented in a series of dynastic struggles and were eventually all but occupied by foreign powers.

But the “open wound” of Haymet remains–a patchwork of orcs and humans, Hamurabash and Hadith, both hardened by centuries of warfare and massacres on both sides. Rivers of ink have been spilled over who was in the wrong, who was the aggressor, and who ultimately owns the rich and fertile lands of Haymet. One thing remains certain, though: it remains both a focal point and a sore spot in relations between the largest factions of orcs and humans on the continent of Rutas.

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White white. Endless frigid, colorless expanses, its desolation sparkling in crystal. All the more pale, all the more cold, all the more colorless for the few shades that try to color it, snowy white wearing fresh-ground dirt. Endless in all directions, the doom of the ill-prepared.

What’s that? A blizzard? No, I was talking about the Oscars.

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“Over 150 murders, most of them with no known rhyme or reason,” said Special Agent Johnston.

“Sixty-seven prior arrests and sixty-six subsequent psychological evaluations,” added Special Agent Smythe. “Each reporting more complexes, syndromes, and shades of outright insanity than the next.”

The Snickerer, terror of Cityopolis, had been brought to the interrogation cell in a straitjacket and bite mask. Just recently recaptured, he still wore his trademark motley cap and bells, though it had been checked for sarin nerve gas and other explosives. “Thank you,” he chuckled. “I’m touched you’ve been keeping track.”

“Why’d you do it, Snickerer?” cried Special Agent Johnston, pounding the table. “What was it that drove a former chemical engineer to go so bad and commit such acts?”

“I think it’s time you knew the truth,” snickered the Snickerer. “It was…a wooden banana.”

“A what?” spat Special Agent Smythe.

“A wooden banana. I saw one for sale once, and…why? Why would anyone make such a thing? It served no purpose. You couldn’t eat it, and who’d want to display it? It was an object with no rhyme or reason.”

“A wooden banana? Really?” Special Agent Johnston said.

“If something like that could exist…why, then all bets were off. Anything was possible, all rules were repealed, and there was no reason not to do whatever you wanted. If a wooden banana with no purpose could exist, why…the universe was ultimately meaningless.”

“People put them in bowls,” said Special Agent Smythe. “They’re wood so they don’t rot in decorative fruit bowls.”

“Really?” said the Snickerer. “I had no idea.”

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The tutor sketches her as she poses next to the trophy case, spread across the tarnished scores, the forgotten pride of students long since dead. Stumbling fingers dance across a canvas propped up by textbooks. Her pose is one meant for sunshine and vinyl appliques, not the dusk of after-hours school and the cool light thereof.

She is as a wolf, hunting for what she needs from a mankind that owes her a livelihood, and the tutor’s sketches are her first kill.

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“RANGER SULLIVAN!”

Jake started, jerking his chin out of his palm and focusing on the desk in front of him. Otto Luther, the last remaining Ranger rookie for the time being after the promotion or expulsion of the rest, was standing at the desk with a pile of receipts for reimbursement.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jake said. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“That’s okay, mine was too,” said Otto. “Back to that Orleans madam and her wiles, and the man I had to kill in cold blood in front of her…”

“That never happened,” snapped Jake.

“Well, it could have! Play along, we’ll get people talking at least.”

Jake sighed. “Just give me your receipts. The excitement of being a deputy marshal under virtual house arrest begins.”

Otto dropped a pile of paper scrips, and Jake wearily began to go through them with his good hand, copying each into a ledger in ink.

“Box of 20 rounds, .45 Colt cartridges, Scroggins’ General Store…one breakfast platter, with eggs, Portia’s Saloon…one iron horseshoe, Strasser & Niece Smithy…one-” Jake paused and flipped through the remainder of Otto’s receipt stack. “…make that seventeen receipts for ‘ladies of the evening’ and ‘services rendered’ at the Fantastic Filly in Dunn’s Crossing.”

“And you know what goes in there, don’t you?” said Otto, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “It’d be a ‘shame’ if that got out, wouldn’t it? Poor, sweet, safe Otto is really a stallion in disg~//122.31.822

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~//122.31.822ver the desk. “Otto,” he said. “Whorehouses do not give receipts.”

“They might if they’re a classy establishment!” Otto cried.

“Otto,” Jake continued. “Even if whorehouses did give receipts, they would not be reimbursed by the Rangers as they do not constitute Ranger-related expenses.”

“Sure they would,” countered Otto. “Says so right in the by-laws that we are to be reimbursed for the ‘riding of mounts’ and the ‘exhaustion and keeping of mares, mustangs, colts, fillies, and geldings.’ The Fantastic Filly is a good, hard ride if you catch my drift.” More suggestive eyebrow action; Jake half expected them to leap off Otto’s face and frolic about on his desktop like hairy caterpillars.

“Otto,” Jake added, “even if whorehouses gave receipts and we decided to reimburse said receipts as ‘riding expenses,’ you have already used your allotment of ‘riding expenses’ for this month. You will have to pay for your escapades out of your own pocket…”

“Aha!” crowed Otto triumphantly. “So you agree I did have them! So you may let it slip out that I had them!”

“…if in fact you had them at all, which I doubt,” Jake continued with a deep, rattling sigh that made his mostly-healed wound ache from inside. “Or, considering that these receipts spell ‘Dunn’s Crossing’ with a 5, you’ll be responsible for paying whoever forged them out of your own pocket.”

Otto turned away from the desk, disconsolate. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he sobbed, “people always thinking you’re boring and harmless and weak.”

Jake gritted his teeth. At least Virginia’s idiocy had been in the saddle, about real things, instead of trumped-up notions of what it meant to be a Ranger influenced by bad newspaper articles and worse books.

“I just need some rumors, some innuendo, to get my reputation started. I’ve tried everything I can think of, and a few things other people thought of, but even with all the Ranger duties I’ve been discharging—I brought the dismissals to Prissy and Virginia!—people still think me a milquetoast babyface and a plain fool.”

When no response was forthcoming, Otto turned around. Jake’s desk was vacant, and the cotton drapes around his open ground-floor window were fluttering in the breeze. In the distance, he heard a rider spurring a horse out of the Ranger stables.

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While known as a great philosopher, mathematician, and thinker, the ancient Greek sage Zeno was also a master of the most ancient varieties of funk and soul, winning the Dionysian Funk-Off in Athens from 439 BC until 430 BC, inclusive. Despite his success, the philosopher regarded funk as an infinite horizon, and famously proposed what are now known as Zeno’s Paradoxes of Funkiness to bedevil generations of those looking to get funky.

1. The Paradox of Isaac Hayes and Jimmy Carter
The funkiest man ever to live, Isaac Hayes, and the least funky, Jimmy Carter, agreed to hold a funk-off to settle a matter of honor. Hayes, recognizing his unfair advantage, allowed Carter a head-start before getting funky himself. However, when Hayes had begun and reached Carter’s level of funkiness, Carter had moved on, if only slightly. When Hayes reached the new funk level, because of Carter’s head start, he had moved on by and even slighter distance. Zeno holds that it is impossible for Hayes’ funk to catch up to Carter’s.

2. The Paradox of Quincy Jones’ Funk-Up
Quincy Jones, one of the funkiest funkers ever to funk, began funking with an eye toward reaching maximum funk. However, before reaching maximum funk, he had to reach half-funk. But to reach half-funk, he had to make it to quarter-funk. And in order to achieve quarter-funk, it was necessary to reach 1/8 funk. Zeno holds that since there are an infinite number of funk points between zero funk and maximum funk, it is impossible for Quincy Jones or anyone else to reach maximum funk or, indeed, to accumulate any funk at all.

3. The Paradox of Grand Funk Railroad
At any one point in time, Grand Funk Railroad is neither becoming funkier, nor becoming less funky; for that instant, its funk is fixed. It cannot become more funky since because no time elapses for it to funk up, and it cannot become less funky because it has already gained funk. Zeno holds that since gaining or losing funk is impossible at any one instant in time, and time is composed of an infinite number of instants, it is impossible to generate any funk at all.

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HOPEWELL, MI – With Proposition 426 nearing the necessary 666,666 signatures needed to put it on the ballot this fall, the Hopewell Democrat-Tribune spoke to several of the activists who have been presenting passersby with petitions on the Southern Michigan University quad.

“There is absolutely no reason for xenobryo to be illegal, much less for the punishments handed down to people for having it,” said one activist, who identified himself only as The Bro. “It’s the outdated result of a moral panic in the 1950s, just like Prohibition in the 20s. Xenobryo is a healthy and natural way to feel good, and the secret to reviving the world economy. It shouldn’t be a reason to sentence someone to hard time just for being caught with a headclasper or testing positive for implanted xenobryo.”

When asked how exactly xenobryo use would revive the world economy, The Bro clarified: “Well, you can tax it when it’s legal, but people shouldn’t do that, it’s not fair. And, um, the dead headclaspers and passed xenobryos have lots of uses.” Asked what these uses were, The Bro took a moment to think. “The atomic acid that’s their blood could be used for, I dunno, etching or something. And the carapace of protein polysaccharides and polarized silicon can be used to…uh…uh…”

The Bro claimed to have gathered nearly 1000 signatures from passersby on the quad; a few of the people he was soliciting spoke to the Democrat-Tribune about Prop 426 and the legalization of xenobryo.

“I’m against it,” said Susie Mulligan, a double-major in biochemistry and structural engineering. “Sure, they say that using a headclasper is safe, and that you’ll get a great high as long as you flush the xen0bryo from your chest before it erupts, but think of all the accidents caused by people driving with a headclasper, or what could happen if someone doesn’t flush the xenobryo and we have a torsosplitter growing to maturity in our midst?”

“I already signed the petition,” countered Ricky “Stonewall” Jackson. “I think people should be free to use headclaspers and xenobryo, since the risk of death isn’t any worse than cigarettes and booze. You can still throw people in jail if they drive into someone while birthing a torsosplitter, after all, and torsosplitters are vulnerable to fire for the first twenty minutes of their life outside a living host. It’s all overblown.”

When asked to comment, Southern Michigan University president Cynthia Mayfield’s office issued the following statement: “SMU remains committed to protecting the right to free speech and enforcing the law.” When asked about xenobryo use among students, and cases in which free speech and the law might clash, the office declined to issue a clarification.

In the meantime, opinion polls place statewide support for legalizing xenobryo at around 50%, though the complementary Proposition 223, which would fund a statewide initiative to eliminate any escaped headclaspers or torsosplitters before they mature into xenodrones and establish a colony, is trending at 99% opposed.

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The master stem speaks throughout a wicked spectacular blossom. The supplicant crawls up to it. Acknowledged, the supplicant kisses the gnarled roots before him. The stem quietly evaluates through senses unknown, judging by a formula known but to itself.

“Purge.” The blossom strains with the effort of speaking the only word it will utter for the month.

A radio crackles the news throughout the glen. The galactic search will continue for one that is fit to kneel before the kernel of divine and growing and green. The others gather around the stricken supplicant without incident. He knows he is for the purge, and he accepts it.

His body will go beneath the roots, helping them to grow strong.

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“One wonders what people of old would think, seeing what we’ve made of their traditions and their holidays.”

“Now, now, traditions like Mardi Gras and Carnival have been around for centuries. This isn’t just something you can blame on ‘kids these days,’ you know.”

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~54@//noclip.phpo you think of Chinese New Year, then? It’s a holiday that I’d wager 90% of the ‘kids these days’ have absolutely no stake in, but they celebrate it anyway. It’s an excuse to go out and get loaded, nothing more.”

“You say that as if kids need an excuse. They were going out and getting loaded to celebrate Tuesday when I was in school.”

“It’s not that. The thing that bugs me is that they have latched onto something that was once sacred and made it profane. It would be like if the liturgical calendar had an Feast of St. Alcoholic and people were celebrating it by going dry.”

“It still sounds to me like an ‘I’m old and bitter and things aren’t going the way I want them to’ issue to me.”

“Well, we’ll see how you feel when the only vestige of any tradition is a day when people go out and get sloshed.”

“I look forward to it.”

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A young man repeats a capitalist alarm.
This ludicrous idea combats a coin across the inverse arcade floor.
Within the periodic alarm appears the organized view.
An analysis sighs around the attending ecology.

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