February 24, 2013
“Open it! OPEN IT!” The gun was pressed against the man’s temple.
“All right, all right,” the man sobbed at the black-clad home invader. “I’ll open it.”
He swung his dryer open, unlatched the lint catcher, and handed it over.
Five thousand miles and two days later, the man in black handed the lint to his handler.
“Excellent,” the older man purred, adding it to the massive pile accumulating behind his vault door. “Most excellent.
February 23, 2013
This essay was contributed by our regular pirate affairs commentator, William “Black Bill” Cubbins IV and based on a speech he delivered at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the William Kidd Center for the Study of Pirate Culture at the University of Plunder Bay. In addition to his other pro-pirate activism, Black Bill Cubbins is currently serving as pirate-in-residence at UPB, and he remains a practicing pirate with three galleons and a Dutch party cruise boat to his name so far this year.
At one point in time, 37% of the world’s sailors earned their living through piracy. Today that number is less than 1% despite an explosion in the number of ships at sea and cargoes (and crews) that are more valuable than ever before. Yet the only sustained growth in piracy has been in Somalia and Malacca, both prime areas of pirate outsourcing. The plundering once done by Caribbean pirates, for instance, is now sent to cheap pirates off Somalia that work for pennies on the dollar and often do not enjoy the same benefits, like elected officers and relatively equal distribution of spoils, that pirates elsewhere fought and died for. I’m not criticizing our pirate brothers-in-arms, simply saying that our drive for cheaper plunder, globalized plunder, has negatively impacted both our livelihood and theirs.
The solution, my friends, is to make sure you source your plunder locally and sustainably. Be an informed consumer. Ask whether the precious gems in that overflowing trunk came from standards-compliant corsairs in the Caribbean or North Africa, ripped from the hold of a freighter belonging to Spain or the Holy League, or whether it is cheap outsourced plunder ripped from a Liberia-flagged bulk carrier off Singapore and processed in the illicit prize courts of Guangzhou. Don’t support businesses that rely on outsourced piracy to keep their coffers stuffed with argent; don’t support jewelers that trade in conflict doubloons.
Act globally but pirate locally. Support your local pirates by buying their plunder at local prize courts. Invest in sustainable sources of piracy like the Spanish Main or the Golden Triangle rather than the lucrative but unsustainable trade in looted North Korean freighters off Socotra. If you can, pirate a little yourself on the side. Not much; a frigate or two every now and again, or even a station wagon on the Mexico trade route, is enough to help keep the sacred connection that pirates have felt to their profession for many years. Many young pirates are choosing not to follow in the family business, preferring instead to move to the big city to try and pass as non-pirates. Our culture is in danger as never before, beset by this decay on one side and negative portrayals by media and biased ninja activists on the other.
Only through education and action can we stem this tide. So I urge you: find or found a local prize court or pirate co-op. Speak pirate to your children or support those who do. Support pirate studies programs at universities and organizations like the FPA, the Future Pirates of America. And most importantly of all, support your local pirates in whatever way you can.
February 22, 2013
Marauders from the Republic of Pisa seized the artifact from North Africa during a raid. Once placed atop a pillar in a now-sacked city, the great bronze dragon was rumored to ward off bad luck and the machinations of the devil. The Pisans took it as a prize ad because of a local legend that claimed its interior was filled with gold.
The dragon was displayed in Pisa for some time, but as the Republic’s fortunes began to decline, the citizenry became more and more adamant that it be cut open and its golden contents shared. Warnings in Arabic had been etched into the dragon’s bronze, cautioning against the dire consequences of opening the statue, which would release all the misfortunes that it had absorbed over the years.
Eventually the pressure was too great, and the authorities ordered the dragon smashed. It turned out to be hollow, with most of the weight being in the form of lead weights ornately etched. Only a small golden cup was found, barely larger than a thimble, and not enough to offset the cost of dismantling the dragon statue and its plinth.
Ten days later, the Pisan fleet was decisively defeated–annihilated–by the Genoans. Within a few years, the city had lost its independence and ceased to be a port of major importance.
February 21, 2013
These days it seems like every other movie, book, or TV show is some kind of a sequel, in one of the most annoying side-effects of the rampant creative bankruptcy in entertainment circles. Here’s a breakdown of some of the most annoying sequel trends that have infested popular culture like so many mutant cockroaches:
Subtitles
Originally, sequels would either get a number (Death Wish 3), a Roman numeral (Rocky II), or a completely different title (Magnum Force, the sequel to Dirty Harry). It was an elegant system that relied on simple numerals or appealing characters to link films in the popular imagination. So, needless to say, it couldn’t last.
First sequels started tacking on subtitles (often after numerals) to give them a sense of gravitas (Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, Rambo: First Blood Part II). And sometimes not so much gravitas (Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo). Pretty soon we were reduced to sequels with just subtitles, with Star Trek VII: Generations becoming just Star Trek: Generations. Eventually even the colon was too much bother, as Star Trek Into Darkness demonstrates.
Prequels
Why spend time and money hiring back now-famous actors and actresses made expensive by a popular original when you can recast the roles younger and start anew? People were doing it long before George Lucas made “prequel” a four-letter word starting in 1999. Why, 1979 alone brought Zulu Dawn and Butch and Sundance: The Early Days. Now they’re legion, with prequels being the cheap answer to wringing a few dollars out of something like Carlito’s Way.
But since we already know how things are going to end, there’s never going to be a strong investment. More often than not it becomes a forced series of oblique references to the original that fails the single most important criterion for a prequel: that it be intelligible without the original film. I don’t think one has ever been made, just like good prequels are few and far between. Can anyone think of one offhand? I sure can’t.
Sequels with the same title as the original
The sixth Rocky is…Rocky Balboa. The fourth Rambo is…Rambo. The fourth The Fast and the Furious is…Fast and Furious. Even if the title isn’t exactly the same, it’s damn confusing, and it’s part of a trend that’s making it difficult to talk coherently about a franchise.
You see it a lot in video games too. There’s a Tomb Raider (1996) and a Tomb Raider (2013), a Medal of Honor (1999) and a Medal of Honor (2010). God help you trying to keep those straight. And why? A bankrupt attempt to revive a little of the original brand magic, tarnished by terrible encores, which more than often ends up joining them, like Sonic the Hedgehog (2006) isn’t fit to bear the monicker of Sonic the Hedgehog (1991)
February 18, 2013
“I’m Owena,” said the lady, stepping into the car carrying a rather large and lumpy paper bag. If taking her groceries with her was the “weirdness” Tim had mentioned when he set up the blind date, Cameron thought things might turn out all right.
“Owena? That’s a pretty name.” Cameron actually thought it sounded like something fit for a frumpy great-aunt, but his date was clear-eyed and cute, so she was going to get a lot of latitude. “What do you do for a living?” he continued, hoping to break the ice.
“I’m a professional Euryklide or gastromancer; I prefer the former because people tend to think the latter means cook and I can’t even boil water without burning it,” Owena bubbled.
Cameron devoted considerable effort to not scrunching up his nose. “I’m afraid I don’t know that that means,” he said tactfully.
“I’ll show you!” Owena reached into her bag and produced two finely carved wooden dummies, a male and a female. “These are my friends and business partners, Llewellyn and Gwyndolyn. Don’t mind their silence, they’re just a little shy.”
“So…you’re a ventriloquist!” said Cameron. “That’s neat.”
“Please do not use that term, especially in front of my partners,” Owena said with a sour look. “Ventriloquism is vaudeville stagecraft, while Euryklides or gastromancers have a much more ancient and mystical tradition of prophecy, respect, and access to the animatory spirits of the cosmos.”
Cameron was quiet for a moment, unsure of how to respond without betraying how deeply weirded out he was. “Uh…Tim said you wanted to eat at The Crockery? That’s it right there.”
“Oh, yes,” Owena said, sounding bouncy again.” Cameron pulled the car in and parked it, but before he could get out, Owena placed the male dummy on Cameron’s lap. “I don’t usually get to take both of my partners out at the same time. Could you help Llewellyn inside?”
“Umm…I’m not sure…” Llewellyn’s dead eyes in Cameron’s lap were extraordinarily creepy.
“They know me here, it’s okay,” Owena said. “I take one of my partners in here all the time.”
“Because…it’s good practice?”
“Heh, I suppose it is!” Owena laughed. “We have a good rapport, the three of us, but sitting there and talking it out does take some of the edge off our occasional stage fright.” She dashed out of the car and inside before Cameron could say another word.
When they were inside and seated–with the waiter giving Cameron a weary and knowing look–Owena swiveled Gwyndolyn’s head to face her blind date. “Well hello there, handsome,” she “said” in a squeaky voice. Cameron had to admit Owena was good; her lips didn’t twitch at all.
“Hello there…ah…Gwyndolyn,” Cameron said with a forced smile.
“Well, don’t we have an inflated opinion of ourselves?” Gwyndolyn “said.” “I was talking to Llewellyn.”
“Gwyndolyn! Be polite,” Owena admonished her left hand.
Cameron sighed, and fiddled with the levers inside Llewellyn for a moment. “Hello there,” he said. Cameron did his best, but his voice was barely disguised and his lips moved visibly. “F-fancy meeting you here.”
“Sounds like you have a touch of the flu,” Owena laughed. “What are we having?”
“Veal, I think,” Cameron said. He manipulated Llewellyn to say something he hoped would be charming: “How about a plate of wood chips?”
“Oh, that’s real nice,” Gwyndolyn appeared to say. “A baby-killer and a cannibal. You two make a right nice pair, don’t you? I guess it’s what you’d expect of two sods with wooden heads.”
“Come now, Gwyndolyn,” Owena said to, well, herself. “No need to be rude.”
“I’m just telling it like it is,” was the lady-dummy’s “response.” “Lllewellyn’s always a blockhead, but this sod has got a lot of impressing to do if he hopes to make it to date number two.”
Oh, that was it. That was the end. Cute or not, Cameron was just about finished with this date. “Look, toots, it’s not his fault that you’re nuttier that a sack of squirrels,” he responded using Llewellyn. “I mean, taking your dummies on a first date? Insisting on a weird name for what you do? Treating us like we’re not just fancy scrimshaw? Way to get off on the right foot!”
“Llewellyn, what’s gotten into you?” Owena cried, looking genuinely shocked.
“It’s not like we don’t get it,” Cameron continued with his bad squeaky voice and worse ventriloquism. “You set a high bar, bring out all the strange on date one to scare off anyone who isn’t serious. But you know what? I think you’re convinced that no one is a better match for you than your little toothpick friends, me and Gwyndolyn. And you know, you’re right.”
Cameron stood up, set Llewellyn in his place, and left.
“I’ve never heard you lose your temper like that before,” he heard Owena say to the dummy behind his back.
February 17, 2013
“Commander Mikhailov!” It was a runner from Krupin’s force, which had been pressing hard against the remnants of the Japanese 23rd Division.
Oleg Tarasovich Mikhailov swatted him away; he was on the radio with Popov in the divisional headquarters, trying to coordinate ongoing strikes by his tanks with incoming orders from Corps Commander Zhukov. “Yes, yes. Understood. We will press the attack as ordered; I am expecting casualties, but nothing unacceptable. The Japanese surely cannot hold out for much longer.” He placed the mouthpiece down. “What is it?” he snapped at the runner.”
“Sir, I-” the runner ducked at the sound of a wheeling aircraft overhead. Mikhailov remained standing, and watched a group of Japanese fighters–Ki-27s–attempt to strafe the Soviet positions behind the hillock that shielded part of Mikhailov’s command center. There was a distant thud of anti-aircraft pom-pom guns and the fighter broke off. A flight of I-16 “donkeys” rose up to meet the attackers not long afterwards and tore them to shreds, filling the air with contrails and tracer rounds.
“Get up, you lout,” Mikhailov said, kicking at Krupin’s errand boy. “What is so important that it merits wasting my time while we are ejecting what remains of the Japanese aggressors from Mongolia? I told Krupin to report by radio only if he was victorious or dead.”
“The radio has broken, Commander Mikhailov,” the runner said, his head lowered. “Krupin dispatched me to report the capture of a Japanese supply convoy attempting to break out of our encirclement.”
“Good for him,” Mikhailov sniffed. “Distribute whatever booty and supplies they were carrying as a reward to the men and execute any prisoners without strategic value. Was there anything else?”
“Begging your pardon, Commander,” the runner said. “There was one object in the Japanese convoy that…well…” He handed a piece of notebook paper to Mikhailov. The commander’s eyes widened.
“You there!” he shouted at one of his adjutants. “Get me a staff car and a BA-10 armored escort! I am traveling to Krupin’s position immediately! Lagounov’s in charge until I return.”
The arrangements were hastily made, and after a tooth-grindingly bumpy ride along the Mongolian steppe, Mikhailov caught up with the rearmost portion of Krupin’s unit. The area was littered with bodies and smouldering vehicles, with a few Japanese prisoners under heavy Red Army guard. Krupin himself was seated at a commandeered Kwantung Army mess table alongside a disabled Nissan truck which had been towing a bulky armored trailer with a machine gun atop it.
“Show it to me,” Mikhailov barked at Krupin, without even bothering with any pleasantries.
Krupin complied, jumping to his feet and opening a side-mounted door on the captured trailer.
Mikhailov’s eyes widened. “My God…”
Inside was the very thing that had been described in top-secret orders from Corps Commander Zhukov before the Khalkhin Gol counterattack.
February 16, 2013
Moved by their pleas, the Ne’ta agreed to help the people escape their dying world. It was a being of utterly alien nature and inconceivable power, but not a god, and it refused to be worshiped or to intervene further in human affairs. After the rescue, it offered the following choice to the people:
You may choose a life of the mind or a life of the body. The former will know plenty and ease but will be subject to the same decay and weaknesses that led to the death of the old world, while the latter will live in hardship but remain strong and independent. Once the choice is made, I will recuse myself from further participation in your affairs.
About half of the people chose the mind, while the remainder chose the body. The Ne’ta separated them across two parallel skeins of the same world, so that their actions could not directly affect each other. It was careful to leave a few chinks between the skeins, though, for even in its alien wisdom the Ne’ta could not see all ends. It then departed to an unknown destination, which the people in both skeins perceived as a second sun vanishing from their skies.
People who chose the mind founded the city of Ecumenopolis, incorporating all the technological know-how that they had brought with them from their dying world. Though primitive at first, within a generation or two Ecumenopolis was able to implement steam power and eventually electricity. Eventually it came to be known as simply Ecumen, and sat as the crown jewel at the center of a network of smaller towns, farms, and mines. Mindful of the disaster that had befallen their ancestors, the citizens of Ecumen tried to impose strict limits on their use of the natural world and to incorporate more artistry into their technology than had once been the case.
Those who chose the body returned to a hunter-gatherer lifestyle, eventually fracturing into a series of rival bands. With no central authority, different bands took different attitudes toward the Ne’ta’s instructions. Many shunned any technology that they could not easily construct from nature, while others reinvented parts of the old world. Rival bands routinely fought each other, grew in power, established empires, and fell or were conquered. Theirs was anarchy compared to the regimented Ecumen, but they were stronger and more fit for individual survival.
February 15, 2013
Mahjong Pizza has a long tradition of allowing a certain amount of employee innovation. It was hard to forget how the business had been founded on the back of Chad Martinez’s innovations while working at a Hopewell, Michigan Pizza House even among the esoteric college kids who usually donned the red-white-green uniforms. If Martinez could transform the pizza delivery business through his amateur time and motion studies, anybody could.
As such, Anna Grimaldi had to sit through a monthly “innovation meeting.” It meant an extra half-hour on the clock for most people, but the innovations therein tended to be on the prosaic side (multiple magnetic “shark fins” for foggy days, offering a five-pack of breadstick dipping sauces for a reduced fee). Anna’s ideas tended to run afoul of the legal department, which 86’d her idea of the cook writing a personal message on the box of each Mahjong pie, as well as her co-workers, who hadn’t been enthusiastic about writing personalized messages in the first place.
At the February “innovation meeting,” she had another idea: “The florist next door is always throwing out flowers. Why not grab a bunch of them for a few pennies and keep them on the counter for Valentine’s Day? Then everyone who comes in for carry-out can get a flower. Make them feel loved or something.”
“I think we should let people our customers are seeing give them the flowers,” her manager said.
“Come on now,” Anna replied. “Do you think anyone who’s getting carryout pizza on Valentine’s Day is seeing anybody?”
The flowers were out in a crystal vase by 8:02 AM February 14.
February 14, 2013
Even in grade school I was an overachiever, and often looked ahead in the book or had an idea of how to write letters and numbers before our official instruction came along.
But in first grade, in the middle of our intense instruction in the D’Nealian style of block printing, I was told that a number of my characters were formed wrong and needed to be relearned. In particular, I drew the number “5” like an “S” with a kink in it, starting at the top right and drawing it all in one stroke.
My first grade teacher insisted that I needed to write the “5” character the proper D’Nealian way, which starts in the upper left and requires you to draw a hook straight out of Peter Pan before capping it at the top in a separate stroke. It was pounded into me over the course of a year, and I wrote it that way for decades.
Then, as a college student, I came to realize that no one way of forming the character was better than any other. In particular, I recalled the case of the uppercase cursive “I” and uppercase cursive “Q.”
In second grade, I got bored with a lesson and read ahead in the book along with my friend Jen. We knew that we’d have to do a worksheet on the capital cursive “I” because it had already been handed out, so we worked on it while everyone else was occupied. With no directions, we wrote the cursive “I” beginning with the crooked arm that differentiates it from the lowercase “L.” When the lesson started, however, Jen and I were shocked to see that the other kids were taught to do the crossbar of the crooked arm as a separate step. Since the worksheet was already done, we were never caught–and I continue to write my cursive “I” the “incorrect” way to this day.
I was sick on the day, later that year, when the uppercase cursive letter “Q” was taught. So I never did that worksheet and never learned it, with only the rarity of uppercase “Q” in scholastic writing saving me (we’d done lowercase “q” separately). When I finally saw the D’Nealian uppercase cursive “Q,” I was appalled: it was a sickly creature that looked like an emaciated “2.” So starting in third grade, I simply wrote a normal print “Q” in place of that abomination. Nobody noticed.
Fast forward 15 years. In college, my handwriting was often praised for its legibility, having never quite lost the childish look that in most people gives way to cramped scribbles, and I decided that it was time to reclaim my number “5.” Like the “I” and the “Q,” I started writing it my own way, the way I had before first grade. It was as easy as riding a bike after a long absence.
Of course, now my “5” is easy to mistake for an “S” especially when I’m in a hurry. But it was worth it to reclaim that bit of my childhood and thumb my nose at Mr. D’Nealian.
February 13, 2013
Marguerite Séléka stirred on the straw mat in her filthy cell as the sound of keys echoed in the lock. To her surprise, it was not a policeman or soldier that entered but rather a short and broad-shouldered man in an immaculate and bemedaled uniform with a gold-tipped ivory cane. In the Bangui heat, sweat glistened on his brow much as it did on Marguerite’s.
“The Emperor will hear your plea,” barked one of the guards. It had taken a moment for the association from the portrait hung in Marguerite’s elementary school classroom and the occasional hard currency that passed through her hands to sink in; standing before her was Bokassa I of Central Africa, once president and now emperor of the Central African Empire.
“I have heard,” the Emperor said in a deep and authoritative voice, carefully removing first one white glove and then the other, “that you incited your students to disobey the law requiring school uniforms.”
“Your imperial majesty, please,” Marguerite said, using the form of address they had all been taught. Personally she agreed with her father that Bokassa was unfit to be a wagon driver, let alone a president or emperor, but it seemed prudent to show at least a little deference. “My students are poor, and the uniforms are very expensive. Many of their parents have had a bad year, and…”
“That does not matter,” the Emperor said. He took off his hat and handed it and his gloves to one of the guards behind him. “The law requires the uniforms to be worn, and the children must wear them. It is because the uniforms bear my image, for we must instill pride in the Empire from a young age. If you disrespect the Emperor’s image, you disrespect the Emperor.”
“But how were we to pay for those expensive embroidered uniforms with no money?” Marguerite cried.
“There are always non-essentials which may be cut out,” the Emperor said. He unbuttoned his shirt, medals flashing in the sliver of sunlight the bars admitted from outside. “Non-essentials” apparently didn’t include the Emperor’s uniform, or his $20 million coronation in 1977 or his $5 million crown, Marguerite thought bitterly.
“What is to happen to us?” Marguerite said. Having given up on reasoning with the man, she at least hoped to find out about the fate of the children–well over a hundred of them–that had been arrested along with her.
“You will be held as long as I deem it necessary, and certain ringleaders will be…disciplined.” Bokassa removed his fine uniform jacket and tossed it to a guard, revealing a simple white shirt with suspenders. Several flecks of what were unmistakably blood were visible. “Much like Alexandre Banza was…disciplined.”
Mauguerite couldn’t suppress a sob; everyone knew that the Emperor had personally eviscerated the rebellious Banza with a kitchen knife. “So…we are all to die, then?” she stammered.
“The French have been asking that I show…restraint,” said the Emperor. “I think that discipline shall be meted out…and whether the guilty live or die be left up to God.”
He took a step into the cell and hefted his heavy cane like a cudgel. “Dacko and his stooge Banza never understood the importance of involving oneself in the process of discipline,” he said in a low voice. “Great men know that this is of the highest importance. Napoleon led from the front at Toulon, and I follow his example.”
Excerpts From Nonexistent Books 