When the Great Work was complete, and Q’idaa was as his own lush and eternal garden, I’ozru summoned his children to him one last time. Then said he to the gathered R’de “four shall be your number, and your number shall be four.” He laid forth the precepts binding the Four Castes.

First were the R’odue, the Keepers of the Bonds. They were given power over workplaces, governments, and other organizational tools. Their edict was organization and cohesion, but not at the expense of love.

Second were the R’idye, the Reshapers of the Bonds. Their sphere was that which could not be organized and resisted cohesion. Theirs were the artists, the dreamers, the thinkers, the architects, and their edict was to form new and exciting things, but not at the expense of the old.

Third were the R’adue, the Movers of the Bonded. All that moved and worked was theirs to keep and maintain, and they were to be the craftsmen, workers, and soldiers of the R’de. To them was given the edict to reshape their world, but not at the expense of harmony.

Last were the R’ydae, the Viewers of the Bonds. At their feet was laid the great task of planning and orchestrating all the others, of visions and plans and overall harmony. Theirs was the gravest edict of them all: to ensure the survival of the R’de and by extension their world, but not at the expense of other groups or other worlds.

In doing so, the R’de were split into their castes and the rulers of the great Houses were selected and their membership decided upon. The last words were a warning: above all, no caste was to be held inviolate and none was to be raised above the others. It was deliberate that the R’ydae, from whom the heads of the Houses were chosen, were numbered last and lowliest though theirs would be the most visible power. They were to be servants as base as those R’adue who toiled in manual labor.

The pronouncements made, the new heads of the Houses were each given a final, private audience. I’ozru gave unto them his last wisdom and departed from the R’de never to return. His words, known only to the heads of the Houses, guide the R’de through the ages even unto now through prosperity and adversity, want and plenty, war and peace, suzerainty and enslavement.

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All jetliners accumulate oily residue near their exhausts. It’s rarely a serious concern, being as it is mostly carbon that can’t be burned any further, but the vagaries of air travel in the jet age are such that planes can’t be washed often. It takes an eight-hour layover at an airport with the right facilities, meaning that hardworking airliners are lucky to get a bath once every two months.

Aircrew and ground personnel are sometimes known to scrawl graffiti in the residue, much like a merry prankster wiping the mud off a dirty car to write “wash me.” It’s frowned upon, obviously, and much more difficult in the post-9/11 era, but earlier aircraft often went aloft with a variety of crude or humorous temporary tattoos inscribed where (hopefully) no passengers could see them.

In 1979, a Lockheed L-1011 TriStar belonging to Midwestern Airlines (MSN 1251, registration N983MW) had one such message discovered by its ground crew at 6:32 AM during routine preflight checks. The message, “LOOK OUT BELOW,” earned eyerolls from those who saw it. The pilot for the flight, Capt. Laudner Bellow, found it even less amusing: he’d been known as “Lookout” Bellow in his years flying Linebacker raids over North Vietnam. He angrily ordered the crew to scrub off the message before departing for Baltimore.

On its final approach to Baltimore/Washington International, a cargo door on N983MW blew open, scattering items from the cargo compartment over a wide area. The plane landed safely, and the incident was traced to a stress fracture in the locking latches. Despite some suspicion of Capt. Bellow for sabotage, the incident was quickly forgotten and N983MW was repaired and returned to service.

Six months later, another message appeared at around noon just before a trip to Chicago: “MIND THE BUMP.” The ground crew chief at Baltimore, Ernest “Bumpy” Washington, Jr., took the apparent joke in good humor but noted it in the log. That afternoon, N983MW encountered severe supercell thunderstorms midway through its flight, causing violent turbulence that injured three passengers whose seatbelts had not been properly secured. There was no question of “Bumpy” Washington having cause the turbulence, but rumors began to swirl among Midwestern Airlines staff about N983MW.

The situation was not improved when, a month later, “OUT OF GAS” appeared written in the residue that had accumulated since N983MW’s wash after its Chicago accident. The crew, superstitious, insisted on a full preflight check, which uncovered nothing awry. The delay forced a temporary route reassignment, and as a relatively new jet N983MW was reassigned to fly the LAX-Honolulu route for a month. On its first flight, Hurricane Fico forced the aircraft to circle for hours before landing, and the captain estimated on touching down at Honolulu International (on two engines, to save fuel) with less than ten minutes of powered flight time remaining.

It becomes difficult to separate fact from fiction at this point, as it had become well-established around the Midwestern Airlines watercooler that N983MW was cursed and its misfortunes predicted by preflight graffiti. No doubt many pranksters took it upon themselves to add to the legend with their own scrawls, and jittery crew chiefs marked down patterns that may have, in retrospect, been mere coincidence. Midwestern, for its part, simply tried to ignore the issue and scheduled M983MW for more cleanings than usual.

What is known is that on June 2, 1981, the message “GOODBYE” appeared near N983MW’s tail. The captain and flight crew refused to board the aircraft, prompting Midwestern to fire them all for insubordination. Three other crews also refused and were written up for insubordination before the staff of N946MW out of Detroit agreed to swap. The flight, a short hop across the Chesapeake to Richmond, was widely known as a milk run.

N983MW disappeared from radar twenty minutes into its flight, and the first debris washed ashore several hours later. The accident, along with another on September 22 of that year, caused a fatal loss of confidence in the TriStar as an airframe, leading to slashed production orders and the eventual withdrawal of Lockheed from the commercial aviation business.

No cause for the crash was ever determined.

Inspired by this news story.

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I have to admit I’d never heard of Charlie Hebdo until it became the epicenter for the worst terrorist attack on French soil in two decades. It would be like the offices of Cracked or Mad had been raided here in the States, though Charlie Hebdo was certainly far more openly political and leftist than those safely zany lampoons of pop culture. But even if the comparison is imprecise, to see such a publication attacked by violent zealots, leaving its best and brightest minds bleeding out on fresh newsprint, is a kind of directly censorious assault that leaves the mind reeling.

It was censorship of the most direct kind, practiced since Mark Antony had Cicero’s severed head and hands displayed in the Forum, and like all such acts it was designed to breed censorship of the most indirect kind. Self-censorship is the ultimate goal, to get the satirist to give up attacking a sacred cow before they even begin.

Now here’s the thing. People have already begun responding with hashtags and solidarity to the barbarism, which is always welcome and a good sign. But ultimately it won’t be the person on the street or even the government that decides how much self-censorship will come from this assault. It’ll be the lawyers.

It’s all well and good to loudly proclaim the virtues of free speech in the face of terrorism designed to intimidate people into self-censorship. But what of the next generation of satirists and cartoonists, the magazines and rags that are struggling or yet to be born? What happens to them then they try to incorporate, to get insurance?

I can see it now: an insurance underwriter denying a satirical publication coverage after they refuse to self-censor. A staff lawyer preemptively putting the kibosh on a potentially inflammatory issue for liability reasons. Remember just a few short weeks ago, when The Interview was pulled from theaters? “Liability” was the fig leaf there, too.

And it’s not just a fig leaf for a satirist or cartoonist. Imagine if you, uninsured and unprotected, publish something that gets someone on your staff–or, hell, even an innocent person elsewhere–hurt or killed. In today’s climate, that’s a huge liability and you could find yourself on the hook for expenses that no modest income could cover.

That’s my big worry out of all of this. Not just that there will be self-censorship, but that it will be perversely driven not from ideology or fear but simple liability and actuarial charts. I hope that’s not the case. I hope that, whether through the use of new media or decentralized distribution, such prosaic issues aren’t enough to kneecap people’s speech and especially their humor. After all, such wasn’t the terrorists’ intent–they aren’t that smart. A suppressed bullet and car bomb are all the subtlety they know.

I hope that we won’t allow mundanity and prosaic interests to do to us what naked fear cannot, but I’m afraid I’m just too cynical to believe it will be so.

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“I’ve seen the ledger, Trevor.” Callie thumped the book down on the kitchen table. “It’s right there in black and white. Payments from your account once a month since The Deboutique opened.”

Trevor was unfazed. “Of course,” he said. “I made an arrangement with your landlord when you took over the lease. I paid 90% of the cost each month off the books, and in return the full cost wasn’t on the bills you got.”

“But why, Trevor, why?” cried Callie. “If I’d had to pay the full rent, The Deboutique would have gone out of business in six weeks. I wouldn’t even have started it.”

“But don’t you see, Callie? That’s just the thing. I knew from the beginning that there wasn’t a big enough market for a boutique selling expensive clothes and knickknacks here in town. Even with all the students, there’s no way for it to make enough to meet rent, especially during the breaks.”

“Then why not just give me the money up front? Why let me try the fool’s errand of running a shop in the first place?”

Trevor’s voice was condescending, indulgent. “Because you needed a project to keep you busy and occupied, sweet pea,” he said. “You wouldn’t have put half as much effort into the place if you hadn’t thought it a success. And we’ve had so much benefit in your stature as a wife and mother and pillar of the community.”

“So that’s all it’s been,” gasped Callie, sinking into a chair. “That’s all it’s ever been. A lemonade stand to keep me busy. Girl Scout cookies.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, sweet pea.”

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It was always there, in the furthest corner of the lot next to the abandoned and closed bar and grill. No one ever saw the Camaro come or go, but it was the newest model, windows tinted and body waxed to a radiant shine.

There was idle speculation, of course. A pimp, a drug dealer, an adulterer. When the car was issued a ticket, the fine was paid in cash in an envelope with no return address. Fines couldn’t be paid in cash, but the ticket had been in error anyway.

The day the building burned down, it vanished. No one thought anything of this, since who would want to park there after such an intense fire?

But then the Camaro appeared in the far corner of another lot, and people began to talk.

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Myassa al-Thurayya chambered a fresh round in her rifle and looked through the scope for another target. None presented itself; the Vyaeh assault squad had apparently been held off for now. Myassa adjusted her aim, cursing as her hijab got in the way and temporarily blocked her sight picture until she batted it free.

“Why do you wear that thing?” Jai Chandrakant said, covering her flank with his freshly reloaded assault rifle. “If the sailor-talk wasn’t enough to show that you’re not exactly daddy’s proper little meek religious girl, there’s everything else you’ve ever said or done alongside it.”

“The last person who asked me that is still waiting for the wires to come off of their jaw,” said Myassa, without budging from her rifle. “You don’t ask. You’re told, when and if I choose to tell you.”

“Fair enough,” Jai said.

There was a pause, and at length Myassa made a resigned grunt. “I am a secular Muslim,” she said. “I wear the hijab so that people know my heritage and I have a tangible link to thousands of years of religion and culture that shaped me into who I am today.”

“A secular Muslim?” said Jai. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“And yet nobody is surprised when someone calls themself a secular Jew or a secular Christian, even though they do the same thing for the same reason,” said Myassa. “You can be a secular anything. It’s a frame of mind; I didn’t fill out a bloody application form.”

“Well, sure, but why something like a hijab?” Jai said. “Why not just wear a crescent on a chain around your neck like I’ve seen people do with a Star of David or a cross?”

“The crescent is an Ottoman symbol, not an Islamic one,” said Myassa. “I have no desire to associate myself with that hoary old despotism, thank you very much.”

“Well, then what about that Arabic creed thing? The sha…shaha…hada…”

“The Shahada,” Myassa said. “And no. It’s a statement of faith, and I have none. Believe me, Jai, I’ve thought this through.”

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No one saw it coming. Weren’t they notorious for their inability to compromise, their brutal tactics, their picking of fights? Weren’t they derided for their clumsiness and stupidity even as they claimed to represent purity and honor?

And yet, as the sun rose on that January morning, the Grammar Nazis had come to power. There was nothing now standing between them and a reign of pedantry and pettiness the likes of which the word had not seen since the French Vowel Wars, the vicious Orthography Reform of 1996, and of course the brutal Colon Revolution in San Serriffe. What could have possessed the people to hand over power to the Grammar Nazis and add themselves to that grim list?

Now had it come to this?

In retrospect, it’s clear that the depredations of the Grammar Communists had grown as of late. Txt spk, L337, ostent. abbrevs., all of them were rampant in the great democratization of language and spelling that accompanied the rise of the internet. In an age where “LOL AFK BRB K?” is considered a coherent sentence, some people clearly valued the security of their spelling more than the merciless pedantry openly promised by the Grammar Nazis in their election platform.

One thing is clear, though: the Oxford Comma is now enforced by iron maiden, dangling participles is punishable by guillotine, splitting infinitives will result in drawing and quartering, the passive voice will be met with active measures, and breaching the they’re/their/there or you’re/your/yore barrier will result in an appearance before the merciless elite units of the Grammar Guard.

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DATELINE: ANGERS – Despite the release of a royal report on the death of King Richard Lionheart, many in the kingdom continue to doubt the official story.

Led by Chief Yeoman of the Guard Warryne of Courtshire, the so-called Warryne Commissyione undertook an exhaustive analysis of the evidence following Richard’s sudden death at Châlus-Chabrol in April 1199. Interviewing over a dozen witnesses, examining material evidence including the crossbow that reportedly fired the fatal bolt, the bolt itself, and interviews with the assassin Betrand de Gurdon before his untimely death at the hands of Jacobus de Rubis not long afterwards, the investigators’ report espoused what critics have since called the “single bolt theory.” Or, more derisively, the “magic bolt theory.”

“It’s insanity,” said a tradesman who declined to be named. “Clearly there was a conspiracy at work, with multiple crossbowmen firing multiple bolts from multiple angles. Triangulation of crossbowfire, that’s the key.” His sentiments were echoed by many on the street and in the fields. “It’s a conspiracy,” agreed Herbert the Muttoneer of Brittany, “manufactured by Prince John to seize power and prevent King Richard from putting through reforms to free the serfs and deliver free milk and honey.” When reminded that no such decrees were found in Richard’s desk, he added “They must have gotten to you too.”

Conspiracy theorists disputing the “single bolt theory” point to the Zappruder Tapestry, which was in the process of being woven by Zappruder of Munich when the King was struck down. The tapestry appears to show several crossbowmen on the ramparts of Châlus-Chabrol with several bolts in flight, with the King’s head being thrown up and to the left in a motion supposedly inconsistent with the position of Betrand de Gurdon (identifiable in the tapestry by his frying pan shield, which the King laughed at seconds before his fatal wounding).

“Ridiculous speculation,” said Yeoman Warryne in response to the allegations of a conspiracy. “The ‘second shooter’ on the ‘mossy wall’ of Châlus-Chabrol is clearly just another defender and the ‘second bolt’ is just a bird or a feature of terrain. As for the attitude of the King’s head, it is clearly just an artistic interpretation on Zappruder of Munich’s part.” King John echoed Yeoman Warryne in a statement from court, saying that he “deplored any indication of a conspiracy or conspiracies in the death of my late beloved brother, and that the incident was the unfortunate result of a lone crossbowman.”

Many remain unconvinced, with the man-on-the-street and the man-in-the-field offering any number of alternate theories. Many blamed Prince John for the killing, but most seemed convinced that it was an attempt by unknown parties to head off Richard’s divestment from the war in France, instead deepening the conflict into the present quagmire with Phillip II. The chronicler Sir Olivier of Stoneshire has promised to illuminate a manuscript revealing the truth of the matter, but his efforts have as yet not been released.

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Crimson Empire
The Crimson Empire historically dated its epoch to the reign of the emperor Honorian II, who created the calendar used by the Empire until it was swept away by the Dominion of the New Order. In an unusually modest move, Honorian II didn’t choose his own reign or birth as the calendar’s epoch: year 1 was, instead, the Battle of Noaad at which the Empire was reunified after the Succession Crisis.

República de San Martín
The Sanmartínese institute a civil calendar after the dictator Sebastien came to power in 1852. Rather than set the epoch in 1812, the year that the country gained its independence, Sebastien set it as the date that the liberator José de San Martín died: August 17, 1850.

The Vyaeh
The Orphan Court, the mysterious and unseen ruling body of the Vyaeh trading empire, maintains a complex calendar that is constantly readjusted for relativistic effects and observed celestial phenomena on their homeworld. At one time, they followed a strict lunisolar calendar based around the calculated creation of their world in the old Vyaeh religion, but the link between the two calendars is now theoretical at best.

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Some time later, a group of clurichauns who went by the name of the Caladbolg Bruisers gathered in a much seedier pub, MacSláinte’s Boozery, to spend their euros. Slothower Whelk, their longtime benefactor, paid them a pittance to waylay and rob hapless tourists in the Heights, especially clay from mundane Dublin or wealthy seelie fae from the Fayquay if they could.

“Oi,” said one, who went by the monicker of Wallopin’ Sam. “Ain’t that the berk what we nicked in th’ ‘Eights?” one said, cocking his bald head at a tall figure in off-white robes with an off-white beard.

“Nah,” said another clurichaun who insisted that his mates call him Berk-of-all-Trades. “We ‘ad a go a ‘im, but weren’t nothin’ in ‘is folds but gum wrappers an’ lint.”

“‘e don’t seem much broken up about it, th’ sod,” said Wallopin’ Sam. “Singin’ like a bleedin’ canary, ‘e is.”

“Oi, it’s me ears what’re bleedin'” Berk-of-all-Trades replied, a cry taken up heartily by his dozens of nearby mates. “Jim Morrison’s a-rollin’ in ‘is grave, ‘e is. If that berk ‘ad caterwauled like that in Whelk’s, we mighta dropped ‘im.”

The other clurichauns chortled their agreement before returning to the weak and watered-down Guinness, which was all they could afford on the pittance Whelk offered them as the only pawnbroker in the Heights crooked enough to buy stolen goods. The singer, though, seemed to have heard the clurichauns’ chortling and approached them.

“Hello there my hearty friends,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice the poor quality of your libations. Might I do something about that?”

“Oy, you’d best keep walkin’, berk,” snarled Berk-of-all-Trades, showing his needle-sharp teeth. “Just ‘cos we ain’t found nothin’ worth pinchin’ on ya afore don’t mean me an’ me mates won’t ‘esitate to cut ya.”

“Oh, my dear sirs, you misunderstand me entirely,” said the man, laughing pleasantly. “I am bound by my oath to life of poverty, barditry, aid, and succor. The fact that you found nothing worth stealing was proof positive that I have succeeded in my vow.”

“Cor, throw yerself a bleedin’ bash then, an’ step off,” replied Wallopin’ Sam. “Me mates an’ I don’t give two shakes wot yer on about.”

“As a show of my gratitude,” the man continued as if Wallopin’ Sam hadn’t said a thing, “allow me to offer you some recompense. I’ve been building up a tab here at MacSláinte’s Boozery, and since my vow of poverty won’t allow me to keep any of the euros thus earned, allow to provide you and your mates with a round of drinks. It is a charity on my part, my very own Concert for Bangladesh but with spirits instead.”

That offer immediately softened the clurichauns’ attitude. “Well, me mates an’ I are always possessed o’ a powerful thirst,” allowed Berk-of-all-Trades. “An’ the swill old Whelk gives us coin what for to buy is powerful weak wot for clurichaun tastes.”

“Then it’s settled,” said the man, smiling. “Barkeep! A round of Irish-strength Riamh-Soiléir grain spirits for my mates here!”

A mighty cheer went up from the clurichauns as a host of bottles were brought out, each bearing the strongest spirits in the known world as acknowledged by the Guinness Book. The Fáidh took a step back so as not to be intoxicated by the fumes—which were potent enough even for someone who was a quarter fae on his mother’s side. The clurichauns drank greedily, and before long they were snoring loudly.

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