The Fáidh nodded, but his affect grew serious—the most serious Jennie had ever seen him. “I am worried that the Zaar has deliberately left us a trail to follow,” he said. “The ease with which we tracked him to the Temple of the Orb, the trail of footprints, the way he mentioned his destination as if by chance…I think, young lass, that we need to be wary.”

“What, are you worried that the ridiculous ritual I looked up and we practiced won’t work?” Jennie said. “Don’t worry about it. I still have my very illegal pepper spray and the highly illegal pistol that Whelk was using. If it looks like things are going south faster than geese in the winter, I’ll use one of them.”

“All I meant, young lass, is that Zaars are tricky spirits that draw strength and succor from the misery of others and the chaos of a world unglued. As Jim Morrison said, ‘some are born to sweet delight, some are born to the endless night’ and Zaars are the blackest and most unpredictable part of that endless midnight, I’ve heard.”

“Again, that wasn’t Morrison,” Jennie said. “It was William Blake, that lovable nutjob, in ‘Auguries of Innocence.’ And don’t worry. I know that the Zaar is dangerous, but if we keep our heads and think logically through things, we’ll be fine.”

The Fáidh nodded, brightening as he did so. “You’re right, young lass. Let us onward and look for clues of our quarry’s whereabouts or a place to set a trap.”

Treading softly over mossy stones, Jennie caught up with her other companions. The sky was overcast with a rather more sinister level of shadow than was usual even for Dublin, and the walkway was offset by stone sentinels ever few feet, each bearing the name (and, presumably, likeness) of a High King of old. Ard Rí Mac Ercéni…Ard Ri Óengarb…Ard Ri Aíd Olláin…Ari Ri Diermait…

“Oi, Cary!” barked Syke, gesturing at a well-preserved statue of Ard Ri Snechta Fína. “I think I’ve found you a fellow. You think he’s your type?”

“Ohmigawd, Syke,” Cary giggled, holding up a hand and smearing the makeup and lipstick on her face into a positively Picasso smear. “That is totes funny. But I never could.”

“Cor, why not?” Syke patted the statue on his shoulder. “He’s well-built, you can’t argue that.”

“I totally prefer guys who are more limber,” said Cary. “And I could never, like, marry so totally far above my social station.”

“What that, then?” said Syke, cocking his head. “Social station?”

“As Ard Ri, King Snechta Fína is totally royalty,” Cary continued, “while I’m like landed gentry without even a hereditary title or stuff.”

Syke shook his head. “The stuff that comes out of this one’s mouth, I tell you…”

“Well, how about this one?” said Cary, rushing a little ahead and losing the sunglasses from her stony eyes as she did so. She stopped in front of an imposing female statue, the only such on the Causeway that Jennie could see, which bore the inscription of Ard Ri Macha Mong Ruad. “Ohmigawd, she’s totally your type, Syke. She was like a friend to all the trees and was able to totally kill her rivals for the throne by like tracking them down in the wilds of Connacht, and she ruled even after her husband died of the plague, and on top of all that she’s the only female Ard Ri, or High King (or is that Ard Banríon, or High Queen) in the centuries-long history of Ireland, and-”

“Cor, it’s like squeezing a sponge with this one sometimes,” said Syke as Jennie quietly giggled behind him. “How do you know all this sodding trivia, Cary? I’m a natural-born son of this soil, and I don’t even know it. Fáidh, do you?”

“Well, I knew that there was a High Queen of a sort,” the Fáidh said, “I am, after all, a quarter fae on my mother’s side. But other than that-”

“Ohmigawd! Would you like me to ask her if she likes figs, Syke? I totally will.” Cary did an excited little hop, the weight of which was enough to ruin both of the charity shop shoes Jennie had her in.

“What?” Syke yelped.

“It’s totally true, I can,” said Cary. “Every statue can see and hear just by like virtue of being of anthropomorphic shape and affect, y’know? They’re not animate like me or probably even conscious—but you never know, Syke!—but if you speak to ’em in the Stonetongue they totally will spill like all their beans.”

Syke looked helplessly to Jennie. “Why not?” said she. “Go for it, Cary. You’re probably just instinctively reading lichen patterns, heat signitures, or pheromones, but if it helps us, whatever you want to call it is just fine with me.”

Cary bent over the statue and made a noise that sounded like two cement blocks being rubbed together irregularly. She got what could have been either a stony scraping in return of just an echo, though of course Jennie immediately pronounced it to be the latter.

“The statue of Ard Ri Macha Mong Ruad totally says that a man…no, like a thing in a mannish shape passed by here not long ago,” Cary said. “He took the left fork in the tomb-path ahead.”

“Well done, Cary,” said the Fáidh. “Let us press forward.”

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Welcome to SantaNet!

As more and more of human life has been shoved online and digital due to ease of distribution at the expense of ease of use, we here at the North Pole have had to adapt as well. No longer will digital requests be a matter of gift cards and IOUs!

With SantaNet, you can stream the latest music, movies, games, and other entertainment directly to your SBox. Gift requests and debits can be processed instantly, with physically gift-wrapped boxes available with activation codes for Christmas morning. And best of all, Christmas can now last the whole year long: with SantaNet subscriptions, supported by leading industry partners like Netflix, Amazon, and Apple, you can continue streaming your content to the device of your choice long after the trees have died and the tinsel has been put away.

SantaNet: the one and only true choice for a world that’s getting digits for Christmas whether it wants them or not!

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Not long after a woefully-attended show in a Tunica casino, aging semi-professional Elvis impersonator Lesley Pervis found himself approached by a young woman in a power suit and heels, with steely eyes and a steely briefcase.

The name’s Deabrua Paholainen, and I specialize in spatio-temporal relocation. What would you say to a world where YOU were Elvis?”

“That would never work,” said Lesley. “If I were him, I wouldn’t be me. No sale.”

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Pervis,” said Ms. Paholainen. “I’m talking about an alternate universe where Elvis’s twin Jesse survived his birth pangs. There, Elvis had to compete for his mother’s affection in an even poorer family, and therefore never became a singer. He dies in obscurity, ironically enough at the ripe old age of 91.”

“I don’t follow,” said Lesley, wary but weary.

“Don’t you see? You were born in 1935 too, just a few months later. You know all of the songs, all of the moves, all of the tics. Why, if you were returned to 1954, you could walk into that same recording studio and have it all. And you’d still be yourself.”

Lesley was trembling. “Are…are you sure?” he whispered.

“Honest injun, Mr. Pervis,” said Ms. Paholainen. “And no one would have to know but us.”

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In which we deflate motor vehicle naming practices:

Compacts
Imports – Imported compacts know that they are cheap pieces of crap and attempt to cloud the fact by evoking a quirky sense of civic pride (Civic, Fit, Rio, Cooper) or number it up in an attempt to wear a tissue-paper-thin muscle car disguise (Fiat 500).

Domestics – American compacts try to disguise their cheapness by claiming to be “fun.” How much more fun could you get than a Fiesta? How much more spontaneous could you be than a Spark?

Sedans
Imports – Import sedans all have made up names that make it clear a foreign speaker was playing fast and loose with English phonemes. Corolla. Camry. Integra. All gibberish of the worst sort, yet evoking–especially to foreign ears–the kind of sporty reliability people presumably are looking for in sedans.

Domestics – Domestic sedans tend to have names ported over from grand old cars of old: Impala, New Yorker, Mark X. No one would ever mistake one of the mostly-plastic trinkets on the road today for a genuine lead sled of old, but the names desperately try to make that connection. Original names tend to be meaningful English words with no relation whatsoever to motoring: Cobalt, Taurus, Cavalier, Focus.

Sport Utility Vehicles
Imports – Imports know they are not American, that the closest they have ever been to a cowboy is when TCM was playing classic John Wayne in their Guangzhou assembly plant. So, like an insecure gang member taking on a violent thug name, these foreigners take on hyper-masculine monickers to try and out-American the Americans (or, in some cases, out-Australian the Australians): Tuscon, Outback, Tundra.

Domestics – American SUVs know that they are as American as apple pie and need not revel in the fact. Their names tend to evoke the American landscape without painting themselves red-white-blue and singing the national anthem: Explorer, Suburban, Denali.

Trucks
Imports – As insecure as imports are about their SUVs, they are even moreso about their trucks. So their names are even more inflated and ostentatiously Western, like Hombre or Colt.

Domestics – American trucks don’t have to prove anything to anybody. They therefore rely on raw numbers and the occasional adjective to convey their worth. The F150 evokes a parts catalog more than anything, but it doesn’t need to. S-10 is the same. Only the more insecure lines feel the need to adapt SUV-like names (Silverado, Dakota, Ranger).

Vans
Imports – Anxious to avoid the stigma of their vans being seen as utilitarian or square, importers prefer names like Odyssey or EuroVan to try and seem more hip than they really are.

Domestics – Suffering from the same fear as importers, domestic manufacturers use the same trick with names like Voyager, Frontier, and Safari. The only difference is that they tend to be very American as opposed the the more classical and international selection favored by their competitors.

Sports Cars
Imports – Import makes know they can’t compete with Americans on car names, to they prefer to fall back on raw numbers as evocative of performance. How many foreign sports cars are named 300, after all, trying desperately to evoke the 300 horsepower that they all wish they had?

Domestics – As a great man once said, American sports cars are all about the vicious animal names: Viper, Mustang, Road Runner. Corvettes, as armed warships, and Thunderbirds, as mythical vicious animals, qualify too. They are not above made-up or self-important names, though, as evinced by the Camaro and the AMX.

Electrics
Imports – Import brands name their electric cars just like they do their sedans, with dartboard English phonemes and an occasional Latin fig leaf like Prius.

Domestics – Americans can’t help but use words related to electricity for electric vehicles, like Volt. Tesla takes this to an extreme with the entire company given a name evocative of electricity for no other reason. This has not yet reached its logical and absurd conclusion, as natural gas vehicles like the Chevrolet Methane and the Ford Phosgene have yet to take off.

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“There he goes,” whispered one at the approach of a tall, gaunt man in black and a stovepipe hat. “The Fundertaker.”

“He doesn’t look fun at all,” said the other. “Why do they call him the Fundertaker?”

“Well-”

“It’s because he takes fun, isn’t it?” cried the first speaker. “He sucks the fun out of every environment, doesn’t he? It’s his nourishment! He feeds on fun the way others might feed on anger or shame!”

“Will you let me finish?” the second snapped. “Look at what he’s carrying.”

The Fundertaker was holding a net. With it, he dipped into the tanks behind the Metromart fish counter and removed the dead fish, adding each to a small reeking velvet bag.

“He’s the Fish Undertaker. He takes all the dead fish from the pet stores and gives them a proper burial.”

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You know the housing market is bad when the realtor turns a massive old house with a great location into an office.

You know the housing market is even worse when the realtor heads for the hills and puts the house-cum-realtor’s-office up for sale.

But what does it say when the television is blazing quietly in the dark on a cold winter’s night in a house that not even realtors can continue to occupy?

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DATELINE – BOMBAY

In a major announcement today, Tata Motors Limited unveiled a new vehicle in its captive Land Rover line of overpriced and mechanically unreliable British oil leakage machines: the all-new 2015 Gland Rover.

“It’s long been an established fact in the industry that Land Rover is a prestige brand, acquired at great cost by wealthy parents for their spoiled college-age children despite being a poor value and continuing the proud British Leyland tradition of being absolute rubbish under the hood,” said TML president and CEO Ib Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta. “In practice, this has led to the unofficial use of the Land Rover as a status symbol and sign of a young, spoiled child’s suitability as a mate for other young, spoiled children. Much like a peacock’s tail, Land Rovers are so terrible that any family able to support their purchase and maintenance is rendered fitter thereby.”

“As such,” continued Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta, “we at TML have decided to own this with the Gland Rover. It is twice as expensive, twice as unwieldy, and twice as terrible under the hood as the existing Land Rover–a clear indication of the supreme fitness for mating of anyone driving it. And since we recognize both sides of the equation, we have also equipped the 2015 Gland Rover with functioning, lab-grown human endocrine glands that emit actual pheromones, proven by science to attract the opposite sex in some cases.”

The 2015 Gland Rover will be available in three versions: one with male glands, one with female glands, and a deluxe edition with both. Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta confirmed that kits will be available to convert or add additional glands as appropriate, or even to grow one’s own. Prices are set to begin at “excessive” for the basic model and will range all the way up to “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” Asked if a right-hand drive version will be available, Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta replied in the negative: “Our core market is for American, European, Arab, and Russian teens,” he said. “There simply aren’t enough rich young spoiled scions of politics and industry in right-hand drive countries to make the investment worth our while.” He did confirm, though, that agreements had been struck with specialized coachbuilders for conversions in case there was unexpected demand.

The new Gland Rover goes on sale Wednesday, October 21, 2015.

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  • A headless apparition in full plate armor—which Jennie recognized as a dullahan—waved politely and then signed something with mailed fingers.

    “Dullahan bids you welcome, but warns that he knows little of use,” said the old man Nurarihyon. “His interactions with the material world largely consist of whipping people with their own spines and pouring blood on witnesses to mark them for future spine-whippings.” Jennie laughed at the presumed joke, only to realize too late that Nurarihyon had been deadly serious.

    “Just like your interactions with the material world are mostly breaking into peoples’ houses so you can eat their food and drink their booze, Nurarihyon?” said another figure, this one resembling nothing so much as a flaming red lizard with a distinct Australian lilt.

    “I am saving them from themselves, Adnoartina!” snapped Nurarihyon. “With the things they put in Guinness Stout or fish and chips these days, better for it to be eaten by something with no liver to cirrhose and no arteries to harden.”

    “Will you all stop arguing for even a single second?” whined the final figure of the spectral group, who appeared to be a woman with long flowing hair, bells and lit candles studded randomly about her, and no legs but rather more mist like the Deogen.

    “Oh, Iele, everyone knows you live to argue like the best of them,” replied Adnoartina. “Do you remember that corker of a row we had over the proper name of the big red monolith down under I came from, if it should be called Ayers Rock or Uluru? Or the one about whether you’re a jinn, djin, or genie?”

    “Those are both extremely important issues, since Ayers Rock rolls of the tongue far more elegantly, and ‘genie’ is an extremely offensive ethnic slur to my people,” Iele replied haughtily.

    “You’re Romanian,” Nurarihyon said, “and if there’s more than 1/64th of a genie in there somewhere I’ll eat my robe.”

    “More than 1/64th djin,” Iele corrected.

    The Dullahan energetically signed something to the others. “Yes, we have devolved somewhat,” agreed the Deogen in its legion of voices. “If you please, friends: you are all born incorporeal spirits like ourselves, with no mortal life to confuse or cloud your perceptions. How is it that Jennie was able only to move one thing in the wax museum, and that but a little?”

    “It’s clearly the first stage of her evolution into another spirit form,” said Iele. “She’ll make a lovely noisy-ghost.”

    “You mean a poltergeist?” drawled Adnoartina though slicking lizard lips.

    “That’s an extremely offensive ethnic slur to their people.”

    Adnoartina rolled its eyes—and impressive display, as they could roll in directions optometrists could only dream of. “I think it’s clear that you’re just too weak to affect it yet, love,” he continued. “Give it a year and you’ll be able to pitch a round of test cricket, assuming Ireland’s joke of a team ever qualifies for test status.”

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    “Merry Christmas!”

    “I don’t believe in Christmas.”

    “Now that’s just silly.”

    “What? Plenty of people don’t believe in Christmas.”

    “No, plenty of people don’t celebrate Christmas. They still believe it exists. I acknowledge that the lunar new year exists even though I don’t celebrate it. Saying you don’t beleive in Christmas is like saying you don’t believe in Tuesday.”

    “You’re just saying that because you celebrate it.”

    “Listen, if every single Christian on Earth suddenly died tomorrow and there was no one left to celebrate, other people would still believe in Christmas, if only as a celebration no one observes anymore. Though it would probably be eclipsed by December 19, Christian Worldwide Genocide Day, pretty quickly.”

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    You’s think that, given a title like the one above, that I’d be ranting against Hollywood’s lack of innovation, its crass celebrity culture, its smug sense of self-satisfaction, or any one of the numerous sins the industry has committed in the 100 years of its existence.

    You’d be wrong. I come before you today to rant about something very different: Hollywood’s double standard when it comes to censorship and activism.

    One of the major points that industry professionals have emphasized is the ability of their movies to make social points and advance worthy causes, addressing racism, classism, other -isms, and oppression at home and abroad. And it’s true that movies have done that…up to a point. But it’s only recently that the line in the sand has become clear.

    Remember in the 1970s and 1980s, when the Soviets were the go-to bad guys? Films weren’t afraid to point out the brutal nature and horrific human rights abuses committed by the communists. And yet, in films today, you never see the few contemporary communist regimes–with one exception as we shall see–portrayed as the rights-abusing boogeymen that they often are. Why is that?

    The answer is simple: money. The old Soviet bloc, and other states that espoused similar versions of nastiness in favor of a future utopia that would never be (as opposed to the fascists, who espoused similar versions of nastiness in favor of a past utopia that never was)…they never screened American films, or did so only rarely. There was no money to be lost by pointing out horrific crimes, because there was no chance of Hollywood movies unspooling officially behind the iron curtain.

    That’s all changed. In a move that can only be described as Machiavellian brilliance, nasty regimes have opened up their markets to Hollywood films with strict central control. You can make your millions from a movie-hungry foreign audience…but only if the powers-that-be say so. This creates a powerful economic incentive not to piss off a given country, like China, by calling attention to any social points or worthy causes. Thus instead you have craven sucking up to the selfsame governments where once there might have been criticism, like the scenes added to Iron Man 3 or the evil, inept Americans as a contrast to the heroic, competent Chinese government in Transfourmers: The One With Swords and Dinosaurs.

    Perhaps a worse example has just been dumped on our laps, though: The Interview. For a long time, North Korea has been one of the few acceptable movie bogeymen, with its abuses and excesses and brutality always on glittering display, because the Hermit Kingdom, like the Soviets of old, allowed no American movies outside of the Kim family’s private theater and there was therefore no chance of alienating a revenue-paying audience. Only the Nazis, discredited and repudiated and dead to history, were more reliable villains throughout the 2000s and 2010s–hell, several movies and video games (like the remake of Red Dawn and the first-person shooters Homefront) were reworked at a late date to swap out Chinese villains for North Korean ones in defiance of all logic. North Korea was “safe.”

    But that’s all changed. The Interview apparently touched a deep nerve with the North Koreans, portraying as it does the attempted assassination of King Jong-Un. So the Koreans retained a group of hackers to sabotage Sony, the producer and distributor of the film. Releasing internal documents, emails, and even a few completed films…all this hurt the filmmakers where it hurt most, in the wallet. Realizing that they were in the same position to lose money through hackery, theater chains have begun pulling the movie entirely. They’re billing it a “safety” issue, but it’s really a monetary one–North Korea has proven, at least for now, its ability to cost Hollywood money, and no one wants to pay that price for their principles.

    So, in an even more craven move than crudely editing Wang Xueqi and Fan Bingbing into Iron Man 3 to suck up to China, the fear of revenue loss has essentially allowed the world’s most brutal dictator veto power to censor media critical of him. People are dying under jackboots in the Hermit Kingdom as they have been since 1945, but rather than let even a relatively mild “Springtime for Kim Jong-Un” satire unspool safely, Hollywood would prefer to quietly go back to making money.

    I’m sorry. That’s craven, it’s crass, and it sets a dreadful precedent for everyone who doesn’t like their portrayal in free media: if you cost people enough money either by denying them revenue or hacking it away, they’ll meekly let you go about your business. That, in my mind, is the biggest reason to seek out and see The Interview if you can find anyone brave enough to distribute it: to send the message to those selfsame craven, crass bean counters that there are bigger things at stake than their damn bottom line. A thousand reboots, a thousand thousand remakes, a thousand thousand thousand vanilla rom-coms before handing the veto stamp to those who deserve the harshest, glitziest spotlight the industry has shone upon them.

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