Monday, October 31, 2005

a poem

I am faded
lace thin milk chocolate
far away

Supergeek Entry

Good lord. I think I figured out J.K. Rowlings’ entire plotline for the last book of Harry Potter. I know I am going to ruin it for everyone, but I am a creature of evil, so there.

Here it is: The last Horcrux of Lord Voldemort will be HARRY POTTER himself. This explains why he has a link with him, it explains why he has some of his powers, it explains why he uses (in essence) the same wand, and why he has not been offed a hundred times already.

HP will have to off himself to make Lord Voldemort mortal – and when he does, some toady (I vote for Snape) will off Voldemort to finish the series.

All hail J.K. Rowling. This is the only ending that is worth its salt.

TWP alternate ending:

HP: “No!!! I am not him! My soul is my own!”
VT (That is Voldemort, not Vermont): “Blah blah blah. I am going to incase you in Lucite and freeze you in time. Now bend over.”
HP: “No!!! I shall defeat you!” (Harry sticks his wand in his mouth and blows his own head off)
VT: “Crap.”
(Snape walks in, herding sheep)
VT: “I am no longer immortal, Snape. In fact, I only have 1/7th of my soul left. I am going to rule quietly in a boring fashion until I die. There is really nothing I can do about it.”
SN: “Okay.”
(roll the credits)

Robert Jordan SUCKS

This is a critique of the fantasy series Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. Before you simply file me away to the Nerd Cabinet for the rest of my life, I also read Hemingway and Murakami and Bret Ellis and other good writers. I also read George Martin and I refuse to read Salvatore.

The first three books were great and I felt compelled to read the ones that followed. Well, I will save you 25 dollars and tell you exactly what happens in Book 11:

NOTHING.

Let me give you a touch more detail on the NOTHING. In 750 pages Elaine gainst the throne of Andor (of course it would be too much to hope for a coronation), Tuon marries Matt and Semirhage is captured by Rand, who loses his left hand during the fight. Jordan put in the fight scene because HIS PUBLISHER PROBABLY HAD A SHITFIT when they read the god awful, endless description of 'beautiful and strong women' (it feels like there are barely any men), the endless stream of character names, the infinite descriptions of clothing that all sound alike, and the utter lack of character development. Faile is freed, but we all knew this would happen and we all knew it would be stupid. In other words, NOTHING happens.

I can only think of one way to redeem yourself, Robert: Make Rand (yes - theoretically he is the main character, although you see precious little of him for books at a time), ok, so, make Rand LOSE. Have the Dark One (why is satan always Dark? Can't he be Evil Whitey for a change?)

Kill Everyone.

Remake the world as Evil and Decaying.

In fact, do it in Chapter 1 of the next book. Ignore every single storyline and crush the imbeciles. I will read that.

I feel better now that it's out. Thank you for listening. I apologize to ANY RANDOM FAN OF FANTASY (ARFF) whose 'enjoyment' of BOOK 11 (just writing that makes me wince) has been torpedoed by The Winged Pig, May He Live Forever.

In favor of Sexy Science

I am in favor of Sexy Science.
For example, what is the point of nanotech? The only point I can think of is to shrink people (ok, me and a small band of kindred spirits) to microscopic size and then battle each other in Love Hewitt's left nipple for supreme dominance. This would be a superb sequel to Tron.
I am also in favor of Deathray Research. There is really absolutely no practical purpose behind this research - it's simply super cool. http://www.wired.com/news/technology/0,1282,69312,00.html?tw=wn_18techhead
I am also in favor of really skimpy outfit (like fabric that turns transparent when I look at it) and high heels technology.
Just sayin'...

Sunday, October 30, 2005

First Annual Erotica Pen Name Contest

I have to come up with a good pen name for my filth.

I am looking for submissions. On my publisher's recommendation, I will be publishing under a woman's name, since those books sell better.

The ideal submission would be hot, but not so hot as to sound preposterous and made up, yet memorable enough to remember while meandering through the erotica aisle with a monstrous hard-on, furtively hiding from the wife.

Once there is a winner, this blog entry will be deleted so that people who google the name will not find this blog, but you, the Winner, shall live on, immortal in tawdry sin.

Love you all

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Break out the Champagne

Publisher is sending the contract and my advance. He also moved up my publication date to October of 2006.
I am going to drink some champagne now.
I love you all.
Really.
All of ya!

An Open Letter

Usually, I spend my days reading and writing, always drinking coffee, sometimes drinking beer, sometimes drinking wine. I don’t write enough when I am drunk though. I write well, but I don’t write enough of it. Novels are so fucking long. The minimum length for a reasonable novel is something like 100,000 words. Typing with Times New Roman 12, we are talking about 180-200 pages of text on the computer. Coming up with that much stuff – far be it from being actually GOOD stuff – is hard. Being a novelist requires discipline, a trait I sorely lack. So now I am keeping away from the sauce. I find stupid ways to waste time and mental energy anyway.
I spent yesterday playing Civilization III. I felt bad about it. I gave the disk to Csilla to liberate me from Evil. Without the disk, I cannot play the game. Not playing is a good thing. I played America. After 7 hours of non-stop playing, I managed to kill the French, the English, the Germans, and all the Aztec cities on my continent. That left me with my own continent by 1730AD! Yay! I will treasure this dubious achievement as my last and final Civ III thingie.
I got an email from London, finally. The publisher said that assuming the rest of my manuscript is the same quality as the first two chapters (it isn’t – the last 10 chapters are MUCH BETTER), he wants to publish my book.
He is reading the manuscript now. I am awaiting his decision, hopeful, since he REALLY liked what he had seen so far, and he has read the thorough summary as well before he responded in a positive manner.
The book is a tawdry erotic novel. Terribly filthy, evil stuff, 80,000 words of debased Corruption. If it gets out there, I will be solely responsible for mountains of … ugh … well, you know. Male Effluvium. Erotica does not pay too well, of course, so I have been working on Birds of a Feather. God only knows what genre it is. I guess it could be called a horror/thriller/fantasy mix.
I actually go to cafes now with my laptop and write. When I am done, I take the tram and read a good book. The one I am reading now is Hemingway’s Movable Feast. When I think about this I am not sure what I should do – rejoice that I get to do this in this day and age (instead of working in a cubicle on bullshit) or laugh at myself for having the gall to rub it in your face.
Still, why am I so depressed?

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 21

“I am like Microsoft. I make software to make your dreams come true.”
“You make software?”
“You make my dreams come true?”
“No. But I COULD. It’s the thought that counts.”
Rabbit drove on. None of them said a word for the next 800 miles.
A wasp flew into the cabin and stung Rabbit on his face.
Both of the passengers stared at Rabbit, expectantly. His entire face turned red, then pale as snow (which is quite an accomplishment, as he is covered in fur). His lips were very tightly pressed against one another. Birds sang outside.
Mr. Fox tapped his paw on the glass of the passenger side window. Rabbit and Dr. Bear looked at the paw, then the glass, considered something, then both shook their heads as if they arrived at the same conclusion at the same time.
Another wasp flew into the car and landed on Rabbit’s nose. The small lupine’s eyes crossed until he focused completely on the insectoid interloper.
The air was pregnant with silent expectancy.
The Second Insectoid Interloper raised his stinger.
“FUCK!” screamed Rabbit, giving birth. “FUCK!” he grabbed both of his own ears and rammed his head into the steering wheel. The airbag deployed as Perfectly Frank’s Suzuki Samurai careened out of control, directly into the path of an 18 wheeler carrying jet fuel from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Bangor, Maine. The tractor trailer hit the brakes and jackknifed, flipping over and over until it crashed its way to the railing of the overpass, where it went over, utterly crushing an armored CDC vehicle carrying experimental strains of avian flu.
Dr. Bear punctured the airbag with his claws and they kept on moving.
“We should get a cup of coffee,” yawned Rabbit.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. Maybe a donut.”
“How about an egg and cheese sandwich?”
“That would be nice.”
“I could go for some honey and berries.”
“You are so gay.”
“Come on, it’s my species, you know.”
“Speaking of species, where are we? Mr. Fox?”
“Uhm, you are asking me like it is some kind of Fox thing. I can tell you we are not at the Tree.”
“Helpful bit of info there, Mr. Fox. Helpful. Why don’t you check the map?”
Mr. Fox unfolded the map (it took up most of the cabin) and after studying it intently for 4 hours declared in a satisfied southern drawl: “We are represented, folks, by a tiny bacterium that I put on this map. All we gotta do is find the bacterium (I named her Shannon, she is easy to recognize, she has exceptionally long cilia), and we will have our exact location!
“Bang?”
“Bang!”
“How do we find her?”
“Like I said, she has exceptionally long cilia,” Mr. Fox furrowed his nonexistent eyebrows. “What we need here is an electron microscope.”

Monday, October 24, 2005

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 20

A lot of sound was being generated inside the convenience store.
“I believe your time would be best served, Commander, by concentrating on the tawdry, filthy sex,” said Rabbit, brandishing the remnant of his white carrot like Excalibur.
Dr. Bear tore through the door of the convenience store like a giant, lumbering bullet. He was trailing Twinkies like the blazing tail of some kind of a dessert comet. “Let’s get movin’” he gasped.
“Fair enough.” Destro threw the carrot towards the pursuers, who instinctively dodged, thereby allowing the tiny legume (I know that is a bean. I just realized my mistake. Stop it. Fuck you! All right, fine, fine.), tiny LUPINE to put the car into gear.
“This is an automatic!” screamed Mr. Fox. “IT HAS NO GEAR!” he thundered.
“Actually, automatic transmissions have gears.” Said Rabbit conversationally. “Older models have 3 gears, newer ones have 4. So there.” He whipped out of the parking lot as the sound of screaming quickly receded behind them.
“That screaming.”
“Yes?”
“Sounded sort of familiar.”
“Yes?”
Mr. Fox raised both paws. He then plopped on his back and raised a foot. “One, two, three. I am seeing THREE.”
“Yes?”
“Where is… Vimes?”
“Well, we gave him plenty of CLUES.”
“So we have. A copper of his caliber (caliber, really, my good chap) should have no problem dealing with that unpleasantness back there. Or find the kidnapped maiden at 321 Holloway Avenue, Baton Rogue, Louisiana, second floor, threatened with ritual sacrifice in four days flat.”
“Fair enough. Did you bring me any twinkies?”
“Ate them.”
“You are selfish and evil.”
Mr. Fox raised his remaining foot. Now he looked like an upside down version of himself except that he normally walked upright on two legs. “I am not evil.”
“What are you, then?”
“I am like Microsoft. I make software to make your dreams come true.”
“You make software?”
“You make my dreams come true?”
“No. But I COULD. It’s the thought that counts.”

More Insane Ideas

I have known about this for some time but since I am kind of interested in apocalyptic events, I found this! Much more likely than a giant meteorite! So it is not a planet killer, but it would be NEWS!!!

http://www.rense.com/general13/tidal.htm

How do we help bring this about? I suspect blogging in and of itself is not going to do it. I keep running into the problem that I need a THERMONUCLEAR DEVICE and scientists of some kind (in this case, a team of volcanologists) to accomplish the relevant goal.

I also thought of writing the book (very Michael Crichton (did I spell that right??)) about a terrorist attack meant to trigger this event, but it would take a lot of science. So if you are reading this and you are a volcanologist I will cut you in for 20 percent and write the whole thing. I just need a lot of cool movie of the week volcano technobabble.

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Hurricanes

Hurricanes gain their power from warm water. When they leave the water their strength diminishes rapidly. This is why Utah is a relatively safe place during Hurricane season.

Nobody cares about a weak hurricane, or about a strong Hurricane, even, that fails to hit interesting areas (defined as areas that are inhabited by Americans, versus areas that are inhabited by poor people who are living in mud huts in the Caribbean or Mexico).

We do this because secretly we yearn for the apocalypse. When the Hurricane hits an area that is already fucked (like the trash strewn barrios of Mexico) we don’t really care – they are already experiencing their hell on earth, death to them, (as we, well fed TV viewers see it), must feel like a relief.

Why are we such pricks? Well, we yearn for the apocalypse because we are bored. For the vast majority of people life is a dull routine of useless bullshit from the end of childhood. There is trash everywhere. The places where there is no trash are artificial islands in a sea of mediocrity and degraded spirit.

So the real question is not how we can stop Hurricanes – it is how we can make them STRONGER. Like I said, there is simply no point to a weak hurricane – there is no respect for one of those at all. Category 1? Pheleeease. Category 5 or higher (I know there is none higher. There really should be though.), now there is a BREAKING NEWS ITEM.

Suggested methods to beef up promising Hurricane:

Superheat the water just ahead of Hurricane approaching US shore with a thermonuclear explosion or via a reactor meltdown within a nuclear submarine. The added benefit of this approach (in addition to really fattening up this baby) is the creation of the first radioactive Hurricane! How cool would that be?
Pee in the water just ahead of Hurricane approaching US shore. Although the added heat energy will increase the Hurricane’s power only by a relatively minuscule amount, you will have the added satisfaction of peeing all over the inhabitants of the eastern seaboard.
Contribute to global warming as individuals. Support opposition to environmental things like the Kyoto accords. This is a lame method, as it is probably too late anyway to stop the apocalypse, but every little bit counts.
Add your own! There are probably many I have not thought of!

Thursday, October 20, 2005

There are white carrots. Really. But Daikons would look better. I agree.

Daikon is a variety of radish also known as Japanese radish, Chinese radish and Satsuma radish. They are white with a milder flavor than the small red radish, and can grow up to 3 feet long and weigh up to 100 pounds, although they are usually harvested at 1 to 5 pounds. Daikon can be eaten raw in salad, pickled, or in stir fries, soups and stews. They have a pleasant, sweet and zesty flavor with a mild bite.

Wine of a Feather

Well. This will be a long entry.

This will not be an entry about my US trip. The US trip was bittersweet.

This will be an entry about my trip to Villany and Kaposvar. H2C (Hottie Second Cousin) asked me to go with her and I said yes. Villany is a prime wine region; they make fantastic dry red wines, the blood of God. There were some problems.

H2C: I found a kitten on the side of the road. You are not allergic to cats, right?
TWP: I am violently allergic to cats. Might as well off me now.
H2C: Well, my parents won’t watch the cat, so it* has to come with us. I will put it in the trunk.
TWP: I don’t think that’s a good idea. It might die in the trunk. It’s cold. It’s also three weeks old.
H2C: I will put it in a bucket then and cover up the bucket with a rag. I will leave a hole so it can breath.
TWP: Splendid.

*Hungarian has no genders. The pronoun used is one that denotes living entities, so technically It is an incorrect translation. The proper pronoun would be a universal mix between she and he. One would think this linguistic oddity would lead to a society of supreme gender equality; one would be wrong.

Actual conversation between TWP and H2C. H2C is driving on a deserted forest road at 90 mph:

H2C: So do you think it’s a good sign that he sent me a text message?
TWP: I don’t actually know him. I suppose usually it is a good sign.
H2C: I want to send him a text message now. Shouldn’t I?
TWP: Uhm, you keep asking me if you should do stuff. Have some faith in yourself – if you feel like it, send it.
H2C: I just want your opinion.
TWP: I am giving it to you.
H2C: You think I should make him dinner and spoil him, so early in the relationship? Should I?
TWP: I think you already know the answer (desperately maintaining the façade of NOT rolling my eyes).
H2C: So should I make him just popcorn and some basic dish, like a veal cutlet? Shouldn’t I?
TWP: Look – if you are gonna make him dinner, make it good, a feast. Or not at all.
H2C: But you said I should not spoil him. Should I now?
TWP: …

Deer jumps out in front of car. H2C hits the brakes and manages to slow down to a paltry 60 mph before colliding with the beast. Car hits deer, rupturing deer’s gut and spilling blood and shit all over the windshield. We manage to stay on the road. Deer sort of runs into the ditch on adrenaline, trailing intestines, already dead.

We investigated the deer and inventoried the damage (fairly extensive – by divine grace, the car remained functional, albeit missing the left headlight and blinker. The bumper was sort of dragging on the ground).

H2C: Now what? Let’s look at the deer.
TWP: Let’s.
H2C: Oh God (shining flashlight on Bambi in ditch – guts, severed neck, dark stains on fur, glistening wildly, utterly motionless).
TWP: Well, it’s definitely dead. It must not have suffered at all.
H2C: It just jumped out onto the road. Didn’t it?
TWP: Yes. It definitely did. It wasn’t your fault.
H2C: Should I send a text message to A about the accident?
TWP: Only if you want him to come and help. That’s how guys think. Look, let me drive for a while, you are freaking out a little bit.
H2C: Oh no, I am fine.

100 kilometers later:

H2C: It just jumped out onto the road. Didn’t it?
TWP: It sure did. It wasn’t your fault.
H2C: Shouldn’t I send a text message to A?
TWP: When we get to the inn, send one then.
H2C: Can you drive for a little bit while I nurse the kitten?
TWP: Sure. No problem.

H2C sits in the back and retrieves the kitten from the bucket. She feeds it with a (not a syringe – the plastic thingie that has the vaccine in it when you get the shot. What the hell is that called?), using a mixture of milk and water. The kitten keeps mewing and in general looking like a little bird. Kitten pisses all over the back seat.

H2C: You sound a little tense. Don’t you?
TWP:
H2C: Hey. You sound a little tense. Don’t you?
TWP: Naw. I’m okay. Just a little tired.

We finally arrive at the Inn in picturesque Villany. The men stare at the front of the car and make manly comments. We are ushered inside where I am introduced to a mixed company of (1) happy alcoholic winery owner with big happy red nose (2) annoying girlfriend of H2C who insists on being the center of attention all the time (3) masseuse friend of H2C who is supposedly very hot but I failed to see it (3) a chef friend who looked a touch intimidated (4) a supernaturally thin black haired guy with great black bug eyes who was giving off incredibly weird vibes. I immediately pegged him for an axe murderer.

AXE MURDERER: Hi. I’m B. We will be rooming for the next two nights. The girls have room 1, P and C have room 2, we have room 5.
TWP (nodding with exuberant delight): Great!

AWO (Alcoholic Winery Owner): Drink some of this (pouring shots).
H2C (downs shot like it was sweet lemonade): That is great stuff!
TWP (downs shot like it was liquid lava): Tttthat ish great shtuff!
AWO: Now what should we start with? (puts 6 bottles on the table)

2 hours later:

AWO: Let’s go down to the cellar. There is a wine I have not named yet, we can taste it and try to come up with a name!
AG (Annoying Girlfriend): Yes! Let’s do it!
(Clustering around gigantic modern steel wine drum where the wine is ripening (or whatever the proper term is).
AG: It is definitely a woman. A hot blooded, Sicilian woman! It should be called … (I confess I forgot her suggestions. They were trite and eminently forgettable).
TWP: I think it is a man. I have an idea – Crimson Decay. It’s unusual but everyone will remember that name.
AG: That idea sucks. Nobody likes Decay! My idea is great. It is a woman. A hot blooded, Sicilian woman! Let’s vote on it. You! A man or a woman?
H2C (looking intimidated): Ugh… A woman? Is it a woman?
AG (gloating): You have been outvoted!

Next morning:
AXE MURDERER (intensely loud): Well! It’s already 6:45! The girls are already making breakfast! We should get up and join them!
TWP: I will. Later. You go on.
AXE MURDERER: When did you go to sleep? I think I saw you watch TV!
TWP: I would like to sleep some more. Like, 10 more minutes. I don’t remember any TV.
AXE MURDERER: Well, the girls are already making breakfast!
TWP: 10 more minutes.
AXE MURDERER: Okay then. I guess I will see you downstairs then.
TWP: Yes. You will.

Bleary eyed I considered inducing vomiting. Decided against it. Realized I did not drink any – any – water last night. Just extremely dark and potent red wine.

TWP: I have a horrible headache.
AWO: On MY wine? My wine is pure!
TWP (cringing): The wine was great.
AWP: I guess you are not used to drinking.
TWP: Guess not.

The program for the day involved getting a brain MRI in Kaposvar, a 200 km trip from Villany. I was scheduled for 11AM – got there at 11:15AM – got in the MRI tube at 2:15PM. I have written about this MRI machine before. Yes – this is the machine where they MRI pigs for research.

There is nothing like a brain MRI while you have a hangover from hell. Nothing.

Withered Gnome Nurse (WGN): I will lead a line into your vein so we can add the contrast material during the MRI scan.
TWP: Ok, no problem. You guys seem to like the one in my left arm.
WGN: Yes, that one looks great! (sticks needle into arm – leads line – needle falls out of my arm, blood pours in thick, ropelike flows of dark red all over the floor and my jeans)
TWP: Ughm.
WGN: Oh, so sorry about your jeans (quickly attaching the rest of the line, blood tapers off)
TWP: I guess it will have to be washed. No biggie. (staring at gigantic pool of blood on the floor)
RANDOM PATIENT (staring at gigantic pool of blood on the floor, turning pale): Jesus Christ. What happened here?

MRI scans are so fucking LOUD. I was shaking and I had a headache and the bloody machine kept screaming in my ear and trying to shake my skull to pieces. Immediately afterwards, I had a conversation with H2C:

H2C: I am really pissed at you.
TWP: Excuse me?
H2C: We spent all this money and now we don’t even get to enjoy it.
TWP: I told you I had to do this and I told you it would take a couple of hours and you said it was okay.
H2C: I just want you to know I am not happy. Don’t you think I should not be happy about this?
TWP: …

Somehow we managed to be okay with this and went back to Villany. We missed harvest, of course. How we managed to drink a bit of wine that night is beyond me. I went to sleep early and woke up feeling relatively human.

Next Day, after breakfast:

H2C: Let’s visit the memorial for the Battle of Mohacs*!
TWP: Hmm. (wanting nothing more than to get home as soon as humanly possible) Okay.

*: Another glorious Hungarian defeat, characterized by stupidity and shortsighted leadership. Involved a cavalry charge against a line of cannons. The cannons won.

We drive to Mohacs and ask a local where the memorial is. The local does not know.

We keep driving around until we see a tiny village with a convenience store. Inside, we are informed that the battle is named the Battle of Mohacs but the actual battle took place at Satorhely 20 miles away which is where the memorial is. We drove back to Satorhely where we COULD NOT FIND THE MEMORIAL. We stopped by a memorial looking place but it was dedicated to World War II.

40 kilometers later:

H2C: So you think it is good if I serve him popcorn and veal? He likes veal! I don’t want to spoil him, you know. You think I should? How should I phrase the text message where I invite him to dinner?
TWP: Ughm.
H2C: We have to stop at a store and buy some milk for the kitten.
KITTEN: Miau. Miau. (Kitten climbs up H2C’s arm as she is driving 90 mph and proceeds to claw her neck continuously).
TWP: You should take the cat to the vet.
H2C: Of course!
(Car suddenly rolls to a stop)
H2C (staring at a field of verdant leafed root vegetables): What are THOSE?
TWP: Carrots?
H2C: Beets maybe? You think they are beets?
TWP: Could be either.
H2C: I want to take one home. You think I should?
TWP: If you want to take something home, you should take something home. Honest. No need to ask.
H2C (casually looking for crop to steal): I just want to know your opinion.

We move on after collecting some leaves and half a beet.

20 kilometers later:

H2C: Wait! (Car rolls to a stop) It’s a Raven!
We look at the unimaginably distant yet still somehow huge raven hopping around in the middle of the field.
KITTEN: Miau. Miau.
H2C: We could leave the kitten here, I bet the raven would like that. That was weird, wasn’t it?
TWP: Ughm.
We stay on the side of the road until the raven flies off.

2 kilometers later:

H2C: I want some grapes.
TWP: Ughm. Okay.
H2C steals some grapes and brings them into the car.
TWP: Do you think it has any pesticide on it?
H2C: Not right before harvest.

20 kilometers later:

Car rolls to a stop by a suspicious looking vegetable stand on the side of the road.
H2C: Wow! Have you ever seen pumpkins like this one?
TWP: No. Not really. I have seen bigger ones but never one that was aqua blue.
H2C: Neither have I! How much are these?
VILLAGE HAG: 80 forints per kilo.
H2C: Great! I will take BOTH! (turning to me) Do you think it will be cute if I ask A to carve pumpkins with me?
TWP: I think that would be cute.

20 kilometers later:

Car rolls to a stop by a cornfield.
H2C: I am going to get some corn so I can make a corncob doll for A. Don’t you think it will be cute if I make him a doll?
TWP: I think that would be cute.

She dropped me off at the train station and I went home and I am starting to recuperate. She asked me to hang out with her and A over the weekend but I told her it would be a good idea if they just spent some time with one another, so hopefully that is exactly what will happen. I really can’t think of a snappy conclusion to this entry, I will try to write more often now that I am back in Hungary. I will take requests.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 19

“Well, we DO need to intro Commander Vimes,” said Rabbit and pulled the car over into a gas station owned by Valero. He pointed at the sign with his paw. “Valero is primarily a west coast refiner of petroleum. The company mostly uses sweet crude from Iraq. It is tasty crude, light, easy to turn into juicy GAS!”
Commander Vimes briskly walked from the gas station convenience store to Rabbit. “I am Commander Vimes of the City Watch,” he said with just a trace of irritation in his voice. “What the fuck are you?”
With the voice of a bass baritone opera singer, Mr. Fox thundered in response. “I am Sir Alfred Hayes, a retired WWF announcer.” He pointed at Dr. Bear and Rabbit. “This is Cobra Commander, and, of course, his trusty sidekick Destro.”
“Like I said. Commander Vimes.” He paused for a moment, apparently considering how he should proceed. “I was told to wait here for –“ he glanced at Rabbit with just a slight flavoring of incredulous wonder “- Destro. He is supposed to have information for me.”
Rabbit nodded. “That’s right. I have valuable information for you.” He accentuated his declaration by the sudden production of a gigantic white carrot. He began to chew on it with unspeakable, horrifying vigor.
Cobra Commander gibbered incoherently as a Twinkies truck began to unload its shipment into the gas station convenience store. The 843 pound ursanoid fled Destro’s Suzuki Samurai and entered the shop, nearly shaking with satanic need.
“I suspect our time here is limited.” Grinned Rabbit. “Now, Vimes, hop on in. I will fill you in on the case en-route.”
“What do you know about the case?”
“Well, I know it is about the kidnapping of a young maiden from the City, transported into this dimension by a type of extraordinarily rare (thereby impossible to explain to laypeople) dimensional rift. This sordid tale involves absolutely tawdry, filthy sex, violence, tawdry, filthy sex with fuzzy pink restraints, more violence, two hippos, rum raisin ice cream and tawdry, filthy sex.”
A lot of sound was being generated inside the convenience store.
“I believe your time would be best served, Commander, by concentrating on the tawdry, filthy sex,” said Rabbit, brandishing the remnant of his white carrot like Excalibur.