The Chronicles of Trebizond

In 1204, the Ochlochinarian mission to Constantinople failed spectacularly when St. Herb the Inedible proposed a compromise Christian-Octopoid faith (Walro-Batism) to the hungry Council of Trebizond. Although the Bishop was most unhappily murdered by his ravenous fellows of the cloth, most of his leather-tough and astringent body was spared the ritual cannibalistic rites to which most heretics were subjected. On an unrelated note, mystery-meat pasta sold for only two drachma in Constantinople the next day.

Subsequently, most of the True Believers in the Eastern Empire were arrested, gathered together, and prepared for public execution and BBQ. Fortunately, the Doge of Venice was a secret (and blind/decrepit) Ochlochinarian himself. To rescue his coreligionists from certain execution and probable cannibalism, he managed to single-handedly redirect the entire Fourth Crusade to Constantinople by paddling vigorously with his single good hand. Upon arriving at the walls of The City, the Crusaders mistook the place for Egypt and proceeded to sack it. The Byzantines, for their part, mistook the invading Crusaders for the Heavenly armies of the Archangel Michael and promptly surrendered.

Crusaders were shocked to find that, after only a one-day siege, the citizens of Constantinople had resorted to cannibalism with abandon. The Citizens were too busy feasting to notice the horrified faces of the Archangel Michael and his Heavenly companions.

Despite the Doge’s best efforts, most of the Ochlochinarian prisoners were taken as slaves by the Crusaders (the remainder attempted to join Ochloch in the inky waters of the Bosporus, waters that are unusually sinky for non-swimmers). Thence the Latin armies marched East for the Third City of the Empire, TREBIZOND. (Nicaea, the Second City of the Empire, held its title merely as a courtesy and was definitely not worth attacking or filled with gold-encrusted broaches, said the helpful local guides). Upon reaching TREBIZOND, the Crusaders realized that “Egypt” sure had a lot of lush grass and verdant pastures, maybe too many pastures, and it sure wasn’t the desert they were told about…so they married local girls and became shepherds.

The Ochlochinarian prisoners, now free, dilly-dallied into TREBIZOND, now an independent claimant of the Throne of Byzantium, and thus began the most glorious and famous period in the History of Ochloch.

Commentaries of St. Herb of Byzantium on the Scourage of Ochlochary and Vagabondism

Excerpts from an address by St. Herb to the Council of Trebizond concerning the true nature of Christ-our-savior, whether he be Human-like, Octopus-like, or Squid-like in Physical manifestation. The proceedings of the Council of Trebizond were recorded by a visitor from the Kingdom of West Frankia, Monsieur Frocce D'Gill, a travelling nobleman on a quest to find the Jewel-Encrusted Broach that St. Peter wore whilst being fed to Lions (Lions was a famous Roman speed-eater who once ate 52 hotdogs and 23 Christian martyrs in thirty minutes, beating his rival Scorgy by 10 hotdogs and 2 martyrs, although no one could beat Scorgy when it came to rapidly consuming German barbarians—no one).

[St. Herb, then known as the Bishop Borgor the Regrettable, stands before the Council of the Church of the Roman East and begins his speech]

"Yea my most worthy sons, yea. For in the fourth year of the rule of the Emperor Theodocianus XXVIII the Unreasonable, son of the Gaspard the German, son of St. Helborn the Lamb-slayer, spawn of the Crab Emperor Gordanox, the first missionaries of the Arian-Monophysite-Heretical Church of Ochloch arrived in the Great, the Very Powerful, and Most Resplendent City of Constantinople; the City Garlanded by Water; the City of the Golden Horn; the City in Which Does Not Reside the Heretical Excommunicated Pontiff of Rome; the Not Heretical City; the City of Many Churches and Several Jewel Encrusted Broaches; the City Intolerant of Blaspheming Jews Except When They Provide Essential Services, Such as Loans and Medicine; the City that will be Captured by the Turk.”

[St. Herb was renowned for his prophetic abilities, although they were often flawed in some subtle manner. For instance, when he foresaw that Constantinople would be conquered by “the Turk,” he really thought that a lone half-man-turkey (who had strayed from his nomadic “Turkish” flock on the Asian steppes) would capture the city briefly in 1098 by sitting in the Emperor’s vacant throne, but that the Emperor, after returning from the Imperial toilets, would promptly slaughter the Turkman and serve it for the Imperial Thanksgiving luncheon. Its feathers, renowned for their softness, would be used to stuff the Imperial Pillows and Imperial Edicts.]

“I believe it is known to you, most excellent sons of the True Church, how diligently I have struggled to secure the Holy Mission against heresies, damned heresies, and statistics, how frequently I have, without hesitation or regret, and certainly with the utmost joy, killed and disemboweled Heretics who believe Christ to be of one substance and one spirit.”

[the assembled Theo-priests gasp in unison at the word “and”]

“Not until that unhallowed arrival of the insidious Ochlarinarians did this new question arise: is Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior a Divine Entity similar in appearance to a Man or similar in appearance to a man-octopoid abomination--a Manopoid ... or Octoman? To all True believers of the True Faith, there is but one obvious answer: he was neither Man nor Manopoid, but rather a sort of Walrus-Bat with three gleaming tusks of pure gold.”

[this Walro-Bat theory was later seen by historians as a compromise between the competing theories of the Ochlocharians, who demanded some sort of marine creature, the Mammalists, who thought that Christ could take any form at all so long as that form was that of mammal, and the Bullionarians, who believed that Christ must have been made of pure gold (or at least that he contained some golden appendage, organ, or tissue (said tissue was most frequently thought to be the cerebro-spinal fluid)), since said metal is the most perfect of all substances, and the only one fit to constitute the most perfect of all men. Obviously, the three tusks of pure gold represented Christ’s dedication to self-flagellation, charity, and covering one’s self with flagella.]

[ultimately, however, St. Herb’s compromise managed to alienate the Ochlocharians, the Mammalists, and the Bullionarians, although Walro-batism gained a sizeable following among the city’s most important and influential demographic: the mentally feeble/members of the royal family]

“Now…now calm down! Just calm down there! Ok…ok, good. Let’s just all take a break. …oh…oh yeah Borjonius…well, well you can go… well, how d’you think that makes Walruses feel? Huh? Just, just ask yourself that… o-…OK!?

[several Bishops rush the podium and carry off St. Herb; he is last seen screaming Walro-Bat blasphemies as he is pulled down into the throng of probably cannibalistic Theo-priests. St. Herb was later canonized only because the insane Emperor Lupinus I (who believed that he suffered from a form of werewolfism timed not to the cycles of the moon, but to the cycles of his heart-beat) had a fondness for gold-plated walrus tusks, although this was true throughout Europe at the time]

The Journeys of OCHLOCH: The Journeys of OCHLOCH Begin

The Journeys of OCHLOCH

Abridged and by Ma’achloyoch Conrad Fitzhugh and updated according to the doctrine of the Ochlochian Church

mori tempus flori nunc ut flagellum Ochlochi vinciat


In the ancient times, before OCHLOCH had fulfilled its chosen destiny, there existed an ancient kingdom, an underwater kingdom, an ancient underwater kingdom, the ancient underwater kingdom of the molluscs, Gorthtab. Though some question Gorthtab’s existence, there are written account of its mottled spires dating back to the Phoenicians. Even the great philosopher Aristotle was aware of its presence, though when he saw it he referred to it as Atlantis due to the fact that he was on a 3-year kelp-induced philosophy binge.

Ruled by the powerful Molluz ‘Car, Gorthtab was a peaceful and prosperous society but also oh so very wicked as its subjects worshipped the sea, the kelp, the sun, and all manner of nonsensically natural manifestations of their unnamed and idolatrous creator (yes, though the Gorthtabians, indeed all peoples and molluscs alive before the time of OCHLOCH, were not able to convert to Ochlochism since OCHLOCH had not spread its message to the world at that point in time, they, like all others who defame the holy name of OCHLOCH, are still doomed to float through the horrors of the air as ghosts, with the land and water forever in their wretched sight!). Not much is known about Molluz “Car, and even though all evidence points to the conclusion that he was the OCHLOCH’s father, he most certainly was not, for then OCHLOCH would not be the son of Father H.A.M. and would thus not be divine.

Molluz ‘Car’s son and heir to the throne was the Prince Taran Uchla. Uchla lived a debauched life, relying on his father’s position and prestige to get him anything he desired, unaware and uncaring of the consequences of his actions, one of the type who would give annoying nicknames to his acquaintances (later banned by Izakhael in Commandment #782; for more information see Conrad Fitzhugh’s “1,001 Commandments the Good Ochlochian Should Follow on a Daily Basis” - the prophet Izakhael had a commandment for every one of his thousands of pet peeves). Uchla’s parties and feasts were offenses to both the eyes and noses of the morally upstanding: lascivious women, unwashed hands, off-color humor, and whale-loads of pickled herring, pickled sardines, and pickled kelp (the constant presence of ocean water made varieties in cuisine a rarity).

The good Gorthtabians put up with this type of behavior, so great was their reverence for Molluz ‘Car and his family, but it was not to last. There arrived at the court of Molluz ‘Car a sunfish, Sprilk the Younger, nephew of the Emperor of Kelptopia, the most powerful empire of the sea (this too Aristotle referred to as Atlantis - there would be much more historical and scientific proof for its existence in this book, but we would not want to distract from the teachings of OCHLOCH! MOVING ON!). Alerted as of Sprilk’s presence, a considerably drunk Uchla resolved to eat him, and thus acted accordingly (we reenact this during the first night of Flornbenoch). Molluz ‘Car immediately banished Uchla above the water in order to appease the emperor of Kelptopia.

And so Uchla departed from Gorthtab with 15 bags of kelp wine and pure Kelptopian hashish, quite unaware that anything significant had occurred in the last 2 months. The two friends accompanying him, the clam Beifalvor and the snail Gazterpon, were similarly oblivious, both believing that all three were heading to the Gulf of Mexico for a week to “par-tae” down. And so, it was with much more than dismay that Uchla, Beifalvor, and Gazterpon found themselves with the Royal Gorthtabian Guard forcibly escorting them to a desolate beach on the Dalmatian coast of the Adriatic Sea in the Balkans.

The three wandered on the beach for hours before they could go for no longer, falling to the ground, waiting for death to come. But suddenly on a nearby cliff they witnessed an ink blob, growing and continually changing shape. And they heard a humming. And the humming boomed out, “TARAN UCHLA!” as it finally took a form.
From the ground Uchla waved a lone tentacle lazily in the air as he responded, “Yo.”
“UCHLA! YOU HAVE LIVED EGREGIOUSLY YOUR LIFE. YOU MUST CHANGE YOUR WAYS!”
“Hey man, what’s the deal? I mean, I could totally go for a brew right now. I’m suffering down here.”
“QUIET! YOU HAVE LIVED A LIFE OF SPOILED LUXURY! YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE MEANING OF SUFFERING!”
“Wow, chill. Who are you?”
“I AM GOD! NO, REALLY, I AM GOD. I AM H.A.M. I CREATED YOU, YOUR FRIENDS, THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE! OH, AND YOU’RE MY SON, WHICH MEANS YOU HAVE TO EXPERIENCE SUFFERING AND LEARN OF THE TRUE NATURE OF HUMAN NATURE SO THAT YOU MAY LEAD THE ENTIRETY OF HUMANITY TO A BLESSED ETERNITY IN MY DOMAIN!”
“...”
“LOOK, HERE’S THE DEAL. I SHALL FILL YOUR MOUTH WITH HOLY WATER SO YOU MIGHT NOT SPEAK BUT HEAR ONLY. IF YOU SHOULD OPEN YOUR MOUTH, YOU WILL RELEASE THE WATER AND DIE A HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE DEATH! THIS SHALL BE YOUR FIRST TRIAL. THEN YOU SHALL TRAVEL ALL THE KNOWN LANDS OF EUROPE AND ASIA TO LEARN ABOUT HUMANKIND UNTIL SUCH TIME AS YOU FULLY UNDERSTAND THEIR NATURE. AT THAT TIME YOU SHALL KNOW WHAT YOU MUST DO, AND AFTERWORDS YOU SHALL JOIN ME IN HEAVEN TO WATCH AND GUARD OVER THE HUMANS!”
“Dude, Taran would never do that!” shouted Beifalvor.
Gazterpon joined in with “Yeah!” while Uchla responded with “No way!”
H.A.M. shot out a bolt of lightning, and Beifalvor disappeared into a pile of ash.
Gazterpon and Uchla looked at each other, then back at H.A.M. as they shouted “Way!”

And thus began the Journeys of Wise OCHLOCH.

[there's more, but I'll post ochloch's journeys up to his horrible, horrible, terrible, horrible death sometime later this week; also, I couldn't get the picture of H.A.M. to face the right way, but below the drawing it says Father H.A.M.]

Ochlochism, The Book of Izakhael

The Book of Izakhael
I.

1. In my thirty-fourth year, in the tenth day of the tenth month when ten years had passed since the fall of the cities of Akhyl, I, Izakhael, son of Mesikhaiah, son of Ruborch, son of the Great One, received the word of the LORD whilst traversing the steppes of Kambaria [Eastern Europe].
2. The LORD said unto me, “Izakhael, great-grandson of the Great One, I am the LORD, and my name is OCHLOCH, and thou shalt call me not LORD, but OCHLOCH, for it is my name.”
3. And thence from Heaven on high came a god-like appendage, and it gave unto me a great Book which, but written in a strange script, I could yet comprehend.
4. And so spake OCHLOCH, “Go forth thee Izakhael unto the towns and peoples of the land, and tell to them the Word and read to them the Book so that they might not worship false idols, for it is sinful, and go north as you will until you reach the coast of Kambaria, and there, kneel upon the sands and raise a shell of sea creature to thine ear, and thou will find great treasures from my worthiness.”
5. And so I went forth unto the towns and peoples of the land and told to them the Word and read to them the Book. In the town of Tymlalysia, I stood before the people and told them to worship OCHLOCH, but the people said, “we worship Kamar, lord of the Deep, and we worship false idols as well, for it is Law.” And I said, “you must not worship false idols, for it is sinful.”
6. No person should obey laws if said laws are sinful laws.
7. Thence I went to the city of Borjermaud, and I read to them the book. Two good strangers heeded the words of OCHLOCH and burned their false idols, but many others kept their false idols, and they told the good strangers, “you must not burn false idols.”
8. And now the OCHLOCH descended from Heaven on high, and he stood atop the hill in the center of the city of Borjermaud, flapping his wings, but the people of the city of Borjermaud summoned the philosopher Theidison. And Theidison said to the people, “behold, people of Borjermaud, there yonder, upon thither hill, is a bird, not our lord.” So I, the prophet Izakhael said, “yonder miracle is thine lord, OCHLOCH.”
9. And Theidison said, “people of Borjermaud, do not all birds have feathers, and have thee ever seen a creature with feathers that is not a bird?” The people of Borjermaud replied, “no, wise Theidison, all creatures with feathers are birds.” Then Theidison said, “thus, thither winged and feathered sight is but a bird.”
10. OCHLOCH departed from the hill and ascended to Heaven on high.
11. Thus, a man must not trust the false prophecies of logic and reason.
12. Thence I went to the villages and castles of Northern Akhyl in the regions spared from the doom, and the peasants and the lords alike refused the Word and refused the Book, for they said, “OCHLOCH must show himself to us, for we will believe only that which we can see.”
13. And so, one must not deny something because it is unseen. Believe whatever is good, even if there is no proof.
14. And finally I came upon the sea shore, and there I fell prostrate to the sands, and I picked up a shell there, and I lifted it to my ear, and the voices and whispers of OCHLOCH rang forth through the shell, and I knew his will.
15. Then I was told the story of OCHLOCH, which was written in a different book.
16. And the voice of OCHLOCH said unto me, “Go thee unto the land of Heydronia [Siberia], and there seek the beaches.
17. And so I traveled to Heydronia, and I walked over many leagues of frozen waste.
18. As I walked, the voice of a God whispered through the wind. And it said unto me, “turn back now, good Izakhael, and spare yourself death.”
19. I asked the voice of a God, “OCHLOCH, creator of many things, has ordered me thus, who am I to refuse him?”
20. The voice of a God said, “OCHLOCH wishes you ill. See now the storm in the distant East: such is the herald of your demise!”
21. I fell to the earth and covered my ears, and a great swooping sound destroyed the voice of a God, and the storm clouds passed away.
22. One must have faith in OCHLOCH, and never believe or even consider that doom will befall thee, no matter the peril.
23. Thence I traveled onwards to the beaches of Heydronia. Then I reached the beaches, and I heard the whispering of OCHLOCH, and it said, “travel thee unto the West, to the Land ruled by the King of Rumban [Rome] and I shall guide thy way.”
24. I thence traveled West on my own two feet for many years, and as a humble beggar I beheld many marvelous places.
25. During this time, I became King of Baloria [Poland] and Azakolia [Germany] and I conquered many lands and had many sons.


II.

1. And on the tenth day of the tenth year since I first heard the voice of OCHLOCH, I came upon a bay near the headlands in the Land ruled by the King of Rumban, and then an image appeared across the bay opposite from where I stood, and the image was that of OCHLOCH, and it said unto me, “go thee now, Izakhael, to the East, to the Land of Gawal [the northern coast of France] and build there a temple to the greatness of OCHLOCH.
2. And many of the fisherfolk came to the temple, and they worshipped OCHLOCH.

Some Basic Facts about Ochlochism

Type:
Polytheist with a small pantheon

Names of the Major Deities:
The main god is the Ochloch, a flying squid-like thing of unknown origin. His father, Ham, who is both segmented and unsegmented at once, is both the founder of the molluscan race and the creator of the universe. Lesser deities include Beifalvor, Lord of clams, and Gazterpon, Lord of snails.

Founder(s) of the religion, if any
Ochlochism is said to have been spoken to the prophet Isma'el through a shell that he put to his ear on the beaches of frozen Siberia.

Type of following
Ochlochism was once the primary faith in Roman France, the inhabitants of which ate the body of Gazterpon during ritual escargot eatings, but it has since faded into obscurity, having a secretive and dangerous following in many sea-port towns and isolated fishing hamlets in lonely parts of the world.

Acceptance of religion
It was once persecuted by the Catholic church, but now the Ochloch's temples go undisturbed by the nosy and viscous, as there are whispered rumors of human sacrifice and discrimination lawsuits.

Church
Each church is run by the local "Ma'achloyoch," a priest raised from birth to listen into sea shells effectively. It is rumored that each priest communicates through pigeons with his fellows and that they all congregate once a yule-tide in a circle of monolithic stones by the sea.

Sects/Variation
Unknown

(OP: Ben, May 2 2008)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 16

Rick Gallen Chronicles Part 4: The End of the Rick Gallen Chronicles?

Rick and Quigley were in the tomb, a hole in the ground having been caused by the CFA ambulance smashiing into the concrete slab. The decor suprised Rick. It was actually very chic. Sure, shag carpeting was last popular 1,030 years ago, but the tie-dye mural on the ceilng was quite tasteful, perhaps even arty. There were a lot of tombstones, though. Tombstones that sounded like they were either talking or playing rock flute. That was a tad weird.
Quigley could barely contain his joy. “Fr-fr-fr-frabjous day!” he shouted as he skipped across the tomb, “To think, that I am once again reunited with my tomb!” He knelt down and started licking one of the tombstones.
Rick didn’t notice at first, but immediately let forth a WTF!-like outburst when he did.
Quigley looked up. “You, Sir,” he said impatiently, “Should have a greater desire to be chill. For it is the most fortunate case that my ancestor’s tombstones dispense pina coladas! Would you like a taste?”
“Uh, I’d rather not. I tasted a tombstone back in highschool, really wasn’t for me.”
“Well, if you are so unaccustomed to the modern practice in which I am currently engaging, you can freel free to grab a glass, with which you might be able to contain the pineapple-y goodness. The glasses can be accessed from the cupboard behind you, next to the lava lamp.”
Rick got a glass out of the cupboard and had begun to mosey on over towards Quigley when it hit him. Lava lamp. Lava lamp? Lava lamp! The lava lamp must be the Lamp of Cybele. After all, it had been gleaming in a rather Cybelean fashion...

The scene was beyond pandemonium. Immediately after the crash, over a dozen IVY leaguers had poured out of the ambulance. Clarkton had just enough time to dive behind a chez lounge before the bounty hunters started firing and the IVY leaguers responded with their own weapons. Homme was jetpacking around the room attempting to give orders but more often than not taking out his own men by accident. Nick Fallon, one of his legs encrusted in salt was engaged in fisticuffs with Lord Shiwlee over possession of the cheese fondue, and someone Clarkton couldn’t identify was leading the IVY Leaguers
Then Clarkton noticed that the energy shield had been disabled. And the bounty hunters were no longer guarding the hole. He put his head up briefly to see if his path was clear, then he took a deep breath and ran for the hole. As he dove in he could hear Homme shouting, “Oh no you don’t!” and crashing into various bounty hunters and IVY Leaguers. There was another bounty hunter calling out to his men to fall back and go into the hole, a similar exhortation from one of the leaders of the IVY leaguers, and finally a glossolalian upcry from both Nick Fallon and Lord Shiwlee, anxious that the scribbledeedoowop not be fumdangled, or something like that. In other words, everyone going down to the basement now, aw yeah.

This mass insodus (although ‘exodus’ would sound better) was impeccably timed. But let me go back, say 30 seconds, to explain my previous words. Rick held the glowing lava lamp of Cybele in his shaking hands and, speaking half to Quigley and half to himsel, said, “I don’t know exactly what will happen when I use this, but I have to, I mean the dreams, it’s all happening right now, I have to-”
“Do what you must,” reclined Quigley on the shag carpeting, “For I am in pina colada heaven!”
“-Okay, here goes, there’s only one button on this thing, so I guess I’ll press that, okay, I’m ready now, okay, here goes, this time’s for real, waaAAAHH?!?!?!-”
A cascade of golden and pale-faced figures distracted Rick from his fretful lamp-activating preparation, and he finally pressed the button.

A timewarp occurred. It was no different from any others.

Rick, Quigley, Clarkton, Homme, Fallon, Lord Shiwlee, and the rest of the bounty hunters and IVY leaguers appeared in the middle of a street in Allenville. As the others all got their bearing, Rick surveyed his surroundings. Down the street he could see a gathering of figures, most of them sitting in a relaxed fashion on the pavement; they looked like they were chatting, but some of them looked like, bounty hunters and IVY leaguers? Rick also saw himself walking towards him, although with much more composure, and a monocle.
“Rick Gallen D4, I presume?” the new Rick inquired with British enthusiasm.
“Uh, well, I am Rick Gallen, but what are-”
“Finally! Good, follow me and I shall explain. All of you, please come hither.” The new Rick turned around immediately and began ambulating swiftly in the opposite direction. The others began shambling too.
Rick ran up to the new Rick while he was in midsentence. “-not sure why exactly but we have determined that sometime in this hour, me, or you, well both of us, actually the Rick Gallen from all 6 dimensions [RETCON!!!!!!! DO YOU BELIEVE!??!] would activate the lamp of Cybele in whatever form it may be in, taking that Rick and everyone around him through a timewarp from their dimension to mine, Dimension Null. You and your friends are from Dimension 4. The people from the first two Dimensions melted upon contact with oxygen, quite unfortunate really, but those from Dimension 3 got here very much intact. Oh, I believe something is occuring a few block down, possible from Dimensions 5. I shall have to investigate for the moment, but I see now Rick Gallen D3. Ta ta!” Rick ran off and was immediately replaced by Rick.
“Hey Rick D4,” the newer Rick said in a friendly manner, “I’m Rick D3. I know all this must be a little weird for you right now, I mean, it took me a little while to wrap by head around what Rick DNull was saying for at least 20 minutes, but would you mind telling me what happened to you before you activated the lamp. It would help us in figuring out what is going on, and I just want to hear what happened to you and all your D4 friends.”
“Ok,” Rick D4 began, subsquently thoroughly explaining everything that had happened to him that day. As he talked, they finally reached the gathering of people. Rick D4 could see bounty hunters, IVY Leaguers, what looked like to identical President Ch’ldors, and two identical women he did not know.
As he finished, Rick D3 nodded his head sagely. “Well, that’s very interesting, Our timelines were the same up to the point you, I mean we, launched the escape pod. Once that occurred, President Chyldor’s bounty hunters were alerted. They thought it was Nick Fallon in the escape pod, and since they didn’t want him being taken by the CFA, whom they have a jurisdictionary rivalry with, they went after the pod.
Thus, the real Nick Fallon was able to escape, and I was captured by the bounty hunters, who took me to President Chyldor. Chyldor realized I was not Fallon, but he wanted to have me killed anyway so no one would find out about the government blunder and the increased terrorist risk, and also because he probably thought I was a terrorist anyway.
While I was languishing in prison, waiting for my execution, I met Samantha, who was an aide to the President sent to check on my health every day. We fell in love; in fact, I remember the conversation we had when we both realized it. Samantha said, ‘I love you, Rick,’ and I said, ‘But I have a wife,’ and Samantha replied ‘But she hasn’t even been directly mentioned in the story’ so I said, ‘Oh, then I guess it’s ok that we’re in love.’ I told her about my dreams, about the lamp, and she believed me, so she freed me the day before my execution, although she did not go with me because she still had loyalty to Chaldor, her home country.
I eventually made it to Louisville, Kentucky, where my dreams said the lamp would be, but Samantha, President Chyldor and his bounty hunters, a number of CFA agents, and Nick Fallon and the other IVY Leaguers were all there. I wouldn’t want to bore you with all the details of my harrowing adventure that night, but I eventually decided to activate the lamp, and everyone around me was transported here to Universe Null.”
Rick DNull ran back towards Rick D4 and Rick D3 at the gathering. He was out of breath as he spoke. “The D5s, they’re all vampires, from Vampyron: The Last Dimension. They told me they would be biting the necks of all those of us on this street, but that they are too frightened from the recent occurences to do so. But this is absolutely fascinating! All 6 lamps have been activated now!”
“My god.” stated Rick D4 and Rick D3 at the same time, “Hey, cool, we just said the same thing, what the hell is tha-”



What will happen to Rick Gallen now that all the lamps have been activated? And what will happen to Rick DNull, President Choldor, Samantha DNull, the DNull bounty hunters and IVY leaguers, Rick D3, President Chyldor, Samantha D3, Ochloch D3, Nick Fallon D3, the D3 bounty hunters and IVY leaguers, Clarkton D4, Quigley D4, Homme D4, Nick Fallon D4, the D4 bounty hunters and IVY leaguers, Lord Shiwlee D4, Rick DVampyron, President Chvampdor, Samantha DVampyron, Clarkton DVampyron, Quigley DVampyron, Homme DVampyron, Nick Fallon DVampyron, the DVampyron bounty hunters and IVY leaguers, Lord Shiwlee DVampyron, and Frou-Frou the WonderSquirrel of a Thousand Tricks DVampyron?

(OP: Nate, February 7 2009)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 15

WARNING! WARNING! RETCON IN PROGRESS! WARNING! AAAAAHHHH! I ALMOST SPELLED “RETCON” LIKE “RECTON,” THE FIRST FOUR LETTERS OF WHICH ARE THE SAME AS THE WORD “RECTUM,” A HAPPENSTANCE WHICH WOULD HAVE THUS LED TO AN UNINTENTIONALLY HILARIOUS SITUATION. NOW THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN COMEDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But sadly, such an occurrence will never take place (though, I mean, wouldn’t it have been funny if it had happened - just saying is all).

“But what is a retcon?” you may very well ask (and we must very well answer, given the strict laws on writer-hypothetical reader relations). Well, a retcon is when a mommy and a daddy love each other, but the daddy’s mommy had always wanted a daughter, so she dressed the daddy up in girl’s clothes until he was eight, so now the daddy has to wear a dress whenever he is having....oh dear, perhaps I have said too much.

“But what really is a retcon?” you demand with growing consternation. Unfortunately I have not the level of writing ability to explain this concept to the full extent of your understanding. But I know a man who can. He had a wig and a lot of crazy ideas. I bet you think I’m talking about some homeless guy with a penchant for collecting false hair, but that is only half-true. I am talking, of course, about Thomas Jefferson:

“When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve a part of the plot of a post on an online forum in order to have the overarching story make any semblance of sense...” [from the contraversial 2.5 version of the Declaration of Independence]. It is prudent to stop there, lest Jefferson’s prose fill our heads with the radical ideas of liberty, equality, and hot inter-racial exxxxxxtra!!!!!!!!-marital slave sex (I’m sorry, it just wouldn’t be a Thomas Jefferson joke without Sally Hemings).

But what I am saying, in truth, is that I lied. Horribly, deceitfully, and apparently knowingly. For you see, if we all know from the TIMEZONE Chronicles that Jefferson, Lincoln, and Grant terminated the existence of all parallel universes, whence did Chaldor emerge? To clarify this dilemma once and for all it shall now be established that Chaldor was summoned not from a parallel dimension, but rather, and more plausibly, from an eschatologically religious colony on the 6th ring of Saturn. Well, now that everything is in order, we can proceed with the “Saga of Rick Gallen.” Oh wait. Crap. Um...for the purposes of the “Saga of Rick Gallen” being coherent, let’s say there were like 5 extra parallel dimensions left at the end of the TIMEZONE Chronicles. Yeah, 5’s a good number. By the retconning power vested in me by RECTON, patron saint of unintentionally hilarious situations, I proclaim the existence of 5 extra parallel universes! Look’s like Rick’s gonna make it after all!


The Saga of the Rick Gallen Chronicles, Part 3: The True Story of Little Bo Peep and the Ovine Organ Scandal

(It should be noted that this series of events takes place in the year 3000 in order to remain cannon and not upset our loyal fans - after all, where would we be without RETCONNING?)

Clarkton hurried to his car, lest a more meandering pace should remind him of the unpleasantness at the gala. Opening the door to his government limousine seemed to immediately activate the proletarianly Cockney accent of his driver, Finchley.
“Back to ‘eadquartehs, guvna?” came Finchley’s ridiculous and hideous voice from the front seat.
“Twouldst seem” “That is” “To be” “The best course of action” “For the moment.”
“Righto!”
Clarkton closed his door rather dejectly, and the limousine set off.
“So, Mr. Clarkton, ‘ow was the event? Get ‘acquainted’ with any birds? Know what I mean? Know what-”
“I would” “rather not discuss” “it”
“-I mean? I’m talking about females. You know, ‘females’? Know what I mean? Know what I mean?”
The car had not been driving for more than a minute (though it seemed like much longer with Finchley’s unceasing attempts at innuendo) when a red light began flashing from Clarkton’s phone. As much as he dreaded that little red light (for it meant DANGER! or AN E-MAIL ATTACHMENT!), it gave him an opportunity to get out of the limousine. He signalled to Finchley to pull over - Finchley now seemed stuck on a loop, but was nevertheless thoroughly enjoying himself - since one could talk on Chaldorean phones only when they were stationary. After a few failed attempts at communication, Clarkton finally got Finchley’s attention, and the car parked on a shoulder of the road next to a salt bank. Clarkton stepped out of the car, hesitated, and took the call.

It was his boss. The boss at his real job at the CFA, the secret police of Chaldor. His position in the Ministry of Matters Geological and Occult was merely a front - well, to be fair, the CFA was part of the Ministry of Matters Geological and Occult, but there were only like three Ministries in Chaldor anyway; I mean, the Ministry of War contained the Office of Toilet Maintenence and Repair, and no one even knew what the Ministry of the Cultural Navy did (though some speculated that they taught short-story writing seminars at the Chaldorean Community Colleges).

His boss spoke normally, but Clarkton could hear the tension in his voice.
“Clarkton, Borkter and Sphinct’s ambulance, the one that was tracking Nick Fallon, well somehow Fallon captured it and used it to blow up a salt mine.”
“How has no one” “heard of the” “attack yet?”
“We managed to cover it up pretty quickly, but-”
“Nick Fallon”
“Yeah, I know, but-”
“Stole an ambulance” “blew up a salt mine”
“Clarkton, listen-”
“My god, Borkter and Sphinct, are they alri-”
“YOU FOOL, BORKTER AND SPHINCT ARE DEAD!”
Clarkton was silent, so stunned he could not speak his stilted sounds.
“I’m sorry Clarkton, I know you used to get in a lot of hilarious situations with them. But Fallon’s still out there. He actually, he wants to talk with you. You’re the only one he will talk to. I think it’s because, despite the fact that you are on opposite sides of the government and the conflict between tyranny, liberty, and anarchy, he respects you, not just as a foe, but as a man who-”
“Oh” “I shall talk” “To him”
“-just as the the cat respects the mouse for his agile hiding abilities and the mouse does so in return on account of the sharpness of the cat’s teeth, so to do you and Mr. Fallon share in the affirmation that there is mutual, albeit grudging, respect for one another, a respect which-”
Clarkton took the new call.

“Is this Clarkton?” The voice was American, arrogant yet nonpretentious. It must be Fallon. He was on of the few IVY Leaguers who wasn't reciting all the time. Yes, Nick Fallon and all his partisans were IVY Leaguers. The Chaldorean government told the public that they were domestic terrorists, for that was less frightening than the fact that IVY had already managed to infiltrate Chaldorean territory. Fallon and his team were no conducting espionage and sabotage missions on a daily basis.
“What do” “You want?” Clarkton asked hesitatingly.
“A deal. That’s what I want, a deal. And you wanna know why? ‘Cause I respect you, that’s why, because, like the chicken and the antelope...” 10 minutes of similies later, along with about 40 seconds of taut political discussion (it always manages to work its way into conversations), Fallon finally explained that he had a hostage, a CFA spy by the name of Rick Gallen [an unfortunate mistake on Fallon’s part], and that he would trade him for two new CFA ambulances filled with munitions. Realizing that they had no spies by that name, Clarkton hung up. He had always thought these phone calls between terrorist and government investigator were supposed to be raw, deep, revealing, and symbolic of man’s struggle with his baser natures, or something like that. But Fallon sounded like an idiot. How he managed to carry out so many attacks on the Chaldorean government was beyond Clarkton. Yes, Fallon was an idiot. But then, so many government officials were too...it was at this moment that Rick’s escape pod whistled through the air past Clarkton and crashed into the mansion Clarkton had just driven away from. Clarkton didn’t know what it was, but he still activated the emergency GPS system on his phone, designed to emit a signal telling the CFA to send reinforcements and to give the reinforcements his location (but signals can easily be intercepted...............just some foreshadowing for those paying attention.........................yes, very easily intercepted). He looked around. Finchley and the limousine were gone (although, to Finchley’s credit, he was going to the nearest convenience store to get some hotpockets for himself and Clarkton). Squinting at the smoke in the distance rising up from the mansion, Clarkton gave a sigh and began running.


Part ?: And What Of The Pod?

Setting: Presidential Palace, Forbidden Palace, Forbidden City, Glorious Capital City, Utah, Chaldor, ACACE

The whinging government lackey rushed through the set of gold-plated doors. “President Ch’ldor, we’ve just intercepted a CFA emergency signal in Sector B!” [Did I not call that? Yeah, foreshadowing!]
“Good Chaldor! Not Sector B!” President Ch’ldor, leader of AONRE (ACACE and Other Non-Related Entities), nearly fell out of his gold-plated throne. He dropped his gold-plated coffee cup and it shattered. Into gold-plated shards. “They’ve found Quigley! Which means they must have found the LAMP! Sound out my bounty hunters! Immediately!”
The air shimmered in front of the president, and 10 bounty hunters materialized in formation. They were gold-plated. They looked like Boba Fett. In other words, they looked like golden Boba Fetts. One stepped out in front of the rest (he was their leader, and his name was Homme von Rocket). “You called?” he said awesomely.



Setting: CFA Ambulance, Secter F, Utah, Chaldor, ACACE

Nick Fallon was pressing the gas pedal straight into the floor, urging the stolen ambulance to go faster with a pasty hand pointed in the distance.
“Hang up on me. I’ll hang up on him, I’ll hang up on all of them! No one hangs up on an IVY Leaguer! Leftenant! Call Clarkton again, I want to hang up on him! No, wait! Leftenant! Have you triangulated Clarkton’s position?” he asked inquiringly, continuing to stare out onto the salt flats over which the vehicle was hurdling.
“Um, Sir,” replied his second in command, “We do not have that capability, just as man is not able to change his fate when the gods have decreed it. But we did manage to intercept a CFA emergency signal in Sector B.” [What? What! I’m on a roll with this foreshadowing thing!]
“To Sector B!” Fallon popped the emergency brake and spun the wheel. The resulting j-turn threw the second in command out of the ambulance and onto the salt flat. Salt being soft (according to science), he was not hurt, but the rest of the team of IVY Leaguers was on the ground too, and the ambulance had three flat tires.
Mr. Sworly, the team’s electronics expert walked over. “Pardon me Gage, but did Fallon damage his cranium in some fashion when we last exploded that salt mine? I mean, he’s been acting oddly, though the mists of time do not give a tuppence otherwise.”
“Yea, actually. I do believe he has dislodged a part of his brain.”
“Dear me, what are we to do now? For my tracking device has shown that we are truly lost. We are not even in the Sectors anymore, but rather might even be out in the region of... the Secters.”
“Uh-oh,” thought Gage. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw Fallon running from the ambulance. “Wait!” he shouted vainly, “You shall fall into a saltlacc!” [The saltlacc is a sarlacc made out of salt and is also a totally original idea of mine and no one else’s so there.]
Fallon disappeared in a puff of salt. “Blast the heavens!” muttered Gage.



Setting: Wilworth Manse, Sector B [yes, the Sector B], Utah, Chaldor, ACACE

Meanwhile, Clarkton had made it to the mansion and was surveying the chaos in the foyer. Everyone who had been at the government gala had fainted or was running around screaming. Clarkton tried to ask about what had happened, but the most lucid response he received concerned organizing a rescue party to save the fondue in the abatoir. Abandoning this effort, Clarkton began searching the first first floor for clues. The first one he found was the massive hole cause by Rick’s escape pod, but his access to it was blocked by a pile of cheese platters.He began to clear a path, but Lord Shiwlee tackled him.
“Are you” “Mad?” he shouted, fear causing his eyes to bulge, “For that way ist” “It leadst to where” “Where the Wilworths” “Du’rst keep.....Quigley!”

Rick emerged from the wreckage of the escape pod. It was musty and dark all around, except for the gaping hole in the ceilng that was ringed with fire. He could hear aristocratic screams from the floor above. Across the room a foppish young man was sitting on a cardboard box, clutching the sides with his hands, his pale and sickly face peering at Rick inquisitively. Rick was weirded out, to say the least. (In fact, you might say he was freaked the hell out, but let’s not push it).
His voice wavered as he asked, “This isn’t Torture Headquarters, is it?” (It wasn't. Borkter and Sphinct, in one of their zany escapades, and disabled the escape pod's navigation system, ensuring that it would go anywhere but the CFA's torture headquarters).
The young man tilted his head. “Not at all, Sir, but rather something much more altogether horrid and arcane.”
“Oh.” How do I get away from here?”
“I could tell you. But why would you want to leave? For through the door is a tomb, the realm of my dead ancestors, a place of refinement and gentility, where my thoughts are respected by those no longer drifting through this temporarily mortal realm of ours, where I, Quigley Wilworth, am able to speak in the tongue of the ancients, to gaze upon the beaty of the Cybelean lamp, to discuss things both base and elegant, to live! I understand them, and they understand me. But my parents don’t understand. The community doesn’t understand. They locked the tomb up, prevented me from achieving my destiny, my true glory, from seeing the lamp. They began building walls around it, to prevent me from even finding the entrance. But still, I slept here every night until I was finally concealed, and now I am waiting, oh waiting, for the time when I shall finally be reunited with my tomb. Oh, the tomb is filled with such wondrous things, perhaps I shall tell you more.”
Quigley had stopped staring at Rick by this time, instead focusing his incredibly creepy eyes on some unknown point in space-time, and Rick had begun to back away from Quigley ever so slowly, hoping not to attract his attention. He hit something, and it opened with a huge creak. Quigley kept talking.
“Wait,” said Rick with a growing realization, “Creak? WTF, the door’s right here. You were just making that stuff up about the tomb! I’m leaving.” True to his words, he left the basement, slamming the door behind him.

Clarkton shoved Lord Shiwlee out of the way, and starting kicking platters, willy-nilly I might add. He had almost reached the hole, when a pair of golden hands appeared and handcuffed him. The hands were followed by the rest of the bounty hunter’s body. Behind him, other bounty hunters set up a perimeter around the whole and erected a laser shield over it.
“What is” “This all about” flustered Clarkton “I am a CFA agent, 15th degree” “Let me” “Through.”
“Sorry Sir,” replied the bounty hunter, “Our authority exceeds yours on this mission. We were sent by President Ch’ldor himself to secure the area. There must be something pretty important around here.”
Homme von Rocket jetpacked into the house through the ceiling. “Soldier!” he shouted curtly, “You will stand down and say no more about the current assignment! Is that clear!”
Without a word the other bounty hunter stepped back from Rick quickly, efficiently, dead-ily.
Homme turned around to look at Clarkton and let out a laugh. “Clarkton?! Didn’t expect to find you doing something as physical as this. You look like your lungs gonna bust. Maybe you should’ve worked a bit harder in gym class back when we were in school. You could’ve been like me, captain of the trophy team.”
“As I recall” Clarkton spat acidly, “You didst not happen to be” “On the roster for graduation.” “You were not able to cut it” “As they would say” “At the CFA” “You had to go” “Onto the brute squad.”
“That’s a goddamn lie and you know it!” Clarkton could feel the rage through Homme’s helmet. “The academy wasn’t good enough for me! I work for the president now, so, so shut up!”

It had been 10 minutes. Rick came back into the basement, and Quigley stopped talking.
“Um,” said Rick, “So, that was just a really long hallway leading to a lavatory.”
Quigley rolled his eyes. “Well, duh, that happens to be the doorway to the secret lavatory, to be used only in the case of a revolt of the proletariat. That is not the door I was mentioning to you at such great lengths. Rather, it is this door I was speaking of.” He got up and moved the cardboard box he had been sitting on. In the ground there was indeed a door, padlocked and barred. And covered with a slab of concrete, which was, um, clear concrete, so you could still see the door through the concrete, and, um, you know what, shut up, shut up! “It is this door that is the obstacle to my dreams, my dreams of being in my tomb, of learning the knowledge of my forebears, of being in the presence of the lamp, of washing my hair in the underground streams and rivulets, of prancing both into and out of caves, of skipping both to and from the-”
“Hey Quigley? Could you hold up for tick. What exactly is this lamp you keep on mentioning?”
”Oh, that? The Lamp of Cybele? It just activates a supra-dimensional time warp, although I’m not really sure what happens after that. The president didn’t want anyone to use it, let alone know about it, so he sealed it up. But I have explained that to you already. Now let me regale you with more tales of my prancin-”
“That’s the lamp in my dreams! The circumstances are never exactly the same, but each time I activate the lamp, everything becomes purple, and then I wake up. I have to know more about the lamp. I have to see it. I must see it!”
“Well,” sniffed Quigley, his pompous speech deflated by Rick’s clamor, “apparently you don’t want to hear about prancing now do you? I’m sorry, but I no nothing more about the lamp. And this is all besides the point. How are you to get into the tomb?”

“Face it Clarkton, Mr. Starp had a gramphlon-sized mancrush on you! That’s why you got all those A’s!”
“Mr. Starp’s allotment of grade” “Wast based not on his sexual preferences” “But rather” “On the individual merits” “of each student” “and his understanding of” “the basic functions of espionage.”
“Well, when you put it like that!” Clarkton and Homme were still reminiscing about their days together at the academy. “You know what? I think you’re jealous. You wish you had all my fancy equipment right now. I can see it in your eyes, you’d do anything for my fantasmaloid rifle, wouldn’t you?” Homme dangled said object in from of Clarkton’s face. “Wouldn’t you!”
“If you hadst staid” “But another month” “At our schooling” “Twoudst realize that” “A true agent hast no need” “For your schoolyard toys.”
“Goddammit! Stop talking like that!”
A CFA ambulance crashed into the bounty hunters’ energy shield. Both sputtered and died.

(OP: Nate, February 1 2009)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 14

A brief "interlude" prior to the installment of the third installation of the Rick Gallen Chronicles

"What a lovely chaldorstatedinnerreceptionfeast. I am so delighted that we have finally arrived in good company."
"Indeed darling, you shall'st meet many a fine personage to-night."
"Whom is that!?"
"Whom is whom?"
"That woman in the blue dress, over yonder there?"
"Ah, why that is Lady Dorrna, the one whom is the wife of the Chief High Privy Councilor, Lord Shiwlee."
"By Chaldro the Very Wise! Did'st She refused her husband's last name?...and such a lovely one at that!"
"Verily." His voice dropped to a hush but retained its absurdly stilted and feminine air, "some say that she is the daughter of the Grand Specter of the Sea, his worthiness Misefaius himself."
"Clarkton! Truly, do not say such things a-loud, or you could find yourself...very free and rather happy, forever and ever."
"Oh, you worry far too greatly. Come, let'st I acquaint thee with yonder Lady."

"Lady Dorrna?"
"Why...yes...?" she struggled
"Let'st I introduce my wife to thee, Mrs. Clarkton."
"My," said Mrs. Clarkton, "how fine a corset thee doest wear about thee bosom!"
"Why," "thank thee" [incessant panting] "I am always," "I require the vapours, if thee please'st."
Mr. Clarkton drew a vapour case from his coat pocket and passed it to the Lady, whose face had grown obscenely vital, far too flush for polite society.
Her more seemly paleness returning, the conversation continued.
"Mr. Clarkton," "I hear that" "thee'st be employed" "in the" "Ministry of Matters" "Geological and Occult"
"Yes, whom quite true my Lady"
"Then" "tell I," "are the tectonic" "plates" "really as stable" "as the Minister proclaim'st?"
"Indeed they are, why yes of course they are, they're fine." His cheeks and ear lobes suddenly shone red, like burning embers of deceit, and so shocked were the guests with his barbarically healthy demeanor that one Lady fainted, and Clarkton quickly departed the building, sure that the disobedience of his facial capillaries would result in his dismissal from the Ministry, perhaps even...public de-whigging.

(OP: Ben, January 6 2009)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 13

The Rick Gallen Chronicles: Part 2, Murder was the Entree...for Death!

"...fontaine, lafontaine, la fontaine..."
Rick started up abruptly, realizing even before he began to question his wherabouts that he'd had another one of "the dreams." Same scenario, slight change in details, and once again ending with yet more of that uncertainty that continued to plague him. But as to his whereabouts....was he in...a closet? With an open porthole on one wall? Well, yes, else he wouldn't have bothered to ask himself such confused questions. The room, or rather closet, was small, of course, though that perception could have been caused by the surprisingly dismal quality of light filtering through the window. There were also no doors, a fact Rick ignored, so engaged was he by the scene outside the porthole.

"And this," quoth the narrator, "was what Rick saw."
[There was a picture of an explosion on some salt flats, but the internet didn’t seem to like it]
The burning wreckage of the salt mining platform was receding rapidly in the distance, like, when stuff explodes and it's really cool and shit like that, and Rick assumed he must be in the "ambulance." He stuck his head through the porthole, and the gold plating of the vehicle’s exterior confirmed his suspicions. He peered out farther. Beneath the porthole on the other side was a door handle. And nothing else. No balcony, no railing, just that door handle followed by what must be a rather bumpy drop onto the salt flat. But it was either that or wait to be killed by these crazy people who had blown up a mining platform, kidnapped him, and put a door handle where no door handle should rightly exist. He steadied himself and, sticking his arm out of the porthole as far as it would go, wiggled the door handle.

"Ejection Sequence for Pod 3A-alpha Initiated," stated a non-threateningly feminine robotic voice emanating from the ceiling. Rick froze. "Please select your ejection destination on the console to your right." Rick's arm shot back through the porthole as he spun to his side. There was no console there. He could just discern some wires hanging out of the wall, a testament to some thief’s handiwork. "Please select your ejection destination on the console to your right." Rick started getting nervous. "Please select your ejection destination on the console to your right." Rick started to panic. "Please select your ejection destination on the console to your right." Rick screamed and grabbed the wires, bunching them all together in his fist. "You have chosen 'Torture Headquarters, Ministry of Happiness, Glorious Capital City' as your final destination. If you have any other requests or changes to make, please do so at the console on your right. Make Sure to Buckle Up!" And with that, metal plating began inching down the outside of the pod, and an utterly viscous jelly began to pool around Rick's ankles. Rick banged against the walls shouting, "But there are no seatbelts!" That only seemed to make the jelly rise faster. Finally it encased his entire body, and, wouldn't you know it (you guessed it), he blacked out.

But it now seems the proper time to reveal the personages of those men executing the operations of the now-entirely-quotation-enclosed “ambulance.” Let us make them a duo, a slapstick duo, one always getting into foibles and hilarious misunderstandings that always have a way of neatly resolving themselves. Their names should be humorous too, to reflect their personalities and quirky characteristics, shall we say: Borkter and Sphinct. Well, Borkter and Sphinct worked in the retrieval and demolitions arm of the Chaldorean Freedom Association (CFA - the brutally oppressive secret police), carrying out their missions in an incredibly large van disguised as an ambulance that could hold large amount of munitions and prisoners. Their assignment for the past few months had been to capture the renowned and elusive terrorist Nick Fallon. How they ended up trying to capture Rick was a matter of typos, hilarious misunderstandings, or because they realized they would eventually get promoted if they continued to kidnap more than the required number of comrades per annum. And so, on that very morning, Borkter and Sphinct had been tailing Rick Gallen’s car, waiting until he got to his job at the grocery store to abduct him - Rick had been so preoccupied by his dream that he had not noticed the giant golden ambulance tailgating him for over 40 minutes. When Rick crashed into the mining platform, Borkter had stopped the “ambulance” by the side of the road so Sphinct could call in the abduction to CFA headquarters (Chaldorean cell-phone reception was notoriously bad - one could only make a call when stationary). It was at this moment when Nick Fallon and his cadre of elite special forces paratroopers trained in the deadly art of (insert your own made up style of karate), having tailed Borkter and Sphinct in turn, took control of the “ambulance” and efficiently, yet still quite gruesomely, dispatched our two humorous friends. (This was the end of the Hilarious Adventures of Borkter and Sphinct).

[Part 3 of the Rick Gallen Chronicles will be coming even more shortly than previously]

(OP: Nate, January 4 2009)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 12

The Rick Gallen Chronicles: Part 1, The Spinkoni Moratorium

After a cheap but nutritionally questionable breakfast, Rick Gallen drove to work in his white state-provided car, which looked and handled oddly like the Zaporozhets produced in Soviet Ukraine. The winter sun shone bleakly on the expressway from ResidentialAreaClassQType3a-ville to Glorious Capital City of The Rulers who are Benevolent and Glorious and of Such (formerly Salt Lake City, henceforth referred to as Glorious Capital City), and it seemed even brighter than usual due to the absence of traffic. At this hour the only cars on the road were like Rick’s, driven by people willing to wake up at unChaldorean hours to get to their jobs early and slowly repay whatever monumental debts they had incurred as a result of being undesirable to the government. A steady stream of government limousines methodically made its way on the road away from Glorious Capital City, no doubt transporting many drunk and hungover officials of the Chaldorean Chaldorean’s Party, still reeling from the state-sponsored hedonism of the previous night. (The Party’s parties were known of throughout the FDPUSA; while most comrades were not allowed to attend, the were given the privilege of paying for them).

But Rick didn’t pay attention. His mind kept drifting back to the strange dream he’d had. “I know it was a dream,” he thought in a most cliched fashion, “but it all seemed so real. I mean, how could it be that AIEEEEE-” He swerved to miss one of the giant potholes that the Chaldorean government both denied the existence of and claimed to have placed on the roads as part of a strategic oversight plan that was too extensive to explain to every Chaldorean comrade. The Zaporozhet-esque car shot off the road into a salt embankment, very nearly crashing into one of the many gigantic saltfrost mining platforms that dotted the landscape. There was no damage to the car or even to his person, but Rick blacked out nonetheless.

Rick Gallen, archaeological adventurer, was in Akron, OH. And there was some sort of quarantine. And there was someone from the UNSD who he knew, Kate was her name, and there were IVY agents, and even the president of Chaldor, who’s name was Childor. And there was some lamp that he wasn’t supposed to open, and he’d had this dream before. Kate was his taxwoman, and Childor was what he called Choldor when he was drunk. Suddenly, he had a glimpse of his “horrible purportment,” an idea totally not ripped off from Dune. That dream was going to happen, maybe not in the exact way that he envisioned it, but something frightening was on the horizon, and he had the starring role. When times were down and toughs were up, there was only one man they could count on....Rick Gallen! (Rick’s dreams were often voiced by the late Don LaFontaine when he was experiencing internal bleeding.)

As Rick awoke, Mr. LaFontaine’s voice receding into his mind, he could see the sheen of a gold-plated ambulance heavily making its way towards him. Someone on the mining platform must have seen him and made a call. Rick entire body ached, so it took him a minute to get his wallet out, and begin extracting the 40 chaldors that the EMTs usually requested to “make sure nothing, you know, unfortunate happens on the ride back to the hospital.”
“Yeah,” the other one would say, “We’re very accident-prone when not properly motivated,” as he absentmindedly stabbed Rick’s pillow, “One time Louie here drives over a mattress or some other piece of junk. Whatever. Next thing you know, our patient’s kidneys are being sold on the ‘market’ for 85 big ones.”
“What a terrible accident” Louie said as he drove, “Oh dear. Is that a mattress? Wouldn’t want to drive over it...” Needless to say, Rick never again went out of his house without bribe money for the EMTs, not to mention the secret police or the union of industrial hat manufacturers (they could cripple a man with only a fedora).

But then Rick remembered. The government had a contract with the molemen to mine saltfrost. And molemen can’t see anything, let alone a compact white car driving into the middle of an immense expanse of even whiter salt. So, who called the ambulance? A sense of dread seeped into Rick, all the way down to his tippy-toes, but luckily his flight response had kicked in, and he was already trudging across the salt flat on his bruised legs. Don’t look back, he thought, that will only slow you down more, but then he heard the first explosion and spun around just in time to see the “ambulance” fire a second missile at the mining platform. The force from the second fireball threw Rick to the ground, and he blacked out again.

["The Rick Gallen Chronicles: Part 2, The Dame Wore Leggings" will arrive shortly]

(OP: Nate, September 28 2008)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 11

"ATTENTION. ALLENVILLE IS UNDER LEVEL 23 QUARANTINE BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE UNITED NATIONS SECURITY DIRECTORATE. STAY IN YOUR HOMES. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG. THERE IS NO REASON TO PANIC. DO NOT PANIC."

The blaring voice poured out of the loud speakers from every direction. UNSD trucks were planted at every exit to the town, and a perimeter of whirling blades, glaring lights, and machine gun nests surrounded the greater Allenville area in a 5 mile radius. The 609 residents of the quiet town had bolted their doors and taken refuge in their cold-war era nuclear shelters-- that is, all but the fifteen of them who had been in the local bar when it was flattened by the thing. There were also the case of Dr. Gallen, an English pathologist on sabbatical from the University of Chaldor. He was not in his motel, nor was his DNA recovered from the incinerated wreckage of the local bar.

Dr. Gallen had come to Allenville only the night before on an anonymous tip. The letter, which was written in impeccable yet undoubtedly German cursive, was slipped under the door of his vacation home on the Chaldorean home-island. It read:

"Herr Dr. Gallen, have you not had enough of vacation? There is a "hullabaloo" in a Allenville, IL. It involves a horrible disease. Be with the greatest haste and do not dilly-dally.
Sincerely,
A Friend."

The letter contained a ticket for ChaldorUSExpress flight 535, car keys, and a reservation at the Revelation 4:7 Motel in Allenville. Feeling immensely intrigued and somewhat flattered by the clandestine attention, Dr. Gallen was glad to leave Chaldorisland before the hurricane season, and he had intended to visit the mainland for a pathology conference at Princeton. On the other hand, a war was brewing on the mainland...a war between Chaldor and the Ivy League.

Dr. Gallen glanced around the corner. There did not seem to be anyone there, and yet... he looked again. The streets were completely deserted, every shade was drawn, and every door was bolted. But there was something, something attached to a sign post about 80 chaldees away*, and it was spewing some sort of aerosol into the dimly lit summer sky. Gallen had just been at the site of the ruined bar. He found a cool thingamajig in the ruins--it was like a saucer, but it gave off a cool light. He knew that he was supposed to be indoors, but the temptation to investigate the quarantine was just too great. While he reached into his coat pocket to get his binoculars, a breeze suddenly swept a delicate cloud of that mist around the corner where he stood. In an instant, the street lamps were not straight lines, and the light they cast was a brilliant cornucopia of colors. Then there was darkness.

The doctor awoke to a familiar voice--a woman's voice.
"Rick. Rick..." said the voice.
The doctor slowly opened his eyes and left the comfortable domain of chemically induced dreams.
"Samantha?"
Dr. Gallen was becoming fully alert. It was indeed Samantha, his most promising pathology student from the University. They had parted two years ago on uncertain terms. Influenced by Dr. Gallen's internationalist idealism, she had accepted a job with the UN, but in doing so she was disowned by her hyper-nationalist Chaldorean family.

"What are you doing in Allenville, Rick? You could have been... infected"
"I was, someone sent me a tip...they said that something in Allenville needed my attention."
"Well, this town is area 0 of a level 5 biohazard contamination. That satellite that fell on the bar was carrying a deadly space microbe. It is essential that everyone stay indoors until this whole mess is sorted out. You fell victim to the remote control anesthetic aerosol machine. We put it there in order to apprehend anyone trying to flee the quarantine zone."
"But Samantha, why is the UN involved in this? We're on the border of IVY and Chaldor territory. Whose jurisdiction is this really under? And what kind of satellite was that?"
"Dr. Gallen, most of that information is classified by the Directorate. All I can say is that the contagion is extremely dangerous. IVY and Chaldor need our help. You need to tell to me who sent you here and why you were outside even after the quarantine announcement.
"I got an anonymous letter...I don't know who sent it. I went outside because--"
"Please. You are reasonable man, and reasonable men don't travel two thousand miles on that little information."

Suddenly, a trembling roar shook the ground. There was yelling and screaming outside.
"Wait here," said Samantha.
She hurried out of the tent attended by several UNSD guards.
Seconds later, Dr. Gallen heard a ripping sound, and, looking at the fabric wall behind him, he saw a pale, seven-foot tall man entering the tent through a rip in the fabric. He wore a tweed suit and had impeccably combed hair. His clothing smelled uncomfortably like stale books and his nose was impossibly upturned. In his left hand he held...a remote bomb detonator.
The man gestured to Dr. Gallen, "Come now. You must leave with me."
Gallen immediately obliged.

The two ran over the midnight landscape. In the distance, a fire raged through a UNSD command center. Before them, a small hill rose from some untilled field. The man said something strophic, and a door opened up from between the hill. The man beckoned Dr. Gallen inside.
There were others inside of the hill hide-away. Each of them looked nearly identical to the first man, and they were all standing around a table covered with old manuscripts.
The first one spoke with a voice as mellifluous as a spring breeze and yet as arrogant as a million silver platters: "Excuse me for the abrupt and frightening manner by which I have been forced to rescue you from the clutches of a foe which, although you are as yet unaware, is a mutual enemy to both IVY and.." he grimaced slightly and the tip of his nose turned 20 degrees north, "Chaldor."
"Yes," said another, the moment the first had finished speaking, "they have been misleading you, those rascals they. There is no microbial disease."
"No," continued a third, "the satellite was carrying the lamp of cyblele, a transdimensional artifact forged by Hephaestus himself in the bowels of Mt. Olympus."
"And," resumed the first, "it has the power to end poverty and launch this world into thousands of years of peace and prosperity. It was placed in that satellite by Zeus with the aid of the Emperor Augustus."
"You will notice," said another, "that the satellite was made of bricks and antique ceramics."
Then they all spoke in unison, "the Lamp of Cybele must be found."
The first continued, "twenty four hours ago, the satellite was knocked from the heavens by a Chaldorean retrorocket; the Chaldoreans intended to harness the power of the lamp for their own evil intentions. Eighteen hours ago, two bands of operatives, one from Chaldor and one from Yale, arrived in Allenville to recover the lamp. We are the Yale team. We are yet, however, unable to find the device. When the United Nations heard about the incident, they sent a small army of recovery experts to the site under the guise of level 23 quarantine for an infectious disease. We fear that a new power has arisen on the mainland: the power of the UNSD. We must stop them. We must find the lamp! You were sent here by someone. You must tell us who that person was, and why you have come all this way."

The doctor was speechless. He could not tell if this was an elaborate joke or simply insanity.
The IVY agents waited in utter silence and stillness.
"I, well, I don't know who sent me."
"Then," said the first one, "you leave us no choice"
He began pulling something out of his pocket--
but just then, an arm appeared in the middle of the room. Holding a long saber of Chaldorean design, it cut down the IVY agents in a single swipe. The IVY agents had no blood. A whole body materialized out of thin air. The doctor knew immediately that it was one of the fabled Chaldorean trans-dimensional bounty hunters. Dressed in the traditional garb of a Chaldorean soldier, one could see only layers and layers of dull fabrics that seemed to resemble the shape of a human being.

"Dr. Rick Gallen," the agent said, "give me the lamp."
The doctor, panicked and driven nearly mad by the incessant contradictions and conflicting stories, ran out of the hill hide-away and into the field. Just as his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that he was surrounded by seven UNSD troops. Samantha stepped forward holding a directorate-grade plasma turbine. "Come now, doctor, time to return to base."

Just then, a seven IVY agents rose from a door in the earth.
"No," said one of them, "he comes with us."
"No," shouted yet another voice, "he belongs to Chaldor." Seven Chaldorean agents materialized behind Dr. Gallen.

The three competing groups drew their weapons at each other.
Gallen, standing in the path of at least fourteen weapons, dropped to the ground, and out of his coat pocket fell a small, onyx black, shiny clean saucer-like thing. It shone a gleaming light from its top, and its brilliance illuminated the entire field in a dull pastel glaze.
Everyone froze.
"It is...the lamp!" said Samantha.
"Yet it!" yelled someone else.
"No! Cried Dr. Gallen." He snatched up the object and held it tightly.
"Dr. Gallen," spoke an IVY agent, "give it to us. We will save the world from evil!"
"No," said Samantha, "they will misuse the device. I will manipulate it to cure cancer."
"Zey are all rong, Dr. Gallen," said a German man dressed in a bright green jump suit, "Zey are all rong. I rote you zet lette, und it vas I who tolt you to come 'ere."
"President Choldor**? Why are you here? Why did you send for me?"
"Gallen," said the President of Chaldor, "it was purely by accident. A friend off mine in ze Allenville got ze flu...so I trickt you to come and help heem. But zat ist beside zain point. You love Chaldor. Chaldor iz your 'ome. Zis lamp can do one zing only: sink our homeisland beneat ze vaves! Vat ever you do, do not open ze lamp, nor let any ozer do so: for it shall destroy Chaldor!

There was a soft breeze in the air, and a distant street lamp shone ghostly in the night. Yes, it was quite a breeze, and that street lamp had a remote control anesthetic aerosol machine attached to it. For the second time that night, Dr. Gallen breathed in a whiff of hyper-hallucinogenic vapors. The lamp in his whirling hands seemed to tempting. What was inside of it? He just had to know...

Choldor let our a cry of desperate pitiful horror at Gallen lifted the lid off.

*Note: one chaldee is equivalent to three chaldi
**Note: President Choldor is the president of USA-Chaldor

Then Rick Gallen woke up. It was just a dream. He had a miserable life. He was 30k in debt to the Bank of Chaldor, he worked as a grocery store manager, Samantha was his mother-in-law, and Choldor was his German shepherd. He hated Chaldor. He hated IVY. He wanted the USA back.

(OP: Ben, September 13 2008)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 10

The nature of these "Liberterio-Bureaucrat" wars will be described in further detail...now! The years 2018-19 featured a series of increasingly boring stalements, such as the Battle of Greasy Rib, the Siege of Marmaduke's Perfunctus, the Massacre of Prackley-Prickley, and the Crying of Lot 49, events that, you child of the future, with all your horrible winged mutations should be able to recall with patriotic fervor, and so, by January 2020, nothing had really changed at all.

Meanwhile, behind the proverbial and not-so-proverbial scenes, the Ivy League was busy preparing for its resurgence. And what a resurgence it would be, with fireworks and sparklers and a barbecue and maybe even one of those inflatable pools if we're lucky and blood so much blood! For in order for the Ivy League to grow their super soldiers, they needed all the resources and blood* of an entire state. But there were not enough states around to support an entire army. What were they to do?

Using their haughty erudition, the Ivy League scholars infiltrated the Libertarian army and began to spread the idea that the only way to successfully achieve the Libertarian Revolution was to create a state for every individual person in the world. Sure, the Yalie saboteurs stood out, what with their upturned noses, inexplicably annoying tweed jackets, and their penchant for composing poems in Sapphic strophe whenever there was an awkard silence. They were also 7-feet tall and completely hairless, but none of the Libertarians noticed because I don't particularly care for Libertarians and thus feel no qualms about insulting their self-perceived intelligence. Nevertheless, the Harvard Mata Haris' work paid off, and a panoply of new states, principalities, and commonwealths began popping up wherever the Libertarian armies rode**.

Now was the time to strike. In the summer of 2020 the Ivy League stealthily and undercover of the night*** snuck their super soldier pods into all of the newly created states. One year later, the super soldiers emerged from their pods and marched towards Yale, leaving behind the depleted and destroyed states as various peasant women bemoaned the humanity****. The Ivy League army then assembled, within 6 months it had obliterated the Libertarian army and the Bureaucratic Hive Mind and taken control of all land east of the Mississippi, thereby ending the truly sucky Libertario-Bureaucrat War. The Ivy League was one step closer to their ancient goal of destroying the Chaldoreans, and a new hostile power faced FDPUSA and ACACE from right behind it backgardendoorstep.


* Let's not forget blood!
** or drove, or biked, or glided, or skateboarded - the Libertarian army's lack of central planning had led to a quite diverse range of army transportation.
*** It should be mentioned that one of the first acts of the Chaldorean overlords upon enfolding the FDPUSA into the cold bosom of ACACE was to use their supra-dimensional
powers to turn the concept of nighttime into a giant blanket that covered the entire Western hemisphere.
**** For those interested in the Super Soldier Creation Process, please refer to Charles Magnusson's seminal work on the subject, "How to Create a Super Soldier, or The Horrible, Horrible Miracle of Life."



"Ille mi par esse deo videtur, ille, si fas est, superare divos" recites one Ivy Leaguer as the sun burns his pasty skin.

(OP: Nate, September 9 2008)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 9

Editor's note:
Greetings, READERS; from time to time, the editorial staff of this historicon will create a "4 Yor In4mation" Section, providing in depth looks at some of FSPUSAC history's most important battles and events. 4 Yor In4mation makes learning kool with brilliantly colored pictures, descriptive and inane violence, and shoddy moralism. And, at end of each special inset, we will make the future history relevant to the present now!
Thank you, and enjoy
The Editers

"4 Yor In4mation!"
The Battle of Snotty Ridge

In 2017, Washington DC* was a bad place to be. The national government had relocated to Salt Lake City, leaving the old capital to be ruled by the stubborn bureaucrats, who would not leave their ancestral home of marble and grandeur for some untried land of salt crystals and inefficient godliness. However, left to their own devices and without orders from a higher authority, the first two years of bureaucratic independence were troubled and vacuous. It was neither a democracy nor an oligarchy nor a monarchy. It was a "reflexocracy." This system is really very simple: a bureaucrat finds a paper with writing on it. He then organizes it into a complex and obscure filing system. The paper, while moving along its prescribed course of lesser bureaucrats, generates further papers, each reporting on the process by which the first paper was organized and filed away. Assuming an accidental paper loss rate of 0.01% and an average paper rate of 200,000 papers per day, 20 papers were lost every day. 12 of these were recovered daily, meaning that the entire government had to be run on a only one dozen paper filing/organization tasks. Over the course of one year, this number continued to fall (paper loss rates plummeted after the discovery of the Robotic PaperFinder 4000). By August 23, 2015 at 4:24 pm, there were no more paper filing tasks.

Panic broke out of the streets. Small, dysfunctional conglomerations of bureaucrats huddled in the streets, filing and cataloging every object they ran into, including human body parts. One tourist from the Empire of Japan noted

QUOTE ("Hiro Matutsuki")

"the streets were red with the blood of misfortunate passerbys who were swallowed up by those things. A man reading a newspaper was seized by a pack of desperate bureaucrats. He was quickly enveloped by them. First a cloud of tiny paper shreddings were expelled into the air and sorted by size and shape. And then a spray of red blood and human organs came forth, and all of it was organized anatomically. All of this, in only 5 seconds."

By the third day, the violence and chaos had subsided. By either an invisible law of science or will of a god, no one knows for sure, but the malfunctioning bureaucratic conglomerations organized into one interconnected sentient being. Its myriad human parts communicated with both bizarre clicking noises and by pinching. It was, in effect, a brain composed of those humans-like-things that we all know as "bureaucrats." One observer, a honey bee drone from Colony 3956-a-Ωψ of the Grand Confederation of American Colonies, noted the similarities between a bee hive and the HIVEMIND! of the bureaucrats.

QUOTE ("Drone 392Eξλ")

The whole thing possesses a distant and low roaring hum, like the sound of a honey bee hive. And, when one of its tendrils (which is composed of hundreds of bureaucrats holding hands in a line) picks up information from a computer screen or a hired informant, each component conveys the information through a series of binary code pinching. And so, the pinching spreads and soon the whole mass ripples with pinching and roars with clicking as it performs its calculations.

The new HIVEMIND! government set about standardizing everything in its domain. It did everything in a completely economical and logical manner. Any yet, it had one flaw; a computer does not operate a task without instructions. The HIVEMIND!, however, had a single misfiring component, a man formerly known as John Edwards who, after being discredited in party politics, turned to his former passion of filing papers. Once incorporated into the HIVEMIND!, however, his true insanity was released. He pinched everyone around him repeatedly with the signal "pinch...pinch.pinch...pinch.pinch...pinch...pinch.pinch...pinch...pinch...pinch," which actually is the Command 45f, colloquially known as conquertheworld.jsp

The HIVEMIND! sent out emissaries across the Eastern Seaboard. Raising armies of local librarians, clerks, receptionists, and archivists (they all knew the sign of Thoxonasz by heart, and so joined the movement without hesitation), the HIVEMIND! empire expanded its influence rapidly throughout the old southern states and the mid-atlantic. It organized all activities according to pure reason and simplicity. Whereas the Soviet Union could never run an economy effectively because of its lack of information, the HIVEMIND! knew all things and could make all calculations instantly; its web of informants and statisticians were the envy of the world; its might and power grew daily. Some resisted, by all were crushed under the weight of its mighty reason.

Life under HIVEMIND! was prosperous, somewhat rewarding, and professional. As a supremely logical entity, HIVEMIND! did not carry out government in any humanly conceivable manner. They had an understanding of human psychology and behavior (information which was transferred to it by Tribal Anthropologists) that resulted in nearly effortless control of the populace. For instance, there was no taxation whatsoever, but all clothing had numerous fuzzy pockets into which people were tempted to deposit their money. The pockets, however, had holes in them. The falling currency did not make sounds upon the new sound-proof pavement, and so legions of "scattered coin collectors" passed through the streets, collecting government revenue.

Government services, too, were strangely yet effectively managed. There was free health care, free gasoline, and free infrastructure. However, many residents would receive fabulous flashing letters in the mail once every month. Surprised and intrigued, they would open the letter to find a beautifully "hand-written" note saying something like: "Congratulations! You have won a FREE chance to participate in PUBLIC SERVICES! You are a winner! You only one of thousands who has the RIGHT to pay for your hospital visits! You are special! Sign here ____________ to WIN! Sincerely yours, HIVEMIND." Flattered and feeling a greater sense of self esteem, the citizen would duly pay the price tag for 39 other citizen's government subsidies. Or, a dark, sad letter would arrive saying "We apologize. It is not our fault. Sorry. We regret to inform you that you will not get to pay taxes this year. I know how it must feel. The crushing gloom pressing in all around you. If you sign here __________, though, you will have a chance to make this right, to pay taxes, to b a good citizen. Thank you, HIVEMIND." Thus, few even noticed HIVEMIND!'s presence; true, many leading intellectuals were absorbed into its ever-growing mass of components; true, massive "nerve chords" of people holding hands stretched across the empire; true, it sort of seemed like everyone was looking and acting like drones. But this was hardly evident to those living within HIVEMIND!. Little did they know, they would all soon be as bees in a hive (or ants in a hive).

By late 2016, the government of Trixie in Salt Lake City recognized the growing threat in the East. It sent Mitt Romney, now a slave to the radical Mormon Feminists, to raise resistance to HIVEMIND!. Starting in his old state of Massachusetts, he had initial success in organizing the disparate city-states to the banner of resistance, but he was soon expelled when the residents discovered his new stance on gay marriage. Meanwhile, the HIVEMIND! Imperium spread north and west. It became entrenched in the Appalachians within great mountain fortresses and secret lairs deep beneath the hills. In the North, the city of New York, which had briefly enjoyed a period of regional dominance over the former New York state and all of New Jersey, was put to a devastating siege. Eventually, the entire Hudson river was diverted into a massive system of hydro-electric dams and defense canals that stretched over the HIVEMIND! empire. With the river out of the way, the city's defenses were shattered; in two months, the city surrendered.

Romney knew that time was of the essence. Moving to New Hamshire, he rallied the local Libertarian movement, emphasizing how the ruthless HIVEMIND! would destroy local freedom and absorb all into the fold of petty bureaucracy. In truth, however, HIVEMIND! brought mostly prosperity to its peoples. It allowed free speech, although those who spoke too loudly were sent away to "Prolonged Speech Chambers," large metal boxes in which they could speech freely while being fed gourmet protein sludge. This, however, did not matter to Romney. He was rechristened "Babar the Brave, the Twelfth of his Name" by his Libertarian followers. Soon, they launched a series of night-time raids against HIVEMIND!. One struck all the way into West Virginia. During these excursions, they collected important intelligence about the HIVEMIND system and military organization. HIVEMIND, meanwhile, sent wave after wave of viscous rodents and cranky foxes into the North. There, the animals damaged private property and became an intolerable nuisance.

With the stakes raised, Babar decided to start a more serious campaign. Calling it "operation Mawkaw," he and his freedom-loving friends set out to sweep clean the Appalachians from HIVEMIND! control. In November 34** 2017, the Libertarian armies, having swept all scattered resistance before them, were camped on the Panchusset Mountain when a massive HIVEMIND! army was spotted in the distance. One small-town simple country farmer in the Libertarian army said,

QUOTE ("Taber Shibly")

It was as though the entire valley was a sea glistening in the morning light. The vast expanse was covered in shining hypo-metalic sulfuric acid guns, and, in the East, the orange of the sun shone eerily across the heavens, as though the HIVEMIND could influence the weather itself

Indeed, the HIVEMIND! could control the weather to a limited extent. Earlier, it sprinkled Silver Nitrate crystals into several large clouds in the region, hoping to unleash a devastating rainstorm upon Babar and his men. Unfortunately, the cloud was just a ploy, and it exploded into harmless mist, making the morning sky appear orange. However, during that year, a disease known a "Yukki Nose" spread through the US; it causes snot and other nasal secretions to appear orange and was spread by Eskimo kissing. Thus, when the combatants saw that characteristic orange light on the horizon, they immediately declared the event "The Battle of Snotty Ridge."

In the end, the battle was a draw, but it set in motion five years of bloody war between bureaucrat and libertarian, white collar and blue collar, intellectual and imbecile. The nature of these "Liberterio-Bureaucrat" wars will be described in further detail at a later date.

*Note: DC was briefly renamed "Olde Pride" by the Radical Nostalgia Party," which demanded mandatory sentimentalization of history in schools
**Note: In 2015, a powerful faction of Mormons demanded the annihilation of March, because such a change would allow their prediction of the day of Armageddon to fall of a Sunday. Thus, the other eleven months gained between two and five new days. February was finally normalized.

(OP: Ben, August 31 2008)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 8

In the fifth century BC, Thucydides, the leader of Athens (Athens was the first city to invent America) founded the Delian League, ostensibly a collective of coastal Greek city-states to band together against imminent invasion from the Atlanteans. In truth, however, the League had bigger plans: under the direction of Socrates, the world's first teacher, it would create a secret collective of young men who would learn things about other things, creating the world's first college. Unfortunately, after Alcibiades, one of Socrates' students, stole the secret of fire from the Athenians and gave it to their enemies the Spartans, Socrates was resigned to punishment: to this day, he lies strapped to a rock in the most remote mountains, and every day an eagle flies down and eats his liver, which regrows every night due to the miracle of stem cells.

And so the Delian League crumbled, its principle of education almost completely forgotten throughout all of the Middle Ages. During the European Renaissance, a group called the Illuminati attempted to bring back this principle of education, but naturally the concept of common people learning things was so repulsive to the European ruling class that the Illuminati were forced under ground. During the next few centuries they would resurface occasionally as the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, a group of superhumans dedicated to fighting crime, but it was not until the 19th century that they became the Ivy League, a coalition of secret training camps strewn across America's East coast and dedicated to educating the new generation of genetically-enhanced super-soldiers.

(OP: Abe, August 28 2008)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 7

EDITERS' NOTE: We, the editors, feel that this history text book and universal historical autodidacticon has failed in one respect: teaching history but failing to recognize the place of culture--in being insignificant to history. Therefore, we shall provide, prove, and ide, a quaint but otherwise forgettable cultural document from the given time period in each future installmentation of this historikon.
Yours truely,
The Ediotrs

CHAPTER 8

But what was life like in CHALDOR and her free, happy, democratic suppressed dependent nations? To answer that question, we must first understand the soul, of CHALDOR. This is how to understand it:
Whisper the following: "CHALDOR. CHALEDOR. CHALALDOR. CHALADEDOR. CHADEDOLOR. CHOLOLOR. CHORL. JOR. CHALDOR."
Good job. Now say the following, out loud: "CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALTOR. CHALTAR. CHALTDOR. CHALCHOR. CHORCHOR. CHORDOR. CHOROR. CHODOR. CHOTOR. CHOTOR. CHO'OR. CHOR. CHALDOR."
(for further exercises, please refer to the chapter 8 appendix I)

Now, do you understand what life was like, in CHALDOR? Good.
In the mean time, not all was well in FDPUSAC. There were now 203 states, 120 of which were located in the ultra-rich mansion suburbs in Connecticut and Rhode Island. With complete control of the Senate, the "We Wnt Yr $" Party (the quotations and dollar sign are part of the name) had disproportional control of the nation. However, they were supported by the CHALDOReans, whom that had given safe landing sites during their invasion of the eastern sea board. Much of the nation had never forgiven "We Wnt Yr $" for this fifth-column-esque action. And yet, the puppet president was Maniston Golberton IV, esq, and he certainly wanted everyone's money.

The question was, when would the nations of the UHS and CHALDOR come to be equal partners and not ruled and ruled? Never. They never, ever, would.

APPENDIX I, to CHAPTER 8
--Further Exercises:
Repeat the following. Say this in your head, but hear the word, in your heart:
"CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALTAR. CHALDOR. CHALTOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. MAIEEEEX!. CHALDOR. CHALDOR. CHALDOR."
Make sure to hear the words singing forth and ringing in your heart and in the entirety of thine soul, of thine own being.
Rinse, wash, dry, and repeat daily at 4 minute intervals.

APPENDIX II, to CHAPTER *8
--The CHALDOReans NATIONAL CHANT
(note: capitalization, in this instance, at least, indications louder volume of pronunciation)
CHALDOR! Ba. Ba. CHALDOR! Da. Da. CHALDORrulestheSEAS!ka KA ka. My fairest CHALDORCHALDORCHALDOR rulestheseas. Bab-BA-ba. Look upon the BAbaBA fairest portly MANSION nakaBAnaBAna MANSION tataDAnaKAna OCEAN titinitKA ME! ME! ME! CHALDORrulestheWAVES! C-H-O-L-D-O-L-D-O-R. spells. CHALDOR!

(OP: Ben, August 28 2008)

THE FUTURE Agghh! Part 6

The sheer amount of minutiae involved in detailing these eight years is too lacking in awesomely epic battle scenes to merit the gift of one's attention for more than a few hyperhyperseconds. Yet, there is one geographical locale that we must needs roll our eyes over: the mysteriously arcane territory of CHALDOR! While the expected power struggles ensued in and around the greater Salt Lake area* something strange was happening in the Caribbean, or, to be more precise, although I don't see why we need to be since the Caribbean's already small enough, but we need to be historically accurate, but this is happening in the future idiot, don't call me an idiot it makes me feel sad, do I look like I give a crap, well you're a spinkle, that's not even a word, it doesn't have to be as long as I say it is, that doesn't even make sense wait oh crap they can read this whole thing shit where were we, I don't know, agh you're no help at all, I'm plenty help, shut up just shut up oh now I see it ok here we go, to be more precise, the BERMUDA TRIANGLE! Part of the power vacuum had mutated into a miniature black hole** that then migrated to the Bermuda Triangle, presumably for the sunsets***. Upon joining its power with the region's infamous occultosity, the black hole summoned from a parallel universe the territory known as CHALDOR, a half island, half land-locked Republic inhabited by 14th century Genoese-Atlanteans. This was April 2020.

So what, you might ask superciliously, don't new, inhabited islands mysteriously appear every other month between the equator and the tropic of cancer? Well, but this one was just different. Perhaps it was the fantasticness of their origin and ethnicity or the beauty and sophistication of their culture. Or maybe it was the way they modernized within the course of a month and then, using their maritime skills, succeeded in conquering all the land in the western hemisphere north of the Amazon River that struck a chord with the war-weary American people Either way, the USA gladly and without a fight became the Free Democratic People's United States of America and became members of the warm, loving, and definitely not oppressive ACACE (the Associated Countries of the American CHALDORean Empire - pronounced Akaky). Thus began a new and glorious chapter the Free Democratic People's United States of America and the great mother country, CHALDOR.

* It is trivial to note that all factions involved were determined to use only submarine warfare in their battles after reading Schrorpy Vlanderbluss' not-so-seminal 1907 treatise on how there would be no need for any new weapons after his invention of the splerderblvung (not really translatable into English; it is more of a concept meaning, "happy-flies-in-water-machine," and can be described as a U-boat made from wood and badger fur).

** Yes, they exist. Look em up, I dare you.

*** I hear they're beautiful.

(OP: Nate, August 28 2008)