Webcomic teaser – “The Saga of Otto”

Remember back at the end of December, 2011 when I said I was working on a webcomic? I still am. In the interrim, I’ve found an artist (whose name will be revealed once I upload everything), fleshed out a good deal of world-building information, plotted a few chapters, created a detailed script of one, began the script of another, etc. As usual, being a college student may slow down progress, but it’s still something you should look forward to.

Anyways, as part of the overall publicity machining, I’ve written a short story (although not ‘Ghetto Fantasy‘ short) that could give you some insight into the nature and tone of what I intend to do. Hope you enjoy it.

Tyrants were supposedly something you had to accept.

A man in a shack that he would describe as ‘rustic’, and that others would describe as ‘crappy’ was writing an essay on the virtues of primogeniture, and the failings of military dictatorships. It wasn’t going well, especially since he was a stickler for calligraphy; every letter had to be exactly formed, and the cold that seeped in was making it ever more difficult to get them right.

At this point, the man’s eyes shifted towards the paragraph that formed the cornerstone of his argument:

“While we know very little of the gods, we do in fact know that they were ordained by almighty Ancien, who knows all and is all, and that since his judgement is right, the gods’ positions are absolutely and utterly correct. We also know that they often ordain a king or queen to suit their interests. Since their positions are always correct, those who they ordain must also be entirely correct. However, a tyrant who takes control of a country by force, whether it be the duchy of Ostrolansk, or my own beloved Vaeringjar; may its glory last for all eternity, has the support of no gods, and therefore is simply a HERETIC.”

By my standards, this was a pretty crappy piece of political philosophy to come from anyone, anywhere. But I’ll admit the man was trying.

At this point, the man’s son came into the shack, allowing a burst of winter air to agonize his father further and slow the writing process.

“You’re working on that essay again?” asked the son.

“I always am, Otto,” the father responded. “I need the process of writing so that I can marshal my thoughts, and form something coherent with which I may form the seed of good will.”

“You do realize that if you publish that essay, you’ll be killed, right?”

“My life is nearly over as it is. If ideology necessitates sacrifice, then I shall certainly sacrifice my last few years so that others may live better.”

“… I see.” Otto looked vaguely uncomfortable at the thought of his father’s mortality. He had nothing to say, and he shuffled out of the cabin. Because it was winter, there was no real work that he could do, and so he headed to a friend’s home with intent to load up on cheap beer. In this, he succeeded. Now, it may have been due to the intoxication, or very possibly fungus growing on the grains used to brew the beer, but Otto soon had a vision of the entire Lower Pantheon standing in front of him. Most people were expected to see one or two in their lifetime, but when they all appeared, you had either done something horribly wrong, or you were about to be assigned an impossible task.

Celebrity paradoxes in my fiction

For reference.

If you’ve been reading some of the stories I put up on here and Fanfiction.net, you might notice that I find this idea rather interesting. Obviously, the basic case (Series X the fiction does not exist within the universe of Series X) is rather simple and often not worthy of discussion. But what happens you subvert this? If you’re like me, all sorts of absurdity. So far, this has only manifest in my fanfictions, but who knows where they’ll pop up next?

Anyways, for reference:

• “Tweaking” is basically what happens when I try to play Oblivion with an integrated graphics card. In real life, it went surprisingly well after I ran a program called “PyFFI” to optimize the ‘meshes’ of the game’s geometry (removing the absurd amount of invisible polygons in the files) and downloaded some mods. On the other hand, if you woke up one day, perceiving the world at a low framerate, and found yourself unable to move quickly, with broken reflexes, would you do nearly as much as the main protagonist of the story would? In the end, the character’s ‘owner’ buys a new computer, and modifies the personality of the narrator for the worse. In the present, I worry that this story reeks of wish fulfillment, but otherwise. This is probably the most tenuous link, and it comes in near the end.
• “Flying Pillars Across the Universe” approaches the question in a simpler fashion. The existence of Akira Toriyama’s work within DBZ is a deus ex machina, but it sets things up fairly effectively, even if the main story has ended up focusing on several other ideas (and the gratuitous incorporation of characters from whatever media I’m consuming at the moment). Exactly what becomes of the book is unknown, but considering how quickly things diverge from canon (especially after the protagonists start hopping universes to solve their problems), it would rapidly become useless. Then, with the introduction of ‘Trucks’, the crazed GT fanboy, this gets taken up to 11.
• “Merchandise Driven“, which is the most recent of the relevant stories. In this case, Beast Wars characters land on Earth in the present, so instead of engaging in the aforementioned Beast Wars, they compete by selling Transformers toys in their likeness. Compared to the other two, this is probably the most in-depth discussion of the idea. If I’ve done a good job with it, several lines between Transformers canon and Transformers fandom will be smashed to little bits. For instance, one of the major events in the story so far involves Maximals raiding one of the Predacon manufacturing facilities to contaminate their supplies with an infamous gold plastic used in the mid 1990s prone to breaking terribly.

It’d probably be a bad idea to focus on the idea too much, but for now, it makes the act of writing this stuff more fun.

Happenings in an action RTS

Games like DotA and League of Legends are fun for the whole family, but unless you want your kids to get traumatized, you’ll leave them behind and protect them from the terrible, masochistic societies they breed.
Case in point: When I was new to DotA (and therefore very bad at it), I once had a game where I fed the opponents terribly. After a while, any objections I might’ve had were ignored under the banner of “1-10 STFU noob”. Everything I say, even the completely irrelevant to DotA is dismissed.  On a whim, I taunt the team carry (who was 10-0 or such) thusly: “If you’re so good, why don’t you play without boots?” and the response is something beyond my wildest expectations.

No words, but he sells his entire inventory and buys 6 pairs of boots. This is stupid enough on its own, but boots don’t actually stack in DotA (beyond some small stat boosts). He then manages to go from 10-0 to 10-20 over the course of the game. It was probably intentional judging from its intensity, but I can’t help but feel that he malfunctioned from the already substantial inanity of my request. More on that in the future, perhaps.

To pad everything, I offer you access to three rants I wrote about this sort of thing, which I have attached to prevent the inflation of posts. They are very vitriolic, and should not be confused with anything but entertainment. Those who do will suffer the consequences of their blunders.

Soiled Meditations Part 1

Soiled Meditations Part II

Soiled Meditations Part III

Enjoy responsibly

Story – Mercenary Tao In: Unusual Contracts

NOTE: Now uploaded on Fanfiction.net: Look here: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2560365/

This is a crossover between Dragon Ball (you know, the part of it that isn’t Dragon Ball Z, or GT) and King of the Hill.

Really.

I’m not lying.

It’s one of those weird ideas that I had once and actually followed through with. I think I might upload this to fanfiction.net. And I’ll probably zip this here up into a file, and probably provide a sample right here.

Warning: Do not question this. And this isn’t canon. I mean, why would it be?

Synopsis: M. F. Thatherton hires Mercenary Tao to assassinate Hank Hill.

Thatherton Fuels had fallen on bad times.

Due to the efforts of one Hank Hill, Strickland Propane had consistently outsold its competitors due to their excellent service and notable lack of questionable sales techniques. Competitors saw their sales decline – Mega-Lo-Mart did well until a catastrophic accident revealed their employees’ inexperience with the fuel, and nobody else had tried to enter the buisness since. The owner, one M. F. Thatherton, was considering liquidating his assets and pulling out.

Then, on one rainy day, a mysterious man entered the store.

“I want a grill,” he said. Thatheron’s eyes lit up at the prospect of customers.

“You’ve come to the right place! I personally welcome you to Thatherton Fuels,” replied Thatherton, rising up from his chair to shake the stranger’s hand. The stranger responded in turn.

*This fellow’s grip is like a vice!* thought Thatherton, upon realizing the sharp pain in his hand and wrist. He then took a look at the stranger – no, potential customer. He was strangely dressed – a pink changshan with chinese characters on it, over a navy blue shirt and pants, long hair braided as a ponytail. More striking were the metallic helmet and gloves he appeared to be wearing.

“Nice costume,” said Thatheron. *As long as he likes me, I should be able to pull off a sale.*

“It’s not a costume.”

“Sure, sure. Let me show you some grills.”

And so the attempted sale proceeded – the stranger looked over Thatheron’s stocks – occasionally complementing on some percieved quality of the grill Thatherton was pitching to him. Eventually he settled on a Char-King Imperiale.

“That’s one fine grill. You want any accessories with it?”

“I’ll take them all.”
*If this were a cartoon, my pupils would be dollar signs by now!* Thatheron thought to himself.

“A great choice. There is, of course, the matter of the bill.”

And at this point, the stranger seemingly looked at him as if he were insane – his eyes were covered, but his nose narrowed as if to sneer, and his mouth twitched slightly.

“There will be no bill,” he said.

“I’m sorry? Most people tend to pay for what they buy.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?”
The man then walked over to a display case showcasing a 20 pound tank of propane, and stuck out his tongue. He then charged at the case – the moment his tongue struck it, the glass exploded into hundreds of shards.

“What are you doing?” shouted Thatherton. “You’re going to have to pay for that case!”

The stranger ignored him. He picked up the showcased propane tank, and effortlessly threw it at Thatheron. It missed by an inch, tore through the walls of the building – the wind alone blew Thatherton’s hat off.

“You do know who I am, right?” said the stranger.

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Stop destroying my stock!”

The man turned around, revealing the words “KILL YOU!” had been embroidered into his robe.

“I am Mercenary Tao. People give me what they want, or they suffer dire consequences.”

“Well, what do you want?”, Thatherton said, showing anger, concealing fear (*This man could ruin me in minutes! And Strickland might file a noise complaint, or something!*).

“I want this grill.”

“You can have it! Just stop destroying my buisness!”

“Good. I’d hate to think what would happen to you had you insisted I pay for it.” Tao then lifted the grill with a single finger – examining it from every angle. He then picked up another tank of propane.

“So you kill people, eh?” said Strickland, who, now that the fear of imminent death was gone, was already schemeing in an attempt to recoup the loss.

“For the mere cost of ten billion zeni, I will kill anyone you ask me to.”

“We don’t use these ‘zeni’ here. In America, and ESPECIALLY in Texas, we have something we call a dollar.”

“What’s the conversion between the two?”

“… I’ve got no idea. I’ll look it up.”
Thatheron went into the back room. He was about to check the value on a search engine, but then, inspiration struck.

*What if I lie and claim a small number? For a relatively small amount, I could have someone especially problematic killed!*, he thought, increasing giddiness bringing the blood to his cheeks. He walked out of the back room.

*Keep your cool, Thatherton…*
“Ten billion zeni apparently comes to fifty thousand American dollars. It’s expensive, but it’s within my reach.”

Tao raised an eyebrow.

“It seems small, and I will have to investigate. But it’s settled. Give me a target, and I’ll come back for the money when I’m done.”

And that was when Thatheron knew that his buisness would prosper, and he would rise out of mere moderate wealth.

Elsewhere, four men were standing in front of a fence near a street. One man did not realize that, as of that moment, he was marked for assassination.

“Yup,” he said, taking a beer out of a nearby cooler, opening it, drinking a mouthful of it.

“Yup,” said the man to his left, who, as was the tradition, drinking beer.

“Yup,” said a third man – balding and overweight in comparison to the first’s somewhat muscular frame, and especially in comparison to the second, who was tall and thin.

“Mhm,” said a fourth man, who had just finished his beer, throwing the can into the garbage.

The drinking ritual continued for some time – slowly, but surely, the men became noticeably less sober, if not properly drunk.

“I heard someone went into Thatherton Fuels and damaged some of the items,” said the third man.

“Stop making up far fetched stories, Bill,” said the first man.

“You can’t dismiss everything he says, Hank. It’s probably a conspiracy by the government to hide the fact they’re about to buy the place out, then run you out of buisness,” said the second man.

“Dale, don’t most of your wackoid conspiracies involve aliens or secret societies?”, Hank responded.

“I tell you what man, I was driving along the road and you know I saw a big dang gaping old hole in the back of Thatherton’s place and. And then a dang old propane tank was on the road and oh man I tell you what, I had to swerve to get out of the way.” Boomhauer, the fourth man had offered evidence.

“Maybe something did happen there, but I couldn’t tell you what,” Hank muttered.
He looked at the sky in a pensive fashion. A small rod was floating lazily through the sky.”

Of course, Hank had no way of knowing that Mercenary Tao was using it to travel, having thrown it into the air, then jumping upon it in what was very likely a flagarant violation of physics.

The group soon saw Hank’s son, Bobby Hill walking up the streets.

“Hi, Dad. I just heard this really funny joke about a guy who could fly by riding a big rod.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Hank.

“Well, at least according to Joseph, it’s not enough to impress the ladies where it counts – “

“Bwaah!” Hank shouted. He looked at his son.

“Stop right there, mister. That joke’s definitely not appropriate for anywhere. If you weren’t my son, I’d kick your ass!”

“Sorry, Dad. I didn’t know…” Bobby went inside his house, crestfallen.

“I still think that boy ain’t right.”

It turned out that while on his “travel pole”, Mercenary Tao was reconnitering the area, searching for an ideal location to meet the target.

*My employer was very intelligent to provide information on the subject beyond his photo. Otherwise, I would’ve had to kill him afterwards,* he thought, watching houses fly past under him. Suddenly, they gave way to stores of ever increasing size…

The pole tore into asphalt, riding it like a ship on an unusual perfectly flat sea. It ended up occupying a parking spot.

Tao dismounted, surveyed his surroundings. This was the Mega-Lo-Mart. A steady stream of consumers were entering and exiting the premises, depleting its inventory but fueling it with cash.

In an attempt to get his bearings, Tao hailed the first person he came across – a young boy with shaggy red hair.

“Excuse me, but do you know how to get to this address?” he said, showing the boy his mark’s contact information. No response.

“You’re wearing a dress,” the boy said after a few seconds.

“…” Tao’s right eye was twitching. “Tell me, or I’ll throw you through the wall!”

“Fine.” And so, Tao regained his bearings.

“It looks like I won’t have to kill you, then,” said Tao, prior to retrieving his pole, and executing the travel manuever.

Back on the ground, the boy’s mother walked to him, carrying bags full of groceries.

“Stuart, help me carry the groceries to the car, okay?” she said. A few seconds of silence.

“I saw a man wearing a dress.”

Meanwhile, Tao had already landed in the street of the target. He went up to a house and rang the doorbell.

“I’ll get it, Dad!” said a voice from within. The door opened, and a small stocky boy was standing in front of Tao, who looked at the information Thatherton had furnished him with.

“Excuse me, boy. Does a man named Hank Hill live here?”

“He’s my dad. I’ll go get him.” Prompty followed by a shout – “Dad, it’s for you!” The boy walked away from the door into a hallway.

Hank came to the door, and Tao snapped into buisness.

“Pleased to kill you,” he said.

There was silence. Then, Hank slammed the door in Tao’s face.

*And so it begins…* Tao thought. Then, he punched the door, which shattered into a pile of well carved wood, as well as a cloud of sawdust.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re going to have to pay for that, mister!” shouted Hank.

“I’ll do it later. Who should I make it out to? Your widowed wife? Your orphaned son-”

“Get off my property, or I’m going to kick your ass!” shouted Hank, interrupting Tao’s threats. Tao jabbed a few times at him – the third time, his hand connected with Hank’s jaw, knocking him over, drawing some blood.

“That’s it, I’m calling the police.” Hank stood up, slowly – another jab knocked him over. He tried to stand up again. This time, Tao attempted a slower, more powerful punch, but Hank was able to, despite his partially prone position, deflect the punch with his own hand.

Bobby peered out of his room at the end of the hallway, and saw the beginnings of the fight.

“What’s for dinner tonight- oh.”

*This is so cool! I never thought I’d see a fight in my own home,* he thought.

“You can do it, Dad!”

Tao looked at Bobby for a split second. Hank, being fast enough to take advantage of it, stood up, threw a punch to Tao’s stomach.

*This might be more interesting if he continues to show a semblance of skill,* Tao thought, before jumping through the frame and wreckage of the door. Hank watched as he slowly walked away.

“If you leave now and never come back, I won’t have to report a domestic disturbance-”

Not only had Tao reversed his false ‘retreat’ and charged at him, but people were coming out of their homes to watch the escalating fight.

“Who’s the Japanese guy?” said Dale, who was now standing on Hank’s lawn.
“I’m not Japanese!” Tao snarled.

Eventually, Hank, having had time to react to Tao’s latest attack, had stuck his knee out. When Tao collided with it, he ended up shouting in pain before collapsing to the ground. However, the force of the impact left Hank holding his knee.

“Kill him, Hank!” said another voice. This was Bill.

“I’m not going to kill him. I’m only going to kick his ass.”

“On the contrary, not only am I going to… ‘kick your ass’, I’m also going to kill you.”

Meanwhile, Bobby had snuck out of the house through his window – knocking on his neighbor’s window.

“Hey, Connie! There’s this really cool fight going on at my house and you should see it!”

“I’m not interested in fighting,” she said, her voice muffled by the glass.

“But it’s my Dad and some … uh… Laotian guy fighting!”

“Don’t tell me my dad got in a fight with yours.”

“No, it’s some other person!”

Said ‘other person’ was attempting to pierce Hank’s temple with his tongue.

“What the hell?” said Hank, dodging out of the way just in time.

“I can kill anyone using only my tongue!”

*Why do I always have to deal with the lunatics?* they both thought.

The crowd was growing – in addition to the neighborhood looking in on the spectacle, a police car had arrived and a few cops armed with handguns were attempting to surround the fight.

One assumed a firing position. “Stop! You’re under arrest-”

“DODUN RAY!” Tao said, pointing his finger at the policecar. Yellow light came out of it, and the car caught fire, falling into a miserable collection of small pieces. Most of the policemen managed to jump out of the way before it exploded. One didn’t – he sustained second degree burns over various parts of his body.

The violence slowly moved into the back yard – Hank somehow managed to forced Mercenary Tao into his backyard, at the cost of pain from powerful strikes and bleeding from a wound on his chin.

“DODUN RAY!” Another yellow beam of light came out of Tao’s hands, hitting a propane tank near Hank’s grill. It exploded.

“No! You’ll kill us all!” shouted Hank.

“You are the only one who’s going to die today-”

Tao stopped speaking when a large piece of metal collided with his head. He fell forwards, collided with Hank’s left knee…

“Ssh-shah.”

“I appreciate the help, Dale,” said Hank.

“It looked like you needed some help. I would’ve hit him with my fists, but…” (and here Dale raised his sunglasses) “… a crowbar is more lethal.”

“Not lethal enough.” Tao seemed unphased by his recent encounter with the crowbar. He jumped up, back into a fighting position, and knocked Dale off his feet with a roundhouse kick.

“Aaah!” Dale rolled over and crawled off on all fours.

“I confess that I underestimated your skills. I won’t make that mistake this time,” he said.

He lunged at Hank, swiping his arms at a rate capable of tearing through rock faster than the average mining drill.

“Don’t do that! Your arms will catch fire!” shouted Bill, who had apparently brought a 6 pack of beer out. After a moment, he looked away and started passing cans to bystanders.By now, the two parties were looking substantially worse for wear, but were fighting as if they had never felt pain in their life. The consequences seemed implied to both parties – Hank was merely fighting to survive the assault, but Tao had to worry about the potential humiliation of a loss.

And so the violence continued – Hank using his training in American football to put up a solid defense, Tao launching progressively more absurd and ridiculous attacks, and everyone else watching the fight as if it was a spectator sport.

“Do something! This is serious!” shouted Hank.
“You have to die already,” responded Tao, who knocked Hank over with another well placed roundhouse kick. He advanced, preparing to shove his shoe in Hank’s face.

Nobody had moved.

Then he was knocked off his feet – Hank, while downed, still was capable of defending himself, driving his own foot in to Tao’s stomach, causing him to double over. Were this the actual anime, lines would be in the air for emphasis, Tao’s eyes would be distended, and his mouth would be open as if to shout in rage.

Tao fell again, rose again, knocked Hank over, was knocked over, threw rapid jabs at Hank, got tackled by Hank, occasionally destroyed the local scenery with a Dodun Ray. Both parties seemed to have ludicrous stamina – as the bruises accumulated, the blood flowed, various abrasions gathered on their bodies. I swear, one of Tao’s many cuts tried to ask another out on a date near a scrape on his arm. Then Hank punched the area, worsening the wounds.

“I’ve had enough of this. Prepare to die,” Tao snarled, jumping incredibly high into the air.

“You’ve said that three times in the last fifteen minutes!” shouted Hank.

“Just like you have threatened to kick my ass several times.” Tao landed in the street.

“Normally I would act as if I’d seen the light of my ways, but it’s a lie. But for now…” And he pulled out what appeared to be an incindiary grenade.

“Bwah! You’ll burn down the entire neighborhood!”

“Starting with you.” And so, Tao was about to pull the pin and throw the grenade…

And he was run over by a convenient Cadillac. A short, white haired old man with no shins came out.

“I came here to visit, Hank. How’d you hurt yourself? Get shot wit a Japanese machine gun?” he said.

“Dad, look under your car.” And so Cotton Hill gazed upon the abraised and contused body of Mercenary Tao.

“Hey, what happened to him?”

“He tried to kill me. Then you ran him over.”

“This guy tried to kill you? He’s twice the man you are and he would’ve succeeded had I not accidentally run him over.”

A policeman came over.

“Normally I would arrest you for manslaughter, but if you saw what that man did, you’d realize what kind of service you’ve done for us.”

“You wouldn’t arrest me. I killed fity men in Japan. I’m a veteran of Dubya Dubya two!”

The policemen took Tao to a morgue, where he was to be prepared for burial. Despite the stress of battle, Hank wasn’t injured seriously enough to need medical treatment beyond the doting of his wife, and some bandaging. He went to work the day after. Opening up the newspaper he’d picked up on a whim before he arrived, he saw a story about the apparent loss of a body scheduled for a funeral – the workers in charge had been fired by their supervisor.

“Heh. If everyone was better at their jobs, maybe the world would be a better place,” said Hank. Sales were good that day.

Got some damn Starcraft II

Colloquialisms aside, this is appreciated. Got it on launch day, although not at the very minute or hour of it – I’d say 7:30 PM. It’s the standard edition (if I were made of money, I would probably went for the Collector’s edition). So I thought I might share some stuff about my experiences with Starcraft and Blizzard Entertainment.

It turns out that I first saw Starcraft in 1999 or so, when it’d been out for a while. Then again, I was a kid, and didn’t really get a good look at it – it looked like a Star Wars video game, and I didn’t really care about such at the time, ignoring it to look at some game called “Marble Drop”. Two years later, it turned out a neighbor had the game – at this point, it actually WAS interesting. Still being a small (more in numerical age than in height at that point) child, I convinced my parents to buy it for me, and after a while, Brood War. And this was fun. Some time later, I got my hands on the Battle.Net Warcraft II, and having some access to the internet at this point, I started playing that game on B.Net, and after some time, started the same with Starcraft. Over the next few years, I picked up Warcraft III and Diablo II (the expansion for that much later than the base product), and eventually started playing those online. With Starcraft and Warcraft, I tended towards playing custom “Use Map Settings” maps – map developers have done some great things with the games’ engines and editors. I even made some maps of my own – an unwieldy tactical warfare map called “The Desert Campaign”, a unit-based defense map called “Evolves Defense” (named because the upgrade system worked through an “evolution” system), and numerous smaller modifications of some maps. They were ambitious, and somewhat buggy. In the case of the latter, people complained that I had put too much text (despite there being only a few paragraphs at best)  into the game, on the account that “ppl dont reed fuker” or something like that. But I disgress.

I never really made much of an attempt at mapping in Warcraft III, because I didn’t feel like taking the time to learn how to d0 triggering in it. But I plan to attempt it with SC2, now that I’ve got some basic experience in programming  and some methods to do so. Whatever I produce will probably be quite ambitious (and possibly rather buggy at first), and hopefully fun to play.  Or it might be a boring monstrosity that brings the latest and most powerful systems to a screeching halt, before promptly crashing to the desktop.

Anyways, the program has finished installing. Despite these dreams of mapping grandeur, I’m going to start by playing the campaign.

Tweaking – A short story

This one is set within the “Elder Scrolls” universe, and is loosely based off some experiences I’ve had playing Oblivion, as well as some that others have had.

For a while, I knew a guy who had these strange physical tics.  The guy was a Redguard – he called himself “Bedouin”, nothing more, nothing less.

He was the type who would spontaneously seize up, as if he were about to have a seizure. The type who would spin about for no apparent reason. His face would convulse in strange ways when people talked to him, and he moved stiffly, as if some invisible puppetmaster were dragging him along rather ineptly on strings.

He was always traveling, seeking out various jobs and items. While I never got many words out of him on about his job, he did once mention that he worked for the Fighter’s Guild, and that his work required him to travel throughout Cyrodil.
“It’s not that I mind the distances – I certainly enjoy taking in new scenery. The only problem is that some of the places I go stimulate my… er…”

He looked around. Besides us, only a few goods in my store could possible bear witness to what he said.

“My health complications. I’ve been able to lead a relatively normal life, but there’s no way I can conceal the symptoms,” he muttered. Then he looked at me, and the fear that was rising in his voice was quashed by the rage on his face.

“Do you realize how much trouble I have merely moving? I have to force every step, and even then my joints are unbelievably stiff! Were it not for the months of training I underwent, I would have to lock myself in my house and hire a servant just to keep myself alive-”

His voice caught up with his face, and his arm smashed down on the table. Plates rumbled, goblets toppled, and a few pieces of silverware crashed to the floor.

“Calm down! I’m sure someone might be able to help you, but I’ve no idea what the cause of your affliction is. Maybe you should pray to the Nine and ask their assistance,” I said. Then I cowered.  A few seconds later, I looked back up, and he seemingly had calmed down.

“Your advice is good, and I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that.” He left the store, and failed to return for several weeks. My life continued rather normally – I sold furnishings to villagers and travelers, and slowly accumulated nicer possessions. When my friend came back, I had just bought a new bed – I was in the process of hauling it to my upstairs room when he barged into the door.

A quick look at him suggested that he was somewhat healthier, as his limbs moved more fluently, and his face didn’t seem to spasm to the degree it had a few weeks ago.

“You look better,” I told him.

“Thank you. I met a priest in the Imperial City who claimed to have suffered from a similar ailment,” he responded.

“What of it?”

“He was able to bring himself some respite through behavioral modifications. They’re very hard to explain…”

My friend then looked at a lamp in the corner of the store – the tics appeared on his face, and for a moment, it seemed that he was going to collapse in a fit, frothing at the mouth-

“Ah, good. Take a look at this plate,” he said, turning to pick up one made of wood.

“It’s just a plate,” I said. “It can be yours for 5 gold coins.”

“Always trying to sell things, aren’t you? I only need it for a demonstration.” He produced the 5 gold coins, handing them to me.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I thought you might appreciate it, anyways. But look at the plate. Do you know how it was constructed?”

“Some artisan carved it out of processed wood?”

“I would assume so. But what you can’t see are the… how do I put this? Everything in this world has inner aspects that we can’t see, nor would we benefit from seeing… like… I can’t explain it. Nobody can.”

Now I was confused.

“The priest told me that I was able to see such things. ‘Foundations’ he called them. That was odd-”

“Look, are you sure that this priest knew what he was talking about?” I interrupted.

“Let me finish. Whenever I looked at a light, or a wall, or for that purpose much of anything, I would see things that no man or woman was intended to see. Things that might’ve even driven Daedric princes mad! The priest has been teaching me to unsee these things, and avoid seeing them…”

“Let me guess, they were driving you mad.”

“Now, some of them aren’t. I still have to spend considerable mental resources to prevent these, but it’s a small price to keep my sanity, right?”

When “Bedouin” looked at me, I swore for a moment that his eyes were gyrating wildly in his sockets. I can’t confirm it. Then, I thought I could see other things in those sockets – faces, alien text, landscapes… even, at one point, what appeared to be a paper with the word “Options” on it…

“Alright, calm down. Please.” I walked to the other side of the counter, almost as if attempting to distance myself from him.

“Your newfound fanaticism is frightening me. It’s good to see your condition improving, but do you have to ambush me with these theories of creation?”

His eyes seemed human again, and his disposition calmed.

“If you had went through what I went through by now, I believe you would be rushing to tell your friends.” He left the store.

I saw him every few weeks from then on. Sometimes, he moved like the grace of some sort of male supermodel. Other times, his tics and spasms seemingly had come back in full force. The main difference then was his lifted spirit – he was at the very least, able to cope with his lot in life, and for that I envied him.

At that point, you might’ve thought of him as one of my “eccentric” accquaintances – he was always a good customer, but more importantly, he was a friend.  A few months later, though, he burst into the store, shouting about visions of other, alien worlds. I could barely catch a word of what he was saying.

“Money,” he muttered. Then he collapsed onto the floor. I felt his pulse – he hadn’t dropped dead. Yet. Maybe the priest he’d spoken of had revealed some cosmic secret too early…

Then I lurched back in pure terror, as his face seemed to melt and reform itself into that of someone else’s. Couldn’t recognize it. The skin was much paler than that of the Redguard on the floor. I suppose it was someone else, but how would you explain a magical transformation? I’m just a simple shopkeeper, and I know very little of magic or magic theory.

The face spoke.

“I finally earned enough money for a new computer,” it said.

“What are you talking about?” I responded.

Then, the body supporting the face stood up.

“It means that your friend no longer needs to suffer delusions about reality just to keep his head on straight. I’m not sure what that means myself.”

The face looked at the body, then at me.

“What you don’t know is that the Nine and other mythical figures were created by someone I don’t know for my own amusement.”

“…” I didn’t say.

“Well, now you might know. But I don’t think anyone here is going to accept that, even if I presented them with hard proof.”

“…”

“I’ve spent a lot of time shaping the mind of this man, and frankly, he’s a lot better off than he was beforehand.”

The stranger’s face detached itself from my friend’s body.

“I’d say that I’ve done enough with this world for my own entertainment. I might return to some other soul in the future and go about my tasks, but that’s another instance of Tamriel.”

“Uh…”

“For my own entertainment, before I try out the new equipment, I’m going to make one drastic change to your personality. It won’t last very long, but it will last long enough to give you… problems.” The face disappeared.

I don’t remember what happened next. The guards who arrested me told me that I went on a rampage, breaking things and almost killing a poor beggar for seemingly nonexistent reasons. And now, I get to rot in jail, sitting around with incoherent babble about other worlds and other planes of existence, and the possibility that this world was creataed by something foreign for cheap thrills. It’s not like anyone’s going to believe a word I say. But my friend “Bedouin” has settled down and is living contentedly. He found another fellow to run my shop, and they’re both doing rather nicely. Why don’t you ask them about their lives?

Mini-fiction – “The Ghetto Fantasy”

Based on an exaggeration of a misunderstood aspect of a culture I am unfamiliar with. This story is not intended to be realistic in any way, or be imitated in any way. Furthermore, it may be very offensive to people who actually understand the culture that this story misinterprets. If I keep adding disclaimers, it might become offensive to people who hate disclaimers before they consume their media. Enjoy.

“Just think about it, man!” he said. “A place where you do nothing but listen to rap, drive a big car, get shot at, sell drugs, shoot people, go to clubs, bang hoes, and all sorts of things.”

“I don’t know. You think they going to put up with that? I mean I like bangin’ hoes but most women ain’t hoes and most hoes don’t like bein’ hoes,” his friend responded.

“But if we could be havin’ a place like that, would we?”

“Yeah, I would.”

“What do you mean I?”

“I wouldn’t want you bangin’ my hoes or on my turf.” His friend drew a pistol and shot him several times in the chest. Feeling an immense pain in his body, he looked down – blood was spilling out of him as if from bottles of beer.

“Oh god, what you do that for?”

“I said I don’t want my hoes banged.” His friend walked away, leaving him to collapse in the street and fall into unconcsciousness.

He woke up several hours later in a trauma center, where a nurse was attending to some machinery around him. His friend was there.

“I had a dream while I was dead where that ghetto fantasy I tell you about was true, and it felt good for a bit. Then it got boring, so I’m conflicted,” he told his friend.

“What do you mean it got boring?” his friend snapped.

“I don’t know, maybe it be the fact that it kept going and going and going over and over again…”

The nurse walked over to his bed, and pressed a button. He began to feel drowsy.

“You need to rest. Gunshot wounds don’t heal easily, and if you keep talking like that you’ll only be in here longer-”

He didn’t hear the rest, as the button had triggered the release of tranquilizers into his system. He slept, woke up, lived in the trauma center for two more weeks, then left, and never thought more of the incident. Life continued normally for him and his friend.

Youtube follies

So it might be an April Fools joke, or they might be serious, but the recommendations that Youtube has been giving me are just… well…

what.

More specifically, they’re weird.

Take, for instance, these:

Does my stuff ever sound like… the new stuff by In Flames?

Sepultura’s groovy hardcore is like some wrestler living a relatively normal life to American Head Charge’s groovy hardcore?

Admittedly, if it’s a step down, at least it’s not a complete nosedive compared to the old one… or is it?

Apparently sneezing baby pandas are brutal, but melodic, like Amon Amarth.

Actually, now that I think of it, most of these results aren’t so insane as to be mind-boggling, although apparently some “Japanese Cat” was grounds that I should listen to Miley Cyrus’s latest hit-like excrement paste, “Party in the USA”.

HINDSIGHT: The reason this wasn’t about “TextP” is that TextP was universally awesome, while this was just confounding, if somewhat amusing.

Please patch Firefox to allow browsing without internet via paranormal methods

So anyways, I was thinking about filing this as a bug report, but there’s a perfectly logical explanation for this, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll mention it later, so don’t scroll down if you want to enjoy the story.

One day, I was merrily browsing the internet in Firefox, with a couple windows open to further seperate my tasks. Normal browsing of the wiki-walking sort in one window, Pandora in a second window, and a small forum in the third window. For some reason, the first and second windows were exhibiting increasingly flakey, sluggish behavior. The third one chugged along perfectly fine. Eventually, the first two ground to a halt, and I was unable to navigate to new pages in them. But in the third one, the forum-perusing went quite nicely for a bit. Still, I was annoyed, and checked on the status of the network.

I was unconnected.

So my mouse was hovering there, a little wireless icon crossed out, and the forum manages to reload my latest post. It gets better – I have a new private message from some shmuck. Wondering what this all means, I click on the message. Firefox, being the earthly, no-nonsense browser it is, burst into flames and died. I couldn’t get back without restarting my router. A typical experience rendered transcendental, perhaps?


Now, it didn't really happen like that - my theory is that extremely heavy traffic bogged down the router a lot, and then it'd needed a restart, which reasonably explains the partial service followed by the other. Firefox, while relatively stable, CAN crash. Maybe something in the page's code had triggered some rare bug. Oh well.