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Post by rvm45 on Nov 9, 2011 9:51:18 GMT -6
I've discussed this Story idea before. This is a brief preamble, in the first chapter, laying in some background. Let me know if the idea sounds promising..... Déjà New
Chapter One
Folk talk about the “Butterfly Effect” but few truly understand it. They think that occasionally, things are in such precarious equilibrium, that the fate of the whole World may be dependant on the fate of a Butterfly, or a tiny droplet of water, or a mote of dust.
That isn’t precisely correct. Events are always in the most unstable, the most precarious state imaginable. The tiniest change anywhere spreads and multiplies itself exponentially. One can’t find a single mote of dust, or droplet of water, or Butterfly anywhere, that can be touched--however lightly—and not drastically alter the course of history—though such change can’t spread faster than the speed of light—well, probably not.
Our scientists discovered an alternate time-line—not “many alternate time lines”—much less an infinite number; but for now, just one. The amazing part is, that once the principle was mastered, it is surprisingly easy to transport both people and things back and forth. A round trip ticket for an individual costs about forty dollars. If someone wants to drive their Auto across, that cost about two hundred dollars round trip, and you can find terminals in almost every small town and big city in America—often next to bus terminals.
No one knows the precise point that the two time-lines began to diverge—sometime in 1962. At any rate, The Cuban Missile Crisis was a near miss here. On Earth Two it led to a curiously restrained nuclear exchange—and from that point on, things were never the same.
After the war, there were six different strains of Influenza that ravaged the land, during six great epidemics—the last being in 1987. Largely as a result, the population of America Two is around eighty three million—as opposed to around three hundred million in America Prime.
The Twos aren’t backward though. America Two is largely rural, but not rustic. With their much lower population, they haven’t had the tax base to pursue many forms of big science. But they’ve learned to do more with less. The Two scientists found a Vaccine that gave universal protection against any and all forms of Influenza. They had Vaccines that gave life-long protection from Rabies—for both Dogs and Men. They had Vaccines for Malaria, Dengue and Yaws.
The Two scientists could cure many forms of Cancer. They could repair severed spines and other nerves. They did more than a little genetic engineering, and they had excellent prosthetics. Apparently there wasn’t a problem with AIDS on Earth Two. But when the Doctors and Scientists of Earth Two were presented with the puzzle, they chewed it up and spit it out. Within eighteen months the Two’s had an effective Vaccine, and a cure that worked in all but the most advanced cases.
And the government leaders and other policy makers in America Prime insisted on treating the folk of America Two as if they were a bunch of Poor Country Cousins—Unsophisticated Hillbilly Simpletons—with only occasional glimmers of potential.
However, as long as trade with the new World was making both sides very rich, imposing Earth Prime style “Democracy” on the Twos wasn’t a high priority—most of the time…
************ ***************************************************** ......RVM45
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Post by mnn2300 on Nov 9, 2011 13:15:23 GMT -6
Interesting concept, looking forward to seeing more.
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Post by shannaredwind on Nov 10, 2011 7:24:15 GMT -6
I'd be interested in seeing where you were going with this.
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Post by rvm45 on Dec 2, 2011 16:37:11 GMT -6
Not a gear-head I, not a Speedster either. Sometimes I’d get into a sorta Zen Trance, and start to drive down the highway at five to ten miles over the speed limit like everyone else. Generally though, I liked to aim to travel five miles per hour below the speed limit. It might take me a bit longer to get there, but I’d be much less frazzled and tired when I arrived.
I had drove my father’s old ’71 Pontiac Catalina all over the Southeast for a couple years in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, when I worked for the Railroad. My father bought the car new in ’72. It had been a Showroom Model for a year—but it still had less than sixty miles on it.
Finally I got enough money together to buy my Big Red Ford Van—but that’s another story. I was attached to the Pontiac. I wanted to ask my Father what he’d take for him—but money was always a delicate topic in our family. The emphasis was on “One for All” and don’t say “Mine” say “Our”.
Then I lost my Railroad Job. I did very well to hang on to my Big Red Ford Van—much less have the Old Royal Blue Catalina—now over half Rusty Brown—restored to “Like New”. But it hurt, and I shed a few tears when they hauled the Old Pontiac away.
That was nothing like the grief I felt Sixteen years later when they pulled my Big Red Ford Van away.
When They recruited me to go Over There, They offered me a beautiful restored ’71 Pontiac Catalina four door—why I do not know—as a partial inducement.
I mean really. For wandering around in America 2, I would have much preferred a similarly enhanced version of my Big Red Ford Van. If the Van was a no-go, then how about a Super Replica of the ’75 Ford Comet that I drove for eleven years? That car was stingy with gas.
All the disasters Over There didn’t topple the 2’s back to the Stone Age, but it had contributed to a steadily declining population. Even with plenty of immigration, there is still only about half as many folks Over There as there was in ’62—less than a third of Prime’s present population.
And think of all the four lane super highways that Prime built or upgraded since 1962. Very few of those same highways have been built Over There. Considering how few people there have to work with, its rather surprising that the 2’s maintain their roads and Railroads as well as they do.
My Dog Shabby and I were traveling down the highway out in the country in the hottest part of July, in Southern Indiana. We’re cool though, because the Black Pontiac has very dark glass and a Powerful aftermarket Air Conditioner. I could get it below freezing, if I wanted to.
You don’t see many people on the land between the Cities and Townsteads. There was an odd phenomenon Over There that Anthropologists love to talk about. As the population shrank drastically, many folks tended to move around until they were in a Town that had about the same population density of their old home. Of course that caused some populations to oscillate wildly for awhile, but the final result was to empty much the countryside into the Cities.
How did they feed all the City-ites? They didn’t all move off the farm and into the Cities at one time, and the 2’s had brought about a wonderful green revolution with their genetic manipulations…
Most of the Fields we drove past were planted in Corn. Wheat, Soy, Hemp and Melons were common too. Every so often I'd see some Poppy Fields—which is a perfect illustration of why an open border with the 2’s pretty much de-railed the “War on Drugs”—not that the border could have been closed, once its existence became common knowledge.
Einstein might have been baffled by the equations that had predicted the gate, but they weren’t hard to build, once men knew how. Any high school geek could build a gate for a science fair project.
But the Poppy Fields were small. Some farmer was growing enough for him and his family—and maybe enough sell a bit to make some money. Don’t laugh; anyone who has ever had a bad toothache should appreciate how useful painkillers are. Many home recipes contained Opiates and/or Hemp extract, just as many of the Olde Tyme Medicines were mixed as a solution, suspension or even as an emulsion, with a quantity of Pure Corn.
The 2’s had heavily modified the Poppies though. All the Corn, and Wheat, Soy, Melons and Hemp were all genetically altered too. The Corn is as high as an Elephant’s eye—well maybe, if your Elephant’s eye was fifteen feet off the ground. Maybe the new song should say that the Genetically Altered Corn is as high as a Genetically Altered Elephant’s eye.
Shabby was a mutant. And so far as that goes so am I. You don’t think that a three hundred pound muscle bound killing machine like Shabby is a freak of nature, do you?
I wouldn’t have adopted a puppy three or four years earlier. I’d lived well past my three score and ten. I had no friends or family who’d promise to take care of a Dog when I died. It would have been irresponsible. After the re-tread That They gave me, I should be good for another century, maybe two. Of course, I could step in front of a Freight train manana, but that’s life.
Anyway, its mid-afternoon, its hot and green, and Shabby and I wanted a few minutes out of the car, to stretch our legs, and to get something to eat and drink. We pulled into a Service Station with a restaurant next door and I parked by the pump.
I wouldn’t open the lock on my gas cap until I’d tested the gasoline. I felt like an undercover nark in one of those old TV programs as I stood there in my long Black Leather Drover’s coat, very bright colorful Silk Pirate Scarf, Cowboy Boots, and very high tech sunglasses, shaking a test tube full of gasoline, and then pronouncing it passed…
Half again as much ethanol as they’re supposed to put in it—but why quibble? There wasn’t more than the usual tiny trace of water—nor were there any of a half dozen other engine ruining fuel extenders that some insist upon trying to dupe the public with.
“What’s your Dog’s name?” The young woman at the pump asked me.
“Shabnasticator” I said, “But I call him ‘Shabby’ for short,” I told her.
“What does that mean?” She asked.
“Shabnasticate means to take something nice and shiny and new—and turn it shabby and threadbare all at once. He’s not a Shabnasticator—but he was a terror as a puppy. The name kinda stuck.”
“What kind of Dog is he?”
“Mostly Dogue De Bordeaux—but They tweaked him. He wasn’t quite what They were looking for. They were going to euth him. I asked for him instead. They let me have him.”
“So you work for Them? I kinda figured that you did, judging from your Car,” She said.
“Kinda—indirectly. They retreaded me, and They contact me on occasion. I’ve never met Them.”
“I didn’t think you’d seen Them, and if you truly had, I’d be afraid to come near you,” She said. “What did They do to Shabby?”
“Lotta things. You can see that he’s extra large. His muscles are very strong even on a pound for pound basis. If a tooth is lost, he’ll grow another. Also, if one is broken or gets worn down enough to expose the pulp, his body absorbs the root, while replacing the tooth with another. Mostly though, his greatest tweak is that understands language. He’s fluent in English, Spanish and German. He can even read,” I said.
“Can he talk?” She asked.
“No. You see Dogs are pretty intelligent—far more than some folks realize—but their language skills are very much inferior to ours. The idea was to see how much giving them language skills in proportion to their intelligence would change their behavior.
“Shabby has both more gray matter than a normal Dog—hopefully centering around the right parts of his brain, and microchips threaded all through his brain. He can understand—but he understands too well.
“Apparently his brain got too happy with its growth stimulation. He’s way smarter than he’s supposed to be. They knew that a few would turn out like him. They planned for it and made extras,” I explained.
“Just how smart is he?” She asked.
“Hard to tell. He’s supposed to understand speech like a very literal three or four year old. The reading is just supposed to be an idiot savant talent—he looks at a printed word, and he just knows what sound that it represents,” I said
“How smart is he? He reads Shakespeare. I’ve never been able to hack Shakespeare. How much of it does he comprehend? I don’t know. He can’t talk. I’m not sure that understanding automatically translates into ability to express oneself.
“He should be better at it than a regular Dog, because he has more gray matter—but then again, it isn’t evenly distributed, so maybe not.
“Maybe the only advantage that he has over a normal Dog, so far as expressing himself, is a whole lot more determination,” I said.
“We’re having a minor festival tonight—just a few families coming together. You and Shabby are welcome to attend,” She said.
“You did catch it when I said that I was a Retread didn’t you?” I asked.
“You are still a man, aren’t you?
I should have stopped and thought about it long and hard, before I committed myself. I was one of the lucky Retreads. I lost all interest in sex as a side effect of the regenerative process. The technicians told me that I could jump-start my libido, by choosing to think of former passions. I was too happy to be free from it—but they said that it might very well come back spontaneously of its own accord.
In retrospect, I think maybe the blamed thing sneaked back to take me by Surprise; because I jumped on the invitation like a Rooster goin’ after a big old grasshopper. The words were out of my mouth before I even thought.
And just about the time that I’d have done well to be cool and calculating, my tweaked hormones were about to send me on a marathon roller coaster ride of testosterone, adrenaline and hormones and chemical substances that the untweaked don’t even have…
Maybe, They knew that a certain number of their retreads would go on a rampage. Maybe like Shabby, They were willing to turn out a few more like me as acceptable casualties of the process…
But the more I think on it, the more I wonder if it wasn’t supposed to work out this way…..
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.....RVM45
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Post by rvm45 on Dec 8, 2011 14:44:05 GMT -6
I used to like to go to the dances when I was in College. I couldn’t dance, and I saw little point in dancing, or causeless merriment in general. Nothing made me feel quite so alienated and alone, as being in a crowd watching the Mundane celebrate. I loved that feeling.
Now I was almost one hundred years old, and I’d picked up a few steps. I used to think that I wasn’t a Redneck because I didn’t care for Beer, and I hated Country Music—Then one day I heard a song by the “Drive-by Truckers” called “The Living Bubbah”—about some dude I never heard of, dying of AIDS…
Have you read the “Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam”?
Remember the Quarain that says:
“The Vine had struck a fiber: which about If clings my being--let the Sufi flout; Of my Base metal may be filed a Key, That shall unlock the Door he howls without. “
Well I never had AIDS, but something about those mournful chords in that Redneck melody struck a fiber. The singers reminded me of the Southerners that I’d worked with on the Railroad—of Memorable Places that I’d visited in my youth…
And all those memories were precious now, since the World had moved on, and left me worn-out and almost broken—but not quite.
You know the next line of the “Rubaiyat” Says:
“And Whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite, Better a Glimpse within the Tavern caught Than in the Temple lost outright. “
That’s just a few of the thoughts that ran through my mind at the Party.
Laina and her Parents, along with a couple helpers, had set both a hog and a goat to Roast on spits, over beds of hot coals. They had stuffed both of the carcasses full of Pork Linked Sausages and Whole Onions and Potatoes and Carrots. The Goat had a Sheep Caul draped around him, and another wrapped around the goodies that he was stuffed with—though I’m not sure how necessary that was, with all those good fat Sausages inside him.
The feast was meant to be Supper, so they had a light Dinner to tide everyone over till Supper—Fried Chicken, French Fries Hush Puppies. They had a big keg full of Beer, a small wooden barrelful of Wine and a big cooler full of various Soft Drinks.
I drank a medium sized glass of Wine and then contented myself with drinking Double Colas. I didn’t wish Coca-Cola any ill, but it tickled me that Double Cola was available from coast to coast Over There, while about the only Coke products you’ll see, are the ones imported from Prime. They still use cane sugar and bottle their Doubles in the old style spiral returnable bottles—Though they do have both twenty ounce and one-quart glass bottles—thankfully, the Metric system is all but dead Over There.
Laina’s father had a five gallon metal bucket filled with Bar-Be-Que Sauce—only he mixed a good deal of Lard in with it and he kept it just warm enough to be the consistency of Vaseline. He had a baster that he had made by wrapping clean muslin around the end of a two foot rod of quarter-inch steel rod, until it looked like a torch in an old movie He’d baste the carcasses every few minutes—more than was necessary, strictly speaking.
“I know that most of it will melt, and run into the fire—but a bit will stay,” He told me. “Besides, it smells so good.”
“Dude, how old are you?” I asked him.
“I’m fifty-three years old,” He replied.
“You’re in way better shape than I was at fifty-Three, let me tell you. How old is Laina?”
“Almost eighteen.”
“I’m retread. I was born in 1957, believe it or not. Does it bother you that your seventeen year old daughter seems infatuated with me?”
“Why should it, as long as you’re a good man? And if perchance you turn out to be a bad man, I trust that she has the judgment to figure that out before things get that far.”
I got to brood, and experience the joy that comes from being magnificently alone one last time—at least for the historical future. I should have gotten up and split right then—Not even say goodbye to Laina—just cut bait, get in my ’71 Pontiac with my three hundred pound Shakespeare-Reading Dog, and leave—Ride baby ride…
You know, to my eternal credit, I was going to leave. I stood up to go. Then I heard the most awful racket that anyone might ever expect to hear.
Twenty-five or thirty souped-up Volkswagen Beetles, came roaring down the winding two-lane highway, all two-by-two, like the critters boarding the gangplank of Noah’s Ark.
Dragon Riders, can be rather problematic. No way that I was going to leave such congenial company to the tender mercy of those modern day Barbarians.
Unless you know about “The Dragon Rider Motorcycle Club”, I’ll tell you. First of all, they don’t ride Motorcycles, they Drive Volkswagens. Don’t ever bring that up to a Dragon Rider—they consider pointing out the obvious, or even hinting broadly about it as a Blood insult. They also believe that an unintentional insult or injury is far worse than something done knowingly with malice of forethought.
I kinda see where they’re coming from there. How many times have I heard someone bellow, “I didn’t mean to” or “I didn’t know”—as if that were a mitigating, rather than an aggravating factor? Be that as it may.
They only use the metal-bodied Volkswagens, not the newer plastic ones. Of course they’re not satisfied with stock. Some of them are jacked way up and converted to four-wheel drive. The small air-cooled rear engine has been modified nearly every way imaginable. Mostly it has been replaced with a front-mounted engine. These guys are geniuses with anything mechanical.
I’ve seen at least one, where the front motor was in-addition-to—instead of replacing—the back engine. Some like to jack the front end of the body up like a chopper, others like the rear jacked up like a hot rod. I once saw a Volkswagen that an enterprising fellow had modified into a stretch limo, with a row of three additional doors along each side. Custom airbrushed paint jobs; lots of shiny chrome and skylights in the roof are all popular modifications. Custom leather interiors, and steering wheels made of exotic woods as well as lots of fancy dash furniture are standard.
Although it is a rather complicated modification, many of them like to center the steering wheel—Which necessitates a whole new dash layout.
Have you ever seen the results of a Volkswagen crashing into something? They’re pretty flimsy—but not the Dragon Rider’s Volkswagens. They all have custom fitted roll cages—often made of exotic high strength alloys.
Many Motorcycle clubs have a few vans in their entourage to carry a bit extra gear and to serve as chuck wagons. The Volkswagens can carry a bit more gear than a Motorcycle, but most Dragon Rider clubs have a few chuck wagons along just the same—and you guessed it—they use highly modified Volkswagen Vans.
You ought to see the Volkswagen Vans they’ve converted to mini fuel tankers. And no, they aren’t Molotov Cocktails with wheels…unless you plan on shooting one with an RPG.
Someone may be wondering if the Dragon Riders are in danger of running out of old Volkswagens to modify anytime soon. Don’t sweat it. Although Europe was hit with probably ten times as many nuclear bombs as America 2—and beaucoup tactical nukes—and so far as that goes, the influenza plagues hit them much harder too…
There is a plant is St Louis turning out new Volkswagen Beetles under license to this day. (And a plant in Bloomington Indiana that turns out Walther PP Pistols. Many European goods are manufactured under license in America 2.)
All those gonzo dudes managed to find places to park their weird rides, and they approached the cooking area. I shot IPSC for many years, and when I’m halfway expecting trouble, I have to fight the urge to raise my hands in surrender to start my draw. That was a very long time ago…
There is something about being retread that drastically alters one’s sense of time. If I thought of the day my father died, the night my mother died, or having one of my all-time favorite Dogs put to sleep—It all has the emotional impact of something that happened twenty minutes ago. And the memories are far more accessible and vivid. So I still had to fight the desire to raise my hands in preparation for a draw.
But then I was surprised when Laina ran to one of the Riders and embraced him, while another Rider grabbed her father.
“These are my brothers Mark and Mathew,” she said. “They’re twins.”
As I shook each of their hands in turn, I noticed that one brother had silver Captain’s insignia on the collars of his brown leather jacket, while the other one was a Major. I had never considered the question before, but apparently the Dragon Riders weren’t at all reluctant to follow a Black man, since Captain and Major are both rather high ranks among the Riders.
The Riders had hardly gotten settled in when the food was ready. Several of the Riders seemed to have girlfriends in the group. I wondered if the two brothers would resent a white man sitting and eating with their sister, but if either minded, he hid it very well.
I heaped my plate with pork and goat as well as some of the linked sausage. I had to be careful not to overeat and make myself miserable. There was an inexhaustible supply of good things to eat. I noticed the brothers pause and watch me intently, as I picked up a hot pepper. Apparently they were waiting for me to light myself up. I disappointed them. I’m not what you’d call a “pepper head”, but I’ve always had pretty fair natural tolerance for hot stuff.
After a leisurely meal and a long Siesta, the riders set some targets, and started shooting.
“Come on and show us what you’ve got Primer,” Mark, he was the Major, teased me.
I put on a pair of safety glasses. Once I’d been very careful to protect my ears, but that was no longer necessary. My inner ears are artificial—far better than my failing ears had ever been, even in my youth—they were neither damaged nor made uncomfortable by loud noises.
I carried for many years back home. My favorite rig was a double shoulder holster carrying my ’70 Series Colt for a right hand draw and a four-inch Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum for my left hand.
Over There, .45 ACP has become very obscure, while +P .38 Supers are all the rage. They will reliably drive a one hundred and forty-five grain bullets at over fourteen hundred feet per second. My Ruger 1911A1 style pistol is a .38 Super, and it has a six-inch Mag-Na-Ported Barrel that sticks out an inch past the Bushing.
I carry a five-inch, seven-shot Smith and Wesson L frame for my left hand. It’s Mag-Na-Ported too. Both my pistols are buffed all bright and shiny, and are Stag Handled.
I pulled my 1911A1 out first, and shot it awhile before holstering it and bringing out the .357.
“Is that all the Guns you carry?” Matthew asked.
“Well I’ve got this,” I said, as I produced a Pearl Handed nickel-plated Beretta .25.
A .25 is a tiny hideout for very desperate times—or something that’s simply a lot of fun. I had mine for both. There are several schools of thought about .25 ACPs. They are completely useless; or aim for the eye socket and limit shots to no more than ten or twelve feet; empty the Gun into the torso of the attacker, then throw the Gun at him. That’s rather unlikely to stop him, but it should give you an edge when you come to blows.
I prefer to use it like an Ice Pick. Grab the man. Pull him close to you. Push the muzzle firmly against his abdomen, and fire. The muzzle blast tearing through his tissues as it follows the channel left by the bullet will cause damage like a .44 Magnum.
Anyway, the Biker dudes got a big kick out of my little hideout. I never claimed that it’s the only hideout that I carry…
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It had been years since I’d had too much to drink—but a couple glasses of Wine, and then one of the brothers had some Single Malt Scotch—does it have to be made in Scotland to be Scotch? At any rate, it was excellent, though made right there in America 2.
I was feeling really good when Laina walked up to me.
“ Come here, I want to show you something,” She said.
I followed her to a huge old sycamore tree on the edge of the picnic area. There was a rope ladder that led to a tree house. She pulled the ladder up after us. The tree house was both fairly large, and fairly well concealed.
“I used to play here when I was still a little girl,” She said.
She started telling me a long-winded story, and ordinarily, I’d have listened. The alcohol was starting to hit me big time though.
Going through a gate is vey quickening somehow. It stimulates your whole system, and it seems to focus especially hard on the Mitochondria. A single trip may add ten or twelve years to your life, though once seems to stimulate everything close to the maximum. Second third and fourth times add little if anything, particularly if the trips are done close together.
The technicians of this World use that as a good base to start from. Most of my internal organs have been replaced with clones grown from my own slightly modified genes. You’d be surprised at the remarkable improvement having a brand new set of heart and lungs will do for an eighty-year-old man. Then replace the kidneys, adrenals and all. Replace the spleen, liver, and the whole digestive track. Bone marrow transplants with your own rejuvenated marrow.
There is no risk of rejection. The operations had been reduced to very low risk—less risky than not taking the retread…
But what do you do about the Brain? Without a good brain, all the rest is kinda wasted—All dressed up, and nowhere to go.
They hit that with a three-pronged attack. They have chemicals and synthetic hormones to stimulate the Remaining healthy neurons to flourish beyond all precedent. They clone embryonic cells programmed to look for empty spots and plug themselves in. And finally they send in vast armies of nanites—both to prune damaged cells to make room for new cells, clear the myriad Partial blockages, and to weave a matrix of tiny micro processors, so that there is a fairly powerful artificial brain interpenetrating the Biological brain.
Of course the two systems are very richly interconnected, otherwise there would be no point…
But sometimes when a foolish retread drinks too much alcohol, the two systems get slightly out of Synch. If I were a frequent drinker, my system would have leaned to cope much better, but I hadn’t had this much to drink since I’d been retread decades ago.
And you know, sometimes things just hit me harder.
I felt like someone had slipped me a double hit of acid. Laina became the most beautiful creature that I’d ever seen. She was just the color of dark milk chocolate—exactly how I like my women—and she was big—not fat, but big. She reminded me of pictures of Serena Williams that I’d tried to reproduce when I was learning how to draw.
Her lips were a shade darker than the rest of her face. Now I’ve never met the woman who’d find the comparison flattering—but I’m an Artist, and I react differently to shades, and colors and hues. Her lips were exactly the color of a Cow’s liver, when its fresh from the cow—and I hasten to add, that while I have no desire to get raw liver anywhere near my lips, that the color is a very appealing one on a woman’s lips.
I never hit it off well with girls. I always thought that good girls saved themselves for marriage, and honourable men didn’t try to seduce nice girls. I also felt that the lowest of fallen women should be treated just like good girls—if they are friends. And I’d had many friends from the so-called “Bitter Drags” of society.
Treat people as if they were virtuous, and sometimes they’ll start to live up to your expectations. Course, a lot of times you get ripped off, or disappointed that way. Sometimes I felt my Halo slip a little—and I wouldn’t have minded a bit of the old in-out, but I’d sit on my hands till the urge passed. I have remarkable self-control.
And my reward was often to see the object of my desire heading out into the cane-breaks with some vulgar lout that wasn’t ashamed to voice his darkest desires.
Do you remember Cain and Abel? Cain had a legitimate grievance against Abel—he just shouldn’t have taken it so far as to kill him. Of course God is always right—but even if Able had been judged superior to Cain, in some important way, by a mortal man—or woman, Cain would have been wronged—by Able.
When someone judges you inferior to another—it isn’t the Judge who has slighted you, but the Judged.
Maybe he was ignorant or couldn’t help it?
As I said earlier—that isn’t a mitigating, but an aggravating circumstance.
But the thing is, get enough alcohol in me and I turn into a very uncomplicated Barbarian—I’m more than willing to be anyone’s friend—but I’ll be happy to fight too, if that’s the way its played.
Sometimes I get Russian Hands, Roman Fingers and Rough Mouthed around the ladies.
I at least three trains of thought heading for a bang-up collision somewhere in my hybrid brain.
Laina was highly desirable.
I should try to explain to her about Cain and Abel.
This was the weird out-of-synch-high that I’d hear so much about.
I must not, under any circumstances, tell Laina that her lips were the color of raw liver.
The barbarian who may dwell on the Right side of my brain, or maybe deep in my Id, or perhaps my fallen nature got the best of me. I had no chance of making an intelligent response to whatever she’d just said, even if I’d heard more than a few disconnected phrases.
I was so afraid the liver thing would slip out. Suddenly I had an inspiration. Words seemed hopelessly awkward and unavailable, so I wrapped my arms around her and started kissing her.
I was trying to communicate that there was genuine affection, even in the midst of lust…
And then I passed out deader than Judas for about forty-eight hours.
I didn’t feel bad, or the least bit disorientated when Laina shook me awake.
She was crying hysterically. Did I? Could I? No! I was still fully dressed. I hadn’t even taken my Guns off—and Sleeping in a Shoulder Holster will warp it all out of shape extra quick.
“My parents, my brothers, my friends, all the Dragon Riders—they’re all dead!” She shouted.
“What? How?” I stammered.
“Boxers.”
“Boxers are an Urban Legend, “ I told her.
But when I climbed down and saw all the headless corpses, I began to change my mind. I don’t have a weak stomach, but seeing all the new friends that I’d made lying there headless cased me to get a bad case of the dry heaves.
Apparently they only harvested fairly young heads, because several of the older folks hadn’t been decapitated—they’d just had their skulls caved in with a Tomahawken or Hatchet. I don’t know where Shabby had been, but he came up and nosed Laina, and when she hugged him he kissed her face very gently and reservedly.
Just then a section of the ground opened up, and Mark came staggering out of a hidden doorway—not so hidden anymore. I guess he felt too wiped out to use whatever hidden entrance he’d used to go down there—Because the sod was pretty much disheveled where the trap door had opened—hydraulically, he told me later. No way that he could have lifted all that dirt at one time.
He kneeled by the headless body of a young woman, and then fell into a sitting position. He was holding his head with one hand.
“Emma went into the fallout shelter with me. We got hungry, and she went to fetch us some more food. She got here just in time to get gassed” Mark Said.
“We were in the tree house,” Laina said.
“I have soiled myself and I’m probably dehydrated. I’m going to shower and change clothes. Then I am going to wash these filthy things. I’m going to take a very large physic to clear out any spoiled food.
“Once I’m sure the Diarrhea has passed, I’m going to load anything that looks useful into my car—I have more than enough silver to buy anything I take.
“I’m going to track down the sadistic psychotics who did this…
“And then there will be Sad Singing and Flower Bringing” I said.
“I’ll be goin’ with you,” Mark said.
“Me too, “ Laina said.
I didn’t feel that I had the right to try to dissuade them.”
********************************** **********************
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leper
New Member
Posts: 26
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Post by leper on Dec 12, 2011 23:26:00 GMT -6
Very open concept. I like the start. The very end jumps ahead a bit. Why did he have diarrhea? I had to read it a few times to realize it was the main character speaking. What is his name?
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Post by rvm45 on Dec 13, 2011 7:27:35 GMT -6
Odd as it sounds, I haven't settled on a name yet. He ate a really big meal, and then was hit with a knock-out gas that had him unconcious for 48 hours. Food will sometimes spoil in the intestines that way. He was going to dose himself with a Powerful Laxative (colloquially referred to as "A Physic"), which would be calculated to give him Diarrhea until the effects cleared, to make sure he didn't have any greasy pork, that had lain in his intestine for a long time, to spoil and poison him. .....RVM45
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leper
New Member
Posts: 26
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Post by leper on Dec 18, 2011 15:46:09 GMT -6
I went back an reread and saw the 48 hr reference. I think that should have been given a little more emphasis. If they had made a little more reference to how long it had been, it would have stood out as more important, and been more noticeable. Also a little more reference to the gas, it's use, or effects, or dispersion technique, would paint a better picture. Love the liver reference about the lips. Very vivid imagery.
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ahsga
New Member
Posts: 32
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Post by ahsga on Nov 27, 2012 19:51:29 GMT -6
Please continue this story. It is different.
Thanks
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Post by nancy1340 on Nov 29, 2012 10:37:55 GMT -6
Dang! Almost a year since the last chapter. I sure would appreciate more on this.
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Post by rvm45 on Dec 16, 2012 11:49:54 GMT -6
According to people who ought to know, the Long Exposition about how the Parallel World was Discovered id Amateurish—needs to be gradually presented. It would be a Different type Story if I started it now. .....RVM45
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