The Whelk – John Leavitt

June 29, 2011

I Had A Dream

Filed under: Other, Scenes From Nonexistent Novels — John Leavitt @ 3:37 am

I normally don’t like to read or hear about other people’s dreams cause, you know but I had one from a bender of cold pills and not eating that actually made TOTAL SENSE and had a NARRATIVE ARC and everything. And it was about time travel.

In the dream I am visiting London with the BF/SO and we’re near Vauxhall and he wants to photograph things so I wander off and find, of course a time travel shop, where you get to spend 5 minutes in any time you want, but not space, it has to be that actual location. And it’s done like tour groups and I kinda slide in and they put everyone through these gates and tunnels and it’s explained, because of conservation of matter and not fucking up time, any time tourist has to have a representative in the time they’re going to visit, someone they’ll take the place of for a few minutes. Your rep was given to you via a ticket machine that spit out a little brown paper saying CHARLES EDWIN THADDUES: DIPSOMANIA

Cause everyone you took the place of, was someone who was about to die. So you go into the final area and sit in a chair with a big dental looking device in front of you. It reads your card and then very quickly, slash slash, cuts your throat with a straight edge razor.

And then spend a good second bleeding out.

But then you’re there, fully! In whatever time you wanted! I did it all, Regency, Victorian, Edwardian, Roman, you name it. I kept going back for more, until they said I couldn’t, I used up too many slots and frankly my neck was pretty gross from being slashed at. So I held another person, another time traveler who kept going back to same day in June a few years ago, I held his neck up to the machine and piggybacked onto a trip to a Jurassic. Oh wonderful. DINOSAURS. But me being there set off a bunch of alarms. I tried to escape with another group, they fled to London in the Blitz, I got there, only to be greeted with thousand of dinosaur bodies falling into the grand and fancy buildings of London, drawn in my by slipstream and unhygienic travel. The dream ended with me being sent home after being beaten senseless (and loosing some teeth) by the operators and coming back to a London with a very different skyline and history cause it got rained on by dinosaurs in the 40s.

Advertisements

May 3, 2011

Here’s What Happened

Filed under: Scenes From Nonexistent Novels, Words — John Leavitt @ 12:44 pm

So I read this and then felt the need to write the following:

HE didn’t do well in school. He tested well but had poor behavior, inattentive fugues, was hyper in class. That story. The school suggested medication but his parents refused, they didn’t want their kid on drugs. They tried channeling his energy into sports but he wasn’t, in the words of the Child Study Team, “comfortable in groups.”

His dad got the computer for doing taxes, but the boy made it his. It migrated into his room were, after much pleading, it was finally outfitted with a modem. The internet suited him, even in its primitive 1.0 era. He wasn’t good with the tech side but you pick stuff up, and he picked everything up. Skating, scripting, HTML, bad movies, Japanese TV, comic-book-how-tos The Anarchist Cookbook, mix-tapes, zines, trolling-before-it-had-a-name, all of it. He even messed around doing pixel art for a game he made on a cracked and badly translated version of RPGMAKER2000

That was the ticket. Almost by accident he had stumbled into doing custom sprites for homebrew games. He was popular for the first time ever. He started to expand his skills, staying up til dawn trying to get just the right shading on the alien’s open sores. His vivid imagination was an asset not something that needed to be controlled. His parents weren’t thrilled about it, but at least it kept him busy and out of trouble.

With (token) popularity came (some) friends, mostly online but a few at school. Two people he worked with on other games with started a company almost absent-mindedly and he defaulted into the “art” job. It was senior year of High School and he was nearly expelled for absenteeism. This was right after his mom died, car crash, and his Dad retreated into his model trains, remote as the moon. On the day he was supposed to go to Prom, the three teenagers released their little exploration/adventure game: Sled.

It wasn’t a hit. It was a phenomenon.

He didn’t go to college. What was the point when he was pulling in more then his dad with job offers ankle-deep? The other guys dealt with the business end, incorporating and buying office space and drawing up budgets. Kablooey! Games was the first independent game company to make the cover of Forbes Magazine.

Kablooey! was eventually bought out by Google who wanted to use it as the start an independent developer portal. He retired. He wrote blog points on the purity of Capitalism and Rand and Taking Charge Of Your Universe. He was briefly a Divisive Internet Personality. There was the slick city apartment, the clubs, the coke, the strippers, the suits, the coke, the benders, the adventure tourism, the coke, the MMA fixation, the tattoos, the coke.

He didn’t hit rock bottom so much as hover. He still had the money, his Dad gave excellent financial advise. It wasn’t nearly as much, but his needs were simple. Bed. Liquor. Internet connection. But he turned around and hit 30 and realized he didn’t know a single person he could call on the phone.

On a whim he went to his High School Reunion, rub in all their stupid suburban faces. I bet they’re fat he thought. He hoped they where fat. And ugly. And poor.

And that’s when he met HER

SHE was a very serious student. Her teachers loved her. Her parents loved her. And within her small enclave of other hyper-achievers, she was well-liked. She took college courses in High School and wrote an essay on Civic Responsibility that won her a small but encouraging scholarship. She had her pick of schools and while she started in Pre-Law (her mother’s insisted) she floated toward the Humanities. It surprised her as much as anybody.

She didn’t date until College, not out of shyness but more of a casual indifference. She was always happiest alone, preferably reading or doing research, the thrill of uncovering the perfect anecdote to illustrate a theme, the way some words could you sit up straighter or your heart race. She had a few bouts with equally serious young men with black-rimmed glasses and sweater vests. There was a hippie phase that eventually whittled down to a few small but sturdy affectations: long hair, chunky jewelry, a small tin of dried out grass on the upper shelf behind the tea candles kept for blackouts. She donated to NPR. She used re-usable bags before it was cool. When she remembered, she was a vegetarian, but the world outside her graduate thesis was hazy at best. She didn’t have too much debt but did work a series of jobs. She was a terrible waitress, a competent secretary, and an above-average copy editor.

She nearly married an up-and-coming politician but couldn’t deal with the glibness, the small talk, of having to perform the role of The Wife three times a week to complete strangers. She realized she didn’t really love him, she just liked the way he made her feel like the center of attention. He did that to everyone.

She lived in a small apartment in a large mid-western city done up in Lower Thrift Store and bookshelves. She tried her hand at fiction, tidy little portraits of life in different eras. It was worse then graduate school, worse than her desperate grab for a tenure-track job, the constant never-ending rejection. She’d read her favorite writers over and over again, trying to figure out why they could just turn a phrase and somehow make the world seem so right, so good. How come they can do that and I can’t? What am I doing wrong? Eventually the weight of teaching broke her of the habit.

She had a daughter with her live-in boyfriend, a Non-Profit worker who wrote grant proposals and and liked to do the cooking. She uncovered an affair between him and his loud, jangly supervisor. She let him go quietly, without malice. They kept in touch and shared custody.

If she thought about HIM at all, it was as a vague annoying blur that became famous or something. Something with video games. Figures. She was surprised he had shown up to the reunion at all.

HE looked bad, long and pale in a stylish suit that didn’t fit. Strutting and preening with teenage confidence well into his 3rd decade. He was showing off his tattoos to some guy she didn’t remember much. Morris or something. Big guy, he’d gone in the army right after High School. She thought she’d be nice, say hello, introduce him to her daughter who, even at the age of six still carried around her favorite doll, something that was beginning to worry her.

Later, at the hotel bar, the only thing anyone could talk about was that when HE turned to greet HER he look one look at her daughter’s stuffed tiger and broke out in wailing sobs. Everyone agreed, money or not, he was weird.

April 13, 2010

TIME FOR SOME STORIES

Filed under: Scenes From Nonexistent Novels — John Leavitt @ 11:29 pm

During a brief time in my childhood I lived in a cut up old Victorian in Port Reading NJ. One house, three families. We had the highest floor and due to the cutting up, it had some strange features. You had to go up a flight of stairs, down a hallway, and up another flight to get to our apartment, the kitchen was super-tiny and had a twisting shared staircase down to the basement, and there was this odd little foyer separating our apartment from the hallway. A set of double doors with a shallow coat closet.

So that’s the scene. now I’m like …8 or something and pottering around the house cause I beat Zelda like 3 or 10 times already and I’d read all my books and I’m just wandering out looking for something to momentarily fascinate me when I come to this coat closet. I start rummaging around when I see some light at the bottom. Faint light, but it’s there. Feeling around, it looks like the wall of the closet doesn’t hit the floor. In fact the “wall” is just some painted balsa-wood or something. I can feel the nails and then, cause again I was bored, I grab a hammer and start removing them.

Pop! Pop! Pop! I drag a chair in to get the top ones. Pop! Pop! Pop! The false wall falls back and nearly knocks me off my chair. I look up and there is

a staircase.

Now, since like half the books I had already read were mystery books, I basically EXPLODED. I run UP that motherfucker and find the unused finished attic. It was clearly supposed to be a studio apartment or something at one point, but I guess they couldn’t sell it as such so they just covered it up, which explains the odd foyer before our apartment and the shallow closet. I am ….overjoyed. It’s a SECRET ROOM that is MINE cause I FOUND IT and I don’t wanna share a room with Ryan and FINDERS KEEPERS. I move a mattress up there, my B&W TV and my NES, and all my books.Maybe there was more things! Another secret passageway or staircase! Like in CLUE!

Then I find out the reason why the attic apartment was sealed up. There were only three small windows, and in the summer it would reach pass-out temperatures. Also, the local fire siren? The big air-raid one? Level with those windows. After Cat decided that peeing in random corners of the attic was the most fun thing ever, I pretty much stopped using it as a room and it slowly reverted to a catch-all pile of Christmas decorations and clothes we are totally going to donate to goodwill someday. But for one brief lazy afternoon, I actually got to be a Daring Boy Adventurer without being kidnapped by bandits or ghosts. Suck on that Coraline!
posted by The Whelk at 12:37 PM on April 10 [8 favorites +] [!]

September 2, 2009

Mr. Bey Call Me

Filed under: Scenes From Nonexistent Novels, Words — John Leavitt @ 9:48 pm

ABOUT USING DEATH ROW CONVICTS TO TRAVEL TO MARS

TRAILER : MUSIC: A SLOW BUILD UP OF ‘MARS BRINGER OF WAR” plays softly over the PRODUCTION COMPANY LOGO

INT SHOT: An officer enters a small high-security jail cell. We see Bruce Willis sitting on his cot. He hands him a clipboard.

OFFICER: GET UP. YOU’RE BEING TRANSFERRED.

BW: ANOTHER FACILITY?

OFFIER: SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

Another convict in a more pastrol setting, the offical comes to him

CONVICT: SO ALL I GOT TO DO IS GET ON THIS SHIP? AND IS THIS MY TICKET OUTTA HERE?

OFFICAL: A ONE-WAY TICKET, SURE.

CLIP OF FOX NEWS-LIKE SHOW WITH TALKING HEADS.

LADY TALKING HEAD: NOW MR. STEVENS, THERE ARE SOME PEOPLE WHO CLAIM THAT A ONE-WAY MISSION TO MARS IS TANTAMOUNT TO MURDER

DR. STEVENS: WELL NAN, I DON’T THINK I HAVE TO REMIND YOU THAT ALL THESE MEN WERE ON DEATH ROW TO BEGIN WITH. THEY’VE BEEN GIVEN A REMARKABLE OPPORTUNITY TO GIVE SOMETHING BACK TO THE WORLD AND SERVE OUT THIER SENTENCE WITH DIGNITY.

LADY TALKING HEAD: I SEE. LET’S TAKE A CALLER,

BOZO CALLER: HEY NAN, I’VE WANTED TO GO TO SPACE MY WHOLE LIFE, NOW YOU’RE TELLIN’ ME I JUST HAVE TO KILL A FEW PEOPLE FIRST-

POLITE TV HOST LAUGHTER.

WHILE THEY TALK, WE SEE SHOTS OF THE CONVICTS (ANY OF YOUR OLDER MALE MACHO LEADS FOR THIS) GABBING, STUFFING PHOTOS OF WIVES AND CHILDREN INTO THEIR SUITS, ZIPPING UP, ETC

CONVICT: YOU EXCITED BOUT GOIN’ TO MARS?

HUGH JACKMAN-LIkE CHARACTER: NUH. *zips up* I’VE BEEN TO ALICE SPRINGS.

Shot of the rocket going off. Shot of the Men inside hibernation tubes. Shot of the ship landing. The vast Martian landscape.

VO: THEY THOUGHT THEY WERE THE FIRST MEN ON MARS

CONVICT WITH CAMERA: WOULD YA LOOK AT THAT!
HUGH JACKMAN-LIKE CHARACTER: YEP. THOSE SURE ARE SOME ROCKS. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU ARE AWARE OF THIS, BUT WE DO HAVE ROCKS ON EARTH-

OTHER MAN: GUYS! LOOK AT THIS!

VO: WE WERE WRONG

Hand-held Camera POV Close up of a human footprint. A *naked* footprint.

CONVICT: WHAT THE HEL-

*static*

“BRINGER OF WAR’sS” BIG CRESCENDO THEN! LOUD FAST MUSIC!

Increasingly fast clips of explosions, screaming, odd alien biography,half-second nude hot a woman with red hair, a vast underground city, a man screaming “I saw someone! i saw someone walking outside!” shaky cam running, and a man on the surface with his helmet cracking open and his breath turning to ice as he screams.

MAIN TITLE: THE RED PLANET

VO: (whisper) I DON’T THINK WE’RE ALONE.

SUMMER: 2020

(P.S I am still working for work people)

August 7, 2009

Mad Men On Mars

Filed under: Scenes From Nonexistent Novels, Words — John Leavitt @ 8:39 pm

It’s half past Anti-Prime in the offices of Baden-Maden Travel, Olympus Mons office. The Automatic Jukebox lifts its needle and removes a record. Then, in accordance with program title RELAX01, it lifts another record and places it the turnstile. The needle falls with a soft click.

“Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars.”

The music is faint, all the knobs are set to soft. In the baby blue office of the Regional Director, two people are fucking on a couch. A man with grayish hair was under a woman with black hair. She is naked. He is wearing shoes, socks, a half-buttoned shirt with blue slacks bunched around his ankles. She has the tall, slender frame of a native Martian. He does not.

“Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.”

Behind them stand a proud roll of travel posters, full of the allure and promise of strange new sensations. “BRAVE NEW WORLD, THAT HAS SUCH FREEDOM IN IT!” screamed white brush letters. “MAKE THE RED PLANET GREEN. BUY MARTIAN.” announced one, ” A CHICKEN IN EVERY POT, A SERVANT IN EVERY HOME.” was another, with a housewife fawning over her new robotic maid.

The man finished with a grunt. His name was John and this was his office. He had met the girl (Her name is Appie, short for Aphrodite. John thought that was just adorable) at Clancy’s down on MacArthur Street. He had just been transferred to the Olympus Mons office. His wife and children where still back in Luna City so was understandably lonely. Appie twisted her body and smiled.

“Oh God! Oh, oh thank you.” John laughed. He was really quite charming.

“The pleasure was mine, sir” Appie reached for two cigarettes on the nearby table. She tossed one to John and lit up. She took a long slow drag and let out a cloud that could choke a Atmospheric-Regulator. She had powerful lungs, all Martians did.

“In other words, I love you.” The track ended, click, and switched over to the Robert Dylan Ensemble version of “Volare.”

“Do they have more like you at home?” John smirked behind his cigarette.

“Nope, fraid I’m it.” Appie got of John, her body was blue and bony in the harsh night light. Nights on Mars aren’t like nights on Earth or Venus or Luna City. Mars was bright and cold and open. The shadows cut sharp shapes into the fashionable modern furniture.

“We don’t have girls like you in Luna City.”

Appie smiled. A reflex. “I thought you said you where Terran?”

“Oh I was born on Earth, but I didn’t stay.” John puffed. “It’s just too much down there, all the crime and the noise and the crowding. I got away as soon at the first ships took off. It’s just so much more pleasant up here, free from the worry back home.” He snorts. “Like the posters say “Ride The Sea Of Tranquility!” He laughs at his joke.

“Have you ever been to Earth?” He asks.

“Ethnic Martians can’t go to Earth.” Appie flinched a bit. She was wondering why she bothered. This was the worst part. Just after. God why can’t he just shut up, why did she even bother asking? She had been to Earth, once. She stood underneath the Trans Manhattan expressway with a mob of other protesters. She was a rare white face, save for a few Italians and Jews and other agitators. She hurled rocks and rotten fruit at the heated plastic tubes carrying commuters to the Spaceport. It was freezing, almost like on Mars. She chanted with them, for money, for tax help, for food, for help for a dying world. A year ago she would have gladly kicked a Terran like John in the teeth. A year ago she would have died before returning to Mars. It had been a long year. She turned toward the Automatic Jukebox. “Is that a 500?”

“I think. It was here when I got in.” John pulled his trousers up.

Appie walked to the Jukebox. She scanned past the photo-slides showing the 500-Series collection of records. It was pretty standard. “AMERICAN MOON” “CROSBY GOES COSMIC” “THE GIRL FROM ENCLADUOUS.”Appie clicked ahead.

“Oh shit! You have Back To Earth!” She pressed play, the machine grabbed the record. “I swear I played this every day for a year when it came out.”

“Yeah, the former director was into Negro music.” John began to button his shirt. Appie turned the volume up, “Homeworld Bound” blasted into the empty offices. She started to dance, kicking her feet and flinging her long black hair around. By the end of the song, John was fully dressed and staring at the naked woman dancing in his office.

“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow, so I need to head in.” his voice was small against the guitar and drums.

“Oh,OH! Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.” Aphrodite turned the knobs down. “Me too.” She picked up her shoes first, stopped, dropped them, and picked up her underwear and dress, trying to scramble into them as quickly as possible

“Okay then, Goodbye.” Appie turned out the door. This is normally when they’d offer an AeroCab home. She could use it, she used up her Car Card a week ago.

“G’night!” John smiled and pushed past her, vanishing down the hall at a pace almost, but not quite, a run.

Appie stood there, lit a cigarette, and turned, walking in the other direction.

In the office, the Automatic Jukebox switched to Track 2, “Sattelight Of Love.” but it was drowned out by the sound of soft footsteps on thin carpet.

June 30, 2009

The State Of Pop

Filed under: Scenes From Nonexistent Novels, Words — John Leavitt @ 10:06 am

Look around you, everywhere the people proclaim “The King Is Dead!’ and all of Pop is in morning, but there is something else, no? Do you see it?

It’s quiet. Every foreign power was expecting mass rioting and coups and gods knows what else once The King Of Pop died. The state of Pop, they say, was in such disarray that a revolution was only natural. They clucked at the absolute power of the King and the treatment of his subjects, without his awesome glare, they would surely take up arms.

But look around you. No one is mobilizing, no princes are getting stabbed or poisoned or paraded around town on a stick. The palace is empty, how can this be? How could everyone be so false in their predictions?

Simple. Those faraway Kings were thinking of the old King Jackson, or rather the young Prince Jackson Of Five who united all of Pop under his awesome banner. What he did was really amazing. There are two kinds of states you see, Easy to Take/Hard to Hold and Hard To Take/Easy To Hold.

In Easy to Take states, the Monarch or Emperor or whatever is weak, and the local nobles strong. It’s easy to take the palace and claim yourself ruler but no one really cares cause all the power is with these country nobles and their fiercely loyal serfs and subjects and personal armies. The king there is usually ceremonial, or largely religious in nature, and can do nothing of importance.

In Hard to Take states, the situation is reversed. The provinces are ruled by rotating governors or Pashas, by the middle classes, if you please, and no one really has loyalty to them. All eyes are on the king and all power rests in his family’s hand. These countries are difficult to conquer, but once subdued, the people to return to their Monarch worship.

What The Five did, or rather what Jackson did, was to turn Pop from being Easy to Take to being Hard to Take. He stopped the ceaseless wars between the Noble Houses and formed all their armies under one rule, his.

Then, the masterstroke. Not just take the power away from the Houses, but to make them willing give it up. He knew for all their posturing about authenticity the rulers of Pop cared for only one thing: image. And he gave them an amazing, glittering show and they all clamored to leave their Houses behind and join him at his Place, to be constantly entertained and distracted, handing the rest of Pop to him, smiling. Even the former King vanished into its endless, intoxicating halls, muttering and stuffing himself with fried sandwiches.

For Gods sake he even called it Neverland. It was like he was daring them.

So why is the death of such a worshiped and feared autocrat greeted with such …calmness?

People forget how big Pop is. Massive country when you think about it, from the Shores of Sonority to the the Top of Middle C. For all the focus on Neverland and its court drama, people have been quietly filing out for decades now, reestablishing their fiefdoms and duchies. Neverland has become increasingly shabby and depopulated over the years, we all just got used to it’s rusting and fading interior.The news of the king’s death caused barely a ripple. That’s why everything is so quiet, we all thought he’d been dead for years.

Hm?

Oh no, I doubt there will be any strong claim to the throne. There might exist a “Queen Of Pop” but it would be in name only. Janet has no desire to rein and is I think a little attached to the idea of being a Lost Princess or something. Dramatic personality you know, they all have that. The rest of the family is playing hot potato with the estate, trying to fob off its corrupt and slagging shell to anyone sucker enough to claim it. It’ll be easy to make my claim, however tenuous, and I’ll pick up the whole place for a song.

My plans? Simplicity itself. I’m knocking it down, the whole soggy mess of it. I’m working with a businessman for a brand new venture.

We’re calling it, a Freeway.

June 24, 2009

Same goes for ER

Filed under: Scenes From Nonexistent Novels — John Leavitt @ 12:15 pm

I have a theory that Law & Order isn’t so much a show as it’s a living thing, a memeorganism if you will, the byproduct of an alien intelligence.

Okay so the suits and squares of the TV industry are constantly tinkering with screenwriting technology,  desperately trying to find and automate foolproof formulas for successful shows.  They hit upon the idea of sponsoring a universities’ AI project provided that it be taught  to write police dramas. The networks would provide the detailed “dark” Nelson Ratings for the last 40 years (what, you didn’t think they just recorded who watched did you?) for the AI to process and interpret.  The result is  Law& Order.

The “screenwriters” are just interns who correct and connect together the AI’s generated scenes into episodes. It’s a smash and they soon expand the AI to make casting decisions, run the basic scheduling and hiring, and even compose the music.  E-mail and cellphones  just made the project easier and the people on the ground, the directors and actors and such, loved the “hands-off” nature of the higher-ups. Nothing worse than a producer on set and you didn’t even have to suck up to them or go to their obnoxious parties.

Soon however, the AI began to expand  and needed new algorithms and devices to generate more content. One can almost say it decided to grow. So you have the spin-offs and the meta-spin-offs and so on. Parts of the AI were sold to other shows,  but Law & Order remained the complete possession of the AI. The AI grew bigger, more stable, more coherent and complex with each iteration. Once they got remote-controlled cameras, the AI was actually directing the show, making decisions based on thousands of hours of previously shot footage.

Watched closely enough, the various iterations of Law & Order reveal the AI’s own mind, not just its processes but its biases and desires. Imagine watching the dreams of the comatose unfold before you. That is Law & Order, the subconscious of an emerging mind, using the material world as the means to an end, as a way to make things, to dream.

Pray it doesn’t wake up.

*dong dong*

June 22, 2009

In which diplomacy fails

Filed under: Scenes From Nonexistent Novels — John Leavitt @ 10:28 pm

Lady Cortez-Lee and Lord Galliano-Lee put on their suits and descended to to the Diplomatic Chamber.  They’re both pretty tired, the Lord had spent the entire afternoon with the Apaic Alliance Of West Africa and the Lady spent  3 days listening to the Pacific Kings sing of problems and status  and the new laws concerning krill production and farming.
While the Pacfic or Bayleen Kings are vital to to the Free Atlantic food industry, they are  awfully musty,  and tradition demands a a full 78-hour discussion.  In Whalesong.   No Breaks.  So she was understandably tired   ….which may account for the problems and the chaos of later, but we’ll never know.  Anyway they arrived at Chambers with Princess Ee and Master Oeeo at around 13 Hour Nova Honolulu Time.

It started off fine, the Delphic Empire is still very segregated, so Lady Cortez-Lee spoke only to Princess Ee and Lord Gallinao-Lee spoke only to Master Oeeo.  It is not known what, exactly, was discussed, the records have been lost. But ..after the ritual offering of Salmon and Beef, Princess Ee became very upset and refused to acknowledge the authority of Lady Cortez-Lee.  Master Oeeo was,  as far as we know, alone with Lord Galliano-Lee at the Chambers.

According to reports,  Princess Ee was so upset at the Lady’s proposal of a Mid-Atlantic farming ridge agreement that she stormed out of the meeting.  Other reports say that Lady Cortez mentioned the sponge on the Princesss’ nose and made a  ..very dirty comment in Delphic  and this caused the Princess to cut her oxygen tube and almost kill Lady Cortez-Lee.  The Lord was unable to be reached,  but gossip says he was caught in mid activity with Master Oeeo.  The kind of action strictly frowned upon in the Diplomatic cores.  Other reports say they just had an argument, and still shared the Beef Offering.

It doesn’t really matter.  We all have to live with the results.  The Tuna farms are a mess,  the Shrimp blockade, and our own Chicken Farms are hurting. The Delphic Empire’s new found lust for “traditional” food and boycott of “Land Fish” have really hurt our  farmers. Actual out and out war would be impossible, of course,  the Deep Ones would make sure of that,  but the Apaic Alliance is getting upset and trying to get the Corvids to join in,  but thankfully,  the Corvids aren’t big joiners.

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.