Kigyō no Sumakkudaun

From the backstage to the boardroom...

Menko 24: Hara Sankat

Menko 24: Trógon Métallo

Congeries Mnesic

Menko 24: Görmek ve Görmemek

La Soltera: La belleza necesitada de la Dementia III

“Sniff It, Officer”

El Soltero: Mujeriego de la Dementia V

Marquis of Methyl Anthranilate

Crescenti dell’Eclipse ’24

Le rime e i ritmi della natura

The Colpomancy Monologues: A Philippic of Bitter Solipsism

Snobble Grflxx of the Xarnaq Praetorium was recently incognito on Earth performing a Covert Cultural Audit when he decided to sample some beverages whilst people-watching at the Bogle Alehaus in Classic City.
  As he sipped a pint of Bettwanzen Half Stout he silently watched a wide panoply of human exemplars socialising — uni students, professors, trads, bohemians, and the lot.
  What next caught his eye was quite the odd specimen: Waddling into the pub was an epicene, corpulent mass clad in ill-fitting dungarees sporting a buzz cut and grimace.
  “To each, their own,” Swobble reminded himself of the earthers’ popular saying.
  But what surprised the alien observer was another specimen that entered mere seconds later: a similar phenotype dressed identically to the first. Both humans had climbed the staircase to the performance space upstairs, so apparently some shindig was about to commence.
  Even more astounding was a third, and then a fourth human entering with the same garb and physical attributes.
  And then a sixth, and a seventh. All displayed variations on a theme: Dirty denim overalls, unflattering coiffures, and scowls at anyone who glanced their way.
  “The bibbed trousers suggest this may be a convention of ranchers or other agricultural professionals, but I see no calloused hands nor epidermal bronzing from outdoor labour,” Snobble mused.
  “The earthling Jared Gutts has remarked on the captivation many humans have for the beauty of what they call ‘sideboob.’ But I see nothing but languid adiposis resembling the pendulous pannus of the gordotherium, a foul beast native to Xarnaq IV.”
  Then came the epiphany.
  “On Xarnaq IV, we don’t have navels but we are familiar with the Earth practice of navel-gazing. On Xarnaq IV, the neurotic and unproductive castes obsess over their body parts as oracle as well as defensive proxy for their supposed lack of agency in a world that doesn’t cater to their every whim and need. We call it ‘cloacamancy’ — I wonder if this is the same thing?”

Nunca digas de esta agua no echo deseos

The trio walked along the crumbling path wending through the old camposanto at Coney Hill. Buds the colour of green apples had appeared in the trees, heralding a new spring under the sun’s mild balm.
  Ian strolled a few paces behind Srta. Melén and her amiga boricua Lucía as he eyed the young croci sprouting amongst the granite lápidas.
  As they neared the old through-truss bridge, Srta. Melén pulled three oranges from the sack she carried. Lucía revealed a small jar of honey.
  The three stopped on the bridge to overlook the burbling murk of the river passing underneath. The women handed Ian one of the oranges.
  “Por buenos pensamientos,” Melén spoke as they drizzled the honey over the unpeeled fruit.
  ‘What sort of heathen rite is this? Offerings to Oshun? ¿Hechizos de suerte?’ Ian thought, going along with the curious custom.
  “Good thoughts. Good fortune,” Lucía softly said as a warm breeze drifted between them.
  With nothing particular in mind, Ian just wished for something positive to happen.
  They tossed the oranges into the river and quietly watched as they slowly bobbed downstream.

Siete días después...

At Casa Megis there was a knock at the door. Ian opened it to see a nondescript man in tie and jacket.
  “I’m Lt. Sabueso. Are you Ian Stoddard? Did you report a tololoche stolen three years ago?”
  Ian collected himself.
  “Yes... and yes.”
  “Well, some choir boy left it at the prendería on Baxter Street. Probably changed hands ’couple times since the thief stole it. You can come and pick it up whenever you wish. Buenas tardes.”

¿Habra sido coincidencia?

“Because We Think Our Customers Are Idiots,” Part II

“Honey, look at that colourful fellow advertising vacancies at that housing complex!
  “The compelling way he waves his signage at passing traffic creates a sense of urgency, which establishes both credibility and an emotional connection, prompting consumer action on our part.”
  “But dear, that’s a clown.”
  “True, though his conspicuous deportment does demand regard to his rhetoric. His sincerity and earnestness beseeches us to not so hastily disregard his overtures based upon mere appearances.
  “After all, the buffoon is an age-old archetype known for ‘jester’s privilege’ wherein he can convey harsh truths without fear of sanction — a vital resource we need today to navigate a media environment awash in infotoxins and Irritati bloviation.
  “I find his entreaties to be both cogent and credible, and if we don’t act now, we may forgo an opportunity that is certain to be beneficial to us.
  “Plus: Free hot dogs!”

“Because We Think Our Customers Are Idiots,” Part I

GS Sky Colonel

Affirm the Josh

Breaking Away from the Breakaway: Retro-Posterity and Faraway Faces

Breakaway civilisation attempts from Earth are nothing new, especially after the mid-20th century acquisition of ‘foreign’ tech. That, plus the realisation by the Powers That Be that their own hand in reducing planetary citizenry to stewardable wretches still compels species survival contingencies by looking ‘out there’ away from this gloomy globe.
  The forward-thinking Orville Corporation had already foreseen this and planned accordingly, settling covert colonies within the United Planets aegis, as well as making footholds in Dementias IV and VII. Ostensibly, these efforts would bypass interference by Wardens, Solar or otherwise.
  The Pan-Martian Consortium, conceptualised in Stratum X, was one such effort, albeit closer to a ‘layaway civilisation’ idea in terms of world-building, both societal and terraformational.
  Captain Intrepid, initially an Orville delegate to the Consortium, soon took the reins of power with the help of Ugandoid Autonomous Prefecture exiles. Informal diplomatic relations were formed with the Martian natives, who maintained sovereignty over their subterranean plasmic freeholds.
  Without Orville oversight, the Pan-Martian Consortium had gone ‘rogue’, ignoring Prime Directive protocols regarding cultural contamination.
  At the risk of sounding meta, this was Captain Intrepid’s plan all along: to break away from a breakaway civilisation. He foresaw man’s Path to Dust, and with the help of ‘borrowed’ tech from Project: Horloge, he turned back the clock several centuries.

  Intrepid, being the savvy sort, exploited the Martian fascination with his Ugandoid cohorts into a social management mechanism whilst ensconcing himself as the Red Planet’s First Curate.

  A new civilisation was founded on Mars in Stratum -DLXXV.
  First Curate Intrepid’s High Council was made up of Colonel O’Bannion, Dr Irish, and Captain Lefkon. Upper echelon Ugandoids aided in planetary development symbiotically with the Martian natives.
  The Martians, whilst grateful, condoled with the homesick Ugandoids. A monument thus was constructed: The Spirit of Fuju, the master Ugandoid archtype, gazes heavenward to his ancestral prefecture on Earth.

  Over the centuries all were content yet maintained their spirit to strive.
  By the time the ‘present’ rolled back around (Stratum X again, in a new Time Fork), a dynasty had spawned from a one-time consortium delegate to the current Grand Curate Hightower XXIV Intrepid of Mars.
  And in this chronology divergence, eyes again gaze from afar to that face on Mars, and reach out.
  A young Captain Intrepid is about to meet his 20-x great-grandson.

Shadow in the Brook, Oracle in the Pocket

Menko 24: Muthinat Alsimsam

Sentinel 3: “Witty Repartee”

Winter Waggery in Wicewudu

Before the days of entente with Fake Hayata (aka Weasel), the trickster spirit within Gass-Boy led him and Malinconico through the wintry wastes of Wicewudu.
  The pair eyed Batya Belef toiling beneath his mashina. Of course, the mischievous spunk activated Gass-Boy to action: He scooped up a handful of wet snow and quickly packed it into a ball in the palms of his dirty gloves. Malinconico’s eyes darted from Gass-Boy’s hands to the supine gentleman, putting together what was about to take place and took a few steps backward.
  Gass-Boy launched the snowball in a long arc. The projectile splatted on the asphalt inches from Belef’s head. Eyes locked and the flight response kicked in.
  Gass-Boy and Malinconico fled from the Nottingham Weg as fast as the thick snowfall would allow. Through the Olkiewicz marshes and Condemnation Alley they pushed onward. A backwards glance showed Belef slipping on the slick ground even as he was gaining in pursuit.
  Teary panic set in as the furley youth reached the Sheffield verandah with the man on their heels.
  The young men slid to a stop in front of Courier One, his arms folded. They spun around to see Batya Belef standing there, arms also folded.
  Silent disapproval often seems the loudest.

As often realised in hindsight, our proximity to trickster archetypes acts as cautionary tales to guide our witnesses down the road.

Bespredel Nebo 3

Menko 24: Blue Coconut

GS Sky Corporal

OptiGrids, et alia: Usilitel’ Dukha

OptiGrids, a failed lifestyle programme of the mid-30’s strata, received much criticism like other lifestyle products thenceforth. Not so much for its half-baked concept and poor execution in an attempt at besting a superior product, but for exacerbating social neuroses that are timeless.

The Opti-Proxy of one Taoja stood in the communal chamber making small talk with visitants and thru-passers.
  “Lookit the bugatty moodge,” shot one snide malapert.
  “Such dorogoy platties,” smirked another.
  Though Avatar Vitiation was a valid concern, skitebirds on hand wasted no time with hasty judgements based on mere appearances.
  “I got little deng,” explained Taoja. “My blazer is from the charity shoppe. My shirt and trou are cast-offs. Even my avatar construct is a favour from a tog.”
  “You smot that sophistos look, aincher?”
  “Bezoomny, the lotta ya,” Taoja shook his head.

There are no tall poppies in Tucland, and all of their crabs writhe at the bottom of the proverbial bucket.
  But Taoja was neither. Even had Validity Projection not failed, knee-jerk biteback would always be there.
  Worse than hatred of success, this was hatred of perceived success. Contact Slough is the only recourse for those who cannot stomach such a scabrous standpoint.
  ’Twas ever thus, the Spirit of Cain.

Flight from Blotsky

Sophie’s Choice at Fulanarito’s

  “What would you like to eat?” the man asked.
  “You can have anything you’d like! What do you want?” his wife echoed.
  “What is it you’d like?” the man continued. “You can get a burrito with chicken, or with beef, or just beans and rice if you want. Or you could get tacos! You can get them with chicken or beef too. Doesn’t that sound yummy?
  “Or you could get a quesadilla! You can get one with chicken or beef, or just cheese! You like cheese, right?”
  The woman piped up. “Or you could get nachos! You love nachos, right? Those you can get with beef or chicken too! Or just cheese. Mmmm! They all come with tomato, lettuce, and... uh, what else?”
  “Sour cream!” the husband interjected. “Mmmm... sour cream! And you love the nacho chips, right? They’re crunchy!”
  “C’mon, what do you want?” the wife pleaded.
  “Tell us what you want!” the husband urged.
  Silence for several seconds.
  Finally, two-year-old Sophie uttered, “Gah-gah bleh bleh bleh!”

L’albinos affamé

Alone she was sitting at a small table by the window at The Gristle on a cool spring day in Stratum XVII. She took drags off a vanilla glucose durry in between bites of stale pound cake. Her rosy irises and downward chin painted her as distant and unreadable, and the brief cascade of whitish hair from under a silly blue beret was incongruous enough to invite ridicule.
  Which — this being The Gristle, in the town of Classic City — was ground zero for snide commentary from hipster and BärteHansa types. Such is the usual reaction when social anomalies show up on the radar of the Condescending Cool: Immediate Squamous Scene Rejectus.
  The woman was known to perform cringey acoustic folk songs at local venues, and this was added fire to the ridicule already heaped upon her.
  Okay, fair enough on that part. But her physical condition and being from Canadia were of course no choice she could possibly make herself, so the derision of others at those facts came off as immature cheap shots.
  As for the cringey folk music, there’s no shortage of it locally, and (as with many genres) the cringe factor is usually based on twee, self-serious, and oversensitive pretensions.
  None of which were apparent in the woman’s music, mien, or spirit. Just a quiet poignancy with muted earnestness, if anything.
  The woman continued to silently chew her cake at the lone table as the afternoon sun faded to a weak grey. Word has it that she soon thereafter made her way back north. Guess the local welcome wagon must’ve been a bit too much to handle.
  Creative cretins of Classic City: We know how much you care for the unconventional and downtrodden — as you relentlessly keep saying so — but is it too much to ask you to put aside your fashionable nihilism and jaded, low-T snark to afford a simple stranger their dignity?

Platinum Morning: Prelusion

The scene is set on the verge of Stratum V in a Dementia III simulacrum.
  The high sun bakes down upon the Pactolian Plage of Virgineola, as the gentle surf laps at the remains of a Spanish fort. Nearby, oblong flotation devices with viewfinders allow observance of the basking sphyraena.
  Town Crier Jones promotes a ciclomotor visit to the Devil’s Sinkhole as well as an esnórquel outing to view the sergeant major’s galleons. (Alas, the only ‘silver’ found was at the Bay of Achilles: purloined cutlery from an EAL whisperjet.)
  The song of Hesperis ushers in the dusk as the Pactolian Plage tinges pink by both the sunset as well as the presence of calcitic foram fossiloids. Night arrives and the events of Platinum Morning will soon commence.

For posterity, Town Crier Jones makes a pronouncement:
  “This young couple are charter members of the world’s most exclusive amphibious alliance and have qualified true tests of courage and sacrifice. To wit: An early morning natatory exercise and brandy sipping upon the site of Captain Somers’ shipwreck!”

Menko 24: Tubbalartrix Touchdown

‘High Epopt Scapegoats Free-Thinkers’

Kon-Braga, High Epopt of Gokhos Sakima, is blaming outspoken free-thinkers for undermining the regime to distract from the ruler’s failings — particularly with the economy.
  The Kon-Braga administration needed public figures take the fall for the planetary crisis, and the local lapdog media parroted the ‘threat’ in their lumivision broadcasts.
  To the High Epopt, certain detractors represent ‘deviant outlooks’ as a ‘heretical virus.’ The Gokhos Sakima Info Ministry has given three fault-finders memorable sobriquets so the public has easy reference.
  These scapegoats are referred to as ‘Spirit Leech,’ ‘Blue Babbler,’ and ‘Cheoltab Meoli,’ in planetary media. Citizens are accustomed to seeing vocal critics of the regime thrown under the omnibus during crises.
  Doctor Malcolm Eon, high dignitary of Gokhos Sakima, has again issued strident criticisms for Kon-Braga. Dr Eon’s disparagement of the leader’s political performance is nothing new.
  “Control freak Kon-Braga craves obeisance as to shore up his insecurities. When he was out of power he was ashamed of his home world. Now in command, he is suddenly oh-so-proud. Confused fools often conflate their planet with its government at any given time,” lamented Dr Eon.

This missive was republished from Eppulon Independent Samizdat and made available via subspace communiqué. Eppulon Independent Samizdat is neither licensed nor sanctioned by any governing bodies of the galaxy.

‘Spirit Leech: Enemy of the GS Regime’

Menko 24: Tubbalartrix Overhead

Rehash for ’24: Tai Chi in front of The Grill

The repetitions and rhymes of history...

Prank Spoiler: It Was All Just a Dream

INT. CLUBHAUS — EVENING
A pair of gloved hands rests the spherical fissile core into a metal shopping cart.
Jared Gutts (V.O.): “I got it from my uncle’s lab — it’s s’posed to be pretty powerful!”

EXT. NEIGHBOURHOOD — EVENING
Tittering laughter is heard as POV follows shopping cart being pushed down a footpath through the quiet neighbourhood of Huntt Tract.
Jared Gutts (V.O.): “This is gonna be great!”

Johnny Gutts (O.C.): “The young men had somehow snuck into one of the nuclear labs at Orville without authorised clearance. They had made off with one of our crepitium subcritical mass assemblies from under neutron drip. These lads don’t know the fire they’re playing with...”

Jared Gutts (V.O.): “Old Mr Orlosky will freak when he sees this!”

Johnny Gutts (O.C.): “Without the Tapfermann Mass Modulator, isotopic incontinence will reach criticality and spontaneous fission will be inevitable.”

EXT. SUBURBAN HOUSE — EVENING
Jared Gutts pushes the laden shopping cart up to Mr Orlosky’s doorstep, rings the doorbell, and dashes off into the darkness.
A blinding flash signals a nuclear event, as a roiling mushroom cloud rises above Huntt Tract.

Johnny Gutts bolts upright in bed, sweat beading his brow.
“That nephew will be the death of me, if not the death of Western Civ itself. Though my plaints fall on deaf ears, I say that the world is not ready for this young man.”

Strawberry Iceberg: New for 2024

An eructive reiteration of a classic refreshment

Day and Night on the Kenvil Cape

It was a rare interlude for the furley youth of Kenvil to be indoors, but there they were, enrapt with the teleprompter’s transmissions one late afternoon.
  A knock at the door set off their juvenile peevishness — ‘What is this interruption?’
  Father Nadoghy opened the door and welcomed in an elder gentleman, apparently a local acquaintance. The tall man was sporting a patterned neckerchief and navy beret, as well as a bright grin.
  “I’m gonna be on the teleprompter tonight!” he chirped.
  The old gent disclosed to Father Nadoghy details of some on-camera interview at Madeira Selváge regarding some picayune local issue. The irritated youth silently sulked at the obtrusion. The two fellows made small talk before the visitor left.
  Come evening, Father Nadoghy and the Kenvil gang were gathered around the teleprompter.
  “There he is!” someone pointed out. Indeed, the gentleman’s image flickered in the static of the monochrome screen. He was wearing the same getup as earlier, expounding into a mic with the Atlantic sun beaming down on his shoulders.
  But the inquisitive youth were confused.
  “It’s nighttime here and day there,” a youngster piped up. “The solar terminator must be here on the cape!”
  An understandable illusion in the young man’s eyes, similar to the day he watched the moon's “rotation” via Troxel-Scope — the moving lunar terminator was not a sign of rotation, but simply the heavenly body’s orbital motion passing through the Troxel-Scope’s field of vision at the time.
  But cut the kid some Slack for not completely grasping the idea of planetary physics. Or the concept of videotape playback.

Breathe the Pink: Praise™ Aerosol Nutriment Offering Valentine’s Inhalent

Eyes Bright, Vacant II

Keikai-Chū: Incident Response

The Weird Flex and the Unacknowledged Subtext

1) “We’re using my lucky font. It’s been very good to me.”

“Clarity, purpose, and form that follows function are common principles of design, regardless of what is being created. ‘Luck’ is not one of those principles, but saying so gives the impression that my random, pulled-out-of-my-arse decisions are somehow tied to the success of something I had no business having a hand in.”

2) “Because my family has always voted for them!”

“While any individual running for public office is due the scrutiny of ostensibly informed voters, I utter this meaningless platitude to sound like I’m upholding some grand family tradition, when in reality I couldn’t begin to explain policies nor positions of any candidate in any race whatsoever.”

3) “I don’t know anything about computers!”

“I earned my smugness by simply sticking to hack work within the corporate hierarchy and having absolutely no interest in furthering my position, my company, or the field of work itself. I’ll keep pretending computers are just some fad though deep down I am terrified of being replaced by a machine — or worse: someone with initiative who’s half my age.”

4) “I only have guy friends.”

“This makes me sound like I detest the vapidity and annoyance of other women, but in fact, my need for male attention and validation are much closer to the ground zero of modern women’s neuroses being spun as ‘independent’ and ‘empowered.’”

Many have wondered what the purpose of the Weird Flex is that so many people mysteriously blurt out.
A possible subconscious rationale: To appear secure in one’s own insecurities.