Thursday, November 05, 2009

SSSG and Rev. Tam report to the Emperor

SSSG visual report to the Emperor #347-
Big Apple not closed - still here in fact.
Checking up on our infiltration status in local capitalist chain establishments.
If, in the following report, the SSSG looks somewhat disgruntled it is because the Rev. Tam insisted on popping into the frame of her visual recording device. She keeps telling him he has to do his own, seperate, individual report to the Emperor, but he insists on procrastinating and jumping in on hers instead . . . gah!

Upon entering the local capitalist establishment I found the perfect prehistoric specimen to study and - with your permission, Emperor - clone:

video

I was also checking up on our infiltration drone scheme - selling them to children was a particular stroke of genius, Emperor, you clever, clever Emperor, you. Now we shall be able to spy on your minions to make sure that their loyalty chips are working:

video

I am sorry to report, however, that the fighting Madame Alexander Dolls Experiment is not developing well. We started off with simple war games and then they got a little out of control, a la the movie Toys with Robin Williams, and well, you'll just have to watch to understand:

video

Thus ends my report for right now. More to come, I assure you, Emperor. This is a strange land. Still no sign of The Operations Cheif. I keep reading in these logs that he's reporting in, so I assume he's fine, but as the Rev. Tam and I inhabit the same city as The Operations Cheif and Fairy Patterson and we still have not seen them . . .

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Run on the Banks

Part 6 in a space pirates series


Its cooing, female voice was quite pleasing. Truth be told, it was starting to grow on them. That sexy, purring woman telling them what to do. They took to it too easily.

"At the split, keep right," the GPS instructed.

"Right it is," the pilot responded, smiling. He tugged on the flight controls to direct the cosmic dreadnaught down the right path.

The Imperial flagship Chocolate Love Stars and its two accompanying vessels Good Gravy and Calculator were slowly but steadily winding their way down the interplanetary spacelane toward Earth.


Meanwhile, on the observation deck, Fleet Admiral Turmel was in conference with two holograms. This time the holograms represented Captain Slog of the Calculator and Germ of the Good Gravy.

"Thanks to your help, we've affected repairs on all critical systems," Turmel reported. "All combat-essential systems are operational." He sipped on an exotic tea. Delicious.

"Excellent," Slog said. "Pestilence, what's our status?"

"We project the financial meltdown will reach Earth in one standard half hour," Germ reported. "Our course is plotted to put us directly in its path."

Turmel interjected. "So when you say standard half hour, do you mean the hour is half-standard, or is it half of a standard hour, or is it just sub-standard?" he asked.

"Thirty minutes," Germ answered.

"Admiral to the command deck," a voice sounded over the intercom. "Admiral Turmel, please report to command deck."

"Gentlemen," Turmel said, standing, "I'll see you out there."

He made his way to the bridge.


On his viewscreen, the Imperial defense force deployed to meet the invaders. Turmel recognized many of vessels, knew each of their names like he would his own children. The Emperor in his wisdom had renamed every ship in the fleet, bestowing them with the most terrifying, fear-inspiring names he could dream up.

The Assumption, the Not Tonight, the Indecision, the Cold Shoulder, and Incommunicado were followed by We Need to See Other People, Just Friends, and I Need Space.

Yes, Andronicus rechristened every ship save one - Chocolate Love Stars. It boggled Turmel's mind. Had he angered His Excellency in some way?

The entire first fleet. Cleary, the three privateer boats were outgunned. This was unwise fiscal policy, Germ knew, from his time with the paratrooper accountants. Then, he noticed something else.

"It looks like someone got here before us," Germ pointed at his monitor. "Look at the damage to the docking ring. Almost a third of it's been destroyed."

"Yes," Turmel said, stifling any shred of guilt under a veneer of cold command, "it's tragic. No doubt some accident involving space crabs and neutronium.”

"But sir--" one of Turmel's crew piped up.

"Stow it, crewman," Turmel cut him off.

"Why is the fleet deployed?" Germ wondered. "Unless they knew we were coming."

"It's standard defensive posture in a financial crisis," Turmel corrected, surprising even himself with his tactical knowledge. "Most people wouldn't recognize it, as we haven't had a financial crisis in years."

Captain Slog's voice cut in on the line, "They must be deployed like this to prevent a run on the banks.”

"Maybe," Turmel said, flipping the scanner display from ship to ship, shaking his head. "Look at the raptor carriers and the styrac attack cruisers. They're empty."

"Incoming transmission," the communications officer reported.

"This is Earth Defense Command," said a new voice on the loudspeaker. "Unidentified vessel, you are instructed to reduce speed and transmit your security clearance."

"Let's do audio only," Turmel told the radio man, who nodded when the channel was ready. "EDC, this is Venutian luxury liner Wuyi Oolong, six weeks out of Uranus, returning from a Kuiper pleasure cruise.”

"I do not show a Wuyi Oolong on our scheduled arrivals," the EDC replied.

“I’m sure it’s just a mix up,” Turmel said in a carefully calculated, carefree tone. “The lesser planets are not as organized as Earth.”

“That's very true," squawked the EDC. "And your companion ships?”

Golden Yunnan and the Golden Monkey,” Turmel replied. "Request permission to dock for refueling."


Across the vastness, perched in the command module of the docking ring, Captain Marissa Faireborn's eyes narrowed as she watched the approaching silhouette. There was something vaguely familiar to her about the ship configuration.

She climbed down from her command chair to the controls console where the harbor operations staff worked.

"Analysis," she ordered.

"It is the right size to be a cruise ship," the sensor technician told her. "But the profile is not a match for any ship in our databanks."

"Clearance code?" Faireborn asked.

“It’s an old code, but it checks out,” the communications officer said. “I was about to clear them.”

Faireborn stared at the image on the view again. Something was not right.

“Shall I hold?” the operator asked, looking up at Faireborn expectantly. He couldn't wait for his shift to be over.

"They're not slowing," the sensor tech interrupted.

This made the comm officer sad. It meant trouble. Which meant he'd get to the bowling alley late this evening. He got back on the horn.

"Wuyi Oolong," he transmitted. "I repeat, you are ordered to reduce speed."

Meanwhile, back on the dreadnought, the pilot turned to look at the admiral, but Turmel shook his head. No, they would not reduce speed.

"Spaceport," Turmel said instead, "we are suffering a braking malfunction. We should have it cleared up momentarily. Please stand by."

"Negative, Wuyi Oolong," Faireborn jumped on the line. "You have not disengaged your stardrive. That's no braking malfunction. Reduce speed at once."

Turmel switched off the space radio. "Oops," he said, as if it were an accident.

He turned to the comm officer. "Full alert," he said grimly. "Battle stations." Alarms sounded.

"Recalculating route," the GPS interrupted the dramatic moment. "Make the next available U-turn."

"And turn that thing off," Turmel ordered.

"Aye sir," the pilot said and fumbled with the controls trying to silence the GPS which continued to urge them to turn around.

Turmel put down his cup of tea on the console and picked up the squawkbox. "Put me through ship-wide," he told the radio op.

"Ready," the op replied.

"All hands, this is the admiral," Turmel said. All over the dreadnought, the brave crew of the Chocolate Love Stars stopped their hurried preparations to hear the words of their commander.

"We've served together for the last few years," Turmel's voice sounded over the intercom. "During this time, I've done my best to avoid getting to know you. I spend most of my time stargazing, reading, drinking tea, and looking up new blends on the internet."

Below, the crew members nodded to each other in agreement. It was true.

"Perhaps," he continued, "I distanced myself so that if I ever lost any of you, it would soften the pain. Sure. Today, however, we all get know to each other quite well. Today we go into battle together.

"We must destroy this entity, this financial meltdown," Turmel explained. "And if our own fleet attempts to stop us, we will be forced to fight them as well. I can only assure you we do this for a greater cause. We must save our home, our Earth.

"Over the years, I've suffered shame, embarrassment, and derision for serving on a mighty starship with such a laughable, girly name. No doubt you've likewise suffered similar mockery at every port we visit.

"But today we will forever change that. We will make our name one to be feared.

"After today, history will never forget the name ... Chocolate Love Stars." Turmel said.

The crew erupted into cheers.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Stegosaurus Flu

NYC - Citizens all across the globe are lining up for their immunization shots to protect against the dreaded Stegosaur Flu.

Surgeon General Jernigan, we have learned, ordered the creation and distribution of the Steg Flu vaccine when it was learned that humans did not exist during the time of the dinosaurs and therefore possessed no natural immunity to dinosaur diseases.

As loyal minions well know, the Empire's first efforts toward globalization and later colonization relied heavily on genetically-engineered dinosaurs created in labs and based on fossilized DNA.

"While the benefits for both civilian and military purposes have been tremendous, whenever you tamper with nature, it's bound to backfire," explained noted paleontologist Alan Grant. "Anyone who's ever been bit by a mosquito knows that Mother Nature is mean-spirited. Now we've unleashed a potentially powerful virus that has the population in a near-panic."

"There's really no need for alarm," SSSG Jernigan assured reporters while taking a smoke break outside, garnering angry glares from her fellow New Yorkers, "but vaccines help calm the population. Not that the shots are actually sedatives. I did not say that. And certainly they are not placebos. No one heard me say anything about that. I want to be perfectly clear on those points."

Prior to vaccination, medical techs check the patients for traces of the disease.

"We check their platelet count and if it is high, we know they might have Stegosaurus Flu," Jernigan explained. "Get it? Platelets. Stegosaurs. I'm a genius!"

Imperial Plumber Stegall assured the Pipeline that she had no involvement in the spread of the Steg Flu virus.

But how is the Steg Flu spread? Scientists theorize that someone may have not washed her hands after handling dino droppings.

Reptilian Forces Supervisor Price was unavailable for comment.

Monday, October 19, 2009

The Merger

Part 5 in a space pirate series

"Stand to merge," Admiral Turmel gave the command.

"Boosters at the ready," replied the pilot.

"Rockets, fire!" Turmel ordered. Around him, the bridge vibrated.

Imperial dreadnought Chocolate Love Stars fired all her thrusters. Her tail flared against the starry sky.

The pilot reported, "Accelerating to merge speed."

The great flagship rumbled forward and worked its way up to match speed with space lane traffic. Close behind came the brigand boat Calculator and the transport ship Good Gravy.

In tandem, the three vessels signaled to change lanes, and rocketed into the flow of traffic.

"Cover me, I'm merging," Germ's voice crackled through their shared comm channel.

"Affirmative," Turmel replied. He nodded to his pilot.

Chocolate Love Stars shoved its way into traffic and made room for its two smaller companion vessels, both of which took positions ahead of the flagship.

"Zipper maneuver, complete," the pilot reported. "Disengaging merge rockets."

Deceit made the Fleet Admiral uneasy. They were traveling to Earth via commercial shipping lanes and using the rush hour traffic to hide their approach from the defense net as long as possible.

"Proceed on this space lane until you reach exit zero-zero-one," the GPS announced.

"What was that voice?" Turmel looked around confusedly. "You know women aren't allowed on the bridge."

"That's no woman," the pilot explained, turning in his seat to face the admiral. "That's the Galactic Positioning System."

"Ah, of course," Turmel nodded. "The what?"

"Following the unexpected death of my co-pilot in Part 2 of this mini-series," the pilot explained, "we were left with no one to fill the vacant navigator position. So we borrowed a GPS, Galactic Positioning System, from the Calculator."

"Very good," Turmel acknowledged. "Helm, set your speed, just under the legal limit."

The pilot's disappointment was palpable, but Turmel reassured him. "We don't want to attract any attention," Turmel told him, and gave the man a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Slowly, a line of traffic formed behind the behemoth boat. Space horns honked over the civilian frequencies, but the mighty dreadnaught ignored them or perhaps did not hear them.

Moreover, every spacecraft in the line of traffic was forced to run deflectors at full to counteract the voluminous space wake spewing behind the Love Stars. Angry commuters roared around and past the fleet flagship, tempers and thrusters flaring.

It was a diverse trio - the Calculator with her sleek, exacting angles; the Good Gravy which, well, looked less like a boat and more like a serving dish; and the Chocolate Love Stars bedecked with more guns and thrusters than any ship had any right to carry. A sundry squadron!


To be continued....

Saturday, October 03, 2009

Layoffs

NYC - Operations Division today announced imminent layoffs on the eminent horizon.

Operations Subcommander Custer explained in a press conference, "It's easier to dismiss workers than to fix the actual problems within the system. It's a quick fix to the bottom line."

Loyal readers will recall the Empire has not seen layoffs since the Empress was laid off two years ago following her "indiscretions."

While the world waits wondering who will walk, there has definitely been some confusion in the ranks over the nature of the projected layoffs.

"I never know if 'layoffs' and 'early retirement' are euphemisms for something far worse," one assembly line worker told us, "or if there will be real layoffs."

The biggest question: Will there be any layoffs at the upper levels of Imperial management? Attempting to interview Emperor Andy on that very subject, this reporter was intercepted by Political Officer Spitler.

"I like economy in the tank," Spitler told us. "It's easier to transport that way."

The most surprising dismissal was of the Head Concubine, although there was some confusion about her job title - whether it was Head Concubine or Redheaded Concubine or Red Head Concubine. Regardless, that position, whatever its name, is currently vacant.

It was unclear by press time whether this young lady quit or was laid off.

Former Harem Supervisor Doyle, now working as Imperial Game Warden (the jobs are similar), put forth his expert opinion: "I'm told she was one of those career women, like you read about in magazines. Believe it or not, she had no interest in ever becoming Empress. She was just using this job as a step on her way up the corporate ladder. But again, this is all just speculation.

"Remember, love is not a feeling," Doyle added. "Love is a verb. And your verbs speak louder than your nouns."

Friday, September 11, 2009

No, Sir!

I have many pet peeves. I am like the cat lady of peeves. If something happens to me, the cops will be called to investigate the smell coming from my peeves-infested house.

Today’s pet peeve is when I refer to someone as “Sir” and it raises their ire. Now, if it is a lady, this is understandable, but more often than not it is a male person getting upset.

Know this: I call any man Sir, no matter the age. It is polite. It is respectful.

What I cannot abide are persons who protest this title. I am being polite. When you make a big fuss about being called Sir, you are being rude and making an unnecessary scene.

You are not funny.

You make me think less of you.

Which, I suppose, means you do not deserve to be called Sir after all.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Did you see something in that tree?

Don't read this if you ever want to go into the woods again.