Propaganda Pipeline

Gratitude Day 2009

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 04:55:00 +0000

CARY - Today saw a rare meeting of the innermost circle of Imperial officials for the traditional Thanksgiving feast at the Emperor's Domicile.

The evening's meal was prepared by Helen the Felon. The banquet consisted entirely of special "Gratitude Feast" pills. This particular feast included the following for each guest: a turkey pill, a cranberry sauce pill (prevents UTIs), stuffing pill, pumpkin pie pill, sweet potato pill, and a beverage of his/her choice.

RFS Cathey attempted to impale one of the pills on his plate with his fork with no success. "What is this?" he asked. "Where's the food?"

"This is the food," Helen told him, dishing out a healthy helping of pills to Political Officer Spitler, who eyed them warily. "The Imperial Dietary Council mandated that all citizens and minions eat this healthier alternative to traditional Thanksgiving food." Then she added, "Sorry."

"What?" Emperor Andy scowled. "Those rules don't apply to me. Or my table!"

"A man should control what is on his own table," Spitler agreed.

"Sorry," Helen explained, "but if you don't eat it, you go to jail, and they feed you the turkey pill anyway; all on the government dime. Sorry."

"We should remember what this holiday is about," Fleet Admiral Turmel spoke up.

"Food," Andronicus agreed, hungrily eyeing the cornucopia of pills on his plate.

"Begging the Emperor's pardon," Turmel said, "but I was suggesting that we remember the first Gratitude Day, which was between clones and originals."

"Clones helped humans in the Dark Times and then became second class citizens," Master Assassin Rockel 2.0. "Now, most clones are forced to live on reservations."

"Oh, give it a rest, 2.0," Cathey said. "You're doing just fine from your clone casinos."

Rockel was visibly upset. His targeting optic was blinking red. And to make matters worse, he no longer required human food. There was really no need for him to be here. He certainly had nothing to be thankful for.

"Perhaps we should change the subject to something less controversial?" Turmel suggested.

"He's right," agreed Cathey. "Hey, Rockel, I heard you ex-wife got engaged."

Rockel's robotic eye twitched. A twitch glitch, perhaps.

Andy stopped trying to skewer his pill meal, and looked up at Cathey and Rockel. "I seem to recall very clearly ordering my favorite master assassin to exterminate her several years ago." Now, Andy's eye began to twitch, too. "I'm a little surprised to hear she is still alive."

"Oh, she's engaged, so she's as good as dead," Cathey said dismissively.

Rockel shattered the drinking glass in his hand.

"What's the matter?" Cathey asked Rockel. "Hard pill to swallow?"

"Let's talk about something else," suggested Helen.

"Fine," said Rockel. "Cathey, I noticed you no longer have that obnoxious camera strapped around your neck. Aren't you supposed to be the Royal Fotografy Supervisor now?"

"Oh, that?" Cathey said. "That was a childish dream. I've got a real career now. A sure-fire scheme."

"I'm afraid to ask," Spitler said, "but what is it?"

Cathey leaned back and plopped his feet up on the table. Strapped to his feet were what looked like balloon snow shoes or inflatable tennis rackets.

"I present the latest revolution in footwear technology," he proclaimed. "Jesus Boots!"

When no one immediately applauded, he decided some explanation was needed. "They let people walk on water," he added.

"That will never work," Turmel stated, his mouth full of turkey pill.

"Now is the time to get in on the ground floor, people," Cathey told them. "I'm looking for investors. This is going to be the next big thing."

"You look ridiculous," Rockel told him. "I mean, more than usual."

"Let's go test them right now if you don't believe me," Cathey retorted, trying to pull his Jesus Boots off the table so he could stand up. "Emperor, where is your swimming pool?"

"Let's talk about something else," Andy quickly changed the subject.

"How about this climate change?" Turmel asked. "Is everyone ready for the Ice Age?"

"For the last time, the Ice Age is a hoax," Andronicus said between gulps of pills. "The Earth is getting hotter. It's the Plutonian heat rays cooking us."

"Not that global warming junk again," Rockel rolled his cybernetic eyes. "You're in Ice Age denial, my liege."

"Denial is a river in Egypt," Andy said. "And it is going to dry up thanks to global warming."

Helen spoke up. "You told me global warming was just an excuse to get a swimming pool and cool off," she said.

"Silence!" Andy barked.

"Sorry," Helen said.

"Let's talk about something safe," Spitler suggested.

"Religion!" Turmel piped up.

"OK, what do you think about this 2012 business?" asked Emperor Andy.

"The Mayan calendar expires at the end of 2012," Rockel explained. "When it does, the world is going to end."

"That 2012 is a hoax," Helen said. "The world isn't ending until Jesus comes back."

"Jesus is coming back?" Cathey asked excitedly. "Maybe he can help me with my Boots!"

"Let's just talk about something we can all agree to disagree on," Andy said. "Politics."

The moral of this Gratitude Day story: Don't Sweat the Fall Stuff.

Cat Song

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 16:11:00 +0000

Please don't vomit in the car
Please don't throw up in the car
We've got a long trip
We have to travel far
Please don't vomit in the car!

Panda Moanium

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 15:11:00 +0000

Read: A Letter to the Editor

A Bard Day's Night, Part 2

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 19:31:00 +0000

Continued from Part 1

"Forget not my scheme," Shakespeare spoke in a low voice. Rockel could just barely make out what the bard said. "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."

Some of the hostages, presumably the lawyers among them, gasped in terror.

"Hold. What keeps Burbage and Kit?" Shakespeare bellowed. "They've been absent for ever and a day."

"Beats me, boss," replied a thug. Then, under Shakespeare's burning glare, corrected himself with haste, "I mean, I know not."

Just then, two more goons entered, dragging a hostage between them. "We found a straggler. He was peeing on Burbage and Chris--er, Kit," one reported. "He claimed they slipped on the wet floor and knocked themselves out."

"You," Shakespeare said accusingly, and approached the new hostage. "What do they call you?"

"My name is Mockel," the hostage replied.

"Mockel?" Shakespeare raised an eyebrow. "An unfortunate moniker." He gestured toward some cowering hostages. "Put him with the others."

The goons shoved Mockel down with the other prisoners. Mockel looked down at his bracelet. He'd had it ever since he'd emerged from the cloning vat. Its origin was a mystery.

Imprinted on the bracelet was one word, "WWMARD?" He had no idea what it meant, but he often tried to pronounce it during times of trouble. The truth was, just saying the word to himself gave him strength.

"Wwwwmmmaaarrddddd," he growled.

"What was that?' Shakespeare said, turning at the sound.

"You must be Shakespeare," Mockel said, rising to his feet. "I've read your folio."

Shakespeare 2.0 froze in his tracks. He stiffened and turned to face his accuser. "Who dareth?"

"Who has two cybernetic thumbs and is really pissed off he had to come all the way over to this coast to fix other people's mistakes?" was the reply. "This guy!"

It was Rockel 2.0. He dashed behind one of the Players, and thumb-gouged out the poor sap's eyes before drop kicking the blinded baddie to the floor.

"End that wretch," Shakespeare commanded the stage. The King's Men moved between Shakespeare 2.0 and Rockel 2.0. They aimed their machine guns at the assassin.

Darkness! The overhead lights went out, dousing the room in darkness.

What most people don't realize is that Rockel's bloodstream is populated by nanites, microscopic robots that repair his systems and transfer extra strength to various parts as required. however, since Rockel 2.0 is a first generation clone (isn't that a contradiction in terms?), his nanites still have a few bugs, if you will excuse the term, and they do not always repair him correctly. they often try to fix things that are not broken, and often do more harm than good.

According to RFS Cathey, a former partner and handler for the Master Assassin, Rockel 2.0's nanites may even manifest their will in the form of speech heard only by The Rockel. While 2.0 always denied such claims, Cathey reported that the assassin often spoke to thin air, to himself, or seemed to talk to people not present. Sometimes, he even slipped up and said, "We," instead of "I."

When he was peeing earlier, Rockel was deploying several hundred nanites to infest and subvert the security system and electrical grid of the building. Now, they shut down the lights on his mental cue.

"Hey, who turned out the lights?" one of thugs asked.

"You whoreson dogs!" Shakespeare screeched in the dark. "Shoot him!"

The lights came back on in time for the King's Men to see Rockel's arms retracting, their weapons clasped in his hands.

The master assassin twisted, smashed, and ripped the weapons apart.

"Hey, those were expensive!" one goon protested.

Rockel's thigh holster sprung open and quick as a wink he drew his massive revolver and fired. The goons were down for the count before they could count to three.

"Curses!" Shakespeare snarled.

"I thrashed your thespian thugs," Rockel taunted. "Your run is coming to an end."

"Mayhaps," Shakespeare said, "but not mayday." He pulled a scabbard off what Rockel took to be his forearm. Instead, the Bard unveiled a short, fat lance which blazed white hot, hummed, and vibrated everyone's teeth and hurt the eyes to look directly at it.

"Coil shuffler activated," a computer voice emanated from the glowing weapon. "Full charge, ready."

"How do you like my clamorous harbinger of blood and death?" Shakespeare laughed, and shook the shimmering spear at him.

Rockel dived out of the blast's path. The blue stream of light passed so close to him that it singed his hair.

He could also feel the familiar tug of an interdimensional rift. That could mean only one thing. The coil shuffler was a weapon capable of opening portals. Or more likely it would simply remove its target from this universe and deposit the victim who knows where. And from the smell of sulfur, Rockel guessed it was nowhere he wanted to get stranded.

To be continued!!

This is Just to Warn You

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 04:20:00 +0000

You have eaten
the plums
that were in
my icebox

and which
I was definitely
saving
for breakfast

My revenge
will be delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

A Bard Day's Night, Part 1

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 19:09:00 +0000

For Rockel Day 2009

Continued from Shakespeare's Birthing Day

NYC - The city that never sleeps was roused from its insomniatic daze today when the illegitimate clone of Shakespeare stormed the Empire State building, overpowered the security guards, and sealed the doors with civilians trapped inside.

Clone Overseer Reverend Tam and SSSG Jernigan were soon onsite to attempt negotiations, as they were already in the area scalping tickets. "Keeping my scalpel skills sharp," as Jernigan put it.

Upon arrival at the Empire State building, however, the duo spent most of their time dodging weapons fire. "In retrospect," Rev. Tam told us, "it was probably a mistake for the Cybernetics Department to replace the clone's left arm with a particle beam cannon. I'm just saying."

Once NYC Civil Protection officers arrived and surrounded the building, the rogue clone began taking hostages.

"Yes, he's got hostages," confirmed Operations Subcommander Custer the Greater. "We think that's what he said, anyway." He turned to one of his sub crew. "Get someone down here who can speak blank verse, pronto."

After the smoke cleared and the situation was resolved, CP agents and Imperial officials attempted to piece together a timeline of events. As best they could determine, this is how events went down inside the Empire State Building on this fateful day, Rockel Day 2009.

Shakespeare's accomplices, a band of thugs he called the King's Men, had rounded up the last of the hostages and sequestered them in manageable groups in large conference rooms. Two minions, wearing tights and wielding submachine guns, were just completing a last sweep of the ninth floor when one of them spotted movement at the end of the hallway.

"Hey, take a look at this guy," he said to his comrade. They shared a laugh, because at the end of the dark corridor, a lone man was urinating. "Hey, you!" they called out.

"Oh, hey," said the peeing man, not looking up. "Can you give me a hand with this?"

"What the hell?" groaned one of the King's Men. The two thugs stalked toward the urinator.

"OK, that's enough," said the other King's Man.

"Oh, I'm just getting started," the peer said, this time his voice darker and metallic. Just then, the mystery man ceased his secret secretion and turned to pee on the two would-be thugs. They recoiled in disgust.

And they recoiled still further, this time in horror, when their disgusted gazes met a glowing red eye in the darkness. "Ass kicking circuits, online," its voice buzzed.

The combination of the wet floor, the darkness, and the element of surprise made the two thugs quick work for the master assassin.

It had been a Californian Day like any other, and Master Assassin Rockel 2.0 had been hard at work keeping the home fires burning, literally, out in Los Angeles. He looked forward to the evening's celebrations in honor of and the holiday named for him. It would be the first time in years 2.0 managed to make the festivities.

In every annual celebration past, some urgent matter of state had called him away - some terrorist planetoid had threatened to annihilate its neighboring moon, a rogue agent had to be tracked down and humiliated into submission, or a missile caught and detonated a safe distance from Earth. His work was unceasing, but Rockel's cybernetic implants kept him from requiring much sleep anyway.

When his cell phone beeped that he had a new picture message, his enhanced shoulders slumped. He knew what that sound meant. Rockel flipped open the phone. He'd received a new priority target and a few sentences of instruction. The picture looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place the face.

What puzzled him still further was that text accompanying the image. "U R auth 2 open emrgncy portal 2 target loc Empire St Bldg NYC."

Rockel recognized it as an Imperial code. He accessed his decoder subroutines and went to work on deciphering the secret message.

Continued in A Bard Day's Night, Part 2

SSSG and Rev. Tam report to the Emperor

malicious_malard@yahoo.com (Roux (SSSG)) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:00:00 +0000

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:

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:

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:

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 . . .

Run on the Banks

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 17:41:00 +0000

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.

Stegosaurus Flu

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 15:10:00 +0000

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.

The Merger

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 18:50:00 +0000

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....

Layoffs

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 04:30:00 +0000

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."

No, Sir!

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 18:20:00 +0000

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.

Did you see something in that tree?

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 00:23:00 +0000

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

Jernigan Day 2009

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 20:22:00 +0000

NYC - Today the whole of the Empire celebrates Jernigan Day, the holiday honoring the contributions of our sun-sucking Surgeon General.

Recently transferred, stationed now in NYC, by her own choice. As she put it, "I wanna be where the people are. I wanna see, wanna see 'em dancin'. Walkin' around on those whaddya call 'em? Oh, hydraulic prosthetics."

Only the 2nd recipient of the Raptor Medal of Honor in the history of the Empire, the SSSG is a master of innovation.

She was the inventor designer, manufacturer, and chief advocate of the now infamous loyalty chip. A very misunderstood device, the loyalty chip causes not apathy, but complacency in minions.

Now, you're perhaps wondering, isn't apathy risky? To you, I say, remember: before the chip there was Choice and it was dangerous. Apathy is the lesser of evils.

Jernigan's cranial implants revolutionized the way we think about - well, they revolutionized the way we think!

But not all is rosy in the Big Genetically-Engineered Apple. With so many Imperial officers on one island, the chances of scandal increase exponentially. (They don't call it the Empire State for nothing.)

The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Apes lodged a formal protest with the Science Commission this week.

The SPCA as a policy does not mind experimentation on lower life forms such as rabbits, guinea pigs, lab rats, and lawyers, but the organization is vehemently opposed to conducting tests on higher life forms that might possibly possess near-human intelligence, for instance chimps, gorillas, and dolphins.

"I don't think chimps are apes," the SPCA rep stated in a phone interview, "but can we take that risk?"

"Chimps not Chumps is our new motto," the rep elaborated.

We managed to contact the Surgeon General and she elucidated. "Goggled helmeted space monkeys rocketed toward enemy vessels is a clear tactical advantage," she told us. "We've trained the monkeys to cut into the hull of opponent ships and tear them apart.

"Besides, who doesn't enjoy their adorable antics?" Jernigan continued. "I personally will never forget the trial run where the chubby chimp got stuck in the firing tube and two other chimps got behind him and had to push him out. Hilarious!"

Emperor Andy agreed to give us an interview if we promised not to call him for a while. He had this to say. "I have full confidence in the Surgeon General . I reassigned her to New Amsterdam to keep a close eye on the Clone Contingent up there, but mainly because - well, the arrangement of personnel across a map is a lot like moving pieces in chess. Actually, I don't play chess. So I suppose it is more like Chinese checkers. The point being, sometimes you have to sacrifice one marble so you don't lose all your marbles."

When asked to stay on topic, the Foretold One had this to say: "Before SSSG Jernigan departed for the big city, she sold me her car - the Green Hornet. It was not until her departure that I realized she failed to uninstall the custom gadgetry housed all over the vehicle. I was turning left, activated what I took to be the turn signal, and accidentally removed the stomach of a pedestrian nearby. Luckily, everyone is born with two stomachs so no permanent harm was done."

"I'm not sure that story is true," commented Political Officer Spitler. "I've never known the Imperator to use a turn signal."

"I'm worried about the days ahead," Andronicus decreed. "What surprises does this lean green machine have in store for me? What does the 'Immune System' button do? Should I press it?"

To What Purpose?

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 15:25:00 +0000

NYC - Operations announced today that the Theoretical Department just discovered the Meaning of Life.

Operations failed to elaborate or provide any clue or divulge the Big Answer, but did cite this breakthrough as justification for the millions of dollars spent on the program this year.

"I can't go into details," Custer the Greater said on his 5 minute lunch break, "but, boy, are people gonna be pissed off when they find out." he quickly added, "If they find out."

Of course, the Theoretical Department may not even exist, given its questionable name, but more on that later.

Surveying

noreply@blogger.com (Doyle) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 04:05:00 +0000

Guest-Post by Doyle

Imperial Game Warden Doyle prowled hunting preserves across the Empire today. His yearly trek endeavors to maintain the status quo in the numbers of animals of each species. He was quoted as saying, "Every year they keep propagating without regard to proper population balance. Its like a plague of nymphomania and satyriasis sweeps through them and cause mass-staria to break out. However, it does make culling the herd an easier task, as their tiny little minds are more focused on propagation than on preservation."

All that said, Wardenship Downs was pleased with the events of the day, and looks forward to the year's animal harvest with moderate optimism. Providing, of course, that we are not overrun first.

Oversight Day

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 04:01:00 +0000

NEW YORK CITY - Clone Overseer Tam has a problem. The "Rev," as he was called, had through genetic manipulation made the Empire's velociraptors smarter and smarter until a few months ago. Today, the Overseer is no longer part of the process. Bypassing human scientists completely, the smart raptors now make their own clones.

This was perhaps an oversight.

And it was certainly not the first. You will recall back in April after Overseer Tam replicated the horrifying William Shakespeare, he subsequently allowed the Creature to escape the cloning vats and terrorize the City.

Shakespeare 2.0 is still at large, growing more powerful every day. How can we hope to stop the Bard?

Operations Chief Nazionale has never been a big fan of Overseer Tam, and took this opportunity to further malign the cloner's character. "I can't say I'm certain 'Rev' Tam makes anything in those costly vats," he told us, "except messes for other people to clean up."

And what is with the "Rev"? Is he supposed to be a Reverend? Or is that the sound he makes?

All that is for certain is that SSSG Jernigan was recently dispatched with sealed orders to NYC to co-locate with Overseer Tam. Is she there to reign in the Overseer's oversights? Or will she further his malignant meddling?

Mouthpiece Day 2009

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 03:00:00 +0000

To the Time Machine! - Part ?

"Andy Goes Back"
for Mouthpiece Day 2009

The Present
Underground Bunker

Nurse #7 was overdue to be relieved. She fidgeted. Where is Nurse 8?? she wondered. Looks like more unpaid O.T, she realized.

Morgborg thought in italics so it was clear she was not speaking aloud, but rather through internal monologue.

Next, it was Andy's turn to think to himself. I expected any letter from the future to say, "It'll be great. You'll love it," he thought. This is discouraging/disappointing.

He watched the scientists working at their stations. So much equipment, so much money invested, so many tax dollars put to good use. Or was it?

This junk about not changing the past is bullshit. I spent all this money so we could prevent the Dark Times and that is what we're going to do even if I have to do it myself.

He stood with purpose.

And after that I’m going to travel to the future, and find out when I became such a letter-writing wuss, and put a stop to that, too.

Switching from italics to actual spoken words, Andy called the science boys over. "Show me how this retrieval system works," he instructed them. "Why can't we recall the Brute Squad?"

"My Leader," the science guy said, carefully, "we tagged The Ax of Justice, Rhythm, and All Things Lethal as the beacon by which we could bring Lorma Doom back to our time. As an object of power, it was the easiest way for the timeline scanners to find her. The Brute Squad must have become separated from the Ax."

"Can't we send it back to her?" asked Andy. “So at least she’ll have the Ax in the Past?”

"Oh," a scientist replied, astonished at so simple a solution. "Yes, we could do that."

"Compliance!" commanded Andy.

"That is, we can send it back to its time of departure," the scientist cautioned him, "and hope she gets it."

"Close enough," said Andy, waving off the warning.

Soon, the temporal engine was cranked up and making very impressive humming sounds which grew in intensity every moment. The men in lab coats worked the machinery, turned knobs, pressed buttons, made calculations, and generally were quite involved with their preparations.

So involved, in fact, they did not see Emperor Andy casually stroll over to the staging platform. He stopped at its edge and leaned over to look at the intimidating equipment suspended above. An observer might think Andy wished to see the works up close.

"The emitter is at desired output," a scientist called out over the din.

“Target coordinates locked,” yelled a technician.

"Aperture is at full threshold," shouted an engineer.

And it was true; the area above the platform glowed and bulged in an awkward, sickening fashion. The scientists, however, were too busy staring at their monitors to observe the actual platform.

The power pulsating from the opening made Andy's hair stand on end. He turned and caught the Mouthpiece's gaze.

"Scott," Andy mouthed the words at her, "distraction."

"What?" she mouthed back.

"Distraction," he tried again, speaking up.

"What?" she asked again, her voice now ever so audible.

"Distraction!" he shouted, just as the emitters hiccupped, with result that everyone heard him yell out his secret plan.

Some improvisation was called for!

Mouthpiece Scott grabbed the back of the nearest chair, yanked it toward her, spun it around, and stood atop it - for that is how all Imperial speeches should be made.

Charisma circuits at full power, she addressed the scientists in her augmented, speechifying voice:

"Minions, the Emperor would just like to thank you for all that you do," she articulated. The engineers and technicians all turned to listen.

"Your efforts and contributions are invaluable. That is to say, the exact monetary value cannot be accurately verified by accountants.

"Now, that also means you will not have earned pay bonuses. And for this I express my regrets, as does the Foretold One. You understand, it would not be fair to give you too high a pay raise, and so we must err on the side of safety.

"What with your large, sexy brains, I am sure you will recognize that sacrifices must be made.

"Know this," she concluded, "your efforts are highly valued by our beloved Imperator."

Patriotic hearts swelled to fill the room!

When they turned to applaud their Glorious Founder, however, the scientists instead saw Emperor Andy leap onto the event platform. Swathed in light, he turned to face them and posed arms akimbo.

The head scientist shouted out, "Chosen One, the aperture was created to send the Ax back!" He seemed quiet panicked. "It wasn't designed for you. You may not make it."

To their alarmed protestations Andy returned a steady calm stare. "I already have," was all he said.

"We can't guarantee your arrival location or time coordinates," a lab technician called out.

Andy ignored this and instead focused on his personal staff. "Morgborg, you're in command until I return," he called out, then added: "Don't run up the credit card."

"Score!" Morgborg thrust a triumphant fist in the air.

"What?" snorted a disbelieving Scott.

"Mouthpiece," Andy added, "keep an eye on Morgborg."

"As you command," Scott replied sullenly.

Andy ducked down, wrapped his hand around the Ax handle, and set his jaw.

Scott blinked as the bright pulsating light intensified. And missed it. Andy was gone.

The light faded, the machines whined, whirred, and wound down.

The Mouthpiece turned to look up at the Nurse. Yes, as she suspected. The Nurse had that glint in her eye. Power.

She hoped Andy hurried back.

Tentacular Tavern

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 17:22:00 +0000

CARY, NC - Scandal once again rocked the Imperial capital as rumors hit the streets the Emperor himself employed illegal aliens on his personal staff.

“This is getting blown way out of proportion,” Mouthpiece Scott defended the Imperator at a press conference this morning. “Our Glorious Founder has never opposed the granting of jobs to interdimensional beings if they possess certain skills which Earth might lack.”

“I have it on good authority,” Scandal Coordinator Phipps whispered in a teleconference late last night, “Emperor Andy hired an otherworldly creature as the bartender for His Excellency’s personal taproom.”

The Office of the Emperor would neither confirm nor deny these damaging rumors. However, we were able to get a word with an Imperial Plumber, who agreed to speak only on the condition of anonymity.

“A little slime on your glass is a small price to pay for a properly prepared Plumber’s Helper with Vermouth,” she explained.

“Due to its multiple tentacles, or shall we say bartendrils,” Phipps further explained, “this single extradimensional creature is taking the jobs of up to eight bartenders previously needed to staff the Salacious Saloon.”

To the Time Machine! - part 22

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 22:23:00 +0000

"Infirm"

in honor of Spitler Day 2009

The Past
The Creek

"We're gonna need a new fine arts building," said Dossey. "This one's ripped." He turned to his Leader.

Emperor Andy frowned in disapproval at the devastation what had been rendered to the fine arts center. He and his top minions stood atop the ruins.

"Mr. Dossey, impound this truck," Andy commanded. "Mr. Rockel, dispose of this plant."

"Compliance," replied Rockel, and immediately turned to the very gigantic task of harvesting the vest gigantic plant.

Dossey approached the young Emperor. "Chosen One, I must protest the arrest of the Axe-wielder," he said. "She was instrumental in the our defeat of the plant monster."

"I will interview her personally," Andy assured him. "In the meantime, examine this pickup truck." He touched the tailgate where the metal was ripped or torn, and pulled his hand back abruptly when he discovered the metal was sharp. "Ow!" He pouted. "I want to know everything about it. Are these people who they claim to be?"

"I believe they are," Dossey told him.

Andy shook his head, "I want proof."

"I'll be in the Armory," Dossey said with a sigh, and he climbed into the truck cab with resignation. Resignation scooted over to make room. (HA!) The keys were still in the ignition and the motor was still running.

Andy turned to his political officer. "Mr. Spitler, contact Ops Chief Doyle," he said, "and order us a new command ---" He stopped and squinted at Spitler. "You ok?"

"Not too good," he grunted, and swayed. Spitler was quite broad-shouldered and so, if we has swaying, he was a danger to himself and all those around him.

"Dossey!" Andy shouted, attempting to steady Spitler with his hands. "Assistance!"

Dossey unbuckled, tumbled out of the truck, and rushed over. Between the two of them, they managed to roll and shove the Political Officer into the bed of the pickup truck.

They roared down the road, speeding past the 23 MPH speed limit sign. They skidded to a stop in front of the infirmary and hustled Spitler inside.

In the waiting room, they filled out all the appropriate paperwork as Spitler's head rolled blearily around and he muttered in what Andy assumed was Russian.

Finally, they were admitted. The nurses ripped Spitler's shirt off and were surprised by how hairy he was (like a bear!) and that he had a giant bear tattoo across his chest and stomach which added to the effect.

"I can't tell where the bear tattoo ends and his chest hair begins," the head nurse declared.

Meanwhile, Spitler was turning funky colors. His skin was littered with thorns of some kind that seemed to be poisonous. And his breathing was alarmingly shallow.

The medical team went to work. But after many attempts to revive him, Spitler seemed a lost cause.

"Nothing seems to be working," said the doctor. "He's not waking up."

"We're losing him," the nurse said.

Meanwhile, in the Afterlife

Bright white light! Spitler blinked as his eyes adjusted to the perfect light. It seemed to buffet him from all sides.

Where was he? He looked down. At first, there seemed to be some kind of low fog hanging to the ground, but he quickly realized with a start that he was actually walking on a cloud.

This made him nervous, as the Empire's experiments with cloud constructs had never been very successful.

He spotted a gateway in the distance and so set out toward it, carefully at first, and then with more confidence. Somehow, he was able to walk on this cloud. He arrived at the gates, which appeared to him to be "pearly."

The gates were closed. Before them, a podium. Manning this pedestal was a bearded fellow bedecked in all white.

"Welcome. I am Saint Peter," the man said. His voice was deep and harmonious.

"Hey Pete," Spitler replied. "Petey Pete."

"You have arrived at the gates of heaven," Peter said. "I will consult this book and determine if you may enter."

But Spitler spoke before Pete could consult the text. "C'mon Pete you know you want to let me in."

"Beg your pardon?" Peter asked, looking up surprised.

"Pete," Spitler urged. "It's me, Pete."

"That's Saint Peter, to you," Peter huffed.

"Ask yourself one question, Pete," Spitler replied, "what would Jesus do?"

Finally, back on Earth

"This is beyond my medical knowledge," the infirmary doctor admitted.

"We must airlift him by pterodactyl to the hospital," Emperor Andy decided.

"Wait," Dossey said. "Didn't one of the time travelers --"

"Alleged time travelers." Andy corrected.

Dossey continued, "Didn't one of them wear one of those doctor thingies on her head?"

"Doctor thingies?" asked the infirmary doctor.

"Yeah, round, shiny, metal disc you strap to your head," Dossey explained, gesturing. "Doctors always have those."

"No, those don't actually do anything," the doctor warned.

"Fetch her," Andy told Dossey.

Soon

"Stand aside and let a woman do this," Jernigan ordered, shoving the doctor and his aides aside.

"Diagnosis?" she asked them, not taking her eyes off Spitler's lifeless form.

"Poisonous thorns, some kind of pollen coating his lungs, and a surly disposition," the infirmary doctor answered.

"We have to operate immediately," Jernigan concluded.

"We attempted it," the other doctor said. "We've been unable to remove the thorns, doctor,"

"Laser scalpel," Jernigan said, tying on her facemask.

"What?" the nurse asked.

"Laser scalpel!" Jernigan ordered.

"We don't have that," a nurse said.

"Quantum clamp," Jernigan ordered.

"Or that," the nurse said.

"Vibranium forceps," Jernigan ordered.

"Nope," the nurse said.

"Telekinetic stabilizer," Jernigan demanded.

"Nope," said the nurse.

"Pulmonary pulverizer," Jernigan ordered.

"Nada," said the nurse.

"What do we have?" Jernigan inquired.

"I've never heard of any of the devices you mention," the doctor protested.

"Well I'm sorry - I didn't know I'd come back to the Dark Ages," growled a flabbergasted surgeon general. "Might as well attach some leeches and drain his humors"

"No we do have a machine now for that," the doctor offered.

"Doctors," the nurse interrupted, "his heart is stopping." Sure enough the heart monitor was expressing its concern about just that very event.

"Cardiac arrest," the doctor announced.

"Defibrillator?" asked Jernigan.

The doctor shook his head.

"I'll perform a transplant," Jernigan decided.

"First of all, we don't have a donor heart." The doctor contradicted.

"I do," Jernigan said dismissively.

"Pardon?" asked the doctor.

"Scalpel," Jernigan ordered, holding out her hand expectantly. Nurses are trained to follow such instructions and this one did so without thinking.

Hastily took the blade, Jernigan reached down to the side of her torso and began to cut into her own flesh. She barely winced.

"Doctor, what are you doing?" the nurse cried. "You're not the patient."

"The patient is right there," the doctor exclaimed. "Are you mad??"

"No, I'm not mad," Jernigan replied. "Just terribly hurt, that's all." She plunged her hand into the incision she'd just made. After some fiddling and more cutting, she removed what appeared to be a human heart from the side of her body.

She held it up. It was still beating in her hand. "It's like Temple of Doom," she said. "Kali ma!"

"Dear God!" the infirmary doctor whimpered.

"I always keep a selection of spare vital organs inside me in case the Emperor is ever injured and needs an emergency transplant," Jernigan explained. "Spare heart, spare ribs, even an appendix or two."

The doctor protested. "But no one needs an appendix."

"How do you know what the Emperor needs?" The surgeon general grew hot as she sutured herself back together. "Ignorance!"

She closed her own wound and turned to the horrified medical team. "Now, make yourself useful and get me a rib cracker."

"We don't have one of those," the infirmary doctor informed her. "This is but a humble infirmary."

"Humble is right," she agreed with a grimace. "Downright medieval."

Her surgical kit had been confiscated by the guards. She was trapped in the Past with abysmal medical technology. She would have to improvise.

"What do you have?" she asked.

"We have a surgical saw," the nurse offered. The doctor shot her a look.

"That'll have to do," the SSSG decided. Taking up a marker, she began to draw a line on Spitler's chest where she would make the incision.

"Pardon, doctor, but that's the tattoo-bear's heart, not the patient's heart."

"Oh. I knew that," Jernigan said.

To be continued in the exciting next chapter of
To the Time Machine!

Spitler and Jernigan contributed to this post.

Economy of Words

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 14:18:00 +0000

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

- Political Officer Spitler

Scientists obviously never read science fiction

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 20:23:00 +0000

or they would know better than to Monkey around with Brain Chips!

Pulling Out

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 03:17:00 +0000

NEPTUNE - As the Empire prepares to celebrate Dependence Day this July 4, planet Neptune celebrated National Sovereignty Day.

Imperial troops withdrew from all major Neptunian cities as Operation Quagmire drew to a close, ahead of the Empire's annexation of the planet, the cause of celebration.

Meanwhile, the Empire built up for a reinvasion of Uranus, a world we invaded years ago.

"We pull out of Neptune and immediately plunge back into Uranus?" said one patriotic citizen. "Maybe we should have finished Uranus before invading Neptune?"

"There's nothing like an invasion to make me proud of my Empire," explained Chancellor Jack, appointed governor of Uranus, "except perhaps a reinvasion."

RFS Price

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 02:57:00 +0000

"Mo-Tron" Price,

It is my great pleasure and privilege to promote and appoint you to the fulltime position of Reptilian Forces Supervisor with all the rights and advantages thereof. This promotion goes into effect immediately, if not sooner.

Furthermore, I order your immediate transfer: You are requested and required to assume command of the West Coast Outpost, in what used to be Los Angeles, no later than July 15, 2009.

Your directives:

1. Recapture the feral velociraptors running lose on the continent.

2. Balance the budget.

3. When able, assist Commissioner Custer in maintaining civil order.

4. Prevent additional interdimensional incursions (and here I mean illegal immigration from bordering dimensional planes).

** Top secret sub-directive: Keep a close eye on Master Assassin Rockel 2.0 and especially his clones. **

You are authorized to exceed speed limits for the duration of your assignment.

Know this, you are near and dear to my heart, and therefore I must push you away so you can never hurt me. That is the only reason for this transfer, but not the reason for your promotion - that you earned through loyalty and service and undermining your competition.

Andronicus

Everybody's a Critic

emperorandy@gmail.com (Andronicus) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 11:52:00 +0000

Criticizing the Critic