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Moby Dick - a New World Order Presentation

Old Guy

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The Soliloquies

Achmed, cook's helper:

"Why is it always camel? Camel meat salted in barrels. The stuff goes bad if you look at it wrong. Here is one of the breed. It's like wood. I could carve my initials in it. There -- I've done it. A. A. for Achmed Achmed. But what does it mean? Two letters carved in camel haunch, rotting away with the meat. Is it a metaphor? God, I hate metaphors. Into the pot with you, carven haunch. For you are a haunch, once attached to a camel, and no more than that. The letter A and another A do not make of you a man or mouse or musket ball. Thou art a haunch."

Fick, carpenter's mate:

"I swab, you swab, he swabs. We are all swabbing the deck. Save for the Captain and his mates and a few bloody malingering sods. I sod, you sod, he sods. I wonder how much deck old Fick has swabbed before he learned the secret? What secret, you ask. What secret, I answers. What secret, she says. I lie, you lie, she lies. It was better in the old days, back when the world was flat. We didn't have horizons. Nasty things, horizons. To many sunsets. I set, you set, he sets. The sun, you know. He sets in fire. I burned my toes in the try works last week. Sunsets and burned toes. Metaphors, I reckon. I hates metaphors."

Black Helmet, captain of the ship Pea Pod:

"Fools. I sail in a ship of fools. Hmm. Ship of fools. An apt phrase. An ape phrase. Never mind. Never mind. Look at the sea. Flat. No wind. We are gripped, held back, prevented from attending to the death of Moby Dick. Moby Dick! Monster that bit off my leg and scarred my already ugly phiz to the point that I must wear this helmet. But we shall have our revenge, my precious. Precious Pea Pod. Good ship Pea Pod. Still -- still -- I fear the ship's name ain't right. The painter was perforce hard of hearing? No matter. No matter. The White Whale is all that matters. Mine iron eye pierces the briny deep and -- Lo! -- I see him, I see the blank wall of his hide undulating -- taunting my gaze as he lolls on the far side of this watery orb. Patience, patience, my blubbery foe. The wind will return. Friend or foe, the wind must blow. Hey, I'm a poet. We'll make a poem, Moby and me. A poem of death and blubber. Oh, we'll try your old hide for lamp oil, count on it."

Later that day, on the deck of the Pea Pod, still becalmed in the South Atlantic:

"Thar she blows! The white whale! I seen the white whale!"

Black Helmet pivoted on his peg leg. Achmed turned from his boiling camel and peered aft. There, Fick stood on the deck, hand shading his eyes, peering across the watery wastes.

"Where away?" cried Black Helmet. "Where blows the white whale?"

Fick turned from the rail. "In the South Seas, I reckon, your honor. T'was but a glint in me eye. A passing fancy. A bleedin' metaphorical vision. I see, you see, he sees."

"Dang and blast," snarled Black Helmet. "Fools. Sing out when you see the white whale! Sing out every time! But leave the damned metaphors alone."

"That's right," said Achmed, speaking to his boiling camel haunch. "He's right. No metaphors here. None in sight."

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Not funny Old Fart. The New World Order® has issued an order for your arrest. Save yourself by committing suicide. Make it easier on you and your family. You will beg for death if we arrest you. Achmed, prepare the scorpions. Itchie, sharpen your Samurai Sword. Fick, bring in a few of your SS interrogators. This will be a fun weekend! Well, not for Old Fart.

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Dork Helmet is just miffed because I didn't portray him as the Dread Pirate Dork Helmet.

As for his threats -- I ain't scared of sock puppets.

I can see it now:

Achmed bravely steps off the ship at Recife, Brazil and heads for the local market. Arriving there, he locates a small shop selling deadly vipers and other nasty critters. (No, Achmed can't read Portugese. The wily proprietor, knowing few sailors can read at all, has pictures of various poisonous creatures painted on his storefront.)

"No scorpions," says the wily proprietor, known locally as Wily Chavez. "Had a run on them last week. Some kind of Amercano religious group needed 'em for a ceremony." Wily sighed heavily. "Americanos all die. Scorpions escape into jungle."

"We need something to torture a prisoner -- well, he will be a prisoner soon. We just have to figure out how sock puppets are going to capture a relatively mobile old man."

"Ah, I know just the thing." Wily hauls out a crate filled with pit vipers. "Tie old fart on floor. Turn snakes loose."

"Aaaaaaarrrrrrgh!" cries Achmed. "Snakes!" He jumps on to a nearby chair. "Snakes are metaphors of the Devil! Get away! Get away!" He cringes away from the proffered crate and finds himself staring into the unblinking eyes of a huge python. Screaming incoherently, he crashes to the floor and scrambles outside, away from the writhing, devilish fiends within the shop. Within minutes he is back aboard Pea Pod, talking to his pots and pans.

"A pity," mutters Wily Chavez. "Poor fellow looked like a rack of bones, didn't he? Been eating too much camel, I'll warrant." He pats the crate. "What do you think, my beauties?"

:) OG

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Fick, on his hands and knees, swabbing the deck.

"I swab, you swab, he swabs." Smacks himself with a scrub brush. "Boss said no more wild talk. He said to get SS torturers. SS. Vos ist los?" Bonks his forehead with the brush. "Boss said no more broken Anglais -- English. Says he can't understood it." Fick goes back to work humming a few stanzas from the Horst Wessel song. "SS," he murmurs. "Sounds familiar. Maybe from before Achmed's camel kicked me in the head. I remember the Kiel waterfront and -- pimps. Ja. Er -- yeah. Pimps. I was a pimp!" The recollection of his unsavory past pleases him immensely. "I vas gut -- good pimp. Had blonde girls with big boobs. Good German stock. Like thoroughbred horses. Round, tall, bouncy."

Satisfied with his swabbing and happy in his recollections, Fick wanders down the gangplank and heads for the closest sailor hangout, a ramshackle bar called the Black Dog. Inside, he collects a tall schnapps and sits down at a table alone. He knows better than to join fellow Pea Pod crew members. They know he's the Captain's pet stooge and informer. "I sit, you sit, he sits." Men at nearby tables shake their heads and spit on the floor, to better ward off the rampant insanity evident in Fick's mindless mumbling.

"I wish to be first in spotting the white whale," he announced to all and sundry. All ignored him and Sundry didn't speak the language.

"Black garters, nylons from America, push-up bras," he said, remembering the whore's dress code enforced by Keil magistrates. He recalls a certain blonde named Heidi. "Like melons, they was. Big melons." Suddenly, Fick sits bolt upright and begins smacking himself in the face. "No metaphors! I stop, you stop, he stops. No metaphors." He falls to the floor and curls into a ball. "Ach, Gott. Schtop mit ein metaphorz."


CSim News -- all facts, all the time :)

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Not to worry, Gunny. They've only made it to Recife, so far, and the supply of salted camel will only last so long.

Actually, they're not doing bad for sock puppets.

Even now, Dork Helmet is in the alley behind the Black Dog enjoying the delights offered by an aging prostitute. Dork knows the woman is safe because she told him she was a virgin. She's also blind, but that goes without saying.

Stay tuned.


CSim News - all facts all the time.

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Not to worry, Gunny. They've only made it to Recife, so far, and the supply of salted camel will only last so long.

Actually, they're not doing bad for sock puppets.

Even now, Dork Helmet is in the alley behind the Black Dog enjoying the delights offered by an aging prostitute. Dork knows the woman is safe because she told him she was a virgin. She's also blind, but that goes without saying.

Stay tuned.


CSim News - all facts all the time.

:rofl: :rofl: :rofl:

Poor Dork. Even if he wanted to practice safe sex, they don't make condoms in "infant size". :D

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(translated from Japanese)

A white-haired old man sits down next to another ancient relic.

After a minute or so of wheezing, First Relic asks, "What's the matter with Itchie?"

The both turn slowly and gaze at the brown-clad figure across the clearing. A casual observer would have had difficulty ascertaining if that person was male or female. The two old men knew it was Itchie, their companion for many, many years. For this camp was occupied by only by the last remaining survivors of the Japanese Army, 354th Suicide Battalion. To their certain and sad knowledge, there were no women on Nameless Island.

Itchie, who had already been on the island when the eleven members of the 354th swam ashore in late 1945, was truly pitching a fit, though his movements were halting and slow, as befits a man nearing 90 years of age.

"So what's he mad about this time?" asks Second Relic.

"I think it's because his sword has rusted completely away."

"Well, hell, that happened forty years ago. Maybe longer."

Second Relic wheezes with laughter. "You know Itchie. He's been living in a fantasy world longer than that. Since before he started wearing burlap bags for uniforms."

First Relic nodded. "A fantasy world beats this island. I'd go there myself if I was sure the place was stocked with women."

"Women," sigh the Relics.

"@B%&HFRO%$@*," shouts Itchie.

"What did he say?" asks First Relic.

"Damfino. Never have understood him. Oh -- hell. He's fallen down and can't get up."

"Why's he clapping his hands like that?"

"Beats me. Come on. Let's go pick him up. Maybe we can make it over there before dark."

"To hell with that. Let's go fishing."

Second Relic looks thoughtful. "Okay. But it's a long ways to the beach."

"Don't give me that. It's only a hundred yards or so. We'll be back by next week."

"Oh, sure. Next week, he says. That's easy for you to say, you young whippersnapper. You won't move like that when you get to be my age."

"I am your age, dang it. You're confusing me with Lt. Honda. He died ten years ago."

"Oh. Yeah. Who the hell are you?"

The two old men amble slowly toward the distant sound of surf, still arguing. A burlap clad figure thrashes weakly at the edge of the clearing. Every few minutes he manages a weak hand clap and a syllable or two of cursing.

OG :)

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Aboard the whaling ship, Pea Pod, becalmed off Patagonia

Black Helmet paid no attention to the swells pushing his ship ever closer to the fog banks shrouding Patagonia's rockbound coast. He heard not the surf booming invisibly. The muttering of his crew fell on deaf ears.

No, the Captain was not engaged in a dream-like soliloquy. He was not lying drunk in his cabin, as was his habit for much of the voyage. Dark Helmet was, in fact, wide awake and sitting on the crapper built into stern at the back of his cabin. His calf-like moans drowned out the distant surf and mutinous snarling. Pain radiated from his privy.

Fick arrived at his usual time to rat out the dissenters, evangelists, and devil worshippers among the crew. Scorecard: dissenters - the entire crew, evangelists - none, though he was suspicious of the ship's cat, and devil worshippers - the two ship's goats. Evangelists, if found, were summarily tossed overboard. The devil worshippers would be eaten. The fact that Fick was growing tired of salt camel may have influenced his investigation. As for the dissenters, he would recommend they be flogged, right to the last man. The bosun's mate could handle the chore, as usual, then flog himself last. Fick had it all figured out.

He was momentarily chagrined on finding that the Captain was not in his cabin. That lasted only seconds. Tucking the list into his belt, Fick chuckled and made for the liquor cabinet. He was reaching for the latch when a piercing shriek froze him in his tracks. The inhuman scream descended into a ghastly moan. Certain his end was near, Fick sagged to his knees.

"I can't piss!" cried the disembodied voice. "Aaaaah gods! She said she was a virgin!"

Relived to find that the awful noises didn't come from a terrifying creature sent to harvest his sin-drenched soul, Fick knocked on the privy door. "Are ye all right, Captain?"

"I can't piss!" moaned Black Helmet. "That slattern gave me the pox!"

Now Fick had no idea what a slattern was, but he was well acquainted with the pox, having contracted it no less than twelve times. The mercury cure always worked for him, though at the cost of a few million brain cells each time. He figured two more treatments would earn him cretin credentials and a posting as ship captain.

"You want I should come back later with me lists, Captain?"

"Take your lists and step to Hell!" Black Helmet was clearly not in a judicial mood.

"Right you are, sir. I'll just be off now."

"I am pain incarnate," whimpered Black Helmet.

"Careful of those metaphors," warned Fick. He left the sufferer to his lamentations and stepped down to the galley to inform Achmed that dinner would be roast goat. Besides, if anyone knew the way to Hell, it would be the cook's helper. "He told me to step to Hell," whined the ex-pimp, "but he didn't say how to get there."

Nursing a vague sense of injustice, Fick convened a meeting of the voices in his head. Thus, he took no notice of the rocky outcroppings and tall cliffs emerging from the fog. He saw not the surf gnawing at those rocks and cliffs. Nor did he note the tall natives (giants, some said) crouching on the heaps of stone forming a kind of beach. Above all, atop the cliffs, a sinister bird-like shape haunted the shadows. Confidently pronounced extinct by faraway scientists, this monstrous terror bird waited with the patience of a born predator. Waited for dinner.

Bloody hell. I've scared myself. :)


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It soon will not be good for Infidel Old Fart and his insulting stories. Itchie! Chop off his hands! Fick! Wire his jaw shut, after you break it of course. He will soon beg for the relief of death by The New World Order®!!!

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Dementia is such a sad affliction. Even for sock puppets.

Delusions of adequacy again, DH? Sweeping procolamations and empty threats issued from the Captain's privy.

While the so-called New Word Order raves, poor Pea Pod drifts toward destruction.

Look for advice in unlikely places.

Cue the talking dolphin.

OG :)

CSim News: all facts, all the time

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Aboard the Pea Pod, still becalmed off Patagonia:

"Hey, you!"

Fick stared out at the slowly approaching rocks. The shrill voice did not rouse him from his semi-hypnotic stupor.

"Hey, numbskull. Yoo-hoo!"

A passing crewman leaned over the rail. "He ain't payin' no heed -- ." His words trailed off. "What in the bloody hell. A talkin' dolphin?"

The critter clacked it's jaws a couple times. "You were expecting something else?"

"Oracles ain't usually fish," said the man. "Nor rightly even animals. A well-stacked goddess or even a Siren might be expected."

"Do you think this is literature?" spake the dolphin. "I was sent to provide warning and guidance, not to excite the laggard senses within thee. And I ain't a fish!"

"Beg your pardon, gov'nor. Speak on. I'll take word to the Captain. He's ill, you know."

"Black Helmet is afraid his tiny thing will rot off -- and fearful that it won't. Well, I don't pack sulfa drugs nor even penicillin on these missions. Tell him to ask the chief of the savages for relief."

"By 'savages' do ye mean these giants squatting ashore, sir Dolphin?"

"I do. Appearances can be deceiving, as you may have heard and as your Captain knows very well now. What's ailing this Fick fellow? I was to deliver my message to him."

"I ain't sure, your honor, but he's likely working up to a soliloquy. We been plagued with 'em these last few months. Soliloquies, I means, not Fick. He ain't bad at swabbin' the deck. Talks wild at times, but then rum does that to most of us."

The dolphin swam in a tight circle. "That tears it. A few frozen fish and a promise of a screen test with a buxom blonde ain't enough for all this work. I'm off."

"For a buxom blonde, I'll carry messages all day long. I'd even eat the frozen fish." The crewman scanned the rapidly narrowing gap between the ship's side and a long shelf of rock. The dolphin was gone. "Blast! The blighter's gone." Muttering discontentedly, the man wandered off toward the Captain's cabin.

Pea Pod bumped into the rock shelf. Fick lurched drunkenly. "I swab, you swab, he swabs. The Moon. It's always the Moon. Half a crown on the pie-bald horse. There's a vicious looking monstrous bird up there on the cliff."

A tall face-painted savage clad in well-tailored animal hides and carrying a short metal tipped spear climbed over the rail, followed by a slightly smaller man in plain buckskin.

"Beware the madman," warned the tall one.

"Right you are, Chief," said the other. "Though he did notice the terror bird."

"Even lunatics can see Death in any of his disguises."

The two savages stood near Fick (but not too close) and wondered at the lack of notice and pandemonium at their arrival. One slack-jawed sailor stood at the wheel, too drunk to speak. Fick mumbled something about banshees traveling west under a black sun, then fell silent again.

"Here comes a gaunt fellow," said the shorter savage. "He's mad too."

"Aye, an accurate observation," said the chief. "Too much salted camel, I'll warrant."

Achmed halted a few feet away, eyes burning with pent-up insanity. "You ain't a metaphor are you? I hates metaphors."

"I'm Chief of Local Savages and this is our State Secretary. Just call him State."

"Chief, huh? Chief is a metaphor for tyrant. State is a metaphor for infidel. All those animal skins don't hide your reality. You ain't a haunch. You can't be a haunch. I wish I'd never learned about metaphors." Achmed slunk towards his beloved galley. "I got to get back to where I once belonged. Back to the desert on a horse with no name."

"That one is worse than this one who speaks of banshees," observed State.

"Let's go back ashore," said Chief. "We can send Port Official down to collect harbor fees, docking charges, and excise taxes. It will be slim pickings, I suspect. The tax on salted camel is practically zero and one can't tax a load of madness."

"We should retreat to the caves and let the terror bird have them."

"No. No. We are civilized people. Besides, their scientists insist the bird is extinct. If they died under the beak of an officially extinct species, their souls would wander the wastes of Purgatory forever."

"An apt observation, Chief. This lot appears to be wandering in Purgatory already. No sense in complicating their existence with theological issues."

As the two men left the ship a horrible scream emanated from the Captain's cabin. "I caaaaaannnnn't pissssss!"

"Poor fellow," said State, pompously. "He's harvesting the wages of sin."

"Don't be too hard on a fellow sinner," said Chief. "After all, she did claim to be a virgin."

OG :)

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