NOOOOOOO!!!!!
There is no god. Or god is pissed at The Baron or is a spiteful hate-monger. Or god is actually one of those old greek ass-kicking gods that take perverse pleasure in fisting humanity into submission.
The Baron means WTF?!
Why can't Saab just die?
The Baron is sick and tired of having to see these rolling boots all over the damn place. Why can't you follow Pontiac's lead Saab? The Baron hates Pontiacs (because they are exclusively driven by assmasters) but he reserves a special (and large) portion of his brain just for thinking about how much he hates Saab.
And who the fuck is Spyker? That's like the name of some early 80's metal-band bassist who dies at the height of his popularity due to ether overdose. Fuck you Spyker!
This is a dark day indeed. If you need The Baron he'll be fighting off the nose-ebola that some filthy train-dweller infected him with.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
God Awful Song Lyrics : She Talks to Angels
Excuse The Baron if his writing seems iffy today; his hands are still covered with the sticky, dough like vomit that erupted from his mouth and nose upon listening to "She talks to angels" by Black Crows.
The Baron can typically categorize any song he hears within the first few chords and this shit-smear is no exception. The process goes something like this.
"She talks to angels" ------identify-------folksy guitar-------whiny overly serious tone-----------------------drops of jupiter style lyrics-------Category identified-----
Caterwalling-pseudo-pain-fest Type IV.
Let's have a look at some of the lyrics in question:
She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket (is she a hobette by any chance?)
She wears a cross around her neck (Nothing weird.....yet)
Yes the hair is from a little boy (good fucking god! she's a murdering pedophile eh?)
And the cross (is) from someone she has not met.....not yet (How in the fuck? Is that person Timecop?!)
The Baron thinks that writing those words out may have given him hand cancer. Or hand gonorrhea, that could just be some errant mayo though.
Dost thee have the fortitude to continue? Tallyhoo then!
She don't know no lover (How does he know, is he a stalker or something?).
None that I ever seen (Bingo, so the stalker is stalking a pedophile, is he Dexter?).
And to her that ain't nothing (Of course it's not, because she's not attracted to adults.)
But to me it means, means everything (Oh jesus, he wants to rape a virgin.)
Blech! Just Blech!
The Baron means, WTF radio!? This kind of shit can get played 10 times a day for 4 years but The Baron's experimental music gets sent back unopened? Is there something wrong with the lyrics?
The Baron's Girl (Has a Smoking Ass):
To the tune of Jailhouse Rock.
Ends with 13 minute Banjo solo.
The Baron can typically categorize any song he hears within the first few chords and this shit-smear is no exception. The process goes something like this.
"She talks to angels" ------identify-------folksy guitar-------whiny overly serious tone-----------------------drops of jupiter style lyrics-------Category identified-----
Caterwalling-pseudo-pain-fest Type IV.
Let's have a look at some of the lyrics in question:
She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket (is she a hobette by any chance?)
She wears a cross around her neck (Nothing weird.....yet)
Yes the hair is from a little boy (good fucking god! she's a murdering pedophile eh?)
And the cross (is) from someone she has not met.....not yet (How in the fuck? Is that person Timecop?!)
The Baron thinks that writing those words out may have given him hand cancer. Or hand gonorrhea, that could just be some errant mayo though.
Dost thee have the fortitude to continue? Tallyhoo then!
She don't know no lover (How does he know, is he a stalker or something?).
None that I ever seen (Bingo, so the stalker is stalking a pedophile, is he Dexter?).
And to her that ain't nothing (Of course it's not, because she's not attracted to adults.)
But to me it means, means everything (Oh jesus, he wants to rape a virgin.)
Blech! Just Blech!
The Baron means, WTF radio!? This kind of shit can get played 10 times a day for 4 years but The Baron's experimental music gets sent back unopened? Is there something wrong with the lyrics?
The Baron's Girl (Has a Smoking Ass):
To the tune of Jailhouse Rock.
Let The Baron tell you a story about a fly ass girl,
She could flash her super-coot and stop the whole damn world,
But The Baron ain't int'rested in that damn ass snoot,
HE WANTS TO RAM HIS SLEEK TORPEDO IN HER HUGE DAS BOOT!
(Break from Jailhouse Rock tune for chorus).
(Resume Jailhouse Rock tune).
This classy-ass broad has an evil butt
And The Baron's the exorcist with the holy smut!
So stoop 'n' get that paper from the dirty floor.
WHILE THE BARON RAMS HIS HOSS THROUGH THE DOGGY DOOR!
Talking about the Butt-blues.
YEAH, The Baron's standard butt-blues.
Those agonizing butt blues.
Yeah the kick you in the nuts blues!
Well The Baron plead his case in the court of tail,
And the lady seemed intrigued by his breaching whale,
So The Baron dropped his trow with an eager thrust,
AND RELEASED A RAGING STREAM OF HIS OL' PRE-BUST
Talking about the Butt-blues.
YEAH, The Baron's standard butt-blues.
Those agonizing butt blues.
Yeah the kick you in the nuts blues!
She could flash her super-coot and stop the whole damn world,
But The Baron ain't int'rested in that damn ass snoot,
HE WANTS TO RAM HIS SLEEK TORPEDO IN HER HUGE DAS BOOT!
(Break from Jailhouse Rock tune for chorus).
Talking about the Butt-blues.
YEAH, The Baron's standard butt-blues.
Those agonizing butt blues.
Yeah the kick you in the nuts blues!
YEAH, The Baron's standard butt-blues.
Those agonizing butt blues.
Yeah the kick you in the nuts blues!
(Resume Jailhouse Rock tune).
This classy-ass broad has an evil butt
And The Baron's the exorcist with the holy smut!
So stoop 'n' get that paper from the dirty floor.
WHILE THE BARON RAMS HIS HOSS THROUGH THE DOGGY DOOR!
Talking about the Butt-blues.
YEAH, The Baron's standard butt-blues.
Those agonizing butt blues.
Yeah the kick you in the nuts blues!
Well The Baron plead his case in the court of tail,
And the lady seemed intrigued by his breaching whale,
So The Baron dropped his trow with an eager thrust,
AND RELEASED A RAGING STREAM OF HIS OL' PRE-BUST
Talking about the Butt-blues.
YEAH, The Baron's standard butt-blues.
Those agonizing butt blues.
Yeah the kick you in the nuts blues!
Ends with 13 minute Banjo solo.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 9
The Elk's Shaft 930pm. Vienna, Austria.
Detective Mostac and Ally sat in silence at the conclusion of his harrowing tale. He because of the intense relief which accompanies revealing some dark secret, she because of the sheer repugnance of what Mostac had endured.
This solidly built little man with the ridiculous flowing mustaches had become a totally new person in her eyes. No longer the public servant in a decaying empire, rather, a person of iron character and tremendous courage who had seen things which mortal men should never encounter.
Ally finally broke the silence.
"Detective Mostac, I'm sorry you had to drag all that back to the surface, but I'm terribly appreciative of your trust."
He glared at her for a moment, or at least his fierce mustaches made it appear as if he were glaring, Agent Rivera could not tell. After a pause of several minutes, he lifted the colossal stein of black beer and quaffed the remaining contents in several halting gulps.
He carefully placed the mug back on the table before him and met Ally's gaze once more.
"Aye, well someone needed to hear it."
"I've got to ask Detective, why didn't you bring this up with your superiors? I mean, you knew Mr. Corkwald's manner of death almost the instant you saw his body."
"Perhaps, but my superiors, nay the whole Austrian police force, they know nothing of the real world."
"What do you mean by that Herr Mostac? Don't you trust your comrades?"
"Oh I trust them with my life. The problem isn't my fellow officers."
"Well what is the problem then?"
"Corkwald."
"The dead man?"
"Aye, the very fact that he is dead...."
Mostac lowered his gaze and stared heavily at the empty glass and the shimmering bubbles which remained.
"It's just that, Corkwald was no ordinary man."
"I'm aware of his past Detective."
"Are you?"
"Phinneus Corkwald. Agent 1st class. Deep Ops. One of the best." Ally rattled off the man's dossier.
"Hmph....You know some things Ms.Rivera."
"What...are you saying there's more? More that his own agency, the CIA doesn't know about? I find that hard to believe."
"Ms. Rivera, understand that I'm being serious when I say this, deadly serious. That man you know as Corkwald is no normal agent. He's been shot, stabbed, poisoned, burned and beaten and never failed to live. The man is unkillable"
"Well detective he seems to be eminently killable now doesn't he?"
"You don't understand Ms.Rivera. But, how could you? You've never known a man like him first hand. Yet, through some sort of curse I've been acquainted with three such people in my life."
"What people? Maybe you'd better take a break Herr Mostac, you're not making sense any longer."
"You're right. I guess it's about time I told you the rest of the story. But..."
"But, but what?" Ally said, the excitement building in her nearly spring loaded birth canal.
"I have to take a shit first."
"Oh for fuck's sak....." But Mostac had already half jogged to the heavy wooden doors leading to the bathroom. That Austrian beer really seemed to have run through the detective. Perhaps he had eaten some absolute garbage earlier. Ally didn't want to speculate.
Her cellphone vibrated with what seemed like unusual ferocity. She jammed her smooth, perfectly proportioned hand into the purse, seeking the offending device like a stoat in a rat's nest.
Finally Ally seized the phone and placed the receiver to her somewhat honey scented head.
"Rivera."
"Agent, this is Director Adams. We've received a new lead."
"Go ahead sir."
"Three men in Zurich have been killed in the same manner as Agent Corkwald. One was a prominent business man whose name I'm forbidden to revea. The other two were Swiss Poliz
"Any connections?"
"Quite a large connection actually. The murdered officers were monitoring the interrogation of one Roy Gimbel when he escaped from custody. He's intimately connected to the other victim."
"This sounds like our guy Director. How might he know Agent Corkwald?"
"That's unclear at this point. Regardless, you are to forward all details pertaining to Corkwald."and report immediately to the offices of the Zurich Poliz."
"Of course sir."
"Bring this bastard in Agent."
The line went dead.
Ally slowly placed the phone back in her purse. This certainly was a fortunate development. No man, no matter how well connected could evade the European authorities for long. Even if this Gimbel managed to escape Switzerland, he would soon be apprehended.
She would have to return immediately to the hotel and pack her things. Mostac could handle the remainder of the investigation here. It was unclear to what degree he was going to cooperate, but he could at least be trusted to send the case files to Washington.
Ally glanced towards the bathroom door to see if Mostac had finished yet. The door was just swinging shut, but there was no sign of the detective. Ally scanned the room to see if he had headed back to the bar for another drink and caught sight of a stocky man purposefully striding towards the exit. Ally found something about this man unsettling.
He reached out for the door handle and as his sleeve pulled back she saw that he was wearing latex gloves. With a spurt of adrenaline she sprang from the booth.
"Hey you! Hold it right there!"
He looked back over his shoulder and continued out into the street.
Ally sprinted to the door, knocking into tables and pushing patrons aside in her haste to follow him. She reached the threshold and was about to bound into the street when prickling sensation rose in the peach fuzz on her softly rounded buttocks.
Something was telling her not to open that door. Not to step into the street. That this was a trap.
But Ally also knew that she had to follow this man and find out what he was doing in the bathroom; although she already dreaded the answer.
She pulled her service pistol from its holster nestled against her hip and brought it to the close quarters ready position, flicking the safety off in the process.
With cat-like grace she wrenched the door open and dove into the street, rolling to a firing position with uncanny grace.
Ally barely had time to blink before the man was upon her. He lowered his basketball sized shoulder into her solar plexus and with the strength of a bull launched her to the cobbles.
She gasped in agony as the wind was knocked from her. Through her pain-narrowed eyes she could see the man advancing with alarming speed. He gripped a large curved blade in the manner of a butcher, solidly yet with surprising grace.
Ally struggled to a seated position and raised her weapon. She depressed the trigger as the brute closed the remaining gap between them. The shot rang out in the cold night air ripping into the lower abdomen of her assailant with a satisfying "thock!".
Without flinching he swatted the gun from her hand and slammed her to the cold pavement. The knife held mere inches from her face.
Ally tried to scream but his weight was suffocating.
"You're going to have to do better than that agent." The man's breath smelled heavily of alcohol.
Ally thrashed vainly beneath him her eyes fixated on that cruel knife. She was going to die. There was no way out of this. The man was simply too strong.
He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked it towards him. With a flick of the knife he severed a large portion of her flowing locks.
"Little momento to remember you by when you're gone." He hissed.
Ally closed her eyes in anticipation of the plunge of that curved steel. Suddenly the pressure was relieved. In its place a spreading warmth. Was this death?
Ally slowly opened her eyes and saw that the man was gone. The whine of sirens grew closer and closer. A small sedan peeled around the corner, its blue lights piercing the cold night.
Agent Rivera gained a knee and stood despite the searing pain. She peered down the narrow little street she supposed her attacker had run down. She retrieved her weapon and started towards it.
Ally could hear the Police yelling to her. Telling her to drop the gun, but she kept walking towards the crusty snow piled at the corner of that cross street. Something had caught her attention.
As she approached, she felt a cold, dead kind of terror. Just ahead, Illuminated by the yellowish light of the gas lamps a deep purple mark was seared upon the ice, steaming in the cold night.
Detective Mostac and Ally sat in silence at the conclusion of his harrowing tale. He because of the intense relief which accompanies revealing some dark secret, she because of the sheer repugnance of what Mostac had endured.
This solidly built little man with the ridiculous flowing mustaches had become a totally new person in her eyes. No longer the public servant in a decaying empire, rather, a person of iron character and tremendous courage who had seen things which mortal men should never encounter.
Ally finally broke the silence.
"Detective Mostac, I'm sorry you had to drag all that back to the surface, but I'm terribly appreciative of your trust."
He glared at her for a moment, or at least his fierce mustaches made it appear as if he were glaring, Agent Rivera could not tell. After a pause of several minutes, he lifted the colossal stein of black beer and quaffed the remaining contents in several halting gulps.
He carefully placed the mug back on the table before him and met Ally's gaze once more.
"Aye, well someone needed to hear it."
"I've got to ask Detective, why didn't you bring this up with your superiors? I mean, you knew Mr. Corkwald's manner of death almost the instant you saw his body."
"Perhaps, but my superiors, nay the whole Austrian police force, they know nothing of the real world."
"What do you mean by that Herr Mostac? Don't you trust your comrades?"
"Oh I trust them with my life. The problem isn't my fellow officers."
"Well what is the problem then?"
"Corkwald."
"The dead man?"
"Aye, the very fact that he is dead...."
Mostac lowered his gaze and stared heavily at the empty glass and the shimmering bubbles which remained.
"It's just that, Corkwald was no ordinary man."
"I'm aware of his past Detective."
"Are you?"
"Phinneus Corkwald. Agent 1st class. Deep Ops. One of the best." Ally rattled off the man's dossier.
"Hmph....You know some things Ms.Rivera."
"What...are you saying there's more? More that his own agency, the CIA doesn't know about? I find that hard to believe."
"Ms. Rivera, understand that I'm being serious when I say this, deadly serious. That man you know as Corkwald is no normal agent. He's been shot, stabbed, poisoned, burned and beaten and never failed to live. The man is unkillable"
"Well detective he seems to be eminently killable now doesn't he?"
"You don't understand Ms.Rivera. But, how could you? You've never known a man like him first hand. Yet, through some sort of curse I've been acquainted with three such people in my life."
"What people? Maybe you'd better take a break Herr Mostac, you're not making sense any longer."
"You're right. I guess it's about time I told you the rest of the story. But..."
"But, but what?" Ally said, the excitement building in her nearly spring loaded birth canal.
"I have to take a shit first."
"Oh for fuck's sak....." But Mostac had already half jogged to the heavy wooden doors leading to the bathroom. That Austrian beer really seemed to have run through the detective. Perhaps he had eaten some absolute garbage earlier. Ally didn't want to speculate.
Her cellphone vibrated with what seemed like unusual ferocity. She jammed her smooth, perfectly proportioned hand into the purse, seeking the offending device like a stoat in a rat's nest.
Finally Ally seized the phone and placed the receiver to her somewhat honey scented head.
"Rivera."
"Agent, this is Director Adams. We've received a new lead."
"Go ahead sir."
"Three men in Zurich have been killed in the same manner as Agent Corkwald. One was a prominent business man whose name I'm forbidden to revea. The other two were Swiss Poliz
"Any connections?"
"Quite a large connection actually. The murdered officers were monitoring the interrogation of one Roy Gimbel when he escaped from custody. He's intimately connected to the other victim."
"This sounds like our guy Director. How might he know Agent Corkwald?"
"That's unclear at this point. Regardless, you are to forward all details pertaining to Corkwald."and report immediately to the offices of the Zurich Poliz."
"Of course sir."
"Bring this bastard in Agent."
The line went dead.
Ally slowly placed the phone back in her purse. This certainly was a fortunate development. No man, no matter how well connected could evade the European authorities for long. Even if this Gimbel managed to escape Switzerland, he would soon be apprehended.
She would have to return immediately to the hotel and pack her things. Mostac could handle the remainder of the investigation here. It was unclear to what degree he was going to cooperate, but he could at least be trusted to send the case files to Washington.
Ally glanced towards the bathroom door to see if Mostac had finished yet. The door was just swinging shut, but there was no sign of the detective. Ally scanned the room to see if he had headed back to the bar for another drink and caught sight of a stocky man purposefully striding towards the exit. Ally found something about this man unsettling.
He reached out for the door handle and as his sleeve pulled back she saw that he was wearing latex gloves. With a spurt of adrenaline she sprang from the booth.
"Hey you! Hold it right there!"
He looked back over his shoulder and continued out into the street.
Ally sprinted to the door, knocking into tables and pushing patrons aside in her haste to follow him. She reached the threshold and was about to bound into the street when prickling sensation rose in the peach fuzz on her softly rounded buttocks.
Something was telling her not to open that door. Not to step into the street. That this was a trap.
But Ally also knew that she had to follow this man and find out what he was doing in the bathroom; although she already dreaded the answer.
She pulled her service pistol from its holster nestled against her hip and brought it to the close quarters ready position, flicking the safety off in the process.
With cat-like grace she wrenched the door open and dove into the street, rolling to a firing position with uncanny grace.
Ally barely had time to blink before the man was upon her. He lowered his basketball sized shoulder into her solar plexus and with the strength of a bull launched her to the cobbles.
She gasped in agony as the wind was knocked from her. Through her pain-narrowed eyes she could see the man advancing with alarming speed. He gripped a large curved blade in the manner of a butcher, solidly yet with surprising grace.
Ally struggled to a seated position and raised her weapon. She depressed the trigger as the brute closed the remaining gap between them. The shot rang out in the cold night air ripping into the lower abdomen of her assailant with a satisfying "thock!".
Without flinching he swatted the gun from her hand and slammed her to the cold pavement. The knife held mere inches from her face.
Ally tried to scream but his weight was suffocating.
"You're going to have to do better than that agent." The man's breath smelled heavily of alcohol.
Ally thrashed vainly beneath him her eyes fixated on that cruel knife. She was going to die. There was no way out of this. The man was simply too strong.
He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked it towards him. With a flick of the knife he severed a large portion of her flowing locks.
"Little momento to remember you by when you're gone." He hissed.
Ally closed her eyes in anticipation of the plunge of that curved steel. Suddenly the pressure was relieved. In its place a spreading warmth. Was this death?
Ally slowly opened her eyes and saw that the man was gone. The whine of sirens grew closer and closer. A small sedan peeled around the corner, its blue lights piercing the cold night.
Agent Rivera gained a knee and stood despite the searing pain. She peered down the narrow little street she supposed her attacker had run down. She retrieved her weapon and started towards it.
Ally could hear the Police yelling to her. Telling her to drop the gun, but she kept walking towards the crusty snow piled at the corner of that cross street. Something had caught her attention.
As she approached, she felt a cold, dead kind of terror. Just ahead, Illuminated by the yellowish light of the gas lamps a deep purple mark was seared upon the ice, steaming in the cold night.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Baron's Classroom : How to Tell Cool Vampires from Pussy Vampires
Vampires are all the rage these days. When The Baron first became aware of this trend, he was excited. After all, what's cooler than an undead killing machine with a thirst for blood?
As you can imagine The Baron vomited with rage when he found out what kind of vampires were actually popularized. The fruity, mincing twilight kind. This disgusts The Baron for a number of reasons the least grievous of which is that The Baron hates when well-off teenagers dress up in black, wear makeup and lament their awful lives.
To prevent any confusion as to what constitutes a "cool" vampire, The Baron has assembled a brief educational panel.
The subjects for today's lecture are as follows:
Proinsias Cassidy (Cassidy for short) : The Baron will forgive you if you've never heard of this particular vampire. He was popularized in the spectacularly badass graphic novel Preacher which The Baron read as a young man (last year). The subject matter of this series is : murder, drinking, sex, drinking, guns, sex, drinking and murder.
Edward Mincypants (not to be confused with scissorhands): A pathetic, malnourished looking emo son of a bitch with glittery skin. The Baron can't fault his choice of jailbait as potential sexual partner except for two facts. A) The guy is apparently like 90 or something and B) Edward basically avoids having sex with her at all costs despite the fact that he is a soulless abomination (or at least he should be).
Topic #1 : Their faces:
Panel A: Note that Cassidy looks A) Insane, B) Covered in blood and C) really, really happy to be covered in blood. Also note the sunglasses, that's a nice touch, especially if he wears them at night (he does).
Panel B: Edward. Might as well be on a GQ cover. The Baron has never seen a vampire look so A) Mopey, B) Dramaish and C) Metrosexual. Seriously would you be a morose, introverted misanthrope if your life was endless and you spent your time hanging out at a highschool populated with attractive young women whom you could bone to your heart's content? Edward should drop the whole "tragedy of the undead shit" and pick up the Matthew McConaughey philosophy in Dazed and Confused "That's what I love about high school girls, I keep getting older and they stay the same age."
Topic #2: Their friends
Panel A: Not really much to say about Cassidy's friends. Badass priest with a penchant for drinking, fighting and fucking, especially fucking. Hot, hot slut who enjoys guns, booze, smoking and also fucking, plenty of fucking.
Panel B: As you can see from the figure legend Edward is friends with one hot mousey girl who he for some reason refuses to fuck. Some jock asshole (or perhaps a villlian, who really knows, the movies and books are intolerable) and not one, not two but three chubby drama chicks. Actually The Baron's not even sure that the last one is a chick, so we'll call it a groy/birl.
Topic #3: Drink of choice
Panel A: Yup, a pint glass of blood. As far as The Baron remembers though, Cassidy barely ever drinks blood. Whats that you say? "I thought he was a vampire...a cool vampire." Now hold your horses there slugger. The thing that Cassidy really likes to drink is tremendous amounts of alcohol. Beer, whiskey, vodka every variety you can imagine. Oh yeah and since he's immortal he drinks a shit ton of it. The Baron would drink 100 beers a night if he knew it wouldn't kill him.
Panel B: A red, sloppy looking cocktail. This is the first image that came up for "twilight drink" and it's a hell of a thing. Note the dyed red apple slices? The Baron will let you in on a secret. The only drink it's acceptable to have a piece of fruit in or on is a Mexican beer (or an American beer cleverly marketed as Mexican to such a thorough degree that everyone believes cinco de mayo has always been a huge holiday in Latin America). The Baron is truly, truly disgusted, but what can you expect from a character made up by a mormon lady.
There you have it. Hopefully in the future when you encounter a vampire (real or depicted) you'll know when to give a thumbs up and approving nod and when to flash double middle finger broadside with a scowl barely discernible because of the verbal tirade you should be launching.
As you can imagine The Baron vomited with rage when he found out what kind of vampires were actually popularized. The fruity, mincing twilight kind. This disgusts The Baron for a number of reasons the least grievous of which is that The Baron hates when well-off teenagers dress up in black, wear makeup and lament their awful lives.
To prevent any confusion as to what constitutes a "cool" vampire, The Baron has assembled a brief educational panel.
The subjects for today's lecture are as follows:
Proinsias Cassidy (Cassidy for short) : The Baron will forgive you if you've never heard of this particular vampire. He was popularized in the spectacularly badass graphic novel Preacher which The Baron read as a young man (last year). The subject matter of this series is : murder, drinking, sex, drinking, guns, sex, drinking and murder.
Edward Mincypants (not to be confused with scissorhands): A pathetic, malnourished looking emo son of a bitch with glittery skin. The Baron can't fault his choice of jailbait as potential sexual partner except for two facts. A) The guy is apparently like 90 or something and B) Edward basically avoids having sex with her at all costs despite the fact that he is a soulless abomination (or at least he should be).
Topic #1 : Their faces:
Panel A: Note that Cassidy looks A) Insane, B) Covered in blood and C) really, really happy to be covered in blood. Also note the sunglasses, that's a nice touch, especially if he wears them at night (he does).Panel B: Edward. Might as well be on a GQ cover. The Baron has never seen a vampire look so A) Mopey, B) Dramaish and C) Metrosexual. Seriously would you be a morose, introverted misanthrope if your life was endless and you spent your time hanging out at a highschool populated with attractive young women whom you could bone to your heart's content? Edward should drop the whole "tragedy of the undead shit" and pick up the Matthew McConaughey philosophy in Dazed and Confused "That's what I love about high school girls, I keep getting older and they stay the same age."
Topic #2: Their friends
Panel A: Not really much to say about Cassidy's friends. Badass priest with a penchant for drinking, fighting and fucking, especially fucking. Hot, hot slut who enjoys guns, booze, smoking and also fucking, plenty of fucking.Panel B: As you can see from the figure legend Edward is friends with one hot mousey girl who he for some reason refuses to fuck. Some jock asshole (or perhaps a villlian, who really knows, the movies and books are intolerable) and not one, not two but three chubby drama chicks. Actually The Baron's not even sure that the last one is a chick, so we'll call it a groy/birl.
Topic #3: Drink of choice
Panel A: Yup, a pint glass of blood. As far as The Baron remembers though, Cassidy barely ever drinks blood. Whats that you say? "I thought he was a vampire...a cool vampire." Now hold your horses there slugger. The thing that Cassidy really likes to drink is tremendous amounts of alcohol. Beer, whiskey, vodka every variety you can imagine. Oh yeah and since he's immortal he drinks a shit ton of it. The Baron would drink 100 beers a night if he knew it wouldn't kill him.Panel B: A red, sloppy looking cocktail. This is the first image that came up for "twilight drink" and it's a hell of a thing. Note the dyed red apple slices? The Baron will let you in on a secret. The only drink it's acceptable to have a piece of fruit in or on is a Mexican beer (or an American beer cleverly marketed as Mexican to such a thorough degree that everyone believes cinco de mayo has always been a huge holiday in Latin America). The Baron is truly, truly disgusted, but what can you expect from a character made up by a mormon lady.
There you have it. Hopefully in the future when you encounter a vampire (real or depicted) you'll know when to give a thumbs up and approving nod and when to flash double middle finger broadside with a scowl barely discernible because of the verbal tirade you should be launching.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 8
The Elk's Shaft, Vienna, Austria 9pm:
Ally Rivera arrived at the Elk's Shaft with plenty of time to spare. She picked a table near the back where she could watch the entrance and settled in to the creaky old booth. It was her intention to observe Detective Mostac as he entered, watch the way he walked, the way he surveyed his surroundings. Ally could likely learn a great deal about this man and his past training through his body language.
She ordered herself a heaping plateful of some sort of meaty slurry and picked at it disinterestedly as it quickly congealed. She desperately wanted a drink but that was out of the question. She needed to be at her best if she hoped to learn everything that the mustachioed detective knew.
Precisely on time, Detective Mostac slid through the heavy wooden doors. He seemed to glide between the tables with scarcely a pause. In a single smooth sweep, he took in the restaurant's patrons and located Ally in the rear corner. His movements were subtle, relaxed and unassuming. He had a tremendous amount of confidence in his own abilities yet was as inconspicuous as a ground level hotel bathroom in a hobo-dense city. Either Mostac was a narcissist, or he was trained by some high level agency.
Without even a nod of recognition, Mostac turned quickly to the bar. He ordered an enormously tall, stein of ale. Ally could see the thick black liquid sloshing about as he paid, and made his way over to her table.
"Agent Rivera." He said, sliding into the chair across from hers.
"Detective Mostac."
"What the heck did you order? Looks like polar bear vomit."
"Puree of mule scrotum. They tell me it's a delicacy here."
He snickered derisively. "Well, they lied. Stuff probably came out of the drain traps."
"Well, I'm glad I didn't eat any then." Ally said, making a mental note to piss all over the women's room when she got the chance.
"It scarcely matters now Ms. Rivera." Mostac quipped, scratching the tip of his large, red nose with a single forefinger.
"Now, what was it you needed to tell me earlier?"
"You're all business aren't you?" He smiled, flashing his beige teeth "I admire that in a woman. Especially one as attractive as you."
"It's the only way to get noticed in the agency...besides having bodacious tits that is." Ally said, with a quick glance down at her luscious rack.
Agent Mostac chuckled but his gaze remained fixed on hers. This man was very well trained indeed. Few had resisted the draw of her immaculate hooters. Mostac had the discipline of a monk.
"You must understand that everything I tell you is to be kept in the strictest confidence. Although I gained this intelligence decades ago, my life is still in imminent danger if it gets traced back to me. Do you understand Agent Rivera?" He said, taking a mighty pull of the thick black beer.
"Of course detective, the agency knows how to keep secrets. You might say it's our job. But if you're uncomfortable with this don't feel pressured into revealing anything you don't want to. I'm a little puzzled as to why you'd reveal such sensitive information to a relative stranger like me?"
"My boys did a little background check as soon as you arrived. We agree that you can be trusted with the information you're about to hear. In fact, we think that you need to have this information." Mostac punctuated the sentence with a grim smile.
"Well relieve my suspense then detective."
"Alright then.." Mostac muttered, he leaned in very close to Ally, so close that he could smell her delightful body butter and began:
I was trained by the British Intelligence Agency in the late 1950's. A time of crisis and uncertainty that breeds a particular brand of national paranoia. I excelled in basic training and it quickly became apparent to the higher ups that I had a rare kind of resolve which made me suitable for the most treacherous of assignments. I started off with red-level ops in East Germany and Yugoslavia and brought back reams of useful intelligence for the protection of my country.
The commander appreciated my unique skills and recommended me for an ultra-black level assignment in the USSR itself. I was subjected to additional years of training in language, military history and espionage. That's where I learned to speak without an accent. It was crucial to the kind of deep cover mission I would be performing. If I mispronounced a single syllable, the Russians would descend on me like a pack of dogs and make me regret ever being born.
In the summer of 1965 I was planted deep in Moscow through a series of field operatives. Over a hellish series of months, I travelled by rail, boat and finally horseback to my final destination, Camp 17. Nestled in a rocky crevice on the Eastern side of the Kamchatka peninsula this ultra secret installation performed some of the most important scientific experiments the Soviets could devise. Secluded in this forbidding waste the men and women of Camp 17 were unencumbered by the morals and restrictions which might otherwise have been placed upon them.
Stalin was long dead, but his paranoia still seemed to drive these scientists and enlisted men at a frenzied pace.
The snow began to fall in late August and before long I was trapped there with these madmen in perpetual darkness illuminated by only the briefest glimpses of the sun. I was to pose as a common security person, but at this forlorn institution this meant that I was expected to have more training than most Soviet commandos and I was treated with a certain level of deference.
The working hours never ceased as wave after wave of dedicated researchers toiled through the endless arctic nights. My shifts were 6 hours on, 6 hours off, 6 hours on and so on. I didn't notice the passage of time because of the artificial lighting and the lack of sunshine. I was drawn into a trance of sorts, but I never forgot my duty. I was to observe everything I possibly could and record it on tiny scrolls of plastic. These miniature scrolls were hidden in narrow cylinders inserted beneath the skin of my abdomen in a daily ordeal of silent pain.
Of course my pain was nothing in comparison to the atrocities I witnessed on a daily basis. Snow-Tracks loaded with political prisoners from the 4 corners of Russia and her satellite states arrived every Friday. After the long uninsulated trip, many of the emaciated serfs had succumbed to the raging Siberian winter, and they were the lucky ones.
The rest were hurriedly assigned to one department or another. Bio weapons, radiation research, biomedical, or the dreaded Violet program. I can yet scarcely sleep as a result of the things I saw.
Men flayed alive as they struggled against slippery leather straps. Pregnant women bombarded with gamma rays so that the effects of gestational radiation sickness could be studied. I can hardly recall the extent of these experiments but I can still see those people's faces as they were wheeled to the incinerators.
And then there was Violet. This department was run by two brothers, The Duvonoskis, Vasili and Andronev. These men were part of a family who have been the personal guard of the Tsars for generations. They were ruthless and unbelievably skilled killers who never hesitated and never relented.
These two were given only the strongest of the prisoners. Yet, despite the truly huge number of corpses Violet produced, it seemed that only a single experiment was ever performed.
Men would be loaded, ten at a time into a large chamber. A vacuum would be pulled and the men would scrabble about for a few terrible minutes before they finally expired. The freshly dead would be rushed from the chambers and prepared to receive transfusions through an artery in their neck. A large bellows like machine would draw out the victim's blood and it would be quickly replaced with a thick, purplish fluid.
The corpses were then shocked with flat metal paddles attached to a small dynamo. The bodies would twitch and convulse and once one even screamed but always death remained implacable, much to the macabre scientist's displeasure.
When it was clear that these experiments had failed, they attempted to transfuse the living. Again they were met with hideous failure as the blood draining procedure left the men as dead as before. It was then that I witnessed a truly terrible thing.
They began infusing the purple fluid before removing the prisoner's blood and the reaction was stupendous. Within seconds, the men screamed like a wounded animal and strained against their bonds with such force that several broke bones in their arms and legs. A cascade of red foam would gush from their open mouths and seemingly from every pore in their body. And they would fall dead within seconds.
The Violet team realized they had stumbled upon a potent toxin and began feverishly researching the properties of the purple stuff. They tried hundreds of routes of administration but none worked as assuredly as intravenous delivery.
It was clear that they had hoped to develop an assassin's tool in the purple fluid, but IV injections were too cumbersome and prone to failure. Then, one especially sadistic doctor decided to try a rectal delivery of the poison and the results were spectacular. And it is this day that I shall never forget as much as I might want to.
As if god were trying to increase my own suffering, the man chosen to receive this deadly enema was one I had known in my early training days, Martin Overhoff. He has obviously been captured during an operation but that he should end up here seemed unconscionably cruel.
The dose was delivered in a massive syringe as Martin cried out for mercy. Our eyes met for a brief second and I cannot tell if he recognized me but it is fortunate that he made no sign to betray my presence.
Nearly 99% of the dose was delivered to the blood and my comrade died mercifully rapidly. They had found their route of delivery and in no time at all, these human monsters had designed a sophisticated delivery probe. And I was witness to it all.
Spring came and my time at the installation was nearing its end and none too soon. I was scheduled to leave by Snow-Track but the thaw came sooner than anticipated and I was placed on a boat for the long trip back to Kiev. The boat was a small cutter and there were only two other passengers, Vasili and Andronev Duvonoski.
Although they had been the direct supervisors of Violet, I had never seen them in the laboratory and hence they had never seen me save for a few times in the mess. They talked amongst themselves mostly and never so much as glanced in my direction.
During the first week of the trip, the ship was encased in a thick coating of rock-hard sea ice which made the vessel dangerously top heavy. I was on the top deck smoking one day and met Vasili doing the same.
He nodded in my direction and lit my cigarette with a heavy scrimshaw covered lighter and resumed ignoring me. We smoked in silence for several minutes and I finally tossed my butt into the sea. As I was about to head back into the crew quarters an unexpected wave sent the ship pitching hard to the port side. Vasili and I were thrown roughly against the railing and barely avoided being thrown into the icy sea.
I was bruised but not otherwise injured. Vasili seemed to have sustained a head injury and remained prone on the slick deck boards. I approached him slowly, as one would approach a wounded bear and saw a terrible gash upon his forehead. In the manner of wounds sustained during cold weather, it had not yet begun to bleed and I could see the various layers of skin and fat which had been torn free of the gleaming white bone beneath.
Then, slowly at first the wound began to ooze. The blood was nearly black but quickly turned a vibrant maroon-purple on exposure to the air. My heart nearly stopped. Here's was the same fluid which had killed all those unfortunate men. This man's own blood was a toxin of unbelievable potency.
This information would be nearly invaluable so I quickly stooped to the deck and produced one of my plastic scrolls. Being careful not to touch the substance I smeared some on the plastic, rolled it tightly and sealed it back within its protective cylinder. I jabbed the tiny thing back into my skin and set about waking Vasili.
Like a fish dragged from the deep, the man gasped at my first slap and sat bolt upright glaring about himself with his deep set, beady little eyes. I handed him a kerchief and he held it to his forehead as the dark fluid slowly soaked it through and through.
I didn't see the brothers again and after what seemed like an endless voyage we arrived off the coast of Saudi Arabia in the final leg of our journey. I made my escape one night in a lifeboat and clambered ashore. I never looked back for fear of what I might see and by pure will, I reached land.
I soon met up with a contact and was spirited back to England over a series of weeks. I was anxious to reveal the fruits of my year spent at Camp 17 and as soon as I had recovered enough to look presentable I made my way to the secret offices of our intelligence agency. As I had my breakfast in a pub across the street from the agency I saw something that would make me an exile from my own country and a fugitive to boot.
The head of my department, a man whose real name I never knew, arrived in his private car. He stepped forth into the sunlight. But, as eager as I was to speak with him I knew better than to approach him outside of the offices. So I watched, sipping at a pint, as my life unraveled.
He took a cigarette from his front pocket and began searching for a lighter which had evidently been lost. Flummoxed, he strode about to the tinted driver's side window of the sedan and rapped gently at the window. It rolled down and my supervisor leaned in to allow his cigarette to be lit. A large rough hand protruded from within gripping a whalebone lighter. As the flame flashed, I caught a glimpse of a face I supposed I would never see again. Vasili Duvonoski.
Ally Rivera arrived at the Elk's Shaft with plenty of time to spare. She picked a table near the back where she could watch the entrance and settled in to the creaky old booth. It was her intention to observe Detective Mostac as he entered, watch the way he walked, the way he surveyed his surroundings. Ally could likely learn a great deal about this man and his past training through his body language.
She ordered herself a heaping plateful of some sort of meaty slurry and picked at it disinterestedly as it quickly congealed. She desperately wanted a drink but that was out of the question. She needed to be at her best if she hoped to learn everything that the mustachioed detective knew.
Precisely on time, Detective Mostac slid through the heavy wooden doors. He seemed to glide between the tables with scarcely a pause. In a single smooth sweep, he took in the restaurant's patrons and located Ally in the rear corner. His movements were subtle, relaxed and unassuming. He had a tremendous amount of confidence in his own abilities yet was as inconspicuous as a ground level hotel bathroom in a hobo-dense city. Either Mostac was a narcissist, or he was trained by some high level agency.
Without even a nod of recognition, Mostac turned quickly to the bar. He ordered an enormously tall, stein of ale. Ally could see the thick black liquid sloshing about as he paid, and made his way over to her table.
"Agent Rivera." He said, sliding into the chair across from hers.
"Detective Mostac."
"What the heck did you order? Looks like polar bear vomit."
"Puree of mule scrotum. They tell me it's a delicacy here."
He snickered derisively. "Well, they lied. Stuff probably came out of the drain traps."
"Well, I'm glad I didn't eat any then." Ally said, making a mental note to piss all over the women's room when she got the chance.
"It scarcely matters now Ms. Rivera." Mostac quipped, scratching the tip of his large, red nose with a single forefinger.
"Now, what was it you needed to tell me earlier?"
"You're all business aren't you?" He smiled, flashing his beige teeth "I admire that in a woman. Especially one as attractive as you."
"It's the only way to get noticed in the agency...besides having bodacious tits that is." Ally said, with a quick glance down at her luscious rack.
Agent Mostac chuckled but his gaze remained fixed on hers. This man was very well trained indeed. Few had resisted the draw of her immaculate hooters. Mostac had the discipline of a monk.
"You must understand that everything I tell you is to be kept in the strictest confidence. Although I gained this intelligence decades ago, my life is still in imminent danger if it gets traced back to me. Do you understand Agent Rivera?" He said, taking a mighty pull of the thick black beer.
"Of course detective, the agency knows how to keep secrets. You might say it's our job. But if you're uncomfortable with this don't feel pressured into revealing anything you don't want to. I'm a little puzzled as to why you'd reveal such sensitive information to a relative stranger like me?"
"My boys did a little background check as soon as you arrived. We agree that you can be trusted with the information you're about to hear. In fact, we think that you need to have this information." Mostac punctuated the sentence with a grim smile.
"Well relieve my suspense then detective."
"Alright then.." Mostac muttered, he leaned in very close to Ally, so close that he could smell her delightful body butter and began:
I was trained by the British Intelligence Agency in the late 1950's. A time of crisis and uncertainty that breeds a particular brand of national paranoia. I excelled in basic training and it quickly became apparent to the higher ups that I had a rare kind of resolve which made me suitable for the most treacherous of assignments. I started off with red-level ops in East Germany and Yugoslavia and brought back reams of useful intelligence for the protection of my country.
The commander appreciated my unique skills and recommended me for an ultra-black level assignment in the USSR itself. I was subjected to additional years of training in language, military history and espionage. That's where I learned to speak without an accent. It was crucial to the kind of deep cover mission I would be performing. If I mispronounced a single syllable, the Russians would descend on me like a pack of dogs and make me regret ever being born.
In the summer of 1965 I was planted deep in Moscow through a series of field operatives. Over a hellish series of months, I travelled by rail, boat and finally horseback to my final destination, Camp 17. Nestled in a rocky crevice on the Eastern side of the Kamchatka peninsula this ultra secret installation performed some of the most important scientific experiments the Soviets could devise. Secluded in this forbidding waste the men and women of Camp 17 were unencumbered by the morals and restrictions which might otherwise have been placed upon them.
Stalin was long dead, but his paranoia still seemed to drive these scientists and enlisted men at a frenzied pace.
The snow began to fall in late August and before long I was trapped there with these madmen in perpetual darkness illuminated by only the briefest glimpses of the sun. I was to pose as a common security person, but at this forlorn institution this meant that I was expected to have more training than most Soviet commandos and I was treated with a certain level of deference.
The working hours never ceased as wave after wave of dedicated researchers toiled through the endless arctic nights. My shifts were 6 hours on, 6 hours off, 6 hours on and so on. I didn't notice the passage of time because of the artificial lighting and the lack of sunshine. I was drawn into a trance of sorts, but I never forgot my duty. I was to observe everything I possibly could and record it on tiny scrolls of plastic. These miniature scrolls were hidden in narrow cylinders inserted beneath the skin of my abdomen in a daily ordeal of silent pain.
Of course my pain was nothing in comparison to the atrocities I witnessed on a daily basis. Snow-Tracks loaded with political prisoners from the 4 corners of Russia and her satellite states arrived every Friday. After the long uninsulated trip, many of the emaciated serfs had succumbed to the raging Siberian winter, and they were the lucky ones.
The rest were hurriedly assigned to one department or another. Bio weapons, radiation research, biomedical, or the dreaded Violet program. I can yet scarcely sleep as a result of the things I saw.
Men flayed alive as they struggled against slippery leather straps. Pregnant women bombarded with gamma rays so that the effects of gestational radiation sickness could be studied. I can hardly recall the extent of these experiments but I can still see those people's faces as they were wheeled to the incinerators.
And then there was Violet. This department was run by two brothers, The Duvonoskis, Vasili and Andronev. These men were part of a family who have been the personal guard of the Tsars for generations. They were ruthless and unbelievably skilled killers who never hesitated and never relented.
These two were given only the strongest of the prisoners. Yet, despite the truly huge number of corpses Violet produced, it seemed that only a single experiment was ever performed.
Men would be loaded, ten at a time into a large chamber. A vacuum would be pulled and the men would scrabble about for a few terrible minutes before they finally expired. The freshly dead would be rushed from the chambers and prepared to receive transfusions through an artery in their neck. A large bellows like machine would draw out the victim's blood and it would be quickly replaced with a thick, purplish fluid.
The corpses were then shocked with flat metal paddles attached to a small dynamo. The bodies would twitch and convulse and once one even screamed but always death remained implacable, much to the macabre scientist's displeasure.
When it was clear that these experiments had failed, they attempted to transfuse the living. Again they were met with hideous failure as the blood draining procedure left the men as dead as before. It was then that I witnessed a truly terrible thing.
They began infusing the purple fluid before removing the prisoner's blood and the reaction was stupendous. Within seconds, the men screamed like a wounded animal and strained against their bonds with such force that several broke bones in their arms and legs. A cascade of red foam would gush from their open mouths and seemingly from every pore in their body. And they would fall dead within seconds.
The Violet team realized they had stumbled upon a potent toxin and began feverishly researching the properties of the purple stuff. They tried hundreds of routes of administration but none worked as assuredly as intravenous delivery.
It was clear that they had hoped to develop an assassin's tool in the purple fluid, but IV injections were too cumbersome and prone to failure. Then, one especially sadistic doctor decided to try a rectal delivery of the poison and the results were spectacular. And it is this day that I shall never forget as much as I might want to.
As if god were trying to increase my own suffering, the man chosen to receive this deadly enema was one I had known in my early training days, Martin Overhoff. He has obviously been captured during an operation but that he should end up here seemed unconscionably cruel.
The dose was delivered in a massive syringe as Martin cried out for mercy. Our eyes met for a brief second and I cannot tell if he recognized me but it is fortunate that he made no sign to betray my presence.
Nearly 99% of the dose was delivered to the blood and my comrade died mercifully rapidly. They had found their route of delivery and in no time at all, these human monsters had designed a sophisticated delivery probe. And I was witness to it all.
Spring came and my time at the installation was nearing its end and none too soon. I was scheduled to leave by Snow-Track but the thaw came sooner than anticipated and I was placed on a boat for the long trip back to Kiev. The boat was a small cutter and there were only two other passengers, Vasili and Andronev Duvonoski.
Although they had been the direct supervisors of Violet, I had never seen them in the laboratory and hence they had never seen me save for a few times in the mess. They talked amongst themselves mostly and never so much as glanced in my direction.
During the first week of the trip, the ship was encased in a thick coating of rock-hard sea ice which made the vessel dangerously top heavy. I was on the top deck smoking one day and met Vasili doing the same.
He nodded in my direction and lit my cigarette with a heavy scrimshaw covered lighter and resumed ignoring me. We smoked in silence for several minutes and I finally tossed my butt into the sea. As I was about to head back into the crew quarters an unexpected wave sent the ship pitching hard to the port side. Vasili and I were thrown roughly against the railing and barely avoided being thrown into the icy sea.
I was bruised but not otherwise injured. Vasili seemed to have sustained a head injury and remained prone on the slick deck boards. I approached him slowly, as one would approach a wounded bear and saw a terrible gash upon his forehead. In the manner of wounds sustained during cold weather, it had not yet begun to bleed and I could see the various layers of skin and fat which had been torn free of the gleaming white bone beneath.
Then, slowly at first the wound began to ooze. The blood was nearly black but quickly turned a vibrant maroon-purple on exposure to the air. My heart nearly stopped. Here's was the same fluid which had killed all those unfortunate men. This man's own blood was a toxin of unbelievable potency.
This information would be nearly invaluable so I quickly stooped to the deck and produced one of my plastic scrolls. Being careful not to touch the substance I smeared some on the plastic, rolled it tightly and sealed it back within its protective cylinder. I jabbed the tiny thing back into my skin and set about waking Vasili.
Like a fish dragged from the deep, the man gasped at my first slap and sat bolt upright glaring about himself with his deep set, beady little eyes. I handed him a kerchief and he held it to his forehead as the dark fluid slowly soaked it through and through.
I didn't see the brothers again and after what seemed like an endless voyage we arrived off the coast of Saudi Arabia in the final leg of our journey. I made my escape one night in a lifeboat and clambered ashore. I never looked back for fear of what I might see and by pure will, I reached land.
I soon met up with a contact and was spirited back to England over a series of weeks. I was anxious to reveal the fruits of my year spent at Camp 17 and as soon as I had recovered enough to look presentable I made my way to the secret offices of our intelligence agency. As I had my breakfast in a pub across the street from the agency I saw something that would make me an exile from my own country and a fugitive to boot.
The head of my department, a man whose real name I never knew, arrived in his private car. He stepped forth into the sunlight. But, as eager as I was to speak with him I knew better than to approach him outside of the offices. So I watched, sipping at a pint, as my life unraveled.
He took a cigarette from his front pocket and began searching for a lighter which had evidently been lost. Flummoxed, he strode about to the tinted driver's side window of the sedan and rapped gently at the window. It rolled down and my supervisor leaned in to allow his cigarette to be lit. A large rough hand protruded from within gripping a whalebone lighter. As the flame flashed, I caught a glimpse of a face I supposed I would never see again. Vasili Duvonoski.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The Baron is Disgusted Files : American Idol
The Baron is ashamed to admit that he watched about 15 minutes of American Idol last night during their auditions in Atlanta.
Now, don't get The Baron wrong, he thinks that this show is a perfect example of what's wrong with America, but he was shooting some darts and the TV happened to be on and he couldn't help but see some of it.
The Baron also realizes that the first few episodes of this serial of misery and regret, focus primarily on laughably bad singing and a baker's dozen or so of narcissists arguing with the judges. But, last night they went so far over the line in lampooning a young man named Jesse Hamilton that it disgusted The Baron.
That's right, disgusted. This is the same The Baron who has been shoulders deep in a corpse and minutes later eaten general gao's chicken with his fingers. But the way they treated this man was so outrageous that The Baron actually became nauseous, and making The Baron queasy is a Rapeousaurusable offense.
Now, what made this particular incident so egregious is just how far they went to personally destroy this young man. They didn't just make fun of him in person (Mary J. Blige laughed in his face for a solid 5 minutes) they also made a dramatization of 3 incidences where he was nearly killed. So without further ado, let's launch into Idol's finest moment.
First we get to see what Jesse looks like. A somewhat sketchy but soft spoken young man. Did The Baron mention he's a welder? What more honorable blue collar job could he possibly have. Now we see a redneck caricature that is only marginally less offensive than throwing on some black face to depict an African American contestant.
Next, we see another grossly overwrought depiction of two sons of the soil having a good old time shooting at some cans. Note the retarded expressions.
Finally, we get to see redneck-Jesse getting run down by an automobile. Note the exaggerated prat-running. Almost like a cartoon.
Mind you we're constantly reminded that this is a "cheap dramatization" so that makes it ok. The Baron can't wait to see what happens when they have a Native American on. They going to show a 1930's bugs bunny cartoon and start whooping it up and making peace pipe references?
Not that The Baron had a lot of respect for American Idol to begin with, but this just confirms that the show is firmly entrenched in the lowest echelon of television programming and is guilty of promoting the downfall of America.
Now, don't get The Baron wrong, he thinks that this show is a perfect example of what's wrong with America, but he was shooting some darts and the TV happened to be on and he couldn't help but see some of it.
The Baron also realizes that the first few episodes of this serial of misery and regret, focus primarily on laughably bad singing and a baker's dozen or so of narcissists arguing with the judges. But, last night they went so far over the line in lampooning a young man named Jesse Hamilton that it disgusted The Baron.
That's right, disgusted. This is the same The Baron who has been shoulders deep in a corpse and minutes later eaten general gao's chicken with his fingers. But the way they treated this man was so outrageous that The Baron actually became nauseous, and making The Baron queasy is a Rapeousaurusable offense.
Now, what made this particular incident so egregious is just how far they went to personally destroy this young man. They didn't just make fun of him in person (Mary J. Blige laughed in his face for a solid 5 minutes) they also made a dramatization of 3 incidences where he was nearly killed. So without further ado, let's launch into Idol's finest moment.
First we get to see what Jesse looks like. A somewhat sketchy but soft spoken young man. Did The Baron mention he's a welder? What more honorable blue collar job could he possibly have. Now we see a redneck caricature that is only marginally less offensive than throwing on some black face to depict an African American contestant.
Next, we see another grossly overwrought depiction of two sons of the soil having a good old time shooting at some cans. Note the retarded expressions.
Finally, we get to see redneck-Jesse getting run down by an automobile. Note the exaggerated prat-running. Almost like a cartoon.
Mind you we're constantly reminded that this is a "cheap dramatization" so that makes it ok. The Baron can't wait to see what happens when they have a Native American on. They going to show a 1930's bugs bunny cartoon and start whooping it up and making peace pipe references?
Not that The Baron had a lot of respect for American Idol to begin with, but this just confirms that the show is firmly entrenched in the lowest echelon of television programming and is guilty of promoting the downfall of America.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Baron's Word of the Day : Coprolite
The Baron's vocab challenge word of the day is "coprolite"
Allow The Baron to provide a concise yet perfectly descriptive definition:
Coprolite (n) ; Fossilized shit.
That's right, petrified crap. That it is even possible for crap to become fossilized is both shocking and intriguing to The Baron.
Shocking because it implies that dung beetles are doing a less than adequate job of consuming feces. The Baron means, what are our tax dollars paying for? Are these insects unionized or something, like the teamsters? Is there one beetle for every 3 paychecks being collected? Or, do they assign 4 bugs to a mound of shit that one bug could handle and then the other three just sit around smoking cigarettes and complaining about minorities? But enough of that.
This information is intriguing to The Baron because many of his um, leavings, are worthy of immortality both for their design, and sheer magnificence.
So readers, The Baron has another favor to ask. Think of a location near you where poop might easily become fossilized. This can be a tar pit, bog, muddy river bank, dry lake bed, inland sea or volcanic ash pit. Have you thought of such a place yet? Good!
Next, send The Baron a prepaid USPS box...you know, the flat rate kind? One of the big ones. In 2-4 weeks you will receive an official The Baron Brand Sunrise Steam Log vacuum packed and on dry ice. Take this pre-coprolite to your designated location and bury it not less than 3 feet below the ground.
Make sure to mark the spot, and while you're at it, buy a nearby plot of land. Make sure that at least one branch of your family lives there for the next 80,000 years or so remembering to pass down the legend of the petrified log.
When the allotted time has passed, your ancestors should dig up the (hopefully) fossilized dung and mail it to the following address:
The Baron
c/o The Immortal Space Tyrant's Fetching Wench
The Invulnerable and also Invisible Space Zepplin
Everywhere at once and always watching, 00001.
P.S. Postage will be one trillion dollars, so better start saving.
Allow The Baron to provide a concise yet perfectly descriptive definition:
Coprolite (n) ; Fossilized shit.
That's right, petrified crap. That it is even possible for crap to become fossilized is both shocking and intriguing to The Baron.
Shocking because it implies that dung beetles are doing a less than adequate job of consuming feces. The Baron means, what are our tax dollars paying for? Are these insects unionized or something, like the teamsters? Is there one beetle for every 3 paychecks being collected? Or, do they assign 4 bugs to a mound of shit that one bug could handle and then the other three just sit around smoking cigarettes and complaining about minorities? But enough of that.
This information is intriguing to The Baron because many of his um, leavings, are worthy of immortality both for their design, and sheer magnificence.
So readers, The Baron has another favor to ask. Think of a location near you where poop might easily become fossilized. This can be a tar pit, bog, muddy river bank, dry lake bed, inland sea or volcanic ash pit. Have you thought of such a place yet? Good!
Next, send The Baron a prepaid USPS box...you know, the flat rate kind? One of the big ones. In 2-4 weeks you will receive an official The Baron Brand Sunrise Steam Log vacuum packed and on dry ice. Take this pre-coprolite to your designated location and bury it not less than 3 feet below the ground.
Make sure to mark the spot, and while you're at it, buy a nearby plot of land. Make sure that at least one branch of your family lives there for the next 80,000 years or so remembering to pass down the legend of the petrified log.
When the allotted time has passed, your ancestors should dig up the (hopefully) fossilized dung and mail it to the following address:
The Baron
c/o The Immortal Space Tyrant's Fetching Wench
The Invulnerable and also Invisible Space Zepplin
Everywhere at once and always watching, 00001.
P.S. Postage will be one trillion dollars, so better start saving.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Due to Popular Request
The Baron has compiled a single file containing the entire thriller novel which will be updated weekly.
Some of you expressed your desire to have the entire novel placed in a single location in order to make it easier to follow and review the plot.
Well here it is:
The Copenhagen Corollary
Some of you expressed your desire to have the entire novel placed in a single location in order to make it easier to follow and review the plot.
Well here it is:
The Copenhagen Corollary
The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 7
Still Zurich, who really cares what time, let's just say it's dark out.
After what seemed like hours of searching, but what was likely exactly 5.3 minutes, Roy located a suitable vehicle for his escape. A teal 1992 Ford Escort.
It was not that Roy was particularly impressed with the vehicle's top speed, handling, styling, interior, amenities, performance, reliability, crash worthiness, maximum torque, braking distance, visibility or odor, but that he was sure it would be easy to steal.
Roy approached the car and quickly scanned the front seat. Copious fast food wrappings, empty cans, old newspapers and assorted filth littered the floor. Importantly however, there was not a single condom, used or otherwise or any item which might have belonged to a woman under any circumstances.
This vehicle, like all Escorts, was undoubtedly owned by a solitary geek, a miscreant with no real friends and a healthy appetite for everything internetized.
Roy scanned the surrounding residential buildings for an unusually high density of data cables. On the 3rd floor of a nearby hovel, he spied a thick bundle of black wires snaking through a partially open window and perceived the characteristic glow of the neon lights designed to show off the innards of a computer.
Roy quietly jogged to the sidewalk below the dwelling and searched for a suitable stone. He rummaged in the gutter for a few seconds and came up with the chipped corner of some ancient brick. Gingerly, Roy tossed the stone at the cable-raped window. With a surprisingly loud crash, the small stone plowed through the evidently very cheap glass and clattered to the floor within.
"What ze fuck!" came the cry from within, conveniently in English and not Swisshili.
The man poked his ponderous, pimple encrusted face from the window suspiciously pivoting his deeply sunken pig-like eyes.
"You going to pay for that window asshole?!" the man bellowed down at Roy.
"Even better, I'm going to do you a gigantic favor."
"Oh and why shouldn't I come down there and kick your ass instead?"
"Well for one, I'm guessing it would take you about 45 minutes to get down the stairs, and for two I'm willing to take your car for free."
"Who the fuck do you think....Wait, you'd take that cumbucket of an Escort off my hands, no questions asked?"
"No questions asked."
"And I wouldn't have to pay you?"
"Not one thin mark."
"What's the catch?"
"Just don't tell anyone you saw me."
"Hmmm, so I save the 3000 mark Escort disposal fee...."
"And all you do is give me the keys and keep your mouth shut."
"Deal."
The pudgy man waddled back into the depths of his apartment and reappeared moments later dangling a set of keys from the window.
Without any hesitation the nerd dropped the ring. They clattered to the sidewalk and Roy quickly scuttled over to pick them up. They were extremely light, no doubt made of the cheapest available metal. Roy stood and motioned to thank the filthy geek, but he had retreated back into the depths of his no doubt highly malodorous dwelling.
"Thank you, sweet prince." Roy muttered, already jogging towards what could just barely pass as an automobile.
Roy unlocked the driver's side door. As he removed the keys, the entire locking mechanism pulled free and he struggled to dislodge it.
"Stupid cock-raping piece of shit!" He hissed, finally removing the clinging jumble of gears and cogs from the keys.
Roy lowered himself gingerly to the lawn chair that passed as the driver's seat. With a sinister hiss a foul cloud of dust and spores escaped from the thin padding within. He turned the the ignition and a terrible screeching sound emitting from under the hood. With a clattering of gears and a tremendous puff of blue smoke the car settled into an uneven idle rife with backfires and near stalls.
"Wow, this thing is in great shape" Roy mused checking the odometer "yup, only 200 miles, guy must have only driven it to the porn store on Sundays."
A sharp splintering sound disturbed Roy's revelry.
"What the fuck!?"
Roy barely had time to react before the second and third bullets crashed through the rear windshield and embedded themselves in the cheap, plastic dashboard.
Roy slammed the accelerator to the floor, trying as best he could to keep his head out of the line of fire.
With a deafening scream, the car lunged to 15 miles an hour in only 45 seconds. Roy wrenched the wheel to the right and with a momentary delay the car surged around the corner.
Several more bullets zinged into the trunk before passing all the way out the front of the Escort, narrowly missing Roy's legs. It was as if the car was constructed of cardboard, or metalized cardboard of some kind.
Roy dared a glance in the mirror at his attacker.
A man was sprinting down the street firing an enormous pistol. He passed beneath a street light and he was briefly illuminated.
The man's neck was crooked at an unnatural angle, purplish and bruised. His face was a mask of rage. The hair on Roy's neck stood painfully upright. It was the probe man.
After what seemed like hours of searching, but what was likely exactly 5.3 minutes, Roy located a suitable vehicle for his escape. A teal 1992 Ford Escort.
It was not that Roy was particularly impressed with the vehicle's top speed, handling, styling, interior, amenities, performance, reliability, crash worthiness, maximum torque, braking distance, visibility or odor, but that he was sure it would be easy to steal.
Roy approached the car and quickly scanned the front seat. Copious fast food wrappings, empty cans, old newspapers and assorted filth littered the floor. Importantly however, there was not a single condom, used or otherwise or any item which might have belonged to a woman under any circumstances.
This vehicle, like all Escorts, was undoubtedly owned by a solitary geek, a miscreant with no real friends and a healthy appetite for everything internetized.
Roy scanned the surrounding residential buildings for an unusually high density of data cables. On the 3rd floor of a nearby hovel, he spied a thick bundle of black wires snaking through a partially open window and perceived the characteristic glow of the neon lights designed to show off the innards of a computer.
Roy quietly jogged to the sidewalk below the dwelling and searched for a suitable stone. He rummaged in the gutter for a few seconds and came up with the chipped corner of some ancient brick. Gingerly, Roy tossed the stone at the cable-raped window. With a surprisingly loud crash, the small stone plowed through the evidently very cheap glass and clattered to the floor within.
"What ze fuck!" came the cry from within, conveniently in English and not Swisshili.
The man poked his ponderous, pimple encrusted face from the window suspiciously pivoting his deeply sunken pig-like eyes.
"You going to pay for that window asshole?!" the man bellowed down at Roy.
"Even better, I'm going to do you a gigantic favor."
"Oh and why shouldn't I come down there and kick your ass instead?"
"Well for one, I'm guessing it would take you about 45 minutes to get down the stairs, and for two I'm willing to take your car for free."
"Who the fuck do you think....Wait, you'd take that cumbucket of an Escort off my hands, no questions asked?"
"No questions asked."
"And I wouldn't have to pay you?"
"Not one thin mark."
"What's the catch?"
"Just don't tell anyone you saw me."
"Hmmm, so I save the 3000 mark Escort disposal fee...."
"And all you do is give me the keys and keep your mouth shut."
"Deal."
The pudgy man waddled back into the depths of his apartment and reappeared moments later dangling a set of keys from the window.
Without any hesitation the nerd dropped the ring. They clattered to the sidewalk and Roy quickly scuttled over to pick them up. They were extremely light, no doubt made of the cheapest available metal. Roy stood and motioned to thank the filthy geek, but he had retreated back into the depths of his no doubt highly malodorous dwelling.
"Thank you, sweet prince." Roy muttered, already jogging towards what could just barely pass as an automobile.
Roy unlocked the driver's side door. As he removed the keys, the entire locking mechanism pulled free and he struggled to dislodge it.
"Stupid cock-raping piece of shit!" He hissed, finally removing the clinging jumble of gears and cogs from the keys.
Roy lowered himself gingerly to the lawn chair that passed as the driver's seat. With a sinister hiss a foul cloud of dust and spores escaped from the thin padding within. He turned the the ignition and a terrible screeching sound emitting from under the hood. With a clattering of gears and a tremendous puff of blue smoke the car settled into an uneven idle rife with backfires and near stalls.
"Wow, this thing is in great shape" Roy mused checking the odometer "yup, only 200 miles, guy must have only driven it to the porn store on Sundays."
A sharp splintering sound disturbed Roy's revelry.
"What the fuck!?"
Roy barely had time to react before the second and third bullets crashed through the rear windshield and embedded themselves in the cheap, plastic dashboard.
Roy slammed the accelerator to the floor, trying as best he could to keep his head out of the line of fire.
With a deafening scream, the car lunged to 15 miles an hour in only 45 seconds. Roy wrenched the wheel to the right and with a momentary delay the car surged around the corner.
Several more bullets zinged into the trunk before passing all the way out the front of the Escort, narrowly missing Roy's legs. It was as if the car was constructed of cardboard, or metalized cardboard of some kind.
Roy dared a glance in the mirror at his attacker.
A man was sprinting down the street firing an enormous pistol. He passed beneath a street light and he was briefly illuminated.
The man's neck was crooked at an unnatural angle, purplish and bruised. His face was a mask of rage. The hair on Roy's neck stood painfully upright. It was the probe man.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Baron Intends to Breed with this Woman...Fetch her for Him
During The Baron's heroic, daily slog through the intertubes, he often spies ads for t-shirts. Purportedly these "tees" are crass, clever, and funny, intelligently so.
While The Baron thinks intelligently funny should mean shirts that dispense liquor or launch a fusillade of sharp quills when the wearer is threatened (porcushirt?), he cannot help but be entranced by the spokeswoman for said vestments.
Look at her!! Look at the size of her mouth!
In most cases The Baron would find this to be a repulsive feature, but in this siren he finds it alluring and bonerifying.
Having read this far and assuming your unflinching loyalty to The Baron and his numerous, violent and unpredictable mood swings, you should have already begun packing your t-shirt model traps and bait.
The Baron will remain in his comfortable abode, drinking constantly and trying on various robes until you have captured, wrapped and delivered The Baroness-2 to The Baron's bed chambers for breeding purposes.
P.S. if you see The Baroness in the near future tell her The Baron went mule deer hunting in the badlands, and then try to knock her out with something so The Baron can get a head start.
While The Baron thinks intelligently funny should mean shirts that dispense liquor or launch a fusillade of sharp quills when the wearer is threatened (porcushirt?), he cannot help but be entranced by the spokeswoman for said vestments.
Look at her!! Look at the size of her mouth!In most cases The Baron would find this to be a repulsive feature, but in this siren he finds it alluring and bonerifying.
Having read this far and assuming your unflinching loyalty to The Baron and his numerous, violent and unpredictable mood swings, you should have already begun packing your t-shirt model traps and bait.
The Baron will remain in his comfortable abode, drinking constantly and trying on various robes until you have captured, wrapped and delivered The Baroness-2 to The Baron's bed chambers for breeding purposes.
P.S. if you see The Baroness in the near future tell her The Baron went mule deer hunting in the badlands, and then try to knock her out with something so The Baron can get a head start.Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 6
Zurich 6pm:
Roy gingerly lowered his rump into the chair. It was fair to say that his ass had never hurt this much in his entire life. The rectal printing had been a humiliating ordeal rife with crying, pleading and plenty of sodomy.
But, what could Roy expect? He was being railroaded for a crime he didn't commit in a country that seemed to love violating anuses.
The burly technician rolled his now filthy metal cart out of the interrogation room. The steel door clanged shut with a verve which Roy's butthole would never again muster.
"Can I ever fart again?" Roy wondered.
He leaned to one side and attempted to tear ass. Straining through the tears Roy managed to create a weak, wet sounding little hiss. With mounting trepidation, he gingerly checked his scooby doo underpants.
"Gah!! NOOO!!" Roy screamed.
There was shit in his underoos. The Swiss had ruined his life once and for all.
Roy began to pace the room wrenching at his hair with soiled fingers. He kicked the rickety chair and it toppled into the corner. A heavily distorted voice rang out from someplace near the ceiling.
"Refrain from kicking the chair!"
Roy glared at the two way mirror comprising one entire wall of the room and grimaced, hoping to impart at least a small part of his pain on whatever greasy Swissman was watching. Roy studied his contorted face and grunted with approval.
"At least I still have my rugged good looks." He assured himself.
Roy cowboy-walked to the corner, righted the chair and sat. Who could tell how long these treacherous Swiss would make him wait? It was probably part of their interrogation technique to allow his swollen ass to fester for a few hours before offering a small concession, like a seat cushion or some advil.
The door lock engaged, clicking loudly. Roy jumped at the abruptness of it and the sudden muscle tension caused his ass to throb with pain.
The butt-probe man re-entered the room.
"eh, I forgot part of the scan herr Gimbel. Got to do it again."
Roy glanced into the two way mirror, his face a mask of panic. Begging them, beseeching them to put a halt to this rectal oppression. The tight appearance of his reflected face reminded him of his father's death mask.
That same panic. That same anguish he'd seen on Robert's pale visage.... suddenly Roy remembered a conversation he'd had with Robert in the summer of his 13th birthday and he drifted from reality in the intense recollection.
They had been sitting by the lake, fishing, kind of like in that commercial for life insurance where they show a bunch of old people doing shit in what looks like Alaska.
"Roy, you're becoming a man and I think you're old enough now to hear some things about the world." His father began.
"Like what kind of things dad?" Roy replied, pushing his grungy locks out of his eyes.
"Well three things really. First, Don't ever go down on a woman before she takes a shower in the morning. You know what that means son? Go down on?"
"Um..."
"Well sometimes a man feels the need to put his face all up in a lady's boiler room, her snatch you see my boy."
"What's a snatch?"
Roy's father placed the palms of his hands together and spread the middle and ring fingers apart. Holding his hands out vertically, he indicated that Roy should do the same with his hands, turn them horizontally. When Roy had done this the old man said:
"Now mesh your fingers with mine, pull your hands apart and look inside my lad."
Roy did as his father instructed and beheld a sight which would stay with him for his entire life. That angry, tight looking little slit. That was what the girls were hiding in their skirts and bloomers and butch suit pants.
"Now you see what a snooter is my young man. It's the landing bay to a woman's air craft carrier, the chute thing that Luke falls down to her Cloud city of Bespin, the overflow tract to her hoover damn and one cornerstone of our great business."
"Wow dad, thanks." Roy replied, a twinkle of wonder in his eye.
"So where was I?"
"Don't go down on a woman before she takes a shower in the morning."
"Ah yes, make doubly sure, thing can get like one of those styrofoam incubators you hatch chicks in in biology class. Second, if you ever clog the toilet at another person's home, lock the bathroom door, jump out the window and sneak back into the house, then pretend that you don't know who's in the can and complain about it with the rest of the guests, then leave before they find out there's no one in the bathroom. Third and most importantly, don't ever allow a Swissman to penetrate your ass. At first it may seem like harmless fun, but its deadly serious business. I'd make a face like this if I ever got sodomized by a filthy Swissman."
Roy could picture that look, that sticken look, frozen on his father's cold, lifeless face. And suddenly he realized something. Something terrible. His father had been butt-violated mere moments before his death. Roy's heart began to race.
"Calm down Roy." he thought. "Can't let that goon see how flustered you are. He'll know you know!"
The bulky man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a particularly bulbous looking probe. It was not one that Roy recognized from the earlier ass-tango and he sensed that there was something different about it, something sinister.
"Now bend over Mr. Gimbel and we'll get this over with."
Roy glared silently and then pretended to oblige. He bent over the chair and pulled his reeking pants to his knees. The goon approached in measured steps and began sighting down the shaft of the terrible probe, lining it up with Roy's bloated chocolate starfish.
Roy could sense the probe nearing his cornhole and feel the man's breath on his majestic forest of ass hair. He would have to time this perfectly.
With a sudden explosion of force Roy lunged backwards, grunting with exertion. His buttocks wrapped nearly halfway around the interrogator's face. The man let out a muffled shriek of surprise as Roy rode his head to the hard cement floor. Roy twisted his hips with a mighty effort. A surprisingly loud pop sounded as the man's neck dislocated and his last breath escaped as a raspberry between Roy's cheeks.
Roy jumped to his feet and began fumbling for the keys the man had attached to his belt. Finally grasping the ring, he tore them free. After a few wrong guesses Roy located the correct key and carefully cracked the armored door.
Why wans't the man behind the mirror raising the alarm? Could it be that there was no one in that room at all?
Roy cautiously entered the hallway and began slinking towards the nearest exit stairwell. The door to the observation room was slightly ajar. For some unexplainable reason, Roy couldn't resist the urge to peek inside. The room was dimly lit with a red light, but what Roy saw chilled him to the bone.
Two men in Swiss poliz uniforms were slumped over a black console covered with blinking lights. Both men were covered in bloody foam so fresh that is still fizzed and popped like champagne.
Roy quietly latched the door and ran toward the stairs at a brisk trot. The building seemed deserted. Roy was terrified that an inspector would pop into the hallway at any moment.
Roy quickly glanced up at the hall clock. 6:15pm. With immeasurable relief, he realized that it was the traditional Swiss evening meal hour and that most of the officers were likely gorging on sheep's testicles and bull penis in local establishments.
Roy slinked into the stairwell and reached the ground level with surprising speed. He exited through a red, metal door into a freezing alley behind the station.
"As long as I stay out of sight.." Roy reasoned "I can slip out of here before the poliz realize I'm gone.."
Roy padded down the frozen alley and onto a back street trying not to look over his shoulder too many times.
What Roy needed now was a car.
Roy gingerly lowered his rump into the chair. It was fair to say that his ass had never hurt this much in his entire life. The rectal printing had been a humiliating ordeal rife with crying, pleading and plenty of sodomy.
But, what could Roy expect? He was being railroaded for a crime he didn't commit in a country that seemed to love violating anuses.
The burly technician rolled his now filthy metal cart out of the interrogation room. The steel door clanged shut with a verve which Roy's butthole would never again muster.
"Can I ever fart again?" Roy wondered.
He leaned to one side and attempted to tear ass. Straining through the tears Roy managed to create a weak, wet sounding little hiss. With mounting trepidation, he gingerly checked his scooby doo underpants.
"Gah!! NOOO!!" Roy screamed.
There was shit in his underoos. The Swiss had ruined his life once and for all.
Roy began to pace the room wrenching at his hair with soiled fingers. He kicked the rickety chair and it toppled into the corner. A heavily distorted voice rang out from someplace near the ceiling.
"Refrain from kicking the chair!"
Roy glared at the two way mirror comprising one entire wall of the room and grimaced, hoping to impart at least a small part of his pain on whatever greasy Swissman was watching. Roy studied his contorted face and grunted with approval.
"At least I still have my rugged good looks." He assured himself.
Roy cowboy-walked to the corner, righted the chair and sat. Who could tell how long these treacherous Swiss would make him wait? It was probably part of their interrogation technique to allow his swollen ass to fester for a few hours before offering a small concession, like a seat cushion or some advil.
The door lock engaged, clicking loudly. Roy jumped at the abruptness of it and the sudden muscle tension caused his ass to throb with pain.
The butt-probe man re-entered the room.
"eh, I forgot part of the scan herr Gimbel. Got to do it again."
Roy glanced into the two way mirror, his face a mask of panic. Begging them, beseeching them to put a halt to this rectal oppression. The tight appearance of his reflected face reminded him of his father's death mask.
That same panic. That same anguish he'd seen on Robert's pale visage.... suddenly Roy remembered a conversation he'd had with Robert in the summer of his 13th birthday and he drifted from reality in the intense recollection.
They had been sitting by the lake, fishing, kind of like in that commercial for life insurance where they show a bunch of old people doing shit in what looks like Alaska.
"Roy, you're becoming a man and I think you're old enough now to hear some things about the world." His father began.
"Like what kind of things dad?" Roy replied, pushing his grungy locks out of his eyes.
"Well three things really. First, Don't ever go down on a woman before she takes a shower in the morning. You know what that means son? Go down on?"
"Um..."
"Well sometimes a man feels the need to put his face all up in a lady's boiler room, her snatch you see my boy."
"What's a snatch?"
Roy's father placed the palms of his hands together and spread the middle and ring fingers apart. Holding his hands out vertically, he indicated that Roy should do the same with his hands, turn them horizontally. When Roy had done this the old man said:
"Now mesh your fingers with mine, pull your hands apart and look inside my lad."
Roy did as his father instructed and beheld a sight which would stay with him for his entire life. That angry, tight looking little slit. That was what the girls were hiding in their skirts and bloomers and butch suit pants.
"Now you see what a snooter is my young man. It's the landing bay to a woman's air craft carrier, the chute thing that Luke falls down to her Cloud city of Bespin, the overflow tract to her hoover damn and one cornerstone of our great business."
"Wow dad, thanks." Roy replied, a twinkle of wonder in his eye.
"So where was I?"
"Don't go down on a woman before she takes a shower in the morning."
"Ah yes, make doubly sure, thing can get like one of those styrofoam incubators you hatch chicks in in biology class. Second, if you ever clog the toilet at another person's home, lock the bathroom door, jump out the window and sneak back into the house, then pretend that you don't know who's in the can and complain about it with the rest of the guests, then leave before they find out there's no one in the bathroom. Third and most importantly, don't ever allow a Swissman to penetrate your ass. At first it may seem like harmless fun, but its deadly serious business. I'd make a face like this if I ever got sodomized by a filthy Swissman."
Roy could picture that look, that sticken look, frozen on his father's cold, lifeless face. And suddenly he realized something. Something terrible. His father had been butt-violated mere moments before his death. Roy's heart began to race.
"Calm down Roy." he thought. "Can't let that goon see how flustered you are. He'll know you know!"
The bulky man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a particularly bulbous looking probe. It was not one that Roy recognized from the earlier ass-tango and he sensed that there was something different about it, something sinister.
"Now bend over Mr. Gimbel and we'll get this over with."
Roy glared silently and then pretended to oblige. He bent over the chair and pulled his reeking pants to his knees. The goon approached in measured steps and began sighting down the shaft of the terrible probe, lining it up with Roy's bloated chocolate starfish.
Roy could sense the probe nearing his cornhole and feel the man's breath on his majestic forest of ass hair. He would have to time this perfectly.
With a sudden explosion of force Roy lunged backwards, grunting with exertion. His buttocks wrapped nearly halfway around the interrogator's face. The man let out a muffled shriek of surprise as Roy rode his head to the hard cement floor. Roy twisted his hips with a mighty effort. A surprisingly loud pop sounded as the man's neck dislocated and his last breath escaped as a raspberry between Roy's cheeks.
Roy jumped to his feet and began fumbling for the keys the man had attached to his belt. Finally grasping the ring, he tore them free. After a few wrong guesses Roy located the correct key and carefully cracked the armored door.
Why wans't the man behind the mirror raising the alarm? Could it be that there was no one in that room at all?
Roy cautiously entered the hallway and began slinking towards the nearest exit stairwell. The door to the observation room was slightly ajar. For some unexplainable reason, Roy couldn't resist the urge to peek inside. The room was dimly lit with a red light, but what Roy saw chilled him to the bone.
Two men in Swiss poliz uniforms were slumped over a black console covered with blinking lights. Both men were covered in bloody foam so fresh that is still fizzed and popped like champagne.
Roy quietly latched the door and ran toward the stairs at a brisk trot. The building seemed deserted. Roy was terrified that an inspector would pop into the hallway at any moment.
Roy quickly glanced up at the hall clock. 6:15pm. With immeasurable relief, he realized that it was the traditional Swiss evening meal hour and that most of the officers were likely gorging on sheep's testicles and bull penis in local establishments.
Roy slinked into the stairwell and reached the ground level with surprising speed. He exited through a red, metal door into a freezing alley behind the station.
"As long as I stay out of sight.." Roy reasoned "I can slip out of here before the poliz realize I'm gone.."
Roy padded down the frozen alley and onto a back street trying not to look over his shoulder too many times.
What Roy needed now was a car.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
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