The Feminine Thief Mystique

Lord Turnips decided that he had seen one too many coincidences when Admiral Rossoroni handed him the calling card from Salina the thief. "Struth! 'tis just like my dream."

"D'ya mean?" The Admiral inquired. Incredulous at the strange portent of this female thief having appeared in the dreams of his friend Turnips.

"Pon my soul, I had a dream of this cleric figure named Hannon and . . ."

"D'you just say 'Hannon'"? Interupted Rossoroni. "'Hannon' is a name you insisted we call you during the battle with the Sahuagin. You seemed to have slipped into some sort of battle fever and spoke in tongues. You were quite the show, Old Bean."

"Hmmm?" Turnips pondered the meanings of this revelation. He knew that he had recently been through some strange blackout periods that happened to coincide with his band of voyager's greatest excitement.

Of course Admiral Rossoroni feared something like this would happen when he put his friend Turnips through a fortnight of mental conditioning in order to help him overcome an addiction to cane sugar. The "sugar cure" that Turnips signed up for provided a freebie for Rossoroni. He used the opportunity to train his normally sedentary friend into a autotomic weapon that could be useful in situations like the Sahuagin attack. but the entire dynamic of Hannon, (to say nothing of this Salina figure) was not in the programing.

"So who is this Salina?" Rossoroni asked.

"Really I'm not sure. I can't even put a fix on her face. I seem to know she's charmingly lovely but its sort of a blur. Perhaps I can get a fix if I take another nap."

"Well can you describe her at all?"

"Hmmm....maybe a sort of Vanessa Hudgens meets Xena appearance?"

(Vanessa Hudgens: Cuter than puppies)

(Lucy Lawless as Xena: Sorta attractive, but definitely bad ass)

He paused . . . "Maybe a little bit of Hallee Barry in there."

(Hallee Barry: Hollywood Icon)

He paused again . . . "Seems like she's got some sharp corners too. Like she's got this sense of propriety. She's very independent."

(Betty Friedan: Feminist Icon and communist agitator)

"Here, I'll try to sketch her."

(Salina?)

The Queen of Diamonds Redux

Before Zimbar could reply Bocking continued “Well I guess, on second thought its really sort of an odd amalgamation of flesh golem and bronze or brass, I can never quite tell.”

“Wow, check this out” Zimbar exclaimed as he lifted the chest plate, “It’s a secret chamber and there’s a business card inside.”

“Fork it over munchkin”

“Hey, what’s with the munchkin talk?”

“You see Zimbar my simple friend, it’s your crainial capacity I reference, not your stature”

“Ooh I get it”

“I don’t think you do, now let me examine this calling card.”

“Alright already, don’t get your chain mail in a wad.”

Bocking examined the card, turning it over and over again in his fingers, “Classic white vellum with narrow blue piping below the logo – this is the work of elvish printers. Hmm, this reads (in old elvish and common), ‘Manses Burgled, Marks Charmed , Security Systems Evaluated’ and it has a name and address on it as well - ‘Salina, 10^th Level Thief, The Goblin’s Head Tavern, No. 8 Kierkegaard Square’.”

Zimbar was elated “Do you think she’s cute?”

“Would you please focus on the task at hand?” Bocking continued, “I think she has something we want, namely the device that was stored here inside Fedor for safekeeping – I wonder if we can get this Fedor-golem started.”

Meanwhile, topside, Turnips awoke with a rude sunburn. He’d been tormented by dreams of Hannon again but this time another figure from his past had appeared – a charming and dexterous thief. It was a sign surely. He would alert the Admiral to put in at the next port – he remembered her having an office there in a tavern on Kierkegaard Square. That tavern was kind of odd in that it was frequented by young people in black turtleneck chainmail but the hot chocolate and hummus they served was delicious!

Turnips was momentarily lost in thought but the knocking at his cabin door proved hard to ignore.

“Come in – its open” he called out

Woody and the Admiral entered.

“So what do you think about this Fedor business Woody?” Turnips asked.

“Why Fedor is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human being I've ever known in my life.” Woody replied.

Like a Shiny Metaphor Burning with the Heat of a Thousand Suns

Lord Turnips was sorrow-filled from the [apparent] death of Fedor. He decided to take to his cabin aboard the Planetary Sovereign. As he drifted off to sleep he noted that he had blacked out during a portion of the fight with the sea creatures and had missed the action [or so he thought?].

He began to dream again of Hannon the ennui-suffering, troll-slaying, time-travelling, cleric of Heimdall. The Heimdall the vaunted guardian of Asgard that would have no sympathy for one of his more powerful lords moping about after achieving all of his life goals. Yeah, that Heimdall.

Hannon decided to talk to Trose, the uni-dimensional, non-player character he met during his encounter with a demon spider goddess Lolth in the infamous Q1 Module Queen of the Demonweb Pits.* Sadly, Trose was only good for basic lawful good advice and could be relied upon to reveal no true insights into the kind of metaphysical suffering Hannon faced. Lawful good characters were supposed to be so devout and true to their beliefs that you seldom saw them at cafes, clad in black turtlenecks, chain-smoking unfiltered Gauloises and reading Sartre or Kierkegard.

Trose offered that perhaps if Hannon, on bended knee prayed and made certain offerings things might become clearer. As Trose said this he placed an encouraging hand on Hannon's shoulder. After a few minutes of looking into Hannon's eyes in a blandly spiritual way, Trose placed a very alarming hand on Hannon's hip. Hannon abruptly got up and left the vestibule where Trose kept his sacraments to some never clearly delinated god of a different pantheon from Asgard. No wonder Trose had never married.

Hannon decided to go visit a female friend, the lawful good thief Salina. Salina was a dazzling person to talk to and she was as beautiful as she was dexterous [charisma 17 and dexterity 17...see?] As usual, Salina was in the nearby Theocracy of the Pale gaol because she had left her calling card at the scene of her latest crime. This was an occupational hazard of a life of thieving as a lawful good character. Poor Salina, was enormously proficient in footpadding and cutpursing from evil characters, but the line between good and evil was becoming especially blurry now that major combat operations in the Troll Fens had come to an end.

Salina and Hannon had never been a romantic item because it was strictly professional between them [again: lawful good]. But Hannon was fond of Salina in a chaste, blood allies; till the poisonous death; self-sacrificing; powerful sense of emotional longing; is this sounding too much like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon sort of way. His feelings perhaps could no longer be denied now that he was suffering so. Perhaps this comely lass could shake him from the horse latitudes in which he found himself? Hannon was sure that Salina was also fond of him. Still it was possible that she also kept a warm spot in her heart for the co-leader of the party John Wisshard. It was all so complicated to consider. Hannon became distraught with inertia.

Perhaps it would be best if he approached Salina about changing the nature of their professional relationship under some pretext rather than just coming out and asking? His warrior heart weighed him with the combined gravity of over 1000 suns and burned slightly less hot but still his chest thumped as if 1000 plate armor barding-clad warhorses were charging on the dry stones of very hot desert. Hannon considered coming out and asking Salina to be his helpmate in a more familial sense. He considered his options. Perhaps he could think of some excuse to meet her in the boat house? Such a scheme might blow up in his face because as a lawful good cleric he was not supposed to be deceptive and surely Salina would be as filled with rage as . . . a something that is filled with an enormous amount of rage. Salina would be filled with nearly 1000 burning suns full of rage. Perhaps it was time to make a direct inquiry of Heimdall? Perhaps he would sanction a union of such a powerful force as Salinas with a favored warrior-cleric?

Hannon realized that he thought of the 1000 sun metaphor before and as he considered why he would be thinking that . . . Lord Turnips awoke with a start as he realized that he left his tanning lamp on in his cabin of the Planetary Sovereign. Crikey! He was going to have some bad sunburn.

*Q1 Queen of the Demonweb Pits (1980) is the final chapter in the mega-adventure which includes T1-4 The Temple of Elemental Evil, A1-4 Scourge of the Slave Lords, G1-3 Against the Giants, D1-2 Descent Into the Depths of the Earth, and D3 Vault of the Drow.

The Lamp's Turgid Savage Gleam!

At dinner that night, a rather somber affair given the events of the day, the party assembled to enjoy a meal at the Captain's table.

Sir Bocking leaned over to whisper conspiratorially to Zimbar, the halfling paladin, "You know, Zimbar, old mate - Something about that Fedor death speech didn't sound quite cricket to me."

"I know" Zimbar replied, nodding in a knowing fashion, "It seemed like a bit of diabolical overacting, if you know what I mean."

"No dumbkopf, that's not what I meant" Bocking replied testily.

"I mean didn't you think he knew just a bit too much about geometry, mechanics and naval grade rope ?" Bocking continued.

"Ooooh, I get it now"

"I'm not sure you do"

Finally, Zimbar suggested that the two excuse themselves and pay their "final respects" to Fedor in the Planetary Sovereign's chapel in order to settle the matter once and for all.

Sir Bocking got up and addressed the guests "Zimbar and I will be heading down to the chapel to see poor old Fedor off - by the way, my compliments to the chef, that 'Mindblower Sandwich' was simply delicious!"

A few moments later, the pair found themselves in the chapel facing Fedor's lifeless body now laying atop a makeshift funeral pyre.

Zimbar was first to speak "This is awfully strange - but I didn't notice .."

Zimbar did not finish the statement for he noticed two others were in the chapel as well, Cash the coffin maker and Vardaman the fool.

Vardaman had an old cane pole laying across his knees.

Cash says to him "You ain't gonna catch any fish down here - ain't nuthin' down here - you need to go up on deck."

Vardaman answered, "Aw hell Cash, cain't you see that them turnip greens are mightly spindly eating for a fellow of my frame."

Cash ignored the comment and returned to planing then stopped and squinted to check the trueness of the plank. He wanted to make sure he got the bevel just right on account of animal magnetism.

"Hand me 'nother one Vardaman, will ya?"

Bocking broke in just in time to save Zimbar from further moronic speech, "Oh just ignore those two yokels ... look at Fedor, there's no blood!"

"Great Heimdall!" Zimbar exclaimed, "And, look at this" He pointed to a place where Fedor's skin had been abraded by a Sahuagin flail.

"Merciful Idun!" and Bocking retreated a step, "This isn't Fedor, its a Fedor-shaped IRON GOLLEM!"

The Wheat, the Wheat

As Fedor lay dying, Rushing, the naïve young druid, knelt and supported Fedor’s head.

Fedor croaked, “Alas and alackady, for now I shall be unable to follow you, my brothers and sisters into glorious combat with that most wicked of Sorcerers, Tornaga!”

The gathered adventurers murmured their assent as Rushing tried to reassure Fedor that everything was going to be ok. Sir Bocking started to say something untoward but was knocked into politeness by one of those wooden billy club looking things you see on the rails of sailing vessels.

“Do not vorry, Fedor my friend – ve shall have ze cleric cure your wounds; I’m sure vee haf many healing potions!” Penna the younger added gravely, looking round at the Admiral’s younger brother, Carolus Quintus.

Carolus Quintus replied after a moment, “Uh, well about dem potions, uh, I had to give them to Sir Bocking – he had a really bad tummy ache.”

The scene was about to get ugly but Fedor broke in and called for the Admiral to come closer.

Fedor spoke, his face a portrait of nobility, “Admiral Rossaroni, I’ve got to tell you, I’ve solved the Kobayashi Maru test – chart the parabolic course through the merman neutral zone (cough) – chart – the – parabolic course THROUGH the merman neutral zone – its our .. no, your only hope!”

Naturally, any mention of mermen was of deep cultural significance to the sailor and usually the mention of that race was considered to bring ill-fortune.

Sir Bocking and Schott, a second level fighter, interrupted, “But crossing Merman territory - that is MADNESS!!!!”

Fortunately Lady Lyme Weoghe settled the matter matter-of-factly with a simple, “Would you two shut up! Can't you let Fedor at least die with some dignity”

At her ladyship's direction, the two cads were silenced and the group’s attention then returned to Fedor.

Fedor, flooded by a reddish glow on the rain-spattered deck, raised his glinting, silver mailed sword arm to the sky, his aura glowing brightly as Wagnerian incidental music played.With a final breath, he explained some of the finer details of friendship, poetry, naval grade rope milestone B entry requirements (such as IOT&E) and capability package enhancements which could certainly improve the interoperability and efficiency of entropy based adventuring.

Upon the conclusion of his speech, he passed away and crossed the rainbow bridge at Asgard so to speak. The remaining crew and party members doffed their helms in respect. Funeral music played and everyone reflected on how they would be nicer to one another from now on and not hog all the healing potions and try to pay closer attention to tech orders and acquisition processes.

Rest in Pieces

As the Planetary Sovereign plowed through the waters of the Drawmidj Ocean enroute to Lord Toranaga’s Keepe, Lord Turnips (or was it his alter ego Hannon) held court with the lower-ranking, more expendable members of the party, Rushing, Fedor, Penna the Younger and another un-related Schott.

“Ah, yes, there I was, the mountain dwarf Obmi had been enslaved by the fire giant king Snurre Ironbelly of the Hellfurnaces and it was only through my cunning and my steel that he was freed!”

Here, however, Turnips brought the tale to an abrupt halt. He turned to Rushing.

“Rushing, where are the fluffernutter sandwiches I asked you to bring up from the galley?!” he barked, “I’m absolutely famished!”

Rushing dashed off to retrieve the sandwiches and Turnips, calmed, began his tale with renewed vigor.

“You see, Zagig and his adventuring band delved deep into the Crypt of Lyzandred the Mad. Zagig remained for a short time to learn at the lich's feet and gained inspiration that would aid him well in the later construction of his masterpiece, Castle Greyskull! “

“Sir” said Fedor timidly, “I don’t quite get the connection between Snurre Ironbelly and the Crypt of Lyzandred. According to historical records, those events occurred a hundred years apart; in fact I had a dream about it last night where I was in a crypt; I ….”

Fedor was unable to finish the statement of foreshadowing because at that very moment of tranquility the foretopman cried the warning “Sahuagin attack!”

Immediately, the adventurers drew weapons and sundry magical devices. Rushing dropped the fluffernutter sandwiches on the deck where they were squished beneath Penna’s hobnail boots during the commotion.

The Admiral grimaced, “Sahuagin – they are so evil, they even hate the almost as evil ixitachitl –these sea devils are only befriended by the shark!”

Woodpecker-Smythe looked confused, “What’s an ixitachitl?”

Bocking sounded off first. “Oh don’t be such a dullard Woody, it’s a type of highly intelligent, chaotic evil manta ray.”

“What’s a manta ray?” Woodpecker-Smythe asked.

Sir Bocking was losing his temper.

"I mean that doesn't make any sense, I just don't get it, Is it some kind of wyvern? I'm a big fan of wyverns you know!" Woody continued ad nauseum.

“Oh good lord, who invited him on this trip?” he whispered, under his breath.

As this argument played out, the Sahuagin began to clamber aboard the Planetary Sovereign via their fiendish grappling hooks and fifty feet of naval grade rope. This, despite the best efforts of the crew. Compounding matters, crossbow bolts flew in a thick cloud across the deck - an extreme hazard to sailing safety no doubt!

Things looked dark for our party but just as the Baron Sahuagin was about to lead the final assault, his webbed feet became stuck in the large patch of fluffernutter Rushing had so carelessly dropped on the deck. Unable to move, the Baron was mercifully chopped into dozens of pieces by the heroic adventurers. Without a leader, the remaining Sahuagin attempted to flee but were similarly cut down by a variety of missiles, blades, clubs, maces and halberds.

“Wow! That was fun” exclaimed Penna the Younger.

Rushing joined in, “It sure was, I wonder where Fedor is though?”

Sadly, Fedor would be unable to enjoy their victory or share in the experience points for he had been slain at the hands of the evil undersea dwellers.

“Yep, too bad about Fedor, may he rest in pieces,” Sir Bocking lamented, “Let’s see what these boys have in their pockets!”

Naturally, the subsequent looting of the Sahuagin’s underwater city brought the party great treasure and lots of laughs. And, of course, Turnips was finally able to enjoy his fluffernutter sandwich in peace.

Death of Dr W. G. Grace: Britain loses its finest Cricketer

http://century.guardian.co.uk/1910-1919/Story/0,6051,99003,00.html

Monday October 25, 1915....Manchester Guardian
We regret to announce the death, which took place on Saturday morning at his home in Kent, of Dr. W. G. Grace, the famous cricketer. Dr. Grace, who completed his sixty-seventh year last July, had an attack of cerebral haemorrhage last week.
Dr. William Gilbert Grace was by common consent the greatest and most attractive figure that ever appeared on the cricket field. In his all-round mastery of the game, in the length of years during which he stood far above all rivals, in the amazing sum total of his cricketing achievements, and by no means least of all in the popular interest he excited, no cricketer, living or dead, has ever approached him, and it is doubtful if any ever will.
While Dr. Grace in his stupendous total output hopelessly outdistanced all rivals, he had a remarkable list of isolated achievements to his credit. For many years he held the record for the highest individual score. This was an innings of 344 made in 1876 for the M.C.C. against Kent, and it remained the record score until MacLaren beat it with 424 against Somerset 19 years later. The most remarkable year of Dr. Grace's career was 1895, when he was 47 years of age. In that season he scored a thousand runs before the end of May, completed his hundredth century and finally scored 2,346 runs. He received more than one handsome testimonial in recognition of this feat, and a letter of congratulation from the Prince of Wales gave him 'profound pleasure'. Like Barlow, Dr. Grace went through his long experience of first-class cricket without ever getting a pair of spectacles.
A Great PersonalityDr. Grace was always an attractive personality on the cricket field, and in the later years of his great career carried a certain atmosphere of romance about him. His great towering figure, with his strong features and full black beard, instantly commanded attention, and there was always the expectation among the spectators that he might be out for some great performance. Descriptions of him even at his best make no reference to any special degree of style in his batting. His great height made it inconvenient for him to hold his bat down to the block-hole; it was generally held some distance off the pitch, looking a mere toy in the hands of a giant. Yet it was with a remarkably straight bat that the ball was played. His batting was distinguished for its strength and certainty rather than for its elegance; his regard, however, for orthodoxy of style comes out in his own statement that he was forty years of age before he adopted the fashionable 'pull' stroke. "Style is ease, and ease is strength," he once said, and that summed up his creed on the point.
As a bowler in his later years he looked rather ponderous; his leisurely amble up to the wicket and slow round-arm delivery often excited merriment, but the simple-looking ball which he delivered - a slow good-length one with a slight break, generally from the leg side - was by no means easy to judge. And perhaps his success was partly due to the fact that most of the batsmen felt that he knew a bit more than the best of them. He held to the old-fashioned theory that length and straightness were the secret of good bowling, and that one of the greatest mistakes a bowler could make was to try to 'break' too much. In his early days he fielded in various positions, frequently at fine leg, but later his recognised place was at point. Many a fine cut he snapped up in his large, safe hands, and his little trick of holding the ball behind him after he had caught it often excited vain hopes of an escape in the unlucky batsman. He held to the view that a thoroughly efficient fielder was worth his place in any team, even if he got no runs at all, and he considered 'mid on' the least risky place for a duffer.

Le Morte De Arthur

Lady M cradled Johnny Sixguns' beaten and bloodied head in her arms. He had been thrashed within an inch of life by the Lord Toranaga's Locathah henchmen in a vain attempt to solicit information about locating the remaining 6 parts of the Magic Dingus of 7 Parts. Toranaga was a wicked sorcerer indeed and he understood fractions, making him that much more dangerous.

"Wake up Johnny, wake up, I'll need you to help me escape" whispered Lady M in the darkeness of the sixth level dungeon cell.

Johnny groaned but luckily the light of life still flickered just barely in his sunken eyes.

Lady M spoke quietly, "I shall tell you a story Johnny, the story of how King Mark mocked Sir Dinadan and Sir Dinadan thought anon he just had seen these six knights and he thought in himself he would bring King Mark by some wile to joust with one of them. And anon they took their horses and ran after these knights well a three mile English."

Johnny interrupted her after her third 'Anon.'

"I can't understand a word you're saying. (hack, wheeze) I'd rather you recite a grand adventure like the kind I read about in the penny dreadfuls like M. Schmutzmacher's Derring Tales Dragon Quarterly (tm); 'Wyvern Hunting', 'at's the ticket (gasp, cough) Its a five part series (more gasping, wheezing, coughing) started last month. Tell me that story .."

Johnny had not the strength to finish so Lady M patiently replied "Very well Johnny, please attend and try to conserve your strength as I tell you this tale."

She began ....

“That was a jolly fine soup Mr. Jack.”

Mr. Jack was silent. He always was. If you could get him to say more than five words at a time, then you won a shiny penny. Of course, no one got a shiny penny. Or a yucky green one. Mr. Jack just nodded and smiled. The smile said something like, ‘When winter comes, I won’t be wanting for firewood. You’ll burn nicely.’ Though everyone knew he didn’t really think that. Maybe he did. He never said any thing.

It had been storming. The screeching of small animals getting struck by lightning had faded away. The scene in the parlor was a jolly one that would look nice on a Christmas card. One person hanging the star on the tree, a pair of lovers curled up with mugs of cocoa and a wild guest, passed out from all the sherry, that sort of thing. It was summer though, so no cocoa or stars. There was sherry.

Lady Jeanine looked out the window for any signs of a dreaded wyvern. They came swooping out of the sky quickly after the rain. “Not to fear about the wyverns Lady Jeanine,” came the voice of Mr. Simon. “I’ll have them taken care of.” Lady Jeanine turned around. Mr. Simon couldn’t get rid of wyverns. No one could. Her father had tried. They found his arm eventually, and offered to sew it back on but he had refused. “I’m not living here with those buggers around!” he had shouted at the sky. That was right before they came swooping back. What was left of father went to live in the city.

Mr. Simon was confident. He was also the Greatest Hunter in the Land ©. His hunting expeditions were exciting to hear of. If there was an animal out there, he would massacre it in some clever manner. Lately, he had been fascinated in wyvern hunting. He had spent months researching the scaly devils. Today it was all going to profit.

“How about a bit of sport, now that the rain has cleared,” he proposed. No one answered. Mr. Jack gave him a long stare. Mr. Simon continued. “Those bloody dragons have made this place unsuitable for good old English life. I say we shoot the damn things.” No one said anything again. The silence was getting on his nerves.

He turned to the skinny young lad known as Jonathan Eldritch. Jonathan was a healthy boy and might be keen on the idea. Jonathan cleared his throat in a quite irritating manner and said, “Those ‘bloody dragons’ are extremely dangerous, Mr. Simon. Hunting them is suicide.”

“Poppycock,” barked McAngus the Unknown Title. “Them things will be dead before sunset!”

Johnny turned his head upward. "Ooooooo, this is getting good," he said before passing out.

An Ill-Tide or Mal-Digested Mutton?

Lord Turnips had the same dream again. Here he was Hannon again, with and amongst his grand party and serving his master Heimdall as healer and warrior all over again. Except in this dream he saw himself slumped over as he sat on the edge of the bed in a darkened room. He could not raise himself from his bed no matter how hard his chums implored him with their imploring good cheer. "Hannon, here is a good lad, why not come out and slay something evil with us?" They implored cheerfully.

Hannon ignored these well-meaning chums. He could not raise his voice to speak. He surveyed his darkened surroundings. He was grateful that in his last fit of manic troll-killing energy he had installed the extra dark blinds in his room.

He looked over at the Troll-slayer sword which had proven so helpful. It had the benefit of +3 sharpness and provided additional 2d6 damage when used against trolls. The same sword had been rather mediocre against the massed armies of ghouls and ghasts who you just did not want to fight in close combat if possible because of their soul-sucking rot. You just didn't want to give up a level of experience if one of those touched you. No, for these he used his ability to turn the undead and his trusty 7.62mm belt-fed thunderstick acquired in one of his journeys to something called a National Guard armory in the distant future of some strange parallel multi-verse.

He strained his eyes to see a framed passage he had ripped out of the infamous Greyhawk Gazetteer. It read something like:

Troll Fens:
These fens are well named, for all manner of fierce and gigantic trolls, ogres, gnolls and their ilk prowl the desolate wastes of this fell place. The fens are always misty - clouds and swirls of chilling fog drift down from the Griffs and Rakers at the head of the Yol River and settle on the Troll Fens. The Theocracy of the Pale hedges the area with watchtowers, keeps, and three great castles, watching for unwelcome visits from the monsters of this dire place.

Hannon, sighed. Here he was in the middle of the Troll Fens. No sign of troll, gnoll, ogre, orc, or kobold would darken these misty swamps again -- at least not while he or his breedlings dwelt here. Indeed, even the climate had improved modestly -- the fens were not nearly as desolate and the infamous mists had taken on the aspect of soft spring rain at their worst. These swamps proved very productive for rice, turnips and other crops where soil moisture was critical. Hannon was able to grow surprisingly large volume of asparagus per acre. These crops proved to be quite profitable due to the voracious appetites of the nearby Theocracy of the Pale. Of course cash would never be a problem for him after capturing the hoarded wealth of the trolls, and of course those of the supreme lich lord Thankstostrock* of the Land of Black Ice.

He spat at the thought of living out his days as a farmer of leafy greens. "Pweew" he spat. This was no way to live. There remained no further evil of a kind strong enough to oppose him or the party. Maybe he would try to read a little of the works of the sage philosophers today. What would Lord Heimdall say? Probably something bloodthirstily encouraging. The sort of lawful- good, hail fellow, cold-baths, stiff upper lip, muscular religiosity that was all fine if one was fighting all the time -- but was utterly useless if all the foes were smote and you had to sort out the meaning of existence.

Hannon's chums were useless of course. They wanted him to go down to the local village and perform healing ceremonies on the sick. Yawn. Bloody peasants always had the same complaints. Double yawn. "Lord Hannon, though you are so wise and good...could you heal me of my afflicted nether parts which appear to be cursed horrid and vexxing." And of course, like a sap, he would heal the luckless fornicating peasant and he would be on his way to catching the same pox from the same serving wench.

Or, there would be the ingenue twirling her golden locks around her finger. "Lord Hannon I have a desperate need to make Grimbold marry. Say lest yee cast a spell of [REDACTED]." Pathetic.

And the upper classes were no better...indeed in many ways much worse. He could not count the number of times he was called upon to stand in lawful judgment of a dispute between two merchants. "Lord Hannon, though are wise...can you tell Scootero the Bold that he may not let his cattle graze upon my prized clover fields as these are indeed lucky clovers which if consumed by mere cattle will empower these cows to make wishes thrice. No more wasted a wish was ever made than that of a cow for more grass."

Hannon the Troll Slayer needed to get away from this gilded cage he had constructed for himself on the disintegrated matter of many, many, untold many trolls. Perhaps a voyage to sea? He turned over in his bed and returned to the land of dreams......

[Await the next dream where Rogers and Hammerstein meet hack and slash]

*so-called Thankstostrock as homage to Richard Strock who designed the supposed Good Party-defeating characteristics of this lich lord. Little did Strock or the rather lazy deity supervising this aspect of the campaign was that John Wisshard reviewed these characteristics through snoopery and relayed them to the Party in time to avoid mishappenstance.

Gnomic Utterances

Turnips’s head ached with the pains of the previous night’s feast. His stomach roiled and the luminosity of a volcano sun tortured his eyes. He quickly threw his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the light.

Strange dreams had plagued his sleep. He had imagined himself to be Hannon, cleric of Heimdall, fighting trolls during the great rear-guard battle at Ragnarök. Why, he had even engaged the great lord in conversation on Bilfrost Bridge!

He thought to himself, “Surely, this must have been the result of some piece of ill-digested mutton.”

No matter how Turnips sought to ease his mind with this rational explanation, he remained uneasy and unsure of himself. The floor swayed beneath him.

Clenching his fist and raising it to the skies, Turnips cried aloud, “Trouble me no further Idun - The woof of darkness you have woven is thick and has hid all delight from me!”

Luckily, Woody, the Admiral and the Planetary Sovereign’s crusty Chief Petty Officer arrived to comfort Turnips in moment of madness.

The Admiral spoke first “Come, come old bean, you’re amongst friends - ”

“Yes, we heard you talking excitedly and I thought you might be composing a new drama so we rushed to your cabin,” Woody added, “and I didn't want to miss out a chance to hone my own dramatic skills. Remember, I played the third Triton in 'The Lokarian Chamber Pot Merchant'."

The Chief, not wishing to miss out on an opportunity to appear in the blog, joined in, “No kidding, we was all a bit confused by all that Shakespeare talke you were spouting, why we was ready to –.”

The chief, however, was rudely interrupted by a fourth party who appeared leaning casually on the cabin door, applauding softly, almost sarcastically into his supple leather gloved hand.

“Bravo, bravo, my good man, bravo” said the shadowy figure, “But, I’m afraid we have no time for this sort of nonsense, we have ports to sack and Marzipans to rescue. When the time comes for poetic recitations, I shall be the one to deliver them.”

As Sir Bocking stepped out of the shadows, Turnips noticed the large badge he wore – a badge bearing the legend “My Green Dragon ate your Honor Student.”

Ever wise, the wiley Chief thought crustily, "Whew, I reckon we can't get to Lord Toranaga's quickly enough."

Regarding the Troll Fens

The cleric Hannon, honest and lawful servant of the Norse god Heimdall, was not to find happiness when all the trolls in the eponymous Troll Fens were slain.

Lo, he was unhappy though he was able to gain ample vials of the Arch Mage Toth's famous Universal Solvent - which according to Toth's brochure was necessary to dispatch a troll's cruelly-regenerating form, and lo, though he was able to smite the entire population of trolls in a mere 24 moons of constant violent campaigning and lo, though he was able to finally plant firmly in the ground near the spot where Trolls had carried off his boyhood dog, his family's battle standard with the crest so familiar to the people (and in particular the troll population) of this particular plane of existence: "Dude, have you seen my dog?"

Hannon and his party of robust adventurers had searched multiple planes of existence for the necessary means to defeat the trolls of the Troll fens. They had slain mighty balrogs, giants and even a few ice dragons. They had defeated entire armies of time-travelling undead, including many score thousand ghouls and ghasts as well as several very powerful arch-liches. To win they had to use some of the mana they found whence they ventured to a plane of existence known as the Reagan Administration. Thoughts of this made Hannon grimace because he knew that he would have to explain himself to his Lord Heimdall on the Bilfrost Bridge during the final, rear-guard battle of Ragnarök for his use of the fire weapons that greatly assisted his fight against the trolls. Naturally, no self-respecting cleric of Heimdall should use anything but a trusty sword. Hannon would have to explain his cowardly use of these devices even though their impact was not unlike the powers Heimdall himself had granted Hannon through the awesome powers of his Blade Barrier and Flame Strike spells. Surely he could plead his justifiable and honorable blood lust resulting in many glorious victories and a land shorn of all trolls to his master.*

But all that glory in the defeat of the trolls and his myriad accomplishments, trophies, and battle streamers had left Hannon wanting for something. He recalled his reading of the sages from the amok time of the undead wars:

"Without stimulus or focus, the individual is confronted with nothingness, the meaninglessness of existence, and experiences existential anxiety. Heidegger states this idea nicely: "Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abysses of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference. This boredom reveals
being as a whole." Arthur Schopenhauer used the existence of boredom in an attempt to prove the vanity of human existence, stating, "...for if life, in the desire for which our essence and existence consists, possessed in itself a positive value and real content, there would be no such thing as boredom: mere existence would fulfil and satisfy us."

What did it all mean? What was left? He must undertake a journey to find out. He must discover that which was within....

*despite the clear stipulation in the 1979 edition of the Advanced Dungeons and Dragons rules that clerics could not use edged weapons.

A Secret Council

The Admiral, Turnips, and W-S beat a hasty retreat from the Hydra’s Lair and made tracks for the Admiral's ship, Planetary Sovereign. The trio wound their way through the city's narrow streets and soon came to the docks and safety.

W-S breathed a sign of relief. "I say, that was jolly good fun. Let's do it again. I know this bar over in the Nymph District where the ladies..."

"I'm not in the mood for another 'adventure' Woody," interrupted a still down-in-the-dumps Turnips. "I still don't see what our purpose was in going to that benighted tavern-slash-casino. The Admiral said it was all part of his 'plan.' " Lord Turnips added air-quotes for emphasis. "All I know was that we were there for an hour and didn't do anything other than get accosted by some low life NPCs."

"But that is where you are wrong, dear friend," replied the Admiral, as he led them into the Sovereign's salon. "You failed to see me concluding my business arrangement with the Hydra's proprietor, the esteemed Master Schlamazel the Butcher. Everything is still going according to plan, as you shall see tomorrow evening when you and Woody attend the great Council I am convening up at the Keepe."

"I smell an adventure!" Beamed an excited W-S. "Do tell us what's in store for us. Please, please, please, please, please!" "Now, now, Woody," replied the Freebooter. "For reasons of operational security it would be best if we wait till tomorrow. Come now, let us forget the travails that face us, and have some rum to celebrate our successful escape roll against those thugs. Schott! Flagons for my guests! ... Schott! Come here! Oh bother, it's so hard to find good oafs these days..."

------------------------------------

Turnips and Woodpecker-Smythe arrived at the Keepe the following evening. Even as Schott led their horses away to the Keepe's stable, they were still in the dark as to the purpose of the Council. "I say, we're still in the dark as to the purpose of the Council," said Woody. "Just cool your jets [Editor: huh?], Woody. We'll know in two shakes of a lambs tail," replied Lord Turnips.

Turnips was in a much better mood now after a good night's sleep and an afternoon teaching his son and heir Stuart some of the finer point of his profession. Young Turnips had impudently stated that all the cool kids at school wanted to be mages, but the elder Turnips explained to his son that 6 generations of Turnips have had the same profession and Stuart was going to make number 7. At least his son didin't come out and say he wanted to be a healer, Turnips thought with relief as he smiled to himself.

The two openned the door to the Keepe's meeting room. The room was dominated by a large circular wooden table, highly polished and inlaid with intricate carvings of strange creatures, half of which probably didn't even exist. The table was surrounded with 12 chairs, with no one chair more ornate or larger than the rest. This was a table meant for equals.

Almost all the chairs were full. The only empty seats were on either side of the Admiral. The other nine seats were occupied by a diverse group, ranging from a fierce northern Barbarian, an armor plated Paladin, a flambouyantly dressed eccentric who could only be a healer, and a ravishing pair of twin sisters who were seated in the 12th and 13th seats. Oh wait a minute, she must be an illusionist, there are only 12 seats here. The Admiral waved them over. "Turnips! Woody! Over here! I've saved some kick ass seats for you!" The duo sat down.

The Admiral began. "Now that everyone is here, let us begin." He solemnly looked around the room. "Thank you all for coming here tonight. I look around the room here and see representatives from many peoples and many cultures. Though we come from different backgrounds, and have different reasons for why we came, after tonight we all share a common purpose. And that is an unwavering desire to rescue Lady Marzipan from the clutches of the Dread Sorceror, the Dark Lord, Lord Toranaga. Let us vow that, from this day, till we acheive sucess or draw our last breath, that we shall not rest until she is returned safely from the Dark Lord's island fortress. Our goal here tonight is to come up with a plan to save her, and then to outfit our group, our fellowship, if you will, to go forth and sail into immortality!"

At this point, where there should have been raucus cheering and shouts of "Here, here!" and "We're with you Admiral!" and "Excelsior!" from 11 excited voices, there was only one voice, one Woodpecker-Smythe crying "Here, here! We're with you Admiral! Excelsior!" And Lord Turnips was curiously looking at the other faces, wondering why they weren't jabbering like W-S was. An awkward silence filled the room.

The Admiral broke the silence, "But what kind of a host would I be if I didn't serve dinner to my hungry guests before we get down to business. Schott! Bring in the mutton!"

As the guests started to eat, Woody, oblivious to the awkwardness, turned to the Admiral. "I've got an excellent felling about this, Admiral. I look about me and see the finest our land has to offer. Free men and women, here by choice, virtuous and honorable, ready to lay their lives on the line for truth and justice. By the Maker, it makes me proud to be alive!" Turnips, a touch more savvy than the eager Woodpecker-Smythe, raised a finger to interrupt W-S, who was now describing how the upcoming rescue would be enshrined in the annals of history and be immortalized by epic song, story, and verse from now until the time the Maker undid the world.

"Ahem, if I may, Woody," said Lord Turnips. W-S, now red in the face from his verbal exhortations, fell silent. Turnips continued, "Admiral, I couldn't help but noitce the, how shall I say, lack of enthusiasm among our guests with our upcoming quest. Would I be correct in surmising that these people are not here of their own free will?" "Wha-wha-what!" exclaimed Woodpecker-Smythe. "Turnips, are you saying that the Admiral kidnapped these people? That's monstrous!"

"Easy now, Woody," explained Rossaroni, "It's a little more complicated. All of these men and women do share one thing in common, appart from their skill in swordcraft and magery. And that is, their lack of skill at gambling. Each and everyone of them has run up extrodinarily large gaming debts at the Hydra’s Lair. Dangerously large. You see Fedor over there? 5000 pieces of gold he owes from the dice table. Lyme-Weoghe? She lost the deed to her father's blacksmithy. And Bocking, the foreigner, has fallen so far in debt in trying to earn his Guild membership money, that the very same guild has put out a contract on him."

Turnips was looking bemused with a slight grin on his face. The only term to describe Woodpecker-Smythe is agog.

The Admiral continued, "These people were all offered a choice by my business parter, Mr. Schlamazel. Debtor's prison (or worse), or a noble and virtuous adventure, as Woody would say. So they really are here of their own free will, if you look at it a certain way."

"You sly dog," chuckled Turnips.

"I'm not sure I like the smell of this, Admiral," said W-S. "It just doesn't seem... um, right, I guess. What about asking for volunteers? I'm sure the tavern is filled with young adventurers yearing to prove their mettle." "When was the last time you were at the tavern, Woody?" the Admiral retorted. "It's only filled with old men and thugs like the Schotts. I had a notice posted on the Help Wanted board for two months with no answer. And all I wanted was someone to go pick up my drycleaning! I knew I could count on you two, old friends, but we'll need a little more muscle for this job."

"Well, all right" replied W-S. "I guess I don't really have much choice in the matter. And, as I am your busom friend, in thick and thin, through orc raid and orc raid reprisal, I will stand by you now."

Turnips and W-S turned to their delicious mutton, one of the Admiral's specialities, from a recipe he acquired while adventuring near Buccaneer Islands many seasons ago. After finishing his delicious mutton, Lord Turnips raised one final question of the Freebooter. "Admiral, one question has been nagging me, old friend. These people are here to pay off a debt to Schlamazel the Butcher, right? But what does Schlamazel the Butcher get out of this? I mean, he gets along and respects Lady Marzipan just like the rest of us do, but I don't see how he will profit from this."

The Admiral uncharacteristically hemmed and hawed. "Hem... haw."

"Well, we just have to do Schlamazel the Butcher a little favor on the way to rescue Marzipan, that's all."

"And just what kind of favor would that be?" asked Turnips.

"Nothing really. Nothing."

"Admiral..." chided Lord Turnips.

"Hem. Haw. Well, we just have to stop at a certain harbor along the way, and, er... sack it."

The Ecstasy of Gold

The Admiral consoled Turnips who sat forlorn atop a stool at the bar in the decidedly downscale Hydra’s Lair Tavern & Betting Clubbe.

“There, there Turnips, we’ll see to it that Livoniumtonchester is fixed up … right as rain!” the Admiral exclaimed, beaming with confidence.

He continued, “Why with me and Sabrina and old Woody here we’ll pop over, rescue Lady M, complete the Lost Mystical Dingus of 7 Parts and use it to restore balance, beauty, justice and goodness to our faire lande!

As he spoke, the Admiral’s teeth glinted and his aura glowed warm gold as his noble gaze turned skyward to rest on an imaginary star.

Turnips was not to be so easily swayed however, “Don’t you patronize me Rossaronius, we’ll never find the Mystical Dingus of 7 Parts and poor Livoniumtonchester shall remain in the evil clutches of whoever…..”

His energy flagged at that moment due to effects of the half-pint of ale he’d been nursing for an hour.

Turnips roared back however to continue his diatribe “… and whatever, but I don’t see how a washed up illusionist / cleric and a freebooter with a super-powerful magic sword could hope to achieve anything other than to be clapped in irons and escorted off to the nearest looney bin.”

The Admiral, being a man of the sea, had to face many situations like this before and took the appropriate action. He slapped Turnips, then grasped his collar and held his face close.

“Now listen up and come to your senses; we are attracting all the wrong sorts of attention here and that’s the last thing we need.”

No sooner had he finished this utterance than up sauntered Livoniumtonchester’s favorite gang of bullies led by their chief, The Schott (coincidentally, he was the second cousin, once removed of the Admiral’s oaf, also named ‘Schott.’ Funny that.)

The Schott was first to speak.

“Well la-dee-dah, ‘oo ‘ave we gots ‘ere?” he menaced, his foul breath overwhelming the more delicate olfactory receptors of our would-be heroes.

"Harhar harhar harharhar harhar" went the gang

The gang’s evil, insensitive laughter went on for a full seven minutes until The Schott raised his hands in the universal sign of ‘stop larfing you oafs, I gots somefin to say.’

“Now stop larfing, you oafs, I gots somefin to say” The Schott continued, “I have a fine idear – let’s take their lunch money what their mommies done gived them!”

Then to add insult to injury, he farted.

At was at that moment that the Tavern owner, Schlamazel the Butcher, entered, carrying a large serving bowl made of a very heavy earthenware with a pale blue flower motif.

“Ahhh, who ordered the paella for six?? Hey, I said who ordered the paella for six!!” he called out.

Schlamazel the Butcher stopped and his nose wrinkled and his eyes began to tear. Temporarily blinded, he tripped over the Admiral’s magical cutlass, Sabrina, and the paella bowl flew from his hands. The bowl flew in a perfect arc and landed heavily atop The Schott’s surprised noggin, sending him crumpled to the sawdust floor.

The contents of the bowl spilled showering the floor with bits of saffron rice, shrimp and other stuff that was very slippery. Although the gang tried to advance upon our heroes, they were unsuccessful as their feet could find not purchase. In fact, their legs spun madly about ala Shaggy and Scooby Doo.

Unhesitatingly, the Admiral seized the initiative and called out “Let’s get the H-E-Double Hockeysticks out of here Woody! – there’s another exit through the kitchen .. last one to the Planetary Sovereign is a rotten egg.”

“Hey but what about my Morey Amsterdam sandwich I just ordered?” Woody whined as the Admiral dragged him out.

Turnips however, had the last word. “Oh shut up, that sandwich hasn’t been invented yet”

Final ahem

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72cHfOKoA1c&eurl

Ok, Lord Turnips is off the proverbial box of cleaning products.

ahem part II

http://www.freep.com/article/20081116/COL08/811160434/?imw=Y

ahem

http://www.freep.com/article/20081116/COL07/811160459/?imw=Y

Strange Parallel Universe

Fog and smoke shrouded the fire-routed village of Livonia, home of several encampments of the once-mighty wizards who produced carriages for the good citizens of the kingdom. Fisher Body, Ford Transmission, Delco Electronics, GM Engines, and thousands of artisans and guilds who supported them were all left homeless, and without the copper pieces to pay their monthly cable tv bills or for the strange leavened-bread pies with sliced pork, cheese and the sauce of the once-feared tomato.

The kingdom had suffered for years from leaders and citizens who viewed the work of the wizards as inferior to goods produced by non-guild laborers and artisans. Stories abounded of the employees who slept in the rafters of the encampments or were strong with mead or other potions. Some of the worst stories involved illegal apothecary and even one evil worker who ran an assasins guild from the encampment whose sole purpose was to keep the other workers in line.

Many citizens of the kingdom did not enjoy the experiences they had when they went to purchase a carriage. Carriage salesmen were infamous for their vile deceits.

Other citizens viewed the carriages as wasteful. They felt that carriages should be smaller and take fewer horses to pull them. This was particularly concerning as many horses came from the evil lands of Balmor, whose kings spoke with two faces about their alliances with a band of orcs, kobold, ogres and vile brigands in the Krag Mountains. Citizens felt that if they used fewer horses, Balmor would not be able to support the denizens of the Krag Mountains.

The good people of Livonia looked upon the wreckage of their village and recalled the multi-fold times that their carriage works had saved the kingdom and the pride they had when their carriages had once led the crusades that drove the forces of various evils from the World.

Other citizens of Livonia recalled that many in the south of the Kingdom enjoyed racing these carriages and wondered what carriages they would use if there were no more artisans.

The workers and artisans of Livonia would need to summon mighty magics to turn back the destruction of their fair village. They would need to fight the blind clerics who supported the previous king, who while fighting an expensive war in the Krag Mountains, caused an increase in prices that made the Balmor horses so expensive. They would need to fight the blind merchants of the villages of New York and the Eastern shore who cared not a wit for the Livonia-ites (as it was a rather unfashionable village). They would need to fight the wit-less citzens of the Rock-candy Mountains who under the spell of various illusionists, viewed all carriages as anathema and felt that the citizens of the kingdom should move about in magic tubes.

The poor citizens of the village of Livonia had few friends and the future looked very bleak indeed. Unless some help arrived for the nearly powerless wizards the village's destruction would be complete.

To the Troll Fens and Onward toward the Ghoulish North

It was a little more than 20 years past. Twas the dwimmer of our Lord One Thousand und Ocztein Seiben. A band of mightly warriors and heroes, known across the freize as the Good Party. They were led by two:

Hannon the sword-wielding cleric of the Norse God Heimdall. Hannon was known for his intense hatred of trolls who had done him wrong somehow. He vowed to utilize his life of service to Heimdall to the additional service of ridding the infamous Troll Fens of their namesake denizens.

John Wisshard the Monk/Illusionist. Wisshard was a legendary martial artist who was capable of multiple attacks per ten minute turn and even multiple attacks per combat segement. His mission in life was unspecified violent supression of the forces of Evil. To this end he helped lead an adventure to the icy Northern wastes to fight an army of the undead.

There were many, many associated individuals with this so-called Good Party. During their myriad adventures they voyaged in multiple planes of existence and conquered many kingdoms and made away with massive hauls of treasure that they were able to cart around without concern for weight or mass because of some strange waiver to the laws of physics in their world.

Exeunt to the Tavern!

In the bleak mid-winter I often travel to visit my comrade-in-arms, Admiral Rossaroni’s, at his heroic citadel, Barrister’s Keepe. We tell tales of past adventures and enjoy fine ales served in goblets fashioned from fine Greyhawk silver and crystal. Sometimes I stop by to borrow fifty feet of rope and a bullseye lantern (I rarely employ the lantern however, since I possess the half-elf’s infravision).

I recall a favorite tale wherein I defeated a Catoblepas, a nightmare creature, loathsome beyond description. Its body resembles that of a huge bloated buffalo and gives off an offensive odor. The odor, naturally, matches its favorite haunt – the fetid swamp. Regrettably, this creature’s gaze causes death in manner similar to a wizard’s death ray spell.

Before, I could complete my marvelous epic, the Admiral interrupted. He waved away Schott, his oaf, then leaned over and carefully explained to me that we would be embarking on his ship, the Planetary Sovereign to undertake a rescue mission to find Lady Marzipan and her manservant Johnny 6G.

Luckily, I’d packed my Wand of Illusion, a few scrolls, two weeks rations and some healing potions. No one will ever say Woodpecker-Smythe, 10^th level illusionist is ever unprepared!

But we still needed able-bodied back-up for the Admiral’s trusty steel, the +5 magic sword “Sabrina Tuberculomata Teleutosorus" and my amazing skills at magic.

Now, just where in the world could we find the types of adventurers willing to round out our party on such short notice?

“Fedor's Tavern?” I thought out loud

Welcome Adventurers!

What ho, everyone! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Admiral Rossaroni, Freebooter. I have been in residence in Barrister's Keepe, and the nearby Barrister's Keepe harbour, on and off, for too many years to count. While I am a veteran of many an adventure, I am most commonly known for defeating a +4 Kraken last year with my crew of the good ship Planetary Soverign (good thing I had my +2 enchanted broadsword with me at the time).

I must apoligize to you, dear reader, for the quality of my post, as I seem to have a slight headache today to go along with the strange bump on my head. I also seem to have something that can only be described as a vague memory of living an entire lifetime somewhere called "England" and that I was some sort of pompous, aritocratic buffoon. But, as everyone knows, I have been living at Barrister's Keepe ever since my childhood, when the Fell Winter brought the Orc Invasion that has plagued our land ever since. Well, I'm sure I'll get everything sorted out in my old noggin before too long, so fear not.

At present I am embarked on a quest. I am sailing, with my crew and a band of Intrepid Adventurers (tm), to a distant land to rescue one Lady Marzipan and her manservant J6G.

You Only Live Thrice OR ... HAI KARATE!!!!!!

Turbulent weather appeared on the horizon. Clouds roiled, waves tossed, seabirds careened and cartwheeled about the ev’r darkening sky.

Johnny Sixguns was first to note the change in atmospherics, “Aye, there’s turnbulent weather afoot.”

“I think you mean ‘tur-bu-lent’ not 'turnbulent' Johnny” replied Lady Marzipan.

“No I mean turnbulent – see, look at the donkey’s tail on this comical barometer I picked up in the Black Forest – the tail is swinging around and translating from the German interpretation beneath, it means ‘the weather will be turnbulent.’”

To which Lady M retorted, “You are the biggest idiot I’ve ever met, remind me to murder you later … if we survive.”

Before Sixguns could reply, lighting arced across the turnbulent sky …..

“STOP saying ‘turnbulent’ !” Lady M screamed above the din.

“… the turbulent sky, striking the small craft, sending its occupants about forty feet into the air.”

The streaking pair left behind the lifeboat which was promptly crushed into matchstick sized remnants by the next wave (which, for foreshadowing’s sake was depicted in the 17^th century Japanese woodcut style).

Eventually, dawn came and our two travelers awoke covered with seaweed and surrounded by a forest of poles with pointy-bladey things affixed to their termini. These of course might better be described as halberds but neither Johnny Sixguns or Lady M were in any shape to recall the fantastic weaponry of the AD&D Players Handbook (version 1).

To the shouts of onlookers, Lord Toranaga confidently strode through the crowd and parted the mass of weapons to better assess the situation. He gazed down at the bedraggled survivors.

Groggily, Lady M raised here head and spoke “Have you ever heard the one about Rene Descartes in the bar?”

Science Jokes

Q: How many quantum physicists does it take to change a lightbulb ? A: One. Two to do it, and one to renormalise the wave function.

Bohr moved in atomic circles while Schrodinger waved and Heisenberg hesitated.

Rene Descartes was sitting at a bar. The bartender came over and asked ifhe would like another drink. He replied, "I think not." And he vanished.

A neutron walked into a bar and asked, "How much for a drink?" The bartender replied, "For you, no charge."

Q: What did one quantum physicist say when he wanted to fight another quantum physicist? A: Let me atom.

Two atoms were walking across a road when one of them said, "I think I lost an electron!" "Really!" the other replied, "Are you sure?" "Yes, I 'm absolutely positive."

Copenhagen: The lost 4th Act

Niels Bohr: "You can't toy with the human race with these quantum mechanics. You aren't my pupil anymore. "

Sports Illustrated.com's Peter King: "I'm very glad we didn't bring in Brett Favre to work on a Q-Device. I believe his calculations are in error. It is typical of his tragic genius that he makes as many spectacular errors as spectuacular plays. I believe our effort to bring in Tom Brady will yield success much sooner. "

Former University of Michigan Quarterback Tom Brady: "Ja, Dr. Heisenberg and I have been working on this. Well, between rehabbing my injurred leg and my journeys of discovery with various and sundry movie starlets and Brazilian supermodels. The good Dr. Heisenberg and I are convinced me that we may find the Maximum Likelihood Estimated location for the lifeboat with J6G and Marzipan at a place and time near the Paracel Islands in or around 1968, although i may be confusing if it is during the Nixon or Johnson administrations."

Niels Bohr: "You don't seem very certain."

Heisenberg: "No, I'm known for that actually."

Note: Tom Brady was inserted into this storyline to remind one and all of the former greatness of the winningest college football program, and second luckiest alumn of that University. #1 luckiest is of course playwrite Arthur Miller. The single unluckiest is Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg.