A Bad Man is Hard to Find

Lord Turnips was just baffled.

He had no idea where to look for the sort of underworld characters he would need to subdue a planet. His purposes were not nefarious. He only wanted to beautify a planet. He would offer the citizens enough credits to relocate. He was enough of a business man however to know that one never starts a negotiation from a position of weakness. So, having some muscle along would be critical. Also, he knew that his caravan would present a tempting morsel for pirates or other hostile elements.

He thought of calling Admiral Rossoroni but he knew that he had, in semi-retirement, taken a financial analysis job with the Ares Corporation. Even if he couldn't help because of the annual Imperial budget cycle, He'd be the sort who'd know a couple of trustworthy brigands. As it turned out he did know such a character: Juan Seis Armas.

Outfitting the Expedition

Lord Turnips contemplated the outlay for his small fleet of ships. He had three of the 200 Ton Liger-Class Safari ships, a Kugashin-Class 400-Ton Laboratory Ship and of course two of the 1000 Ton bulk carriers.

His plan was to purchase enough of the soil and hydro needed for his wife's plans to establish the garden colony. He could carry most of that in the bulk ships. The planet's M class atmo would sustain the soil and water but he'd need to terraform most of what he needed. That would probably entail complications with the locals. His safari ships--which would also carry the family Turnips in fine style--particularly the HMS Frank Chadwick--had hard points which he could mount a double turret blaster cannon. HMS Ashton Kutcher, His lab ship was, by treaty, not allowed to mount weapons. He'd have more trouble with the bulk carriers because they didn't have the needed hard points. If his tiny caravan encountered trouble on the way or if they needed to subdue locals from space they might have some serious trouble. Perhaps he should spend some of his credits on a warship. That would eat into his reserves he would need to spend on the regiment of drones.

Oh bother.

A Simple Meal: Eaten in Silence

Lord Turnips contemplated the hostility he knew he would be experiencing from Lady Turnips when she divined that he was unsuccessful in bribing the Queen's ministers for her grandiose dreams of Greater Lockgatia. He had failed to turn the ear or adequately grease the palms of the Minister for Gaia Soil preservation and the Earth Resources Board Minister. He came very close to cajoling the Minister of Defense into authorizing him to form a new regiment of drone infantry but it was struck down in the QJROC.

He sat sipping at his chai, eating a simple meal of Edam cheese, and a high protein bar he had invented out of turnips and apple cores. He conteplated his next moves. He had the safari ships and at least a few transports he could use to move the soil to Zarkson 4. He knew the finest horticulturalists and hydraulogical engineers who could help him transform the green M class world into his garden paradise. Of course there were the locals to deal with. That was why he needed the troops. His household regiments were off fighting at the far end of the Spiral Arm and wouldn't be redeployed until that mess was over with the Vogons.

Do I risk it? Do I have the resources to do everything at
once? How do I go halfway and then finish up next year when the
resources are available? If only I had a dynamic capability assessment
model of some sort. What if the local population resists?

An Early Morning Phone Call

Grand Admiral Rossaroni sat at his desk on the 140th floor of the Ares Corporation Headquarters building waiting for his computer to boot up. You might say he was sitting idly. His computer was only 2 years old, yet all the interminable scans, checks, executables, and "svchost.exe"s that were being pushed on him resulted in his computer having the analytyic power of a chipmonk for a good 20 minutes every morning.

On top of that, he had to be in early today, as his job as Chief Analytical Flunky for the Widget Interoperablity Program (CAF for the WIP) required him to spend 5 minutes preparing a slide explaining the benefits to the company if the Life Support budget for the Vesta Asteroid mining colony was reduced to zero during the next fiscal year. As Vesta was the least profitable Widget manufacturing site, it only made sense to eliminate unnecessary administrative fucntions that didn't generate revenue.

After that was done, Rossaroni decided to spend some time looking out the window. This was difficult, as his office didn't have a window. But he walked to a nearby office that did have a window, and looked down onto early morning mists that obscured the view of most of the capital. Off to his right he saw the gleaming spires of the Mclean Stevenson Stadt-based Summer Palace, and far off to the left he could see the firery plumes rising from the Reston Spaceport.

But he didn't have long to soak in the view, as he heard his viso-phone squawking in his office. It was Lord Turnips, his old pal. He was extremely agitated.

Turnips: "Admiral, you've got to help me, I'm extemely agitated!"

Rossaroni: "What is it, old pal, has the revolution come?"

T: "Exactly! I fear my latest antics have resulted in a proletarian uprising."

R: "Indeed. tell me all about it."

Turnips then explained about how he kicked two minor functionaries out of an office, and that all heck had broken out as a result.

R: "I'm surprised that a simple office usurption should cause a Red Revolt. Who were these prols you put out on the street?"

T: "Well, one of them WAS Johnny Six Guns"

R: "Johnny Ilyich Six Guns?"

T: "The same."

R: "Well, that is a horse of an entirely different color. I had no idea he had returned from exile on the Luna colony, let alone that he had a job as a minor functionary for your company. This will require some delicate finesse in order to avert catastrophe. And by 'delicate' I mean that we may have to burn large portions of the city to the ground."

T: "Then we'll need to call Woody."

R: "Precisely."

Awaiting an Audience

Lord Turnips was not used to waiting. He sat idly in the lounge of the Mclean Stevenson Stadt-based Summer Palace. He was on the 7th floor of a building he used to sit in around the turn of the last millennium. At that time he was a minor functionary of Her Majesty's Britannic Galactic Empire worried mainly about how much wood a wood chuck could chuck and if he would chuck if he did chuck how many mensurated target images could be fit upon the head of a pin.

He remembered fondly his work at that time with Lord Woodpecker-Smythe who, though perhaps quite daft, was a jolly good analyst of such things and particularly good at kow-towing to the Empress' ministers. Woody had the ability to flatter and cajole even the most amphibian of personages.

Lord Turnips who had by this time had amassed enough credits to purchase 3 different offworld safari ships, had funded his own psionic institute, had countless sports teams and stadia and had his name on the trophy of 4 separate World-wide sports leagues was growing tired of waiting. He clearly had not bribed these ministers sufficiently or with enough style. It clearly wasn't a question of money. He could use Woody's grovelling powers now.

He sat in the visiting plutocrat office mulling over the potential for a hybrid asparagus/broccoli mixture when he received a call from his wife, Lady Turnips.

"Dearest, has though bribed enough of the lackey ministers to gain approval for my plans for Greater Lockgatia?"

A curious discovery

Lady Turnips and I discovered this statue while yachting. We found this on an island just north of Sao Tome off the coast of Africa. Our location was just north of 1 00 N, 7 00 E.

Seems a bit early for the Lawgiver to appear in our milieu.

Bullets Over Reston Space Port

Johnny Sixguns peered closely at the tractor fed paper taped to the the door of office 11071. It was printed with what was obviously an 8 pin printer. His lips moved silently as he attempted to read the fancy "blackadder" script Turnips was so fond of.

"Dear Johnny Sixguns and Cecil Tophat,

According to Deanna the office fixer-upper people will be in on Wednesday to change out the office from the proletarian 2 person style to the autocratic 1 person style properly befitting a bloated top hat-wearing plutocrat like myself. Please get the deleterious relics of your time in 11071 out by Wed AM."

As he reached the 'out by Wed AM' portion of the letter, he slowly reached for his revolver and glanced at the rest of the letter. When he noticed what Turnips was doing with a $10,000 bill and the cohiba, he spit out the day old coffee he'd been swilling and fired his guns into the air (which actually was the next office up - luckily it was only occupied by some expendable level III's)

"TURNIPS" he roared, his sombrero slipping from his reared back head "I'll get you no matter where you try to go!"

"Johnny"

This was Cecil. He spoke in a quiet tone.

"Johnny, I have a better idea for our 'friend' Turnips and it involves the use of this small device"

Cecil withdrew a small Spanish Ear Screw from his left holster pocket.

"I believe" and here he steepled his fingers, "that this should do the trick"

Johnny holstered his pistols and blew the smoke from the cold steel barrels.

"Why Cecil, I think I'll leave it to you this time - you're the best tracker I've ever seen this side of Sonora, where do you think he went?"

"I smell the print out of one, no two, airline tickets and judging by the remants of kiwi fruit and McDonald's bags littering the floor, I believe he is headed to New Zealand."

"Wow, you are GOOD!" Johnny exclaimed as he hopped on his fancy riding Wyvern.

"Yes, you might call me a 'jack of all trades'" replied Cecil donning his ablative armor.

Moving Day at the Office

Meanwhile, as the Owlbear rampaged through the Kristal Stadt office, Lord Turnips sat at his ultra-modern wordprocessor to prepare a letter to his soon-to-be former office mates.

Dear Johnny Sixguns and Cecil Tophat,

According to Deanna the office fixer-upper people will be in on Wednesday to change out the office from the proletarian 2 person style to the autocratic 1 person style properly befitting a bloated top hat-wearing plutocrat like myself. Please get the deleterious relics of your time in 11071 out by Wed AM.

R,

Turnips

PS: I am currently lighting a Cohima cigar with a $10,000 bill, while being fed grapes by my monkey butler

As he moved his hand from the keyboard to click the "print icon" he was suddenly distracted by a noise that sounded like the beat of leathery wings. He thought it might be time to run but not before he taped his missive to the office door. He also hoped Johnny Sixguns wouldn't be too sore.

Rossaroni Unleashed EVEN MORE!!!

As news of the budget exhibit debacle spread about the 37th floor of the Paramutual Assured Destruction Building in downtown Kristal Stadt, several of the office bullies surrounded Rossaroni cackling and pressing fist to palm as is the bully's wont.

Rossaroni did not turn from his visio-screen to return the taunts of the three thickly muscled, heavy browed, payband five creeps who began whispering the foulest of insults. Insults like, "you colorblind oaf, I'll bet you can't even tell 3600 dollars from 3100 dollars. Why me own granny could do 'at!" And, "HAR HAR, Rossaroni DUMB .. He big DUMB DUMB .. make boss MAD with mistake even Grog not make ... HAR HAR HAR!"

Despite the heavy scent of low carb burrito with extra onion breath now reaching his highly sensitive nostrils, Rossaroni remained as focused as ever as if nothing could break his concentration.

A second ruffian then began taunting Rossaroni over his dressing habits. "Why 'at looks like Pseudo-dragon leaver if ever I sawr anyfing. HAR HAR HAR"

As one of the ruffians then leaned over Rossaroni's keypad to take his mouse and commence the ever humorous game of 'keep away,' a second ruffian suddenly grunted in surprise and pain coming from the "Y" region of the trousers. As Rossaroni planted that backkick, the first ruffian found his forearm twisted and crushed in the grasp of Rossaroni's massive grip and slammed suddenly to the formica topped computer table. The third ruffian stood mouth agape as Rossaroni finished his eponymous ballet of danger by hurling the two ruffians into the third which resulted in a delightful coconut sound.

As all three lay on the nicely carpeted floor, Rossaroni spoke, as cool as ever, "Never, ever say bring up the topic of pseudo-dragons when I'm working a programming chart. It makes me very angry"

Needless to say, one of the ruffians, the chief and of course the most cowardly, reached behind his back to pull out a morningstar he had secreted on his person for such an occasion.

He never had a chance to use it as Rossaroni snatched the flail and used it as a lever to hurl the unfortunate through the plate glass window into the river below. Such is the fate of sneaks.

Rossaroni, his long hair flowing in the breeze of the broken window, removed his short sleeved yellow oxford shirt and tie to reveal a skin tight set of leather armor and scaled gauntlets.

"Oh Rossaroni, what shall I do without you" cried Tiffany (the super-attractive, intelligent and charming program analyst), whipping off her glasses.

"You'll make do babe, Me, I've got a plane to catch. By the way, honey - one thing I never could stand about Kristal Stadt - all the damn owlbears."

At which point an Owlbear crashed through cubicle 790384

Rossaroni shook his weary head and remarked drolly, "Well here we go again"

A mere catch?

Lord Turnips has renamed his daughter: "Curtis"
and his wife: "Granderwife"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWBs7_Gup8Y

ROSSARONI ... UNCHAINED!!!!

Coming Soon ... To a Barristers Keepe Near You!!!

Get ready to get weak in the knees ladies!

Not for the faint of Heart!!!!!!!

Commentary: Turnips Corner

Salutations Friends, fellow ministers of Parliament!

Turnips here to share some thoughts on issues of the day. I've decided to use Sports Illustrated writer Peter King's Ten Things I Think I Think format because he's a professional journalist and I'm not.

So here are ten things I think I think:

One: The United States needs the F-22 and OV-22 program because they were featured prominently in the movie Transformers. It would be a shame if the real transformers came to Earth and we didn't have those.

Two: General Motors is right to scrap the Pontiac brand because the name is insensitive to Aboriginal Americans. And while we are on this subject I do not think the Cleveland Indians Chief Wahoo logo is insensitive at all. Most native Americans I've met look just like that.

[SARCASM]

(Chief Wahoo: Racist symbol for Cleveland's racist fans who should be off beating their kids, rather than watching a baseball game)

Third: The finest coming-of-age movie of the last 40 years is The Karate Kid.

Four: The Home Rule question must be struck down the next time it comes to a vote. Until we civilize Ireland and bring good order to that place we cannot in good conscience allow them the privilege of self government.

Five: You really can't get a decent sandwich south of Baltimore or North of Cambridge. It has to do with the water used to make the bread.

Six: I am fascinated by the possibilities of Muon spin spectroscopy. As you know Muon spin spectroscopy is an experimental technique based on the implantation of spin polarized muons in matter and on the detection of the influence of the atomic, molecular or crystalline surroundings on their spin motion. The motion of the muon spin is due to the magnetic field experienced by the particle and may provide information on its local environment in a very similar way to other magnetic resonance techniques, such as Electron spin resonance (ESR or EPR) and, more closely, Nuclear magnetic resonance (NMR). Just think what this could mean in the world of agriculture?

Seven: While I appreciate his poems, Shelley is a pig and a bounder. I do not think Barrister's Keep should invite him to speak and I think we deserve an apology for his actions in Italy during our visit on the Turnips yacht. Lady Turnips and I would also appreciate it if he would return the 50 bob in silverware he took from our dining set.

(Percy Bysshe Shelley: total wanker)

Eight: I stand firmly with the Clapham Sect on the issue of the Slave trade.

Nine: Is there anything finer than an ale on the veranda during a soft spring rain?

Ten: Do not go to the 22nd century if you can help it. I don't want to ruin the surprise for you but lets just say Orangutans are not a good bet for domestication.