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  • Unrelated Matters

    I'm gonna do this one chapter by chapter.


    There is a profound amount of adult language in this particular story. There are obscene gestures, there are fights between world leaders. There is humor, there is disgrace, there is war, there are a lot of deaths. It will keep your attention, let us pray that it keeps mine .

    This particular story is largely satire. I manage to weave a cohesive plot through, but it's largely for fun. This has no aspirations towards the contest and wishes only to amuse. I've been writing a lot of really serious stuff lately and need something to draw my attentions away, to lighten up my mood.

    Chapter One: A Case Study in Treachery

    ‘Is this how a hero feels?’ these were the thoughts that raced through Abraham’s mind as he lie face down in the pavement. Shaka, Temujin, stood laughing haughtily, slapping hands victoriously.

    “Hey, next time you’ll send them silks on time, right b****?”

    Lincoln propped himself up on one hand, using the other to slide across his bloodied forehead to one of the myriad wounds they had left him with, “Yeah.”

    “Yes sir, B****,” Shaka corrected, more laughter.

    Shaka and Temujin slipped into their ferarri, blaring rap and burning the tires out amid the ever echoing, mocking laughter. Chrome spinning down the street, Abraham lifted his hand to the exalted building, the symbol of peace and charity; the United Nations. A single finger flickered up from his hand.

    “F*** you.”


    Within the White House Lincoln was a man again, “Send a nurse,” he trotted briskly to the oval office.

    His secretary shook her head, “Went out without the Service again, sir?”

    “None of your damn business,” he slammed the door behind him.

    He sat behind his desk, pulled out a yellow legal pad and began a ‘To-Do’ list.

    The intercom flashed to life, “Your nurse, sir?”

    “Send her in.”

    The door opened unsteadily, the nurse peered in unsteadily, seeing Lincoln her hands almost instantly shot to her side and a disapproving look shadowed her face, without looking up he knew this, “close the door.”

    “I can’t approve of a bunch of World Leaders acting like children.”

    He waved it away, “bah, they’ll get it next time we convene.”

    She frowned, “You’ve been saying that for years now, since the damn thing was built.”

    “Yeah, Mary tells me the same thing. One of these days though, America shall rise again.”

    Her frown only grew deeper, “I can’t see how even you could believe that.”

    He frowned in return, moving his head and quite befuddling her bandaging, “We will, don’t worry about how, that’s my job.”

    She shook her head.

    “At least there’s nothing broken this time.”

    He smiled, “You see, progress.”

    Even she had to smile at this.


    Otto von Bismarck was smiling, but it wasn’t a nice smile.

    “Their day is coming, meine liebe.”

    Joan grinned back at him, “Oui, they’ll pay.”

    Otto pulled his guitar out from behind his desk; strumming a bit he began singing;

    ”Shaka thinks he’s so great
    But we’ll show him, this is his fate.
    He’ll die in unmarked grave; alone,
    Unmarked, without his worldly chrome.”

    Otto threw his head back and let forth a dramatic moan, and his door exploded.

    “Mein Gott!” the secretary screamed, “Is Herr Bismarck dying!?”

    Bismarck stopped suddenly, “Nein, Frau. Go back to work.”

    As he slipped the guitar back behind the desk Joan, rubbing her ears asked, “How much longer, dear?”

    Bismark smiled, “There are men who work on it even as we speak.”

    Joan purred happily, pulling herself up from the bean-bag chair in the conference room and sauntering suggestively forwards. Bismarck did not neglect to lock the door against the receptionist.

    Joan’s fingers slid across the bottom of her tank top and Bismarck growled.

    The elevator in the reception room dinged in the distance, Bismarck ignored them, gunshots followed, but Bismarck couldn’t ignore them, bullets slammed into the door and Bismarck threw himself down, tugging at Joan.

    She fell with a thud that said little of consciousness, blood began to seep out, staining his carpet. Otto, despite his stern Prussian outlook, began to weep quietly. He heard hands groping his door, riddled with bullets, muffled conversation swept through, then kicking, expletives floated clearly through, then a few more shots as the gunmen surrendered and returned to the elevator.

    But Bismarck didn’t stir, he lay there with Joan, weeping and praying.


    Mao’s putter slipped smoothly back into the case, “Another hole-in-one, sir, a most excellent game we are having today.”

    Mao frowned at his caddy’s grin as he looked at the course, it was arranged in such a way as to assure Mao of a hole in one every time, frankly this disgusted Mao, but; having a penchant for golf shirts and berets, Mao persisted in this sport.

    “The only real problem with a brutal dictatorship,” he looked at his caddy as he drove the cart, “Is that you loose all sense of accomplishment.”

    He stopped the cart, teed off and laid the most pathetic drive that history had ever cringed in the face of, “Lets pick up that hole in one,” he could already see the attendants rushing the ball to the hole.

    Another attendant, this one in a business suit; denoting a clerical servitude, rushed to him, “A message from Lincoln, most merciful master.”

    Mao appraised the man, “You forgot to bow.”

    Eyes widening in terror the suited man threw himself to the ground, kissing Mao’s shoes with unequivocal passion. Mao pulled his handgun out of his golf bag, shot the man on the spot and proceeded into his letter. Another attendant ran out for the body, hauling it up he caught Mao’s eyes, “I’ll need a turkey sandwich.”

    Mao grinned at the letter, treachery never had been the American’s strong suit, but it seemed that Abraham was on to something.

    Mao cackled with glee, pulling out his handheld PC to remind himself to write a reply.
    Last edited by SKILORD; November 23, 2003, 13:56.
    Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land

  • #2
    Chapter 2: A sort of Conference

    Kentucky Fried Chicken, sat in the middle of the table, cards were strewn about it;

    “Raise you York.” Queen Elizabeth intoned with solemnity, her face indecipherable behind her poker mask.

    “I don’t have any cities that big!” Catherine exclaimed.

    “Go with the Russian crown jewels then, lets get this going,” Elizabeth waved her hands dramatically.

    Catherine touched her dainty tiara carefully, putting it down.

    “Call you.”

    Elizabeth tapped ash off of her cigar, looking over at Caeser who shrugged and tossed in an IOU worth twenty years in wine.

    “Are you kidding me?”

    “I…” Caeser frowned and shuffled through his pockets, “I dunno.”

    “You think you’re a funny guy Julie?”

    “I…” Caeser was almost crying, “I dunno.”

    It was at this opportune moment that a messenger burst through the mahogany doors, “Joan of Arc is dead!”

    “About f***in time. Who did it?”

    “Noone knows, Bismarck was there, but he survived the attack, he blames the Iroquois.”

    “Bah, everyone knows Shaka did it, he’s the bad-a** around here.”

    Ceaser grinned, “How do you know everyone thinks that, we’re the first to hear of Joan’s death.”

    Elizabeth took a long, measuring stare at him; she stubbed her cigar dramatically.

    “Fascinating theory, Julie. However…” she trailed off, pondering arguments, “GET THE F*** OUTTA MY HOUSE!”

    Catherine pulled back in terror, Ceaser reached for his part of the pot.



    A guard entered the room and took Julius by the arm, waving his free hand wildly Julius Ceaser was taken outside.

    “Thinks he’s so damn smart.”

    Catherine nodded urgently.

    Elizabeth frowned as the messenger disappeared, “Well, looks like I win again this week,” she wrapped her arms around the pot and pulled it over to her side o the table, Catherine put her royal flush face down on the table and proceeded to the door.


    “I call this meeting of the United Nations to order,” Abraham held the Gavel right now, but if things followed their regular pattern he would have a wedgie and be duct taped to the podium in, he checked his watch, two and a half minutes. He hoped he could draw the moment of silence out.

    “A great world leader died yesterday, which is one of the chief reasons that this body is convened, I presently call for a moment of silence in memory of Joan of Arc, ruler of,” he checked his notes, “France.”

    He was quiet and he waited, eyeing each of the delegations suspiciously, where would the trouble come from today, Temujin was looking back hostilely, Lincoln sighed.

    When he supposed a moment had passed he looked around again, checking for signs of rebellion against the moment of silence. The only noise in the room was the slight sniffling of Otto von Bismarck; Abraham didn’t say a word.

    Ten minutes later Shaka began shooting accusatory glares, other delegates would infrequently lift their heads but Bismarck’s weeping quickly returned their heads to an almost shameful hanging.

    Three hours passed without incident without noise, Abraham looked up, “Any other business?”

    Shaka placed one fist inside his other hand, giving threatening glares to Lincoln, who smiled back, “In that case this meeting is adjourned we’ll set the next meeting for tomorrow at…” he glanced at his watch, “three thirty.”

    Lincoln turned and ran.


    When Temujin and Shaka caught up to him, at the White House gate, Lincoln was well safe from the slings and arrows of their abuses, he spent the next half of an hour making faces at them from the safe side of the fence.

    “Look at the b****,” Shaka pointed, Temujin nodded.

    They threw rocks until a security officer made them stop, then they hopped into the Ferrari and drove away. Lincoln entered the White House victorious, holding himself proudly past his secretary, who seemed impressed, “You survived.”

    Lincoln nodded, smiling, “Simple, really you just have to know how to manipulate a crowd.”

    “Really? How?”

    He frowned before answering, “I…. used their emotions to maintain…. A somber tone.”

    She smiled, “Congratulations.”

    He smiled back, “Any mail?”

    She looked through her ‘In’ box, “Just a letter from the brutal Chinese Dictator.”

    Abraham shook his head, “That’s no way to talk about Mao.”

    She handed him the letter, “It’s on his address label.”
    Last edited by SKILORD; November 23, 2003, 13:52.
    Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


    • #3
      Up next: The Investigation Begins!

      Tell me what you think.
      Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


      • #4
        I see the influence of good ol' scratch in this.

        Good fun, this piece, SKI. I hope you carry it out to completion with the same quantity of humour.
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        • #5
          Yeah, kinda sad to cite unscratchedfoot as a major literary influence to anything, but when I wanted to write something amusing I went back to his basic Bush series formula and made it more Civ3 and perhaps with a little more balance towards the plot than towards the humor.

          Writing the next chapter now.
          Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


          • #6
            Chapter 3: Accusation

            “Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust,” Elizabeth nodded in a sort of feigned mourning.

            “But the memory remains,” Bismarck nodded in return, “Which reminds me.”

            Bismarck mounted the casket, pulling his ever-handy guitar out from behind the roses he had delivered to the funeral personally. “Joan’s favorite song, and a personal favorite of mine, I would like to reproduce here for you.”

            With that he burst into a rendition of ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ by Guns and Roses. Though Bismarck, with an eternity to practice, had become utterly masterful of the guitar his vocals were, to put terms politely, lacking.

            “I always thought it’d be King Nothing,” Lincoln noted to an aide. Abraham loved Metallica, had had them perform several times at the White House, King Nothing was his favorite song, though Joan wasn’t terribly fond of Metallica.

            A line began to form behind Bismarck, for musical dedications to the life of Joan of Arc. Elizabeth gave a harpsichord performance of ‘Come Together’, Catherine sang the blues, Lincoln was booed off the stage; likely a fortunate blow, King Nothing is particularly inappropriate for a head of state’s funeral, by Shaka and Temujin, who freestyled about events that they associated with Joan of Arc, such as Noah’s Flood.

            A few genuine friends wept; Bismarck’s eyes had hardly cleared up during his song.

            As they split into groups, taking turns to console Bismarck, and alternatively take extended smoking breaks, Abraham met eyes with Shaka, who smiled while pushing his doob into an ashtray, walking over to Lincoln in the least threatening manner he could manage.

            “We all know you did it,” Shaka accused, “Might as well ‘fess up b****.”

            Lincoln smiled, “We preach best what we need to hear most.”

            A hand pulled back into a fist, but Shaka held it back, through Gritted teeth he muttered, “Don’t you ever make accusations like that b****, or you’ll find yourself in the obituaries.”

            “I check every day anyways, hope springs eternal.”

            Shaka paused, looking awkwardly at Abraham, “What the f*** does that mean? You wanna die b****?”

            Abraham paused, scratched his chin, tapped his cigarette ashes into the bushes below them, “I’m….. not sure what I meant.”

            “Murderer and Moron.”

            Elizabeth took that moment to walk out onto the porch, her cigar unsheathed, “eh?”

            “Just talking about how b**** here killed Joan,” Shaka gestured at Abraham.

            Elizabeth laughed, “Lincoln? How about you?”

            Shaka was aghast, “What makes you think you’re not a suspect?”

            Elizabeth shrugged while Shaka went into a flurry of cursing.

            “I suspect Bismarck,” Lincoln said matter of factly.

            This drew stares, wondering amusement.

            Elizabeth lit up her cigar, having, at long last, quit holding it out for Abraham or Shaka to light it, “Bismarck was so f***in whipped that I’m surprised he didn’t take the bullet for her.”

            Lincoln and Shaka both grinned at this, “His sorrow seems too much,” Lincoln replied.

            Shaka shook his head, lifting his glass towards the newly, and surprisingly quickly elected French Prime Minister, Pierre l’Ane, “That’s the sonofab**** there. First Anti-German in the French government in a long time, felt Joan was too weak,” Shaka pulled out a folder from his pocket, though it had been folded it quickly and resiliently popped out, “Born Pierre l’Ane, August the Fifth of 1897, entered into a French Boarding school in 1902, left it nine years later, the year after he left… the principal was fired for holding political views some would term… antiesatblishmentarian,” Shaka looked at the two of them, raising his eyebrows with suspicion, he turned the page, “In 1915 he entered the Parisian Academy of Law, a strongly Liberal and Anti-German Academy, there he met Jacques l'idiot, who profoundly radicalized him into a revolutionary, an undocumented source claims that despite his indoctrination Jacques pleaded with Pierre to work within the system and dismantle it from within. A month later Jacques died, some say of syphilis, I say it was a political assassination.”

            “In 1920 he joined the notorious Law offices of Charles de Aquitaine. Notorious for keeping hundreds of thousands of suspected criminals from the steady hand of French justice. These suspected Anarchists wiped through their cases, clearing names and releasing back into the street these suspected thugs and hoodlums. They further entrenched Pierre into his indoctrination and taught him that violence could be safe. In 1930 he became a representative of the Parisian Congress and in 1934 he became a Congressman to the French National Congress. In 1939 he became Prime Minister following the death of a woman undocumented sources claim he hated.”

            Elizabeth slowly clapped her hands, “I’m impressed, you’ve done your research into this.”

            Abraham shook his head, “Every undocumented source in there, those are your own fevered imaginings aren’t they.”

            Shaka shot a baleful glare at him, “Shut up b****.”

            Elizabeth shook her head in amazement, “Such accusations Abraham, you shouldn’t be so bold in your finger pointing. Remember, whenever you point a finger, three more point back at you. Or are you covering for Pierre over there, that filthy anarchist?”

            Abraham shook his head at the woman and turned away, maybe Otto needed consoling again.


            “I call this meeting of the United Nations into session.”

            Shaka stood, but it seemed respectful for a change.

            “The chair recognizes Shaka of the Zulu.”

            Shaka smiled and cleared his throat, “I, personally, as a member of this esteemed foundation am steadfastly grieved whenever anyone dies, especially a member. In this sense I call for the investigations, by this body of United…. Nations, into the murder of Joan of Arc by the ruthless and bloody men, Abraham Lincoln and Pierre l’Ane.”

            Applause swept through the crowd, and the action passed, the trial date was set for next week, Bismarck stood, “In the same sense,” he sobbed, “I call for the investigations of Hiawatha and Chairman Mao.”

            The Action passed and before long there was not a member of the UN not on trial. The political climate was charged and experienced politicians might have been able to cope, but these men were far too immature for that.
            Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


            • #7

              gotta print this for the lads at work...

              cheers... bring it on!
              Gurka 17, People of the Valley
              I am of the Horde.


              • #8
                Another great installment.


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                • #9
                  Glad you're enjoying it, I'll get Chapter 4: Casus Belli, up tonight.

                  Right now you should have several questions;

                  What were Joan and Otto talking about in the beginning?

                  What treachery is planned by Mao and Lincoln, was Joan's death a part of it?

                  Why does Otto suspect the Iriquois?

                  What does the title have to do with the story?

                  Is Shaka turning over a new leaf, one of respect for authority?

                  What is my favorite color?

                  Well, no answers for you tonight (Well, actually I answer one, one of the serious ones) but I do offer a lot more questions.
                  Last edited by SKILORD; November 24, 2003, 18:13.
                  Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


                  • #10
                    Chapter 4: Casus Belli

                    Sometimes fate deals us hands that we aren’t prepared for. Captain Heinrich Dulles was dealt such a hand, before the voyage of his ship his wife had walked out on him with, and if the neighbors were to be believed for, the dog, but his private matters weren’t the primary concern at the moment.

                    “Have they backed off yet?”

                    The private at the radar station shook his head, “No, sir, they keep shadowing us.”

                    Who would put submarines out to sea like that, he wondered, nuclear subs were presently restrained to dry-dock by the treaty of Leipzig.

                    “Think their packing?”

                    “Without a doubt sir, what other reason would they be on the coast like this?”

                    “Berlin’s barely out of their range, “ he noted, the aide nodded, “send out a transmission, we’re gonna have to stop ‘em.”

                    With that the ship shuddered in the waves, sirens began their automatic blaring, Dulles grabbed the intercom, “All hands to Battle Stations, this is not a drill.”

                    The rocking of the ship increased, Heinrich fell to the stiff metal floor, water began to lap at his hair.



                    “Mein Gott,” the advisor’s face grew pale suddenly as the telephone drooped in hand, “How are we going to tell Herr Bismarck?”

                    “Tell him what?” his secretary asked him, to which he responded with the news that chilled the hearts of every German.

                    The aide walked down the halls, his feet brushing rapidly over the carpets, never wasting time to touch the mahogany rails, he knocked of Herr Bismarck’s door, which opened.

                    A suspicious looking man with a suit grinned and tipped his hat, a English bowler, before picking up his suit case and, neglecting to bid his host farewell, departed. Watching the other man retreat Bismarck’s mouth took a sneering, vengeful grin.

                    The aide watched for him to leave before bursting out the news, “Herr, Berlin, she has been struck. A Nuclear Missile, hit there twenty minutes ago, things are in a panic throughout the Fatherland, we don’t know who did it, we don’t know where they’ll strike next, but we’re nearly certain that they will.”

                    “Mein Gott,” Bismarck’s tear worn face grew furrowed once more, “I must depart at once for home, we must set things in order.”

                    “I will have your bags prepared sir.”

                    “Good, have a representative briefed and prepared to attend the U.N. trials in my stead.”

                    “Won’t they require you to be there for yours, sir?”

                    “Good God man! Berlin has been bombed, I think they can make an exception.”

                    The aide nodded, he hoped they did, but he had met the other world leaders, he wouldn’t have bet on it.


                    “I think he bombed it himself, to get out of these trials,” Elizabeth noted, taking a drag from her cigar.

                    “Yeah,” Shaka lifted up his hands and made the most amusing face he could garnish, “Oooh, look at me, I’m poor little Chancellor Bismarck, Ooooh, poor me, Berlin got bombed.”

                    Abraham, from the podium, frowned and slammed down his gavel, “I hereby call this meeting of the U.N. into order.”

                    “MURDERER!” came the outcry from Shaka and Elizabeth.

                    “I’m afraid,” Abraham gritted his teeth in annoyance, the last week had heard no end to such cries, it had become an almost universal greeting among the U.N, “trials don’t start until tomorrow.”

                    Catherine raised her hand daintily. How Catherine managed anything daintily was a wonder; that she managed to do everything that way was nothing short of miracle.

                    “The chair recognizes Catherine the Great of,” Lincoln checked his notes, “Russia.”

                    Catherine smiled pleasantly back at him, “Firstly it has become routine for Russian peasants to witness the flight of Iroquois jets, I would like to begin a motion for economic sanctions until such flights are placed at an end.”

                    Hiawatha looked suddenly stricken; he hadn’t anticipated anything of the sort to happen to him. Hiawatha was, if more popular than Lincoln only so because where Hiawatha could sit quietly in the back Lincoln was chairman.
                    “Secondly, in the past this legislation had put in place laws forbidding the use of Nuclear Submarines during peace. Such laws are being disregarded and therefore I ask that, in order for us to defend ourselves, they be rescinded, so that we have no need to fear these rouge nations.”

                    To this everyone stood up and applauded, ‘Here Here,’ was carried as almost as popular a chant as ‘Murderer.’

                    Lincoln took out the crude ‘Clue’ worksheet, which he had cleverly crossed out the names of such fanciful characters as ‘Professor Plum’ and replaced them with ‘Shaka.’ While everyone else in the room applauded Abraham put a big ‘C’ in one of the boxes next to the ‘Nuclear Terrorism’ category, which had once had something to do with the ‘Kitchen.’

                    Shaka stood up, waiting for the chair to recognize him, with almost an indignant sneer that Abraham did so.

                    “I wish to second both motions, and I would also like to put Catherine into the running for the ‘motion of the year’ award.”

                    Everyone applauded again and a quick vote, Abraham realized, would establish these as international law.

                    “I call for a recess and adjournment until after the trials.”

                    Such a motion would only require a second and a third, rather than the full vote that the other two motions would require, A glare at Hiawatha secured a second and Abraham was left staring about the room for another vote.

                    Temujin stood up, to the awe of Shaka, “I third the motion.”

                    Abraham slammed the gavel down, “I call this meeting adjourned.”


                    Shaka sulked out to his Ferarri, without Temujin for the first time in a long time.

                    A pile of ‘Twinkies’ sat in the glove compartment, Temujin’s favorite snack food. Shaka tapped his head against the leather steering wheel, a knock came at the glass.

                    He looked up to see a man with a distinct English hat and a perfectly kept suit flash him a smile before lifting a revolver to the window.

                    Echoes reverberated through the parking lot, searching vainly for company. The man in the suit turned around and walked away; footsteps echoing in his wake.
                    Last edited by SKILORD; November 25, 2003, 00:14.
                    Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


                    • #11
                      Woah... This is, like, both humorous, and exciting in a suspence mystery kind of way. Very nice work there, SKILORD. I can't wait for another part.
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                      • #13
                        Originally posted by SKILORD
                        Yeah, kinda sad to cite unscratchedfoot as a major literary influence to anything
                        Hmmm... well you're a sad excuse for a pie, SKYPIE

                        Its a real nooger-booger of a story! As for your first humorous story, there's some wavering between being overly serious and overly corny (the wife left with the dog???); however, its good to see you try a different approach for variety. That's the best way to write - lotsa different styles instead of the one-pattern boredom like Stephen King or Tom Clancy. Also, the many loose ends you're trying to create make it bit hard to follow but I find that with most modern fiction I've read so it maybe just me.

                        Keep the goods coming of course, Mr. Skypie.
                        Here is an interesting scenario to check out. The Vietnam war is cool.


                        • #14
                          Oh, I understand about the many different loose ends, there are enough subplots to this babay to sink a... boat of sturdy design. I realize that, I'm sorta going for it, I can hardly keep them all in order, but they help a lot whenever I need something to throw in to counterbalance something else. It's as much a juggling act for me as it is, I will make you this promise though scratch: I won't give you more than I can handle without taking notes.

                          Thanks for the criticism scratch.
                          Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land


                          • #15
                            Chapter 5: Trial by Combat

                            ([b]The last bit of this is a bit.... rubbishy, cut me a break)

                            Abraham Lincoln’s truck hauled through the streets, swerving through traffic, AC/DC blaring over the system. Lincoln tapped the steering wheel, humming along to ‘To Those About to Rock (We Salute You)” The U.N. building loomed, foreboding on the horizon, Lincoln frowned, he supposed it would be best to have some idea of what was going on in the world if he was about to discuss it. He flicked off his CD player and the Radio News Station (Radio News AM 78.6, listened to by all of three people, one of whom must be checked for vital signs every half hour). The announcer’s monotone came crisp over the speakers.

                            “For those of you just tuning in,” Lincoln marveled at his luck at picking the precise moment when the dialogue would be easiest to write, “The past day has seen the death of a second world leader, Shaka of the Zulu was assassinated in his Ferrari yesterday following a meeting of the United Nations, though the meeting was scheduled to last another two hours it was adjourned early by U.N. Chairman and alleged president of the United States, Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln’s role in the attack is being investigated, it is a dark, dark day in the history of international relations.”

                            Abraham shook his head, pulling into the U.N. parking lot with practiced ease, though he shuddered at the thought. What if there was a murderer waiting in there for him? These might be his last moments alive, he flashed his identification to the security guard, who nodded him in.

                            “MURDERER!” shouted Elizabeth, who was only now pulling herself out of her Austin Healey 3000. Yesterday Abraham would have responded in like, but after listening to the radio he was unsure of how seriously she meant it.

                            He turned from her and walked briskly inside, his suitcase full of evidence in his defense in Joan’s murder tapping against the side of his leg.


                            The Judge, a long faced fellow who appeared far older than the oldest of the others in the room, pounded his gavel down, “Mr, Lincoln, Mr. l’Ane, I suppose you will have some evidence in your defense.”

                            Abraham stood up, “Indeed we do.”

                            Nodding to Pierre he stepped forward to look at the jury, what remained of the U.N. Zululand had yet to replace Shaka, Bismarck’s replacement, Dietrich Dambach, who had been beforehand his most trusted aide and the only one from whom it was believed that Bismarck could hear about the attack on Berlin without killing himself, looked unsteady in judging the other delegates. Pierre held his head in his hands back at their seat, Abraham opened up his briefcase and, putting his ‘Clue’ worksheet to the side, placed out several files.

                            “My friends and fellow delegates, we are afraid.”

                            Assent spread through the crowd like wildfire, nods back and forth, Catherine was pale, Elizabeth looked hungry, angry, ready to attack any small threat before it became too strong for her to handle, Hiawatha was quiet as he always was, but shuddered frequently in his seat.

                            “Two have died, two of us,” Abraham waved his arms for effect, “We are respected, revered, we, surrounded by our bodyguards, have a sense of invincibility, or at least we did two weeks ago. Now we are weak, vulnerable, now we dart from shadow to shadow, now we hide and flee. We are not leaders any longer. We bicker amongst ourselves, we fight and we watch as others die. It could be worse, we could have nuclear bombs going off in the backyard as Otto did, we might be the victims of this witchhunt.

                            “I am afraid, my colleagues, not of the death that awaits us, but of the fear that it instills in each and every one of you. I am afraid.”

                            Abraham paused and turned to the judge.

                            The judge leaned forward, “Charming story, Mr. Lincoln, what relevance does it have?”

                            Lincoln paused, turned to Pierre, who shrugged at him.

                            The jury applauded, Lincoln sat down.

                            “Do you have any evidence Mr. Lincoln?”

                            Abraham looked over at Pierre, who shrugged, “Not really.”

                            “In that case we move over to the Prosecution. Mr. Ahaz, have you any witnesses or evidence?”

                            Mr Ahaz looked evasively at the floor, “Not really.”

                            The judge rolled his eyes, his only consolation was that at least these trials would go by quickly. “The jury has fifteen minutes to convene and decide.”

                            Elizabeth stood up, “Is that really enough time with a case of this import?”

                            The judge panicked, his eyes darted around the courtroom for anything, “Ummm….”

                            Elizabeth smiled, the other jurors followed her lead.

                            “Ms,” the judge stuttered, “Rather Queen Elizabeth, I would just as soon not hold you in contempt of court, don’t force my hand.”

                            Silence swept across the courtroom, one could taste Elizabeth’s wrath in her stare.

                            The judge swept his hand across his sweaty brow as the jury filed out of the room.


                            “In the case of Temujin versus the United Nations we are left with little recourse but a verdict of innocence on the behalf of Temujin. On this trials ‘jury awards’ we award Ms. Catherine of Russia with ‘Best Hairdo,’ Mr. Lincoln with Best Dressed in the Male division,”

                            “I coulda won if I’d wanted to,” grumbled Hiawatha.

                            The other awards were similarly stupid, however Lincoln planned to spend his three-dollar gift certificate to the ‘Dollar Marte’ as soon as the session let out, the other leaders had likewise ambitions towards their rewards.

                            The judge, gritting his teeth after what had been an exceptionally long day, hammered his gavel down, “This court is adjourned, may God have mercy on your souls.”


                            Abraham stood in front of the small crowd, “The official inquiry into the murder of Shaka begins today. The Inquiry is not to be confused with the trial. We have established the inquiry in order to tell if there is sufficient evidence for trial, do we all understand?”

                            Nodding pervaded the room, “The first piece of evidence, which is to be examined for relevance and accuracy, are the videos from the parking lot security cameras,” Abraham looked up as a projection screen rolled out above him and returned to his seat as the video began. Dietrich sat next to him, smiling as Abraham sat.

                            As the video progressed, though the camera was situated in such a way that the gunman showed only his back, the only mark of any distinction being a black bowler, Dietrich’s eyes widened, and he was silent.

                            As the Video came to a close Abraham stood up, turning to the crowd, “Lacking a clear view of the gunman, this evidence is of little use, I move that it be stricken as irrelevant.”

                            Catherine stood up, she wanted the nice judge-man to return and realized that he would do no such thing without evidence, “I like it.”

                            “Why?” Lincoln asked.

                            Catherine sat down.

                            “Any other objections?” Lincoln asked.

                            Dietrich looked up at the bowler, damnably frozen onto the screen.

                            And there was silence.


                            Lincoln looked out the window at the setting sun, it had been a long day of viewing evidence, he sighed.

                            “One last matter, unrelated to the rest of the days work.”

                            The crowd turned its weary eyes on him.

                            “The trials to ascertain the murderer of Joan of Arc failed to produce a murderer, we need a new system to determine the murderer.”

                            Hiawatha raised his hand, as the crowd groaned Lincoln recognized him, “I recommend we play dice for it.”

                            Elizabeth stood, “We shall have no such thing, such important matters should not be determined by random chance,” everyone nodded, and clapped their hands politely.

                            “What do you recommend?” Hiawatha asked.

                            “Why…” she thought for a moment then, shruggung, “Trial by Combat used to work quite nicely in Medieval Britain.”

                            There was an utter, dominating silence in the room, Temujin stood tall, with a cruel glint in his eyes, “I second the motion.”


                            Happy Tthanksgiving
                            Read Blessed be the Peacemakers | Read Political Freedom | Read Pax Germania: A Story of Redemption | Read Unrelated Matters | Read Stains of Blood and Ash | Read Ripper: A Glimpse into the Life of Gen. Jack Sterling | Read Deutschland Erwachte! | Read The Best Friend | Read A Mothers Day Poem | Read Deliver us From Evil | Read The Promised Land