Unrelated Matters

[unscratchedfoot]

Yeah it is quite corny especially the 3 dollar certificate part, but the trial by combat idea is reasonable. I think we are the only 2 people who use the forum now. Kinduv ghost town I think.

[SKILORD]

:sigh:

simplifies the contenst

[History Guy]

My word, this is good...

[SKILORD]

bah, I'm trowing this together, I'm working on a better, serious piece, but thanks anyway.

[SKILORD]

Chapter 6: Sedition

Mao, with a beard that was all too quick to reveal his identity, pulled up his chair while looking around.

“We’re supposed to be disguised,” Lincoln, who was dressed as a large Oriental man, noted angrily.

Mao nodded, causing his tall, black hat to fall off, he scrambled to pull it off of the floor, “I know, I tried. Lets get to business.”

The waitress approached, “Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?” She had a Southern Twang to her voice and the words were so sugar coated that men better controlled by their emotions would have scrambled for the most expensive drink on the menu.

“Water, please,” Lincoln waved her off, Mao growled something savage.

“We don’t serve that here,” she said to Mao

He growled again, “A Strawberry Daiquiri then.”

She smiled and walked off to the kitchen.

“Now, to business, I see that our first matter has been accomplished,” Mao said.

“Certainly seems so, but it seems there’s another player in our little game,” Lincoln nodded.

“You mean that you didn’t order Shaka shot?”

Lincoln shook his head, “Shaka wasn’t the target yet.”

“Damn, who was it?”

Lincoln smiled and leaned across the table and said with supreme calmness, “I have no f***ing clue.”

Mao pulled back, “Motherf***.”

Lincoln smiled at him, “Look at it as a challenge, not as a threat. Sure, this kid might kill one or two people, but that’s not really much when you compare, is it?”

“I don’t like challenges that can kill me.”

Lincoln laughed, sitting back, “If Motherf***er gets that far, let him, but he ain’t playin hardball yet.”

“What’s the next step?”

Lincoln lit up a cigarette, a Marlboro, smiling, “Russia.”

-

An Iroquois jet sped overhead, the makings were clear, almost exaggerated, Nina Tolstov was used to the noise by now, she gave it a cursory glance, for some reason the design seemed different, fatter than usual, Nina Tolstov turned back to the plow, returned her attention to the field as overhead the jet sped towards St. Petersburg.

As she turned her plow to return home, it was a poor family, they could only afford a thin track of land, she saw the jet, now a distant image, and then she saw the flames rushing towards the heavens and she heard the distant wail of fire engines.

-

“Napalm, Motherf***ing Napalm, do you have any idea how many conventions are being violated?” Catherine’s plump face turned red as she screamed at the crowd, “There are blocks of Petrograd that are still on fire.”

Lincoln slammed his gavel down with authority, he was without fear now, he was no longer only a nominal head of the UN, his powers had grown, his authority had expanded with every attack, with every bullet fired, “Catherine, I must ask you to sit.”

She sat, obedient, “We have no leads on the attacker either; my top analysts tell me that the paint is no indication, the markings were mildly incorrect. I do know this, Russia is being placed under martial law until this passes, I recommend the rest of you do the same if you want to be safe from this.”

Dietrich shuddered in his seat, his health seemed to be waning, bags had appeared under his eyes since the fruitless hearing of Shaka’s evidence. He was skittery, and his name was coming to be mentioned in several of the myriad conspiracy theories that floated through the U.N.

“That’s quite enough!” Lincoln demanded from his podium. Silence pervaded the room.

Mandu, the man who had replaced Shaka after his demise, stood to be recognized. He lacked Shaka’s eloquence and charisma, but was a competent trustworthy sort.

“The chair recognizes Mandu of the Zulu.”

Mandu rose, “My fellow delegates, fear controls this room. We dash about, pointing fingers, screaming of our losses. We want to reap our revenge, but we don’t know to who. We are afraid to follow in the footsteps of my predecessor. I am not afraid, my friends, I am not. There is no warriors bravado, but I do not fear this that I cannot fight, I consign myself to my fate, and hoping the best I make the path for a fate of greatness, but I do not fear the grave. I assure you that worry will not lengthen your days, nor will hatred increase your hours. Let us not give way to fearful attacks, let us be orderly and calm.”

He managed to strike a common key somehow with his simple rhetoric, all stood and applauded, Mao met eyes with Lincoln, they sneered together while applauding.

Yes, Lincoln realized, something would have to be done.

-

The parking lot was empty now, while Mandu strode out to his simple Honda, looking quietly around for shooters, he had stayed long after the others had left to catch up with paperwork that the Zulu were behind on.

“Hello Mandu,” Lincoln smiled mischievously, appearing from behind a pilliar, “Excellent speech today.”

Mandu smiled back, it was a timid smile, “Yes, thank you Mister Chairman.”

“You know, I think that’s exactly what we needed to hear in order to become effective again.”

Mandu’s smile grew a bit, “Whatever it takes to help, sir.”

Lincoln frowned, “What I’m worried about is that you aren’t helping, I remember the days before this, everything was much harder for me. I’m afraid that I can’t have you calming them, they turn to me in their panic, I am sorry.”

Mandu frowned, “You can’t silence me.”

Lincoln pulled his handgun out of its holster, “I am sorry,” he assured his victim.

After the shots stopped reverberating through the parking lot Lincoln walked back over to the camera and plugged it back in, then, as calm as though nothing had transpired, Lincoln returned to his truck and returned home.

[SKILORD]

Ever read (Or better still, seen) Macbeth?

[unscratchedfoot]

Wow, the story went all serious again. Skypie did you plan this story out before starting to write it? I think if you don't then it gets a wishy washy feel to it like my Royal Service story. I read macbeth in high school but dont' remember anything about it except that there was some issue about murder in it. I think that was Mr. Dowding's favorite piece of literature.

Isn't anyone else reading this story? My story too is quite ignored so I gave up on writing a new story I had planned. Not much incentive here, well none to be sure. Gotta find a new forum but the stuff I see on the internet is always too topic based like other PC game stories, hippy peace stories, flowery descriptive boring stories etc... I can't find a normal stories forum yet.

[History Guy]

Yeah, I like this story.

Macbeth is my favorite of the Shakespeare plays.

[vovan]

Why, I was Macduff, when we acted out the play my first year at college.

Any way, big thumbs up on the latest developments, SKI, though I agree with scratch: I think you are digressing from your original plan to make this story full of humour. It isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I did quite enjoy the numerous jokes of the first few installments, whereas the latest ones read more SKILORDish. I am not sure if you got tired/exhausted, or just found you don't much enjoy the satiric scratch style of writing, but I definitely see you slipping back to your more regular style. Though like I said, that's not necessarily a bad thing. I am still enjoying this bit.

[SKILORD]

Alright, I'll work on it.

Don't expect a new addition in the next coupla days, I have to read and write a paper of 'Crime and Punishment' by Thursday and, to be frank, I haven't started it.

The Macbeth reference there was because Lincoln is starting to remind me of Macbeth, flailing madly to keeep the power he has achieved through treachery.

Is the story planned? No, but I think I know who killed Joan (Not who you would think).

I'll work on returning it to its humerous roots.

[SKILORD]

Oh yeah, btw to vovan, We're acting it out in my sr. Year at High School, I'm Macbeth.

[vovan]

Originally posted by SKILORD
Don't expect a new addition in the next coupla days, I have to read and write a paper of 'Crime and Punishment' by Thursday and, to be frank, I haven't started it.

Being Russian, I cannot pass the opprotunity to give a to that. Though I, personally, hated the thing when we had to read it at school, and imagine the english translation might be even worse (I don't suppose you are reading the original?), I now find it quite a curious piece and actually willingly reread it recently. Imagine!

[SKILORD]

sorry for the delay, I fell ill the last coupla days (really rather ill) and was basically incapable of complete thoughts for the weekend and still a bit groggy today. I'll work on getting some back to you.

Yeah, it's a translation vovan, can't quite get the Russian. I don't really believe that the guy hass done that good of a job, but am in no position to double check him so that's all just conjecture right now.

[Paddy]

Thanks, really enjoyed that

get better soon

[SKILORD]

Chapter 7: In Violentae Veritas

Blood seeped slowly down the pavement of the U.N. covered garage, the camera, a black and white, didn’t notice.

Elizabeth was the first to arrive, she was well early, before the guards had even arrived, she didn’t notice the blood, so wrapped up in her plans for the armor that stuffed the trunk of her Austin Healey that she didn’t notice the body,

THUMPITAH!

Elizabeth slammed on the brakes, hurled open the door, looked under her tires, she didn’t think a new speed bump had been installed.

“S***,” something had splashed red paint on the underside of her green car, she turned back to look at what she might have run over.

The scream bit at her throat, but her blood ran cold. Elizabeth considered taking a pulse, but the head was well caved in, a tire mark running through it, her eyes darted to the camera which had served as witness to her murder, she chuckled about diplomatic immunity while she stuck her hand into the pocket, to steal whatever money the man had in his wallet. His Zulu drivers license dropped out.

Looking into the familiar features she almost screamed again. Her eyes darted around again, this time panicked, she shoved the money into her purse and she grabbed the arm.

With superhuman effort she dragged the body to the edge of the parking garage, it was only a second floor. A reporter, probably investigating one of the other murders waved to her and took her picture as she waved and smiled back.

It couldn’t have looked like an effective suicide anyway, she decided, and tossed the body into the back of a cart that the security guards used to ensure the maintenance of the strict assigned parking rules. Hopping into the drivers seat she floored it, sending her to it’s top speed of 8 mph.

In this fashion she spent the next twenty minutes working her way up to the fifth floor, where she tossed the body off of the cart and into the blooming morning traffic, where another driver would likely run the body over.

She ran back to her car, in five minutes, and pulled it to the side, where she used a water hose to liberally apply cleanliness to the underside of her Austin.

“Out damned spot,” she muttered, kicking some of the less coercible blood. She turned the hose somewhat to the congealed remains on the cement. A security guard finally arrived after she felt she had done a fair enough job.

“Hello, mam,” he smiled kindly at her.

“Yes, hello, fine morning,” she felt the inexplicable desire to confess herself, but she assured herself that she had done no wrong, and repressed it.

“That’s a nice car you’ve got there,” he observed.

She smiled in return, “Wanna get to know the back seat?”

He frowned, “Heahl, you too old fowh me.”

She frowned, and stepped into it, driving to her parking spot, though she suspected that the assignments wouldn’t be enforced today.

-

“I suppose, having given him sufficient time, we should begin this session without representative Mandu,” most nodded in return to this, Lincoln concealed his confusion, Mandu had been in no shape to escape of himself, he wondered what had become of the body.

“The first round of trial by combat, for the guilt of Joan’s murder begins this afternoon, I would like to remind you all of the rules, no putting gum in the other contestant’s hair, but otherwise free for all, and do remember that we will be using a usual tournament layout, if you win one fight you’re free to go,” the delegates nodded silently at Abraham as he said this, smiling benignly. The stared up earnestly, like frightened children to a father who could protect them all too well.

Hiawatha spat out his gum, while cursing, from the back row, he slipped it on the back of the seat in front of him, Abraham noticed this.

“What is this?”

Hiawatha looked around, Lincoln called him by name.

“Nothing, sir”

“I saw you chewing on something?”

“No, sir.”

Pierre, who had turned around with the rest, leaned over his seat, and looked at the back. “EEEEWWWW.”

“What is it Pierre?”

“Gum.”

“Gum, Mr. Hiawatha?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Did you bring enough for everyone?”

He shook his head.

Lincoln pulled out his sheet and wrote a note to himself, “You will write a note of apology to all of the delegates, and I want a heartfelt apology, and I don’t want your secretary to write it. And I want them personalized, by tomorrow.”

Hiawatha nodded his head solemnly, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

At that moment the doors crept, cracking open. Otto von Bismarck stood on the other side, frowning.

“Dietrich, your assistance will no longer be required.”

“Dietrich assumed an air, not of relief, but rather of scorn and fear, “Herr Bismarck, we must have lunch together to discuss… pressing matters.”

“Indeed, but until then, he gestured for the door.”

“I feel it would be for the best that I stay until after lunch, you may fight in the trials though.”

“I would rather you left.”

They bickered for five minutes, until Lincoln slammed the gavel down, “Dietrich will stay.”

Dietrich, confident in Lincoln absolute authority, smiled complacently.

“What right have you to say how the German delegation will be run?”

Lincoln frowned scornfully, and almost instinctively once submissively bowed heads rose, like predators catching wind of game afoot.

“As Chairman I have authority to maintain order in the council room, I dictate that Dietrich stays, not as German representative, you shall be,” he sneered, “adequate for that task, but merely as a guest of the chairman. We have pressing matters to attend to and I will not tolerate any more pointless debate.”

Bismarck looked up forlornly to Temujin, who shrugged in return; he turned to Dietrich, “Much to discuss.”

“At lunch,” Lincoln indicated towards Bismarck’s seat.

-

“In my day, Lincoln was considered a moron, he was ritually beaten every meeting, and while I never took part in those beatings, I supported them wholeheartedly. What is this that I see today?”

Dietrich picked up his sandwich, looked at it quizzically, “This used to be a turkey, someone killed it, and now I’m eating it. They murdered it that I could eat, and I’m famished. What if they had murdered it without reason? Even as it stands, even with basis of reason, which is more morally attractive, a life or my meager hunger? From the turkey’s perspective, of course, it is all the vilest tyranny.”

“What does this have to do with Lincoln?”

“Well, what does Lincoln have to do with a murderer, perhaps one who wears a bowler?”

Bismarck’s back straightened suddenly, “You mean?”

“What does he have to do with a ruler who would hire such a man to kill another ruler?”

Bismarck was intent, eyes wide in understanding, “You mean to say that Lincoln…”

“Is antithesis to everything that you ever stood for, you lying murdering filth! Chairman Lincoln is a great and benevolent man, he protects us, protects us from men like you, you filthy animal, you murderer!”

Others in the restaurant turned and peered as Dietrich screamed accusations at his employer and president. Bismarck for his part, after a mild initial shock, managed to take it quietly and rather well enough as to allay most fears as to the literal meaning of Dietrich’s words. Soon realizing that his words were not summoning the police and were having little affect Dietrich was silent.

Bismarck leaned over the table, “You don’t understand the situation.”

“Yes, I do. I understand far better than you want me to, than you could ever imagine or fear.”

Bismarck smiled, “I doubt it.”

With that he picked up his sandwich and took a bite, “Let this turkey die that I may feast. My sustenance is my highest, most noble goal.”

Dietrich sneered at him, “Would that I were not German.”

Bismarck chuckled, “Would that you weren’t? You are unfit to call yourself one, and so call yourself by some other nation then.”

Dietrich stood, placing his napkin down with a violent calm, and left the restaurant.

-

Lincoln peered at the opponents, knowing that he stood little chance of victory.

“Who you got?” Julius Caesar asked.

“Bismarck,” Abraham frowned, “You’ve got Mao.”

Julius pulled out his Gladius, swinging it about for a bit, “I’ll survive.”

Lincoln smiled at him, “Lucky.”

The roar of Dietrich’s motorcycle suddenly burst forth from the road, tugging off his helmet, “Who has Bismarck?”

Lincoln nodded, Dietrich shook his head, “Bismarck is mine.”

-

She sat in the passenger’s seat, which was a rarity, “You sure you’re alright?”

Elizabeth smiled, “Yes, Catherine, I’m quite fine.”

“You look really pale today.”

“The milk was a little cold this morning.”

Catherine nodded, pulling to the side of the road, next to the field where the combats were scheduled to begin.

“You sure you’re up to this.”

Bags had set themselves under her white, sickly eyes, “I’ll be fine.”

Catherine frowned, knowing better. The lie survived.

“So, when do we get going at this?”

Catherine put down her ‘Big Slurp’ and checked the watch that adorned her swollen wrist, “Twenty minutes.”

Elizabeth nodded in return, “I’d better go get my armor on.”

Catherine frowned, “You sure you don’t want to ask for a substitute?”

“Dammit Catherine, I’ll f***in be alright.”

Catherine lifted her hands in surrender as Elizabeth stood up and stormed out of the car.

-

“The first battle,” the announcer spoke in a monotone, he was uninteresting almost to the point that it sparked interest, but he was the best that they had been able to afford, “will be between Otto von Bismarck and…. It seems that Abraham Lincoln has a substitute, Dietrich Franz.”

Bismarck hopped the fence and approached the center of the field, where Dietrich stood, alone.

“Et tu, Brute?”

Dietrich spat, “You dare? You call me a traitor even while you bear blood on your hands, you dare to repeat those words that the fatherland must have spoken ever so frequently to you, as you hired bloody handed bandits to procure your will. You dare call me a traitor. If a traitor then is a man who will stand up against such a cold hearted tyrant, if a traitor is such a man who would stand for glory of his fatherland against the likes of you, then yes, Et ego. Et Ego a thousand times, may it be repeated to you in hell.”

“So proud of Germany now?”

“I discovered the difference between the Fatherland and the b*stard who tries to kill it with his tyranny.”

“F*** you.”

Lifting the point of the sword in accusation, “So be it.”

Bismarck screamed, a vent of frustrations and hatred that had been seething all morning, and charged, lifting his own sword into the air.

Dietrich quickly pulled out a gin and shot him.

“Hey! That’s against the rules!” Temujin proclaimed.

Stepping across the field to take a pulse, Lincoln noted, “Doesn’t do this b****** a lot of good though.”

The announcer’s dull voice trod across the speakers, “It seems that one of the contestants has shot the other.”

“Sorry,” Dietrich said, earning him a glare from Lincoln.

Bismarck coughed up some blood and was silent.

Lincoln seized the opportunity, and took a microphone, “Well, I suppose we can term that ‘unfortunate’, but let’s try to see the positive. The basic idea to this tournament was that the person we accused wouldn’t be able to say anything because it had been established that we could beat them up, with Bismarck dead, it’s safe to proclaim that he did it and get on with things.”

Everyone applauded.

Then they went home.

-

Temujin frowned in his car, he had been looking forward to the trials and found their conclusion anticlimactic, likewise he had hoped that Bismarck would revive the anti-Lincoln sentiment. He reached into his glove compartment and recovered a Twinkie, placing it in his mouth he wondered if perhaps he should just pull out his ‘9’ from under the seat and ‘cap’ Lincoln right now.

He held the gun up to the light.

And decided against it.

-

“Could you please repeat that order?” the voice was amused over the intercom.

“Twenty One Junior Frosties.”

“How many?”

Senator Duncan McDowle grinned, “Twenty One.”

“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to get a few regular sized Frosties?”

Duncan grinned, “I have cupons.”

Grumbling was audible, and the voice asked him to pull forward.

Which is when another man, in a business suit, hopped into the passenger side of his car.

“What the..?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am.”

“It sure as hell does if you’re going to be in this car,” Duncan fingered the gun he kept under his jacket.

“In that case,” the other man extended his hand, “Call me James Smiley.”

Duncan grinned at this, ignoring the offered hand, “I don’t believe you.”

“Why not.”

“It’s treason to talk to you, men like that don’t barge into cars like madmen.”

“I have a proposition for you, and your schedule was full.”

“Look,” Duncan had straightened himself from the slump he had indulged earlier and took a firmer grip on the handgun. The car behind him started honking its horn, “If you are James Smiley, leader of Prometheus’ Flame, then why would you talk to me?”

“Would you like to run for president Mr. McDowle?”

Duncan grinned, “We don’t have presidential elections in America, Mr. Smiley.”

“Don’t reject me out of hand,” Smiley slid a paper, upon which was scrawled a number across the dashboard, “Think about it.”

And with that he was gone.