2022-12-29 23:09:00 +00:00
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title: Appendix A
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created: Thu, 29 Dec 2022 15:46:36 -0700
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updated: Thu, 29 Dec 2022 15:46:37 -0700
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public: yes
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---
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## Appendix A: Barefoot Quackery
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Being apocryphal and supplemental material posted to the *Barefoot Quackery*
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thread on tildepals, including depictions of loose pages torn from books of the
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2022-12-31 17:32:29 +00:00
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Runesocesius Library during the assault by the Cyberplasms, as well as original
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works of fiction and other diversions.
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2022-12-29 23:09:00 +00:00
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### Cease and Desist
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> To: durrendal
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> From: LABATT
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> Subject: Cease and Desist Order
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>
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> To whom it may concern:
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>
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> It has recently come to our attention that a personhood has withheld
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> important document(s) which affect the structural nature of a sensitive
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> publication, namely the [REDACTED] zine.
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>
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> Please cease and desist immediately. You may comply with this order by
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> submitting the aforementioned document(s) to the designated drop-off point as
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> instructed on the imprint accompanying your submission form by midnight
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> Coordinated Basmentaric Time (BTC) of Day 22 of Member 12 in the year 2202.
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>
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> Continued infringement represents an escalation and will result in sanctions,
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> including but not withstanding a remote cursery execution (RCE) on your
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> monitoring and calendar infrastructure.
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>
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> We reserve the right to pursue other corrective actions through
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> temporally-attuned means to protect the release timeline integrity of key
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> cultural assets.
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>
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> Sincerely,
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>
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> Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)
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---
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> Dear sir and/or madame and/or bear and/or time travel NSA agent,
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>
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> We've read your cease and desist, and while we understand its intent, we're
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> unable at this time to comply, not through any inability of our own, but
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> rather through our inability to stop writing run on sentence; you see we
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> never truly learned how to grammar goodly and now we just go on and on, ad
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> nauseum, so on and so forth; truly it is a depressing and persistent problem,
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> if we were ever to find the correct punctuation to prevent these run ons from
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> happening we might be able to cease, potentially even desist, but probably
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> both at the same time, or neither all at once, we're really uncertain at this
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> point; all that is know is that nothing is truly known once you've gone this
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> far down the grammartical, and metaphorical, rabbit hole; to speak
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> metaphorically that is on a subject that is somewhat subjectively objective
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> while simultaneously being an objective objection to your subjective
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> summation of our grevious misgivings, truly one must infer that the meaning
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> of these metaphoric subjectively objective objections are subjective in their
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> own right, potentially reaching the height of metaphysical incanatation; one
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> could say this run on sentence is one giant invocation, a charm of warding
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> against cease and desist notices, to protect the poor photographer from his
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> abject abandonment of his own promises; though some may object to my absolute
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> misuse of proper punctuation and grammar to the point where said people
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> stopped reading long again and began readying pitchforks and torches, likely
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> they're on their way to Maine now ready to burn my witchy incantating self
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> for the hum dinger of a grammatical curse I sit here writing, but to these
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> people I say NAY, nay sir I object to your cease and desist, and to their
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> objection to this abject horror of a sentence, and I abject my throne as
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> well, for you know I once was a king, not a very rich king, but a king in my
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> own right; why yes, indeed I was, king of stream of concious ramblings
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> without respect for grammar, punctuation, or any of that high falootin
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> nonsense that the yonder rich kings hold dear, and which I hold to be a
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> dreadful and dire curse upon us all, but with that I really must bid you Good
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> Day madame, though let this not be an ending, but the begining of a wonderful
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> and delightful sort of cease and desist based relationship,
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---
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> To: durrendal
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> From: LABATT
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> Subject: Re: Cease and Desist Order [#20221221-1946]
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>
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> To whom it may concern:
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>
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> Please be advised that any evidence you provided in your response may be used
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> against you in the event an injunction is filed against your personhood
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> should you fail to comply with the order. This includes any admission of
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> culpability or liability stemming from failure to submit the aforementioned
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> document(s) in a timely manner.
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>
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> LABATT is a renowned non-profit organisation dedicated to the preservation of
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> historical continuity of cultural works in the fabric of space-time. We
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> deplore the designation of "NSA agent" and invite you to learn more about our
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> mission and vision on our website and free seminars one of our offices across
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> Basmentaria.
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>
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> Sincerely,
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>
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> Luminati Association of Bears as Time Travellers (LABATT)
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### On the Origins of Santa Claws
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125
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On the Origins of Santa Claws
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Maximus N. Grinchescu
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It should heretofore be common knowledge that the Santa Claws of present day is
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the stuff of fantasy and make-believe, a story fabricated on the spur of the
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moment by some exasperated mother who could not for the life of her induce her
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children to behave. The very notion of reward in the form of toys and presents,
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or punishment in the lack thereof of aforementioned items, is no doubt
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appealing to many parents who are themselves motivated similarly and thus can
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only appeal to their offspring at the most superficial level. The lifelong goal
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in the pursuit of consumption has been drummed into these unfortunate
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children's heads from a young age, with thinly-veiled threats of a thorough
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mauling for those who dare to deviate from the well— and truly down— trodden
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path. It is the means by which the cycle of ignorance and conceit perpetuates
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among the unwashed masses — young mops bragging about having the largest
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present under the tree, to become adults boasting of receiving the most
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expensive gifts from a spouse or ever-widening court of suitors. The myth of
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Santa Claws is a gross distortion of facts disguised as a moralistic narrative
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that promotes annually renewing contracts of obedience in exchange for
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short-term material gains. Astonishingly, nary a word of doubt would be heard
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from the parents on the merits of accepting gifts from an obsessive stranger
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who prowls the streets at night watching their children sleep, in addition to
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claiming knowledge of the children's every move rivalling their own.
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It is regrettable that the image of Santa Claws in the eyes of many has been
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reduced to that of a jolly dangerous delivery worker. Little do they know that
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the real Santa Claws came from a long line of frockin — wandering folk who don
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a cassock and dedicate their lives to aiding the hungry, desperate and needy.
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On occasions for gifts, they gave to all regardless of whether they were
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perceived by friend or foe of the recipients to be good or evil, for such is
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the willingness of the frockin to set aside their quarrels on the Day of
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Bountiful Blessings. They travel across Basmentaria in fortles which house a
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multitude of rooms and supplies required to sustain their livelihoods. Inside
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the fortles were workshops in which carpenters, woodworkers, drafters, tailors,
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various craftspeople as well as farmers and cooks plied their skills.
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One frockin in particular became known for rescuing ransomed young maidens and
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poor indentured servants who faced torture by the oil vat at the hands of cruel
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employers in the nick of time that they became known as Nick, Blessed of
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Neddas, or Nick of Mairas as they gained grateful followers and admirers.
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Despite this, the frockin was modest in manner and rarely took credit for their
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acts of generosity. Because of this trait and the loss of the few, limited
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first-hand accounts of those with close dealings with the frockin in a fire
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shortly before they assumed the care and upkeep of a pair of fortles, little is
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known of their childhood circumstances or early life. Enrolment records at an
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vocational institution in Vay'Neddas confirmed that they studied for several
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years in the city, and inherited their uncle's position of managing the
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activities within the fortles sometime after their return. Other historical
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biographers contend the frockin's name was in fact Nikolas Klaus, which later
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became Claws in children's stories as to make them most palatable to
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impressionable young readers.
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Questions as to the nature of their appearance are generally of little import
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save for lining the pockets of picture book publishers and mass producers of
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wax figure collectibles. Those who have had the fortune to glimpse their person
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described a wizened countenance of long hair, fulsome beard and whiskers
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gleaming white and silver, amid which nestled a pair of warm amber eyes, a nose
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slightly rosy from the cold and an affable smile. A genial face rested atop a
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large stocky frame, as was common among those with the blood and strength of
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noble mountain lions. As in the period of their ancestors, they wore a dark
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---
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126
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brown cloak with a hood over their cassock to ward against the cold weather,
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though this changed after one occasion when they narrowly avoided being run
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over by a semi-autonomous cart. The abominable thing had zipped by in front of
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Santa at a beard's distance away as they emerged on the roof of a house through
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its chimney.
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At this juncture it should be duly noted that the idea of Santa Claws typically
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making their entrance into homes by clambering down chimneys, even preferring
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it as a method of entry, is as preposterous as the worthless rags that
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circulated such claims. No one of sound mind would shimmy through filthy,
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narrow, often half-crumbling chutes — carrying a large sack, no less — if they
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could safely enter through the front door. For the latter was exactly what
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Santa and their predecessors did, and still do to this day in some villages, in
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a time when people were less leery of their neighbours and either left their
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doors unlocked, or placed a spare key under the doormat so the household next
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door could tend to the plants or the children's pepper pigs while they visited
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relatives farther away.
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According to a later account by one of the crew on Santa's fleet, translated
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and transcribed for the frockins' annals by a chronicler, what had actually
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transpired was this: on that night while nearing the end of their rounds, Santa
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found signs of flooding at one of the houses pointing to a burst pipe, the
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water having seeped out under the front door and turned to ice in the frigid
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temperatures. Tender of heart, Santa retrieved their fleet repair kit that was
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kept for emergencies and ventured into the house to repair the broken pipe, in
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lieu of simply leaving the presents outside on a stump where a tree once stood
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and riding on. It was then that an obstacle presented itself. The house owners,
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having gone away for the holidays, had a magical apparatus set on the door that
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would raise an alarm and curse if opened by an intruder. No house key was found
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under the mat after defrosting the ice over it enough to pull off the cover.
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The windows were likewise sealed shut and latched. This ultimately necessitated
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Santa entering and leaving through the chimney. Doubtless some fool stumbled
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upon the moment Santa exited the chimney opening, nearly flattened by the
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aerial hazard of a self-navigating cart, and got it into their head that Santa
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Claws was one for chimney-climbing as sport.
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When the good Mrs. Claws found out about the near mishap, they were so worried
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about their partner venturing out on missions that as a precaution, they had
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Santa promise to wear a bright red outfit for such occasions. The thick
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overcoat had a white faux fur trim that reflected the moons' light, matching
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hat and trousers and a shining gold belt buckle so that the carts' sensors can
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sight him even on the darkest nights. Completing the outfit were gloves with
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open seams at the base of each finger to reveal their claws without taking off
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the gloves completely. The whole ensemble was made by Mrs. Claws themselves,
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and it was said they had gotten the inspiration for the white trimmings from
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their partner's flowing mane. Members of the fleet were also offered a similar
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change in clothing and the flying multibeast was re-painted in accordance with
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the new colours that are now festooned in the streets and shops all over
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Basmentaria each year as the Day of Bountiful Blessings draws near.
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A brief word on the aforementioned fleet: much remains unconfirmed about the
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origins or evolution of the transport employed by Santa Claws to cover long
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distances, and the arcana that powers the current fleet remains a subject of
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heated speculation. Based on surviving annals that were once on public display,
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before the twin fortles vanished one night were never seen again, it is
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generally thought that the earliest fleets were small fortles guided by a crew
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of twelve members excluding Santa Claws. In time the fortles were retired and
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replaced with aerial multibeasts for lighter weight and potential for greater
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velocity. Contrary to popular jingles, the multibeast is not pulled by
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reindeer, which are neither known for speed nor stamina, but are headed by rain
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horses specially raised for both as as well their ability to withstand much of
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### Sunrise over Kelsun Peak
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```
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that night we ride up the mountain
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deep within a Saldin Sea of mist
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our way up becomes cloudy, uncertain
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crying, heavy air turns to water
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the cage starts to shudder and shake,
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a venerable old man in a seizure
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you clung to my arm as a bear cub
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to its mother in the darkness,
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the lone candle snuffed out in a huff
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of a petulant wind throwing a tantrum
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I grip the handle hard enough,
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vowing to be strong for both of us
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when we are called from fitful slumber
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by twin rays of warming distant light
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promising more, brother and sister
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a cold breakfast or a hot chocolate
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lastly and first, the sight of you
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eyes open, hair tousled, immaculate
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the rusty gondola creaks a little
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under our combined weight, groaning
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at our youthfully excessive flair
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but we did not care, with our hearts
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facing the sun, far lighter as one
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than the corporeal sum of its parts
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a new day breaks, yolk radiant orange
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reveal the finest tempera brushed over
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neat rows of tea plants at the grange
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a gleaming dewdrop at the tip of a leaf,
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we dangle on the cusp, an infinite moment
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in the sky, we dare to hope, to believe
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```
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40
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### How to Grow Fortified Pumpkins
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How to Grow Fortified Pumpkins
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by Oles Macdonald
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So you wanna grow fortified pumpkins, huh? Well, first things first, you're
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gonna need a fort. You got yer self one, right? An' I don't mean those blow-up
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bouncing bollocks for kids, those take up room and don't do jack. No sirree,
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you need to get yer self a rock fort. The real hard structure, not mouldy
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cheese. Snow's not gonna cut it, fun for the young 'uns maybe but kills yer
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plants with frostbite fast. Sand just gets washed away in a storm. An' don't
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get me started on pillow forts, them things should be banned. Blocks sunlight,
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flaps like the village gossips with a bit o' wind letting in rain every which
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way, feathers inside them pillows take too long to dry when wet, I can go on
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an' on about it all day but we're talking about growing the best fortified
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pumpkins so let's stick with it.
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Bottom line is if you ain't got one then build one from rocks, it's what it
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says on the tin. Just make sure to choose large dry ones, flat-like, you
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wouldn't wanna get sick from cave mold before you even get this sucker off the
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ground, and flats will save you time cutting all them sides. Build your fort on
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a sunny part of yer land away from trees. Pumpkins love to suntan, even shows
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on their skins in some varieties. Stack up some rocks like yer building a brick
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wall or grill. The fort wall should be about a hand's thickness fer insulation
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an' at least twelve by four-an'-twenty by six feet on the inside. Spread
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fisherfolk nets over the top to let in the sun, rain and bees to do their thing
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for yer pumpkin plants but keep them birds out. You can throw cured tarp over
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it an' anchor it to the fort wall if a big storm comes along. Don' forget to
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leave an opening so you can fit a door later. Lets you get in an' out easy, but
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not so easy that the rats an' other rodents get to yer pumpkins first.
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Door-wise there's no need to be a fusspot about it, put in something sturdy
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with a clever latch or a ward if you can get a hold of one so the raccoon cats
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can't pick the lock with their claws.
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Yer gonna need three feet of the height right off the bat for a raised bed,
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specially if you don't know fer sure if the land below yer feet is cursed or
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not, or can't tell horse sh—t apart from dark clay to check yer soil is good.
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Line the inside of the fort with sheet metal where you'll load up with good
|
|
|
|
soil in a bit, an' make sure you can get to all sides. No sense growing a bed
|
|
|
|
full of pumpkins if you can't reach over to grab 'em later. You can also use
|
|
|
|
wood but they will rot something nasty if you don't find the right wood that
|
|
|
|
takes to water well an' have a habit of overwatering loads, then the whole
|
|
|
|
thing falls apart under the weight. Sheet metal like the stuff used fer roofs
|
|
|
|
will do the job, just bang a few together like a box with no lid no bottom an'
|
|
|
|
yer in business. If you'd rather be safe than sorry, you can make it even
|
|
|
|
sturdier on the inside with a steel bar or two across the width of the bed.
|
|
|
|
Fill a third of the bed with straw, ol' wood, alfalfa or stuff like that you
|
|
|
|
got laying around, then the rest of the way up to about the third knuckle's
|
|
|
|
length away from the top edge with good quality compost. Every farmer worth
|
|
|
|
their weight in potatoes knows good quality compost is the real gold. As I
|
|
|
|
always tell new folks lookin' to set up right, go big on compost or go home.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Once you've filled up the bed, dig a few rows of shallow trenches in the soil
|
|
|
|
about a half-an'-a-feet or two apart an' two knuckles deep at yer pinky finger.
|
|
|
|
Soak yer seeds overnight and plant 'em in a feet apart in the rows. Cover 'em
|
|
|
|
up and mulch that beauty of a bed. Give 'em a good thorough watering every
|
|
|
|
other day, or every day if it's like an oven hot out there, an' Bread's yer
|
|
|
|
butter. Halfway through the season if they're lookin' a little starved, fortify
|
|
|
|
'em by making some compost tea to freshen 'em up. You can use hemogoblin blood
|
|
|
|
too if you got that, it's just a pricier way to do the same thing with the same
|
|
|
|
results, an' who likes payin' more when you can throw a few fish bones
|
|
|
|
together, boil the whole lot, leave it to rot an' get free plant tea? Not me.
|
|
|
|
Now when they start flowering, nip off any extra flowers on the same vine so
|
|
|
|
the pumpkin gets more nourishment an' grows bigger. For a lot of newbs it's a
|
|
|
|
chore, but wait 'til you see the size of these pups. If you don't wanna mess
|
|
|
|
about staking up vines, let 'em run around a bit and that's hunky dory too.
|
|
|
|
Just be sure they aren't sittin' in a swimming pool, that's a one-way ride to
|
|
|
|
mushy pumpkins an' root rot. An' dangnabbit do I hate mushy pumpkins.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
### An Overview of S.T.A.G Drones
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
This guide is meant to introduce the operate (you) to the functionality of
|
|
|
|
features of the S.T.A.G drone. For in depth usage and extensibility please
|
|
|
|
review the source code which can be found at your local GNU guild.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
S.T.A.G - (S)py (T)ransmat (A)utonomous (G)izmo
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
As the name implies, the S.T.A.G drone is a capable and compact automous gizmo
|
|
|
|
capable of relaying video, audio, & gps information to its operator. Unlike
|
|
|
|
most convention drones it requires no input to operate, simply supplying it
|
|
|
|
with an object is sufficient. The on board (A)mber (I)mp handles the actual
|
|
|
|
control. It is important that you retrieve the A.I. from the drone in the event
|
|
|
|
you choose to discard, or risk the S.T.A.G. in any way, remember Imp's are
|
|
|
|
sentient beings.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Once an operator has deployed a S.T.A.G drone they'll recieve information back
|
|
|
|
from it in the format of a twtxt feed, and open source plain text format which
|
|
|
|
is easily parsed. GPS coordinates are reported as JSON strings inside of this
|
|
|
|
feed, audio is transliterated to text, and video is relayed as a series of
|
|
|
|
ascii characters. All an operate needs to do to view these feeds is to cat the
|
|
|
|
return text to a terminal and it should render. If the operater does not have
|
|
|
|
access to a terminal, or is not a practice sysorcerer, the video feed can be
|
|
|
|
consumed by retrieving the S.T.A.G drone and holding it close to your ear. The
|
|
|
|
A.I have been trained in number Basementarian languages and are happy to
|
|
|
|
dutifully describe the scenes they've seen.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Each of these feeds can be subscribed to separately
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The aggregate feed can be accessed via:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn>
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Simiarly these feeds provide filtered results by name:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn/gps>
|
|
|
|
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn/audio>
|
|
|
|
@<stag_arn uri://stag/arn/video>
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
### Gremlin Sysorcer
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The gremlin stretched in his padded ergonomic chair and stifled a yawn. He had
|
|
|
|
just finished beating the final Heroic Fantasy game for the twelfth time, when
|
|
|
|
a flood of identical alerts flashed across his second screen: `Outgoing
|
|
|
|
connection blocked on port 443 from 10.10.12.26` He reached into the machine,
|
|
|
|
looked up the process and found two unfamiliar entries bouncing in and out of
|
|
|
|
hottop's list for most computering units being consumed. The new intern had
|
|
|
|
probably downloaded some application with an auto-updater and left it installed
|
|
|
|
on the workstation. He zapped the processes.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
killall -9 ysosirius
|
|
|
|
killall -9 yunoluvirus
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
That should do it. He watched hottop closely on the monitor. A beat passed.
|
|
|
|
Two, then the processes returned. Grr. These weren't regular rogue procs, but
|
|
|
|
forked demons. His stubby fingers sprinted over the mechanical keyboard,
|
|
|
|
clacking loudly in the dark office as he fired off a series of spells:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
sudo systemctl stop ysosirius
|
|
|
|
sudo systemctl stop yunoluvirus
|
|
|
|
sudo systemctl disable ysosirius
|
|
|
|
Failed to execute operation: Access denied
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
G—ck. How is that possible? The gremlin scratched his head with his Mebekey for
|
|
|
|
a minute. Immutable flags?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
|
|
|
|
/bin/bash chattr: not found
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
What. Did the intern somehow mistook it for a messaging client during the
|
|
|
|
initial audit phase and removed it from all the workstations? He really needed
|
|
|
|
to have a word with them when they turn up on Monday, but for now—
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
sudo apt -y install e2fsprogs
|
|
|
|
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius.service
|
|
|
|
sudo rm -rf /etc/systemd/system/ysosirius*
|
|
|
|
sudo chattr -i /etc/systemd/system/yunoluvirus.service
|
|
|
|
sudo rm -rf /etc/systemd/system/yunoluvirus*
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
There, stupid demons terminated. Must have been one of his colleagues leaving
|
|
|
|
him a gaff holiday gift, but he started a malware scan anyway just in case.
|
|
|
|
Smiling to himself and pushing up his Googol glasses, the Tier Two support
|
|
|
|
wizard looked away from his screen to grab his mug, which was then he noticed
|
|
|
|
it was empty. Frowning, he pulled up the COFE dashboard on his terminal. His
|
|
|
|
expression fell at the "0%" next to a little icon of an empty fuel gauge in the
|
|
|
|
status field. That was the last pot — he was sure of it because he had brewed
|
|
|
|
it himself four hours ago after ransacking the kitchenette for more. He had
|
|
|
|
managed to scrape out a few stale tablespoons from what was left inside a large
|
|
|
|
can that had been shoved to the back of a cupboard. He had ran out of coffee.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
After checking his secret stash, which was also empty save for more discarded
|
|
|
|
wrappers, he sighed and got to his feet. He gave the screen another glance and
|
|
|
|
hoverboarded to the vending machine down the hall, before catching sight of the
|
|
|
|
empty black racks from a distance and swerved back towards the lift doors.
|
|
|
|
After some elevator-cruising, he found another vending machine a few floors
|
|
|
|
down that still had drinks, a few tiny bags of corn chips and trail mix bars.
|
|
|
|
Someone had already emptied its shelves of Cherry and regular Koke, and Diet
|
|
|
|
Koke was never a viable alternative. Then he saw a single can of Red Kobit
|
|
|
|
sitting tantalisingly on the rack. He paid with a tap of his meal card,
|
|
|
|
figuring his luck wasn't too bad after all, but at the last moment the vending
|
|
|
|
machine changed its mind and held onto both his credits and the can with a
|
|
|
|
round, wiry claw. He yelled at the machine, threatened to summon maintenance,
|
|
|
|
shoved it back a centimeter where it was already standing against the wall,
|
|
|
|
pummelled its bulletproof glass chest with his fists and kicked its legs, to no
|
|
|
|
avail. The vending machine had likely seen through his bluff and knew no repair
|
|
|
|
person was coming on a Friday night graveyard shift. Taking the machine apart
|
|
|
|
will land him in Big Trouble again, and it wasn't worth the three-hour
|
|
|
|
CowardPoint presentation he would get about robot respect or the warning letter
|
|
|
|
for damage to corporeal property. The gremlin resentfully tapped his card again
|
|
|
|
to secure the last two cans of Red Horse, which rolled down into the flapped
|
|
|
|
receptacle with a *ba dum tss* like a bad joke.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
When he returned to his desk and settled back in his rolling chair, open can of
|
|
|
|
raw energy in hand, he began to feel a prickly, crawling sensation on his skin.
|
|
|
|
A rising dread overcame him, as the apparition of his lifelong-sworn enemy rose
|
|
|
|
up from the deepest runlevels of init hell once again, and without a new season
|
|
|
|
of *White Mirror* dropping anytime soon, he knew he was in grave danger. He
|
|
|
|
gripped the edge of his keyboard, exhaled slowly and greeted his old nemesis,
|
|
|
|
Boredom.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
### Pirate Gold Fondue
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
420
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Pirate Gold Fondue
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Ingredients
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
- 3 Pirate Gold potatoes
|
|
|
|
- 1/2 cup chickpea paste
|
|
|
|
- 1 cup coconut oil
|
|
|
|
- 1/3 macadamia milk
|
|
|
|
- 2 tbsp. cornflour
|
|
|
|
- 1 1/2 cups mulled apple wine
|
|
|
|
- 1/4 cup hemogoblin blood
|
|
|
|
- 1 garlic clove, flattened
|
|
|
|
- 2 tbsp. ground cocoa
|
|
|
|
- 1/2 tsp. paprika
|
|
|
|
- 2 tbsp. lemon dill
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Method
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
1. Peel potatoes and boil until soft. Let cool, then add to a large mixing bowl
|
|
|
|
with chickpea paste.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
2. Dissolve cornflour into the macadamia milk, then pour the milk gradually
|
|
|
|
into the bowl, mashing the mixture until no lumps remain. Add coconut oil,
|
|
|
|
1/4 cup at a time until folded completely into the mixture and set aside.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
3. Toast the paprika in a saucepan. Add mulled apple wine, bemogoblin blood
|
|
|
|
and garlic clove. When the liquid is heated, add ground cocoa.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
4. Pour the saucepan contents into a caquelon, or a double boiler with water
|
|
|
|
simmering below the bowl. Add the potato mixture slowly in small batches,
|
|
|
|
stirring continuously. Remove garlic after a 1/4 of the mixture has been
|
|
|
|
added, and resume stirring until all the potatoes have been added.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
5. Garnish with lemon dill and serve.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
### Lady Runesocesius
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
```
|
|
|
|
My Lady, I come to visit you
|
|
|
|
will you show your dainty face, gladly I
|
|
|
|
let you tease me as I ascend, step closer
|
|
|
|
so you can hide behind your cloudy veils?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
My Lady, I kneel at your feet
|
|
|
|
will you embrace me in your fulsome bosom
|
|
|
|
let me breathe in your perfume, a heady wine
|
|
|
|
taste drops of your creamy white nectar?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
My Lady, I bring you snow lilies
|
|
|
|
to tuck behind your ear as I whisper
|
|
|
|
sweet everythings into that tender shell
|
|
|
|
so you can extract a promise for my return?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
My Lady, I long to see you
|
|
|
|
to kiss your fair golden tresses and take
|
|
|
|
my vow with Nullar as witness, an Elixir to
|
|
|
|
savour once more your everlasting beauty?
|
|
|
|
```
|