Holiday Trumpmas Dinner

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“Dad, why do we eat pizza on Trumpmas?” Cody asked out of the blue.

“Because President Trump pardoned all the turkeys,” Kylie chirped in.

Dave looked at the kids and decided to go with that one, ”So it would be kind of a jerk move to eat turkey on Trumpmas.”

Cody’s eyes lit up for a moment but he wasn’t satisfied. “Isn’t there like another reason?”

Dave hesitated, “Probably but Trump lived a long time ago back on Old Earth. Nobody’s really sure why that wall he built was so important…”

“Can we build a wall? I wanna build a wall!” Erik yelled excitedly.

“Pizza’s ready!” Karen announced finally bringing the much anticipated dinner to the table and saving her husband from additional embarrassment. “Second one’s in the oven.”

“Hey Karen, is there a specific reason we eat pizza on Trumpmas?” Dave asked. “Is there a Christian thing that I’m missing?”

Karen looked confused for a moment, ”No? I can’t think of any. It’s just the tradition. I think we picked it up from the Magdenese.”

Dave grumbled slightly before he took the pizza cutter and begin cutting slices for the increasingly excited and impatient children. “It’s just weird that we really only eat pizza on this one day.”

“What’s wrong with having one day a year where we wear cowboy hats and eat pizza?” Karen replied. “The fourth of July* is the start of the summer holiday why not have a party with a few silly rituals?”

“Right, right sorry ignorant pagan here,” Dave grunted. “Cody was asking about it and it just got me wondering. Usually there’s a reason traditions get started.”

Karen eyed Dave wearily, neither of them were exactly Old Earth history experts. “Just eat the damn pizza, cowboy. Those illegals aren’t going to round themselves up.”

Dave shrugged, took a huge pull from his beer mug and after making sure all three of the children were taken care of made a plate for himself.

“I think I got it,” Karen announced. “There’s an old fairytale about Saint Donald and Jeff the Wizard breaking into Hell in order to rescue the children.”

The kids stopped eating and looked eagerly at their mother.

“But… what does that have to do with pizza?” Kylie asked.

“I don’t know.” Karen admitted. “I don’t remember the story that well.”

“Is there a movie?” Cody asked.

“There has to be a movie,” Erik added. “Can we watch it?”

“Saint Donald?” Dave muttered as he got up.

“Are you seriously going to search for it now?” Karen grimaced.

Dave drained the last of beer in a quick decisive gulp. “Yeah it’s a holiday and I got nothing better to do.”

“Any movie involving Hell is probably not going to be suitable for young children,” Karen scolded.

“Won’t know until I look,” Dave replied walking over to the television, and punching in the first few search options.”

Erik darted over to help his dad and Dave had to yell at him to go back in the dining room.

“I think I got something?” Dave announced. “But it’s in Russian, with subtitles.”

“English!” Karen yelled. “We speak English on this planet.”

“I know,” Dave laughed. “It’s just hilarious that that’s the first thing to come up.” Breyland’s vast electronic libraries were full of little gems like that. “It’s public domain so there has to be an English version somewhere.”

“And what’s the rating?” Karen demanded. “Just because it’s a fairy tale…”

“Bingo got it! Animated, Full English redub, seventy two minutes.” Dave announced triumphantly. “Are we watching it?”

The boys cheered loudly. They had no idea what the movie was but it had to be awesome right? How could such a thing not be awesome? Everything about Trump was awesome. That was what made him Trump.

“Kylie is five!” Karen said sternly as she stomped over to the television.

“Rated youth-seven.” Dave replied. “That’s probably pretty reasonable.”

Kylie sheepishly wandered over to her parents, “It’s a fairy tale, right?”

Karen reluctantly nodded.

Kylie continued, “and the good guys win, right?”

Dave and Karen looked at each other. The world wasn’t always fair but yes sometimes the good guys won and when they did win you made a point to tell their stories.

“Okay,” Karen agreed. “Let’s do this.”

Dave nodded wordlessly and then very carefully unhooked the television from the wall. Traditions always began somewhere and he was definitely curious about this one. Legends and myths passed from hand to hand twisted and reforged over the eons of time but as always the heroes and villains remained; such was the fabric of cultures weaved…

A sudden buzzer sounded and shattered that fleeting chain of thought as his wife frantically herded their daughter back into the dining room and darted towards the kitchen to take the second pizza out of the oven.

Dave said a wordless prayer to whatever deity might be listening and wheeled the television into the dining room. Hey it was a holiday why not have a little fun.

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*Breyland uses a 13 month planetary calendar.

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Holiday Trumpmas Dinner

The Colonel’s Speech

Okay I probably am going to have to sit down and do a Ice Moon Corrigan story…

 

A image appeared on the screen of a older man with a neat short beard, dressed in a white suit. He grinned at camera with an undeniable charisma and began speaking in what the pirates’ computer would later identify as a ‘likely fake Old American deep south accent.’

This is The Colonel, speaking for the people and militia of Corrigan.

Alright you small-dicked weaselfuckers y’all ain’t fooling nobody with that whole ‘we come in peace’ bullshit. We all know why you’re here and let me start by saying that your kind of ‘free roaming businessmen’ ain’t all that welcome in these parts.

That said it looks like you’re here and we’re gonna have to do business. So I’ll try make this as plain and clear as I can. You’re here to make a quick buck and that ain’t happening. Our colony is self-sufficient in the essentials of life, so you can’t starve us out. As for the parts and machinery we need to import well… we got enough spare parts to last us about twenty years or so.

So whatever you think you’re going to do to us it ain’t gonna be quick and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be easy. Time is money, son. Especially in your line of work. By now I’ve sure you’ve had a chance to talk to our neighbors and learnt just what kind of fellows we are. You see Corrigan is a proposition Nation based on a very interesting set of propositions.

We build up our treasures in Heaven, not upon the mortal plane.

We ain’t got no gold, we ain’t got no platinum, ain’t got no fancy jewels either. The wealth we do have on this moon is in the form of heavy machinery and infrastructure. Not exactly the kind of portable loot you need to keep your operation running.

Now I just told you what We the people and militia of Corrigan don’t have. So to even things out I’m going to tell you we do have a whole lot of.

We got nothing but cold steel, hot lead and tungsten carbine penetrators and believe me the good ole boys will be more than happy to give it to you sons-a-bitches one round at time

You doubt my word you just go right on ahead and try it. Seriously son, with God as my witness any fight with us is a losing bargain.

Because you know damn well even if we had the cash to pay you off, Y’all could go eat a dick ‘cuz you ain’t getting one damn cent from us.

We’re ready to meet our God. Are you ready to meet yours?

The Colonel’s Speech

Quick Hit: Ice Moon Corrigan

Not a very productive weekend I’m afraid but I’ll leave you with this little piece of world-building.

 

While Corrigan is relatively wealthy it is also a frozen hostile atmosphere moon inhabited by nine hundred thousand armed to the teeth militant Christian fanatics, living in hundreds of practically self-sufficient ‘farmhold’ settlements which are all inter-connected by deep underground tunnels and who could as a last resort retreat their entire population into a carefully prepared fortified mountain range. You will get nothing out of the Corgis unless you ask them very, very nicely.

 

and yes the inhabitants of the ice moon Corrigan are called Corgis.

Quick Hit: Ice Moon Corrigan

Looks Like It’s Time To Level The Fuck Up

Shadilay Brethren, I’d like to take the time to thank The Supreme Dark Lord, Davis Aurini, Bradford Walker and the rest of you for the absolutely ridiculous traffic spike this blog has gotten in the last two days.

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To put things into perspective a normal day around here has maybe 25-30 views. If I post a good article that gets a little buzz things might spike up to 70-100 views.

In the last three days as a result of covering the launch of Alt*Hero I have gotten, 255, 790 and 819 page views respectively. That’s what? a 2000% increase!!! Needless to say it got my attention.

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While I have no idea how many of you will stick around in order to become proper Magic Space Aryans I do hope you’ve all been entertained.

Many a truth is said in jest and I’m come to accept that such is my lot in life.

Breyland Notes: The Magic Space Aryan Racial Purity Scale

 

This is the second time I’ve a had a post go viral enough to actually scare me and if I made a complete ass of myself the first time I’d like to think that I’m a bit more seasoned and confident now.

I may surprise some of you to learn that this is supposed to be a writer’s blog. Even though it seems that I’m doing a great deal more Culture War Commentary than actual writing.

The War For The Heart Of Geekdom: What Can You Do?

 

So what do I need to do? I need to sperg less and write more.

My current main project is going to be a ‘space navy novel’ set in the Breylandverse and done in the spirit of David Weber’s early work; hopefully very short and simple.

Current working title is Decisive Action. I don’t really want to give any details until I have more of the actual work done. However one thing I find note worthy is that I’m using a lot of what on the surface appear to be ‘diversity’ characters for the reason that their divided loyalties made for a much more interesting dynamic.

 

A Chapter done in the Spirit of Pinochet (Too funny not to share immediately after I wrote it.)

A Proven Solution

 

For my older readers I’m afraid that I’m going to have to delay Brothers In The Dust for the reason that I’m not really confident enough that I can properly write small scale infantry combat. Added to the intimidation factor is that the sort of people who would buy a novel like that are going have put considerable amounts of lead down range.

I’ll probably come back to BITD once I’ve actually gotten another less ambitious story done.

I keep having to scale down and simplify. I guess that’s where the Pulp Revolution comes in.

Anyway If I go silent for a few days it’s because I’m trying to actually focus on a project and get something done. I’ll try to keep people updated but I have a lot of demons to wrestle and I don’t always have the upper hand.

Politics and the Alt-Right: I’ll comment on something if it pisses me off enough or if I need to get my thoughts written down in order to organize them. Otherwise I need to back off a bit and take care things closer to home.

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And yes I pretend to be a Viking on the Internet, I find it pisses off the right people and keeps the T-level up.

So Why Vikings?

 

I’ll finish this post with this old worldbuilding exercise; which some of you might enjoy in the wake of Alt*Hero.

Gotham and Metropolis

 

—Wolfman Out—

We are the Cult of Life. Begone ye, Thots of Death!

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Looks Like It’s Time To Level The Fuck Up

A Proven Solution

A proven solution to a sadly reoccurring problem.

This is a bit of throwaway chapter that will probably be part of a larger work. Still I think it’s a good enough laugh on its own.

 

The terrorist attack on the Tiki Tacky Club had been only one of three simultaneous attacks by Marxist elements against soft targets in the city. Fortunately causalities were far lighter than they had any right to be. The attack on the nightclub had failed due to the completely unexpected rigor with which the junior naval officers and asteroid miners who made up most the clientele had fought back. The other two attacks failed mostly due to poor planning and the inexperience of the Marxist guerillas. The final body count was somber; forty seven civilians and eight policeman killed but San Tseung was in many ways a military city and the people took the news in stride. They would weep for the fallen but they had seen bad times before. Of the thirty estimated attackers, twenty four were confirmed dead, and two more were captured. They would for a brief moment become the focus of an angry city’s hate.

Sensing a threat to his authority the local High Justice acted quickly without waiting for a response from the System Governor’s office. The two terrorists were given a summary trial and sentenced to death under the Martial Law previsions of the Emergency Powers Act. Since they were communists, tradition demanded that they be put to death by being thrown out of a rotary-winged aircraft. Not always the easiest thing to find but thankfully an eccentric plantation owner was willing to lend the government the use of his aircraft, after all it was simply part of his civic duty. Even better the aircraft in question was an actual to honest God helicopter and not an autogyro or a tilt-rotor. The High Justice was almost beside himself with joy, he would be able to honor the tradition after all.

The Governor of course was sceptical but the High Justice was a very convincing man and evidence was cut and dry. They were Marxist Terrorists caught in the act. Now convinced the Governor, a former policeman himself suggested a refinement of the High Justice’s plan. Instead of quietly throwing the terrorists out of the helicopter over the ocean as was the normal practice and letting the nearsharks and razorsquids make a brief meal of them, the Governor wanted to make an example out of them. They would throw the communists out of the helicopter directly over the main plaza in the middle of the commercial district; there was a very nice flat concrete parking lot that would do nicely, and produce a memorable visual effect in the process.

The High Justice thought about this for a moment and pointed out that some of the foodcart vendors who normally conducted business in that area might not be too fond of that idea. The Governor dithered for a minute or so before suggesting that it might be best to pay a slight compensation to the local vendors (he would later do so out of his own privy purse) but that the central plaza was the place to make this happen. The High Justice heartily agreed. It was time to send a message.

Word of the planned operation spread rapidly throughout the soldiers and gendarmes of the demoralized garrison detachment and was greeted with almost ecstatic zeal. They were going to throw a pair of actual communists out of a real helicopter, just like in the old movies. Arrangements were made in record time. By midday tomorrow the plaza was cleared by local police and the helicopter, a sleek beautiful machine that seemed to mock the laws of physics was airborne with its two special passengers. It was time for justice; Breyland colonial style.

Unfortunately the two terrorists were historically illiterate papaya farmers and did not seem to appreciate the fact they were being thrown out of a real authentic helicopter, rather than one of the garrison’s tilt-rotors. The two gentlemen in question voiced their rigorous protests all the way down and then suddenly stopped. Luckily one of the gendarmes had taken on his own initiative, to attach small recording devices to the terrorists so he and his mates could enjoy the comrades inflight conversation and that inevitable scream of terror just before impact. Those sound recordings passed through several hands in quick secession and were inadvertently leaked to the local media, just in time to be broadcast as part of the local nightly news.

While the Breylanders were universally pleased with themselves; the response among the locals was admittedly mixed. Some of the wealthier citizens felt the spectacle an unnecessary piece of street theatre and would have preferred have had the situation in a much more quiet and discreet manner. The local Patriarch of the Western Orthodox Church was the sole voice condemning the executions as un-Christian barbarism. This caused a great deal of agitation within the church rank and file and the Patriarch would later have to clarify that his objection was to the method of execution and the denial of proper Christian burials, not to the executions themselves.

Among the lower classes there was a strange silent solidarity, while some of the other cities on the planet might harbour some lingering sympathy for the Marxist insurgents almost all of the permanent residents of San Tseung were the children and grandchildren of refugees who had been forced out of their farms and villages during the initial uprising a generation ago. While no-one openly cheered the execution there was a certain amount of stoic satisfaction and the only sympathy they felt was to the poor sanitation workers who had to clean up the resulting mess.

With that small bit of closure the fine upstanding residents of San Tseung returned to the ethanol-fuelled joie de vivre that was their day to day lives.

A Proven Solution

Breyland Notes: The Magic Space Aryan Racial Purity Scale

Just another world building article to help me collect my thoughts. This one started out as a joke but then went into much more serious territory than I originally planned to cover…but since they are going to call me a Nazi anyway.

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The Magic Space Aryan Racial Purity Scale

Master Race

Almost Master Race

Proper White Devil

Pretty Damn White

Ethnically Enhanced Pseudo-Caucasian

Still Sorta White

Brownish

Generic Brown Olive Person

Browner Than Usual

Suspiciously Black

Suitable for Picking Cotton

Too Black to Give a Fuck

 

One of the more interesting things about playing around in the Breylandverse is the complete lack of political correctness and trying to figure out how ordinary people would act when placed in such a complex swirling ball of chaos as Early Restoration Breyland.

The above scale is barracks humor that originated among the NCOs of the Sector Guard (Colonial Sepoy Infantry) and Paramilitary Police (PMP often referred to pimps.) The joke however rapidly took on a life of its own and spread throughout the military and merchant marine as it almost perfectly captures, mocks and attempts to reconcile the racial politics that occurs through the Breylandic military and a large proportion of the colony worlds.

Magic Space Aryan is a mocking term* used to describe Ethnic Breylanders (particularity arrogant government officials.) It works as rhetoric on two fronts; first while Breylanders are a distinctly ‘white race’ some of their subject worlds are even more ‘European’ and attacking their sense of racial superiority by pointing out that they are not completely white can severely rattle some individuals. The other aspect is calling out the contrast between Golden Age Breyland Left-Libertarian traditions and the vicious reality of what their descendants have to do in order to keep their unstable multi-ethnic empire from collapsing. This the Beautiful Terror, the constant back and forth dissonance as Breyland struggles to restore its own lost cultural legacy while having to come to terms with having an Empire that the people (and a large segment of the new regime) do not want; yet dare not get rid of. At the end of the day Breyland finds itself occupying a large number of world simply to deny them to their enemies.

The view from the colonies is much different and a strange vague form of Civic Nationalism is beginning to arise. The Loyal Barbarians are getting very angry at the Disloyal Barbarians who are ruining a good thing**. While many of these worlds have little which to negotiate with the central government; they have the blood of their soldiers. These population are also hopeful for the future and prefer to take their chances under the Beautiful Terror then to risk the tender mercies of the New Ganymede Confederacy or the chaos and barbarism of the sort of Pirate Kingdoms that are likely to form in the event of a complete collapse.

As more and more sepoys die in the service of Breyland the blood debt grows but that debt of honor can only be paid back if Breyland survives. The chaos must end. The pirates must be eliminated. Order must be restored. Nations, Tribes, Empires all of it comes down men who must do their duty. One man at a time. One duty at time. One war at a time. Breyland will survive but at what cost?

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In hindsight Brothers In The Dust is actually more of a Zulu War scenario than an Iraq or Vietnam analogy… just need to grab one story and tell it.

* In case any of you were wondering why I sometimes refer to my readers as such.

**Breyland also charges its colonies and occupied worlds far less in taxes than the Confederates do. So at least some of this phony patriotism is purely economic in nature.

 

Breyland Notes: The Magic Space Aryan Racial Purity Scale

I Might Be Trying To Tell The Wrong Story

“The situation in The Capital does seem to be calming down but that’s likely just a peace of exhaustion.” The Commander answered. “Thankfully the Regency Council has pushed through enough reforms to strip the Black December Movement of its moderate support. So the danger of a full scale popular uprising is beginning to fade.”

General Young hesitated he had mixed feelings about the unrest back on the homeworld. Despite his lofty rank the general never forgot his middle class background and it was very difficult for him not to feel sympathy for the rebels. However he was of course smart enough to keep his mouth shut on such matters. Besides the last thing Breyland needed was a protracted civil war on the Homeworld.

“Well that’s a relief. I can’t imagine how hard it would be to put down an insurrection back on the Homeworld.” Colonel Tillerman exclaimed.

“I can.” Young said with gritted teeth. “Even assuming the Planetary Army sides with the Government there’s simply no way to hold the planet against the armed populace, should the middle class revolt en masse… and the General Staff knows it.”

The Gendarme Colonel blinked. “Then what? What would our options be? We’d still hold the orbitals but bombardment would be out of the question.”

“In that case. My dear Colonel, we either flood the streets with the blood of two billion black conscripts and whatever loyal white troops we can find or we surrender and join the New Republic whatever form it might take.” The General muttered very bitterly. “If we lose the Homeworld, we lose period.”

Tillerman seemed shocked that the General would speak so bluntly but had no choice but to nod in agreement. He was just as trained in fourth generation warfare as the General and probably had more practical experience. Just thinking about trying to fight such a campaign terrified him and rightly so.

Commander Lynch stood there with a rather forced grin on her face. “Thankfully gentlemen that scenario will not be coming to pass. I repeat the unrest and disorder is beginning to die down.”

“Amen to that,” Young grunted and a great deal of tension left the room. “Our doom is not assured for God has granted us a reprieve.”

“Assuming the politicians can take advantage of whatever brief chance fortune has given them.” Tillerson added. “And the succession? Surely there’s been some decision?”

I Might Be Trying To Tell The Wrong Story