Once again, I am adding another fable to my collection. I will probably add this one to an anthology I’m working on about stories, fables, and fairytales from the Watchmage Chronicles’ world. Now that The Watchmage of Old New York and Cold Iron are both out, I can work on both these and the third book, The Fiddler’s Bow.
Oh, and if you’d like to jump in on The Watchmage Chronicles, the first book, The Watchmage of Old New York, is only 99 cents. Both books are free if you have Kindle Unlimited.
Once upon a time, though it happens every day, there lived a frog named Bud. He lived in a swampy pond, not far from a chicken coop. He slept all day and spent all night drinking fly-flavored beer (Coors Flight: “the Buzzy Bullet”) and croaking as loud as he could with his frog buddies, Err and Weis. The croaking was so loud that it kept the chickens awake, and sometimes Weis would play his banjo, making the party even louder.
One day, Henrietta the Hen made a racket, clucking away as loud as she could. Annoyed, (because how dare someone keep him awake) Bud hopped over to the chicken coop.
In a time long past that happens every day, there lived a hawk. This hawk perched on the highest tree branches, surveying all that he saw around him, all that was his prey. For the hawk had none above him, and all feared his shadow circling overhead.
Over the weekend I visited my friend. He has about two dozen chickens and recently got a domesticated pig (i forget the breed but it won’t be more than 300 pounds tops). Right now it’s a piglet and no more than 30 pounds. No…no pet is eaten at this house, although the chickens lay some mighty fine eggs.
The new piglet wanders around the yard, rooting for…well…roots. That’s pretty much what he does all day. And the chickens ignore him. Except for one.
Most Americans foolishly believe–as our lying teachers and textbooks have told us for 200 years–that it was the English that sailed from Chesapeake Bay and laid waste to Washington DC, burning the White House. Of course, this is a lie made by lying liars for their own agendas. The truth is far more sinister and involves our “polite” neighbors to the North: Canada.
In the Spring of 1814, after the glaciers receded from the Canadian wilderness, the Sovereign State of Canada launched a dastardly attack, cutting a swath of destruction from New York to all points south, ending with a deplorable burning of the sacred American Capitol. Here is the absolutely true story of the Candian assault on our land.
The Armored Moose Cavalry
Beginning in Montreal, the Canadian forces crossed the St. Lawrence River and marched south. At the head of the attack was Lt. Colonel Tim Horton, who led the feared Canadian Armored Moose Calvary. The moose were layered in steel, with spikes adorning their antlers. Their riders carried curved axes called “hockey sticks.” They trampled through the Adirondack Mountains of Northern New York. Wherever they stopped, they built a coffee shop named after their leader. Some stand even to this day, though under the name “Stewarts.”
Lt Col Horton in his dress uniform
Following the cavalry shock troops were massive cannons mounted on Zambonis fueled by something later called “Crown Royal.” Carried in special pouches, this mighty fuel allowed the Zambonis to travel great distances, gliding across the terrain as if they were on ice. Behind them were the Canadian riflemen, bedecked in their plaid, flannel uniforms, though the officers wore denim trousers and open denim jackets with a wolf shirt beneath.
Supporting their assault was perhaps the Canadians’ most vicious and barbaric weapon, the Canadian Geese Air Corps. These fierce creatures rained fetid death from above, from which there was no escape. When opposing troops saw their flying V pattern overhead, they ran, for no man can match the ferocity of a Canadian Goose.
The Canadians sacked Albany, then plowed south, skirting New York City and instead attacking the port of Newark. Oh, how the streets of Newark ran sticky with syrup that day. The barbarous Canadians celebrated their victory with a feast of sliced and fried potatoes smothered in gravy and cheese curds. They called this food “cheese fries with gravy (note: translated from Olde Canadian).” It is still on the menu of most New Jersey diners, though I dare say that they don’t know its sinister origins (or do they?).
The Canadian March South
They continued south, and the American militias were helpless against them. They fled at the sight of the armored moose and geese assaults, and Horton’s hockey hackers cut them down. After bringing polite destruction down on Philadephia, Horton split his forces. One-third of Horton’s troops headed west, laying waste to Appalachia in Virginia and Kentucky. The most famous battle of their western campaign was the Bowling Green Massacre #neverforget.
The rest of Horton’s troops moved south toward the Capitol. The American troops stood ready, but with a fierce battle cry of “yeh hoser!” the armored moose cavalry charged. There was no stopping the massive beasts, and the moose were just as fearsome. The Zamboni artillery fired double-doubles upon the left flank of the American troops, scalding them and driving them to flight. President Madison and his wife Dolly fled the White House, Dolly taking the portrait of George Washington with her before the Canadians could desecrate it with slabs of Canadian Bacon.
And there, on the 24th of August, 1814, Lt. Col. Horton sacked Washington DC and burned the White House. They then celebrated with some Molsons and danced to Nickelback all night long.
Nickelback: the greatest of outrages
Aftermath
Eventually, there came peace, and Horton’s Hackers returned to the Great White North. But they left a legacy across America. You see, no Maple Tree ever grew in America before the Canadian assault, but one intrepid rifleman named Johnny Mapleseed planted acorns along the Canadian army’s path. Without this young man, there would be no American maple syrup.
The discarded bags for the Crown Royal were later discovered to be excellent dice pouches for 19th-century games such as “Cellars and Cholera.”
Canada later said that they were sorry for the burning, and especially for Nickelback.
I recently read the essay “What I Believe,” by E.M. Forster, and one passage resonated powerfully with me. I’d like to share it with you. I put my favorite parts in bold:
I believe in aristocracy, though – if that is the right word, and
if a democrat may use it. Not an aristocracy of power, basedupon rank and influence, but an aristocracy of the sensitive, the con- siderate and the plucky. Its members are to be found in all
nations and classes, and all through the ages, and there is a secret
understanding between them when they meet. Theyrepresent the true human tradition, the one permanent victory of ourqueer raceover cruelty and chaos. Thousands of them perish in
obscurity, a few are great names. They are sensitive forothers as well as for themselves, they are considerate without being fussy, their pluck is not swankiness but the power to endure, and they can take a joke. I give no examples – it is risky to do that – but the reader may as well consider whether this is the type of
person he would like to meet and to be, and whether (going
further with me) he would prefer that this type should not be an
ascetic one. I am against asceticism myself. I am with the old Scotsman who wanted less chastity and more delicacy. I do not
feel that my aristocrats are a real aristocracy if they thwart their
bodies, since bodies are the instruments through which we
register and enjoy the world. Still, I do not insist. This is not a major point. It is clearly possible to be sensitive, considerate and
plucky and yet be an ascetic too, and if anyone possesses the first
three qualities I will let him in! On they go – an invincible army, yet not a victorious one. The aristocrats, the elect, the chosen, the Best People – all the words that describe them are false, and
all attempts to organize them fail. Again and again Authority, seeing their value, has tried to net them and to utilize them as the Egyptian Priesthood or the Christian Church or the Chinese Civil Service or the Group Movement, or some other worthy stunt. But they slip through the net and are gone; when the door is shut, they are no longer in the room; their temple, as one of them remarked, is the holiness of the Heart’s affections, and their kingdom, though they never possess it, is the wide-open world.
I am not going to add my analysis, but I’d like you to think about this for a while and decide if you agree.
This is a funny story, but not a joke. It really happened.
I was at a small pool party at my friend “K”‘s house. It was mostly girls, but a creepy guy that was K’s acquaintance from facebook was there. For most of the afternoon, he was creeping on the girls, flirting and asking inappropriate questions. Nothing so bad that he earned the door, but enough to be weird.
Night came, and everyone left until it was Me, K, and creeper. Now he goes into full harassment mode. He’s talking about how hot and fuckable K is, and then suggests that she go skinny dipping (not him or me, just K). K and I are both hippies and have skinnydipped together, so normally we would have no problem with it. But K was weirded out and asked me how to get rid of him without physically throwing him out.
So I walked up to him said, “that’s a great idea! I’ll go first.” He was sitting, I was standing. I strip down right in front of him, my dick maybe three feet from him.
“Okay dude, now it’s your turn.” I gave a little hip check, just enough to make things wiggle. I’ve rarely seen a face with that much fear and embarrassment on it.
And suddenly he changed his mind. Shocking, right? He left five minutes later. The perv so intent on seeing a naked woman wasn’t brave enough to put up, so he ran.
Predators are cowards. How weak do you have to be to be scared of genitals?
The moral: If you won’t do something yourself, don’t demand it of others.
I’ve been thinking about the recent “revelations” that Facebook, Google, and every site monitors your information. It’s not a surprise, I mean, we gave it to them. I’m not complaining, I’m just musing.
Facebook monitors everything that gets sent on Facebook Messenger. I feel bad for whoever’s job it is to sift through the millions of dick pics.
Google: You know things about me that I don’t even know. You might be my soul mate.
And someday we’ll be Mindflayers.
To the confused, let me explain. Mindflayers (or Illithids) are a species of monster in D&D. They have squid heads and tentacle mouths, incredible psychic powers, and are connected through the Hive Mind. They’re also one of the evilest and most powerful species in the game. They stun you with their psychic blasts and then suck out your brain with their tentacle mouths. Or they destroy your mind and make you a slave, massaging the Hive Mind for the rest of your life (See R.A. Salvatore’s “Exile” for Drizzt Do’Urden fondling a giant brain). They can even travel through space in special ships. Want to make your players shit themselves? Throw some Illithids at them. Even the Drow give them a wide berth.
We already have the Hive Mind. It’s called the Internet. It gives us access to all the knowledge, information, and communication we need (and some we don’t). We have psychic powers. It’s called Social Media. We can communicate from across the world while sitting on our toilets. And we’re only becoming more connected. The Hive Mind knows all of our shit. It has our dick pics. It knows our desires. It gives us what we need, and we give it our devotion.
Someday we’ll be truly connected. The question is how much of ourselves do we lose in the process?
Then again, the Illithids don’t seem to mind. Pass the brains.
Psst…Hey…Check out my historical fantasy, The Watchmage of Old New York. It’s only 99 cents for another week, and available in paperback too! It’s not like anything you’ve ever read…well…it had words and pages, so a little like things you’ve read. But it’s a time period that few books have tackled, and it’s a damn good story, with a 4.8 star rating on Amazon. Also, there are flying dogs, rabbis with terrible jokes, and dangerous bunnymen. None of those are that important to the plot, but they’re fun.
