I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My story is based on this prompt.
~~~
Benjamin Franklin Gates stepped into the chamber and looked around. Where most people saw various symbols of American might and historical jurisprudence, he saw a multitude of hidden codes, messages to future generations, and the occasional Masonic bit of advice. Almost instinctively, he scanned every inch of the room, ignoring for the moment the nine Justices of the Supreme Court as they stared at him. He wondered what the grand connection was, why the Bald Eagle on the west-facing frieze was--
"Mr. Gates," Justice Kennedy interrupted. "Are you prepared to explain your findings?"
"Oh, yes indeed, your honor, sir," he replied nervously. "And may I say what a great privilege it is to finally be able to--"
"Will the witness please just get on with it?" Justice Scalia was in one of his infamous bad moods. Gates wandered silently for a moment, wondering where exactly he was supposed to stand as he addressed the court. He settled for just in front of the defense's table; after all, he was their star witness.
"If it pleases the court, the code I discovered... well, it starts out with a simple mathematical trick: the Magic Square. You're probably familiar with it, even if you didn't know its name: a three-by-three square with the numbers one through nine placed inside. Now, the numbers have to be arranged so that all three rows, all three columns, and the two diagonals, they all add up to fifteen." Gates ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He was starting to pick up steam, and he didn't want to start rambling, not at the Supreme Court of the United States. He focused himself.
"Now, when Ben Franklin was consulted during the writing of the Constitution, he pointed out a number of Federalist arguments for a number of clauses that hadn't yet been approved. Eventually these became the Bill of Rights, which you of all people are quite familiar with." A tittering of laughter from the audience. Even Justice Thomas, the famed stoic, chuckled a bit.
"Ben Franklin, as we all know, wasn't permitted to write any part of the Constitution or the Bill of Rights, because the Founding Fathers were afraid that he'd do... something funny with it. But they still consulted him when it came to the Bill of Rights, and here's where his genius came into play: he chose the order of the Amendments which became the Bill of Rights-- the first nine, anyway. Have you ever wondered why the right to bear arms is the Second Amendment, and not the Seventh? Or why the Fifth Amendment is the Fifth? Ben Franklin secretly advised Madison on which order to put them in. The Tenth Amendment, by the way, was added long after Franklin's input was solicited.
"So, back to the Magic Square. There's only one combination of numbers that solves the magic square, if you discount mirror images and ninety-degree turns:
8 + 1 + 6
+ * + * +
3 + 5 + 7
+ * + * +
4 + 9 + 2
Gates paused and took a sip of water. Pace yourself, he thought to himself, don't look like a raving lunatic. His parents were sitting in the upper balcony, beaming. Even his father had never testified in front of the Supreme Court. Gates watched as Chief Justice Roberts scratched something on a notepad in front of him. Writing the numbers down, perhaps, making sure everything added up.
"Having... examined an original copy of the Constitution myself," he continued, reminiscing about the time long ago when he'd stolen it from the National Archives, "I noticed something odd about it: there are seven articles of the Constitution, and in each of them-- discounting years mentioned or amounts of money-- there are nine numbers mentioned in the Constitution: Ten, four, thirty-five, two, twenty-five, six, thirty, twenty-one, thirteen. Many of these are obvious: how many states ratified, ages to hold office.
"But!" Gates exclaimed, his mind beginning to race, "each Amendment, respective of its position in the Magic Square, also happens to be long enough to accommodate its respective number in word counts!" Justice Alito frowned, his brow furrowed. "Let me be specific: the Eighth Amendment, first in the Magic Square, has at least ten words. The First Amendment has at least four, et-cet-er-ah, et-cet-er-ah," he said, sharply enunciating those words.
"So what's the answer, Mr. Gates?" Justice Kagan asked.
"I'm glad you asked: sure, you could say that those word counts are coincidence, but! here's the giveaway that it's a code: take the Eighth Amendment. First on the Magic Square, its tenth word the critical one. The tenth word of the Eighth Amendment is eight. letters. long. The First Amendment, second on the Magic Square, it's fourth word is a single letter: "a". If you keep going, you find that each specific word is the same length as the Amendment number it is contained in."
"And what do you get when you find all those letters?" Justice Breyer asked impatiently.
"You get a code: H-A-I-L-K-I-N-G-G, 'Hail King George'." Gates paused to catch his breath. "The American Revolution was a fake. We've been secretly subjects of the United Kingdom all along. History," he said pointedly, "has been a lie. And that woman--" he pointed at Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, who was sitting at the defendant's table-- "she is our actual ruler and sovereign." He turned to her, bowing deeply. "Isn't that right, Your Majesty?"
"Indeed," she replied.
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Friday, January 10, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
The Devil's in Ye, Walter White! -006
I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My story is based on this prompt.
~~~
Walter found himself in the Rose & Thistle Saloon in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In the distance he faintly heard the blast of a horn as the factory belched black smoke into the air. He had come here to hide from the New Mexico Territorial authorities who had discovered his terrible secret. He paused, then took a seat at the dusty bar. Running a finger through his handlebar mustache, he summoned the barkeep.
"Sarsparilla," he croaked, barely suppressing a cough. The Consumption was catching up to him now. No more bottles of Dr. McCrory's Home-Brew'd Elixir of Health & Vitality remained to keep him alive. He would die soon, far, far away from his family in the territories. This was especially ironic, given that he himself was the fabled "Dr. McCrory" now wanted by the federal marshals.
He took out the last piece of paper, a fountain pen, a vial of ink, and began writing his confession.
"Another sarsparilla, stranger?" the barkeep asked.
"Please. And could you see that the local police captain receives this letter? Tell him it's from Walter White." The barkeep froze. Everyone knew of the outlaw Walter White, and now here he was. Walter smiled. "I'll wait," he said coolly. The barkeep turned and left the shop, probably in hot pursuit of the nearest patrolman. It would be a while, still, so Walter picked up a newspaper from behind the bar and began to read.
What he saw on the front page chilled him to the bone, then filled him with rage: EDISON PLEDGES $400,000 TO FUND ANTI-SNAKE OIL TREATMENTS. Walter couldn't see beyond the headline, his mind was clouded with rage. Then he had an idea. A wonderful, terrible idea....
~~~
Walter found himself in the Rose & Thistle Saloon in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In the distance he faintly heard the blast of a horn as the factory belched black smoke into the air. He had come here to hide from the New Mexico Territorial authorities who had discovered his terrible secret. He paused, then took a seat at the dusty bar. Running a finger through his handlebar mustache, he summoned the barkeep.
"Sarsparilla," he croaked, barely suppressing a cough. The Consumption was catching up to him now. No more bottles of Dr. McCrory's Home-Brew'd Elixir of Health & Vitality remained to keep him alive. He would die soon, far, far away from his family in the territories. This was especially ironic, given that he himself was the fabled "Dr. McCrory" now wanted by the federal marshals.
He took out the last piece of paper, a fountain pen, a vial of ink, and began writing his confession.
He started with the story of how it was he, not Thomas Edison, who had crafted the lightbulb. It was he who had suggested Tungsten as a filament. It was he who said a vacuum must exist inside the bulb. Everything about the light bulb was Walter's idea except the shape itself; but in the end, that was enough for Edison to take credit. The shape's the thing, Edison had retorted just before firing Walter.
Walter went on to describe his situation: a half-breed Indian wife, a son lamed by Rickets growing up in the Lower East Side, a newborn daughter who would never remember him now. How the family had sold everything to live on the Ute Reservation to the northwest of a dinky town named Albuquerque. How he taught sciences on the reservation and repaired wagons for travellers just to be able to feed his family.
And then he came to Jessie. A former student who'd narrowly avoided arrest for selling snake oil. It was the opportunity Walter needed. He purified the formula: a combination of olive oil, exotic herbs from Italy, but mostly bathtub gin. It was one of a million false cures for every condition under the sun, but Walter made it work. He'd discovered a mould in one sample, but rather than dispose of it, he tested the mould to identify it. And what he'd found astonished him: the mould produced a chemical that killed bacteria. Walter and Jesse had stumbled upon an actual cure to thousands of diseases from Syphillis to infection.
Production had begun slowly, but soon they'd found themselves in the employ of a dry goods proprietor from South America who secretly controlled much of the snake oil cartel in the Territories. Gustav had given them everything they needed, but Walter couldn't stand for working for another man; he wanted to be the best, and to be the best, he had to eliminate everyone and everything standing in his way.
First was the vaqueros, all poisoned by Gustav, then Gustav himself, killed by dynamite. Another brilliant chemist, Gale, had to be eliminated as well; Walter had manipulated Jessie into shooting him in a gunfight. Then it was the local Klansmen: they had helped Walter tie up some loose ends, but they'd also killed Walter's brother-in-law, a federal marshal named Henry. Walter dreamed of exacting revenge on them, but now he was stuck here in New Hampshire....Walter paused. He'd been writing for three hours, and his hand was beginning to cramp. But his confession was complete. He folded the sheet in thirds, then walked back to the bar.
"Another sarsparilla, stranger?" the barkeep asked.
"Please. And could you see that the local police captain receives this letter? Tell him it's from Walter White." The barkeep froze. Everyone knew of the outlaw Walter White, and now here he was. Walter smiled. "I'll wait," he said coolly. The barkeep turned and left the shop, probably in hot pursuit of the nearest patrolman. It would be a while, still, so Walter picked up a newspaper from behind the bar and began to read.
What he saw on the front page chilled him to the bone, then filled him with rage: EDISON PLEDGES $400,000 TO FUND ANTI-SNAKE OIL TREATMENTS. Walter couldn't see beyond the headline, his mind was clouded with rage. Then he had an idea. A wonderful, terrible idea....
Pepperoni Pete -005
I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My story is based on this prompt.
~~~
The strange thing about him was that he always seemed to be snacking on a pepperoni stick. And, since his name was Pete, it was an instant nickname. So Pepperoni Pete... where do I begin? This kid was covered in a constant sheen of grease, from top to bottom. Besides the pepperoni, he also carried a pocket full of napkins, which he used to wipe his greasy hands and face all the time.
He was otherwise an attractive kid; he smelled like spices and exotic herbs. His grandfather was an import food wholesaler, and Pepperoni Pete worked after school feeding things none of us had heard of into a gigantic mill. So he always smelled... delicious.
We'd have him over for parties quite often; he was really popular, and everyone wanted a piece of him the moment he came through the door. I think he was so popular because he was so versatile: he could be cheesy with the girls, a little bit spicy with the guys, and he even managed to please the vegetarian weirdos. Sometimes he could be a bit thick, but a lot of people liked him like that. A lot of people thought that he had to be complex, a mix of exotic and earthiness all wrapped up in one dish. But to me, though, he was at his best when he was simply Pepperoni Pete.
~~~
The strange thing about him was that he always seemed to be snacking on a pepperoni stick. And, since his name was Pete, it was an instant nickname. So Pepperoni Pete... where do I begin? This kid was covered in a constant sheen of grease, from top to bottom. Besides the pepperoni, he also carried a pocket full of napkins, which he used to wipe his greasy hands and face all the time.
He was otherwise an attractive kid; he smelled like spices and exotic herbs. His grandfather was an import food wholesaler, and Pepperoni Pete worked after school feeding things none of us had heard of into a gigantic mill. So he always smelled... delicious.
We'd have him over for parties quite often; he was really popular, and everyone wanted a piece of him the moment he came through the door. I think he was so popular because he was so versatile: he could be cheesy with the girls, a little bit spicy with the guys, and he even managed to please the vegetarian weirdos. Sometimes he could be a bit thick, but a lot of people liked him like that. A lot of people thought that he had to be complex, a mix of exotic and earthiness all wrapped up in one dish. But to me, though, he was at his best when he was simply Pepperoni Pete.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Flash Fiction: The Moment -004
I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My story is based on this prompt.
~~~
Although there was nothing, there was a lot of it. Then some god or another popped in accidentally after drinking far too much on another plane of existence. Deciding that He had a throbbing headache and enjoyed the quiet, he went right to sleep, dreaming of whatever gods dream of.
What gods dream of, of course, is creation, and while he slept, he dreamt of a universe so vast that even He, a god, could find a quiet place to take a nap if He so chose, and gods, to be frank, quite often choose to take a nap. He dreamt of a funny little thing called a Human, and He found the Human so hilarious that he made other silly creatures to go with it: Dogs, Cats, Rhinoceri, and the like.
Unfortunately for the Humans, etc., what the god had drunk was a Hel-brew, a foul-smelling intoxicant brewed in the very pits of a dark, evil plane. The first and only ingredient was a large helping of the souls of the damned, tormented until they drowned in their own burning tears. It was quite delicious, very hearty, and had no side effects whatsoever except inebriation and the tremendous guilt one feels in drinking such a potable.
But our sleepy god also suffered from acid reflux, and His full belly began spurting stomach acid into His esophageal tract, causing an unpleasant burning sensation, which in turn caused Him to have bad dreams. And as I mentioned before, than meant that the entire Human experience of existence soon became a nightmare for the duration of His dreaming. The good news is that He is a light sleeper, and is expected to awaken in about 755 trillion years or so.
~~~
Although there was nothing, there was a lot of it. Then some god or another popped in accidentally after drinking far too much on another plane of existence. Deciding that He had a throbbing headache and enjoyed the quiet, he went right to sleep, dreaming of whatever gods dream of.
What gods dream of, of course, is creation, and while he slept, he dreamt of a universe so vast that even He, a god, could find a quiet place to take a nap if He so chose, and gods, to be frank, quite often choose to take a nap. He dreamt of a funny little thing called a Human, and He found the Human so hilarious that he made other silly creatures to go with it: Dogs, Cats, Rhinoceri, and the like.
Unfortunately for the Humans, etc., what the god had drunk was a Hel-brew, a foul-smelling intoxicant brewed in the very pits of a dark, evil plane. The first and only ingredient was a large helping of the souls of the damned, tormented until they drowned in their own burning tears. It was quite delicious, very hearty, and had no side effects whatsoever except inebriation and the tremendous guilt one feels in drinking such a potable.
But our sleepy god also suffered from acid reflux, and His full belly began spurting stomach acid into His esophageal tract, causing an unpleasant burning sensation, which in turn caused Him to have bad dreams. And as I mentioned before, than meant that the entire Human experience of existence soon became a nightmare for the duration of His dreaming. The good news is that He is a light sleeper, and is expected to awaken in about 755 trillion years or so.
World of Pawncraft -003
I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My story is based on this prompt.
~~~
RICK HARRISON: Sometimes we get strange stuff that comes into the store; it's just one of those things that happens when you work on the Vegas strip [laughs]. But even I'd never seen anything quite like this guy.
[INTERIOR: Gold & Silver Pawn Shop]
RICK: Hey, what can I help you with today?
MAURG THE DESTROYER: I have many goods that I wish to sell. I need gold pieces to purchase a weapon that will destroy the dark lich Chellios!
RICK: Okay... ummm, let's see what you've got.
MAURG: This is a double-headed +5 flaming vorpal axe of justice, crafted in the heart of a Dwarven mountain and weaved with Elvish spells. It has seen more war and blood than any creature living, and it is said that the possessor of this weapon will never fall in battle.
RICK: Okay... well... you were right about it having seen a lot of battles: it's in terrible shape. If you look here, you can see where the axehandle leather is starting to fray and come unwound. I don't know about any Elvish spells... and it looks like the steel is starting to rust and pit at the edges.
MAURG: Because I have slain many demons and hewn many heads with it!
RICK: But did you clean the weapon after you did that?
MAURG: ...
RICK: And... I mean, to be honest, it really doesn't matter how many demons or Dwarves you've slain with it--
MAURG: I have slain not one of the Dwarven race! They are my allies in my quest to rid Darkmount of evil!
RICK: Okay, but no one on this plane of existence knows who you are, so... I mean, it really doesn't make a difference in the price.
MAURG: But it is a flaming axe! Observe the magic within! [IGNITES AXE]
RICK: You know every time you do that it knocks about $50 off the price, right?
MAURG: ... [EXTINGUISHES AXE]
RICK: [NARRATING] I don't know that many people who would be interested in a flaming vorpal axe, but if it looks like I can get a good price for it, I may even be able to attract a new market to the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop. That's always good for the bottom line.
RICK: I tell you what, how much are you looking to get?
MAURG: I paid 5,000,000 Gold Pieces for this from an ancient Dwarven Temple. Give me 2,500,000.
RICK: [SIGHS] I really don't know what something like this is worth; two-and-a-half million sounds a bit high. Listen, I got a buddy who knows everything about extraplanar weapons, let me give him a call, and we'll see what he says, okay?
[EXTERIOR: PARKING LOT]
SKAGGOR GIMBLEGLOVES OF WESTFORDSHIRE: My name is Skaggor Gimblegloves, I own and operate the Magick Shoppe on the interplanar vortex in Westfordshire, and whenever Rick gets something that originated on another plane, I'm the one he calls.
[INTERIOR]
RICK: Hey, Skaggor, how's it been?
SKAGGOR: Good, good. So, what do you have for me today?
RICK: Well, the customer says that it's a flaming axe of justice--
MAURG: a double-headed +5 flaming vorpal axe of justice!
RICK: Right, and I was hoping that you could kind of give it a look, tell me what it's worth.
SKAGGOR: Sure. [EXAMINES AXE] Well, I do have some bad news: it seems that there were definitely a number of Elvish spells wound into this axe, but I'm afraid only a few are left. The spells of protection and blessing have definitely expired.
MAURG: I was not aware of that when I last used it to slice a Goblin in half.
SKAGGOR: It's definitely Dwarven craft, and good work at that. Probably made in Darkmount according to the maker's mark here.
RICK: So... it's legit?
SKAGGOR: [PAUSE FOR COMMERCIAL] Yeah, totally legit. Even in the shape it's in, it's a good piece.
MAURG: As I've been telling you all along.
RICK: So, what do you think it's worth?
SKAGGOR: I'd say... 3 million gold.
RICK: [NARRATING] Wow, this piece must really be something special. I'm really interested in it now, but I gotta play it cool, and hope that it doesn't walk out the door.
RICK: Alright, you heard what the Gnome said. How much do you want for it?
MAURG: He said 3 million...
RICK: Yeah, but look: I'll be lucky if I get 2 million out of it, and I have to pay to list it at auction, it's going to sit and take up space for a long time.... I think 1.75 million is a good price.
MAURG: I understand that you have costs, but there is truly no weapon like this in the world. It is designed to remove any enemy's head from his shoulders with the flick of a wrist.
RICK: Really?! Hey Chumlee, come here for a second!
CHUMLEE: Hey, what's up, Rick?
RICK: Stand right there for a second [DECAPITATES CHUMLEE WITH THE AXE]. Okay, I'm convinced. How's 2.2 million sound?
MAURG: I will accept that offer.
RICK: Great, we have a deal [SHAKES MAURG'S HAND]. Let me get this mess cleaned up, and we'll go do some paperwork.
~~~
RICK HARRISON: Sometimes we get strange stuff that comes into the store; it's just one of those things that happens when you work on the Vegas strip [laughs]. But even I'd never seen anything quite like this guy.
[INTERIOR: Gold & Silver Pawn Shop]
RICK: Hey, what can I help you with today?
MAURG THE DESTROYER: I have many goods that I wish to sell. I need gold pieces to purchase a weapon that will destroy the dark lich Chellios!
RICK: Okay... ummm, let's see what you've got.
MAURG: This is a double-headed +5 flaming vorpal axe of justice, crafted in the heart of a Dwarven mountain and weaved with Elvish spells. It has seen more war and blood than any creature living, and it is said that the possessor of this weapon will never fall in battle.
RICK: Okay... well... you were right about it having seen a lot of battles: it's in terrible shape. If you look here, you can see where the axehandle leather is starting to fray and come unwound. I don't know about any Elvish spells... and it looks like the steel is starting to rust and pit at the edges.
MAURG: Because I have slain many demons and hewn many heads with it!
RICK: But did you clean the weapon after you did that?
MAURG: ...
RICK: And... I mean, to be honest, it really doesn't matter how many demons or Dwarves you've slain with it--
MAURG: I have slain not one of the Dwarven race! They are my allies in my quest to rid Darkmount of evil!
RICK: Okay, but no one on this plane of existence knows who you are, so... I mean, it really doesn't make a difference in the price.
MAURG: But it is a flaming axe! Observe the magic within! [IGNITES AXE]
RICK: You know every time you do that it knocks about $50 off the price, right?
MAURG: ... [EXTINGUISHES AXE]
RICK: [NARRATING] I don't know that many people who would be interested in a flaming vorpal axe, but if it looks like I can get a good price for it, I may even be able to attract a new market to the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop. That's always good for the bottom line.
RICK: I tell you what, how much are you looking to get?
MAURG: I paid 5,000,000 Gold Pieces for this from an ancient Dwarven Temple. Give me 2,500,000.
RICK: [SIGHS] I really don't know what something like this is worth; two-and-a-half million sounds a bit high. Listen, I got a buddy who knows everything about extraplanar weapons, let me give him a call, and we'll see what he says, okay?
[EXTERIOR: PARKING LOT]
SKAGGOR GIMBLEGLOVES OF WESTFORDSHIRE: My name is Skaggor Gimblegloves, I own and operate the Magick Shoppe on the interplanar vortex in Westfordshire, and whenever Rick gets something that originated on another plane, I'm the one he calls.
[INTERIOR]
RICK: Hey, Skaggor, how's it been?
SKAGGOR: Good, good. So, what do you have for me today?
RICK: Well, the customer says that it's a flaming axe of justice--
MAURG: a double-headed +5 flaming vorpal axe of justice!
RICK: Right, and I was hoping that you could kind of give it a look, tell me what it's worth.
SKAGGOR: Sure. [EXAMINES AXE] Well, I do have some bad news: it seems that there were definitely a number of Elvish spells wound into this axe, but I'm afraid only a few are left. The spells of protection and blessing have definitely expired.
MAURG: I was not aware of that when I last used it to slice a Goblin in half.
SKAGGOR: It's definitely Dwarven craft, and good work at that. Probably made in Darkmount according to the maker's mark here.
RICK: So... it's legit?
SKAGGOR: [PAUSE FOR COMMERCIAL] Yeah, totally legit. Even in the shape it's in, it's a good piece.
MAURG: As I've been telling you all along.
RICK: So, what do you think it's worth?
SKAGGOR: I'd say... 3 million gold.
RICK: [NARRATING] Wow, this piece must really be something special. I'm really interested in it now, but I gotta play it cool, and hope that it doesn't walk out the door.
RICK: Alright, you heard what the Gnome said. How much do you want for it?
MAURG: He said 3 million...
RICK: Yeah, but look: I'll be lucky if I get 2 million out of it, and I have to pay to list it at auction, it's going to sit and take up space for a long time.... I think 1.75 million is a good price.
MAURG: I understand that you have costs, but there is truly no weapon like this in the world. It is designed to remove any enemy's head from his shoulders with the flick of a wrist.
RICK: Really?! Hey Chumlee, come here for a second!
CHUMLEE: Hey, what's up, Rick?
RICK: Stand right there for a second [DECAPITATES CHUMLEE WITH THE AXE]. Okay, I'm convinced. How's 2.2 million sound?
MAURG: I will accept that offer.
RICK: Great, we have a deal [SHAKES MAURG'S HAND]. Let me get this mess cleaned up, and we'll go do some paperwork.
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