1. Only a total sh@t head 💩 would trade Phil Kessel.
2. It wasn’t Kessel’s fault.
3. If you think it was Kessel’s fault you are a stupid stupid sh@t head. Malkin and Kessel were playing hurt.
4. It was Murray’s fault for shitty weak late-game goaltending. He blew three third period leads in two series. That’s really really bad.
5. It’s Brassard’s fault because he is a useless shitty pylon.
6. It’s Sullivan’s fault for ego-ing Ian Cole out of town and generally getting butt-smoked by Trotz.
7. It’s JR’s fault for not keeping and two or more of Kunitz, Cullen, Bonino, Dailey, Hainsey, Fleury, Cole, Reaves. No muscle, no shut-down defense, no role players.
8. It’s Oleksiak and Ruhwedel’s fault for being too slow and weak around the net.
9. It’s Shearey’s fault for literally contributing nothing all year.
10. It’s the whole teams fault for lacking ballz (Pronounced bhuoozzze in Jersey)
11. The Pens barely beat the Capitals in 2009, 2016 and 2017, it was only a matter of time before they wanted it more.
12. John Carlson became the league’s premier defenseman.
13. Ovechkin played an all around two-way game.
14. Holtby played to his potential.
15. Most important: the Orpik factor.
Pirogi? (Pronounced пироги 🥧)
Peace be the Botendaddy
First of all I’m so bored that I’m watching re-runs of The Munsters, and it’s surprisingly funny.
BTW the cast was awesome.
Back to the story. It’s a story of corporate intrigue… Ooh aah it’s so exciting!
Klee, our protagonist, wait for it, wait for it works for an evil corporation! How original. Of course, he’s in love with 😍 a beautiful incredibly hot successful socially conscious gallery owner whose looks are dumbed down to make her not look ridiculously outrageously runway modelish. Klee is of course young, rugged, muscular, extreme man-hot face-guy former Army Officer.
We don’t know yet what evil the corporation is involved in at this point. It of course involves information-stealing tech companies, the military-industrial complex, pollution, insider trading and conjuring of the satanic Yog Sothoth!
June, Thursday: Delancey Street Hipster Coffee Shop
Klee is sitting at a two-person table in the back of the cramped little coffee shop. He has three day growth of beard. He is dressed is khakis and a button down shirt, and he is wearing sandals. The few women in the shop are openly staring at him. Except one. The hippie bells ring on the door. An exquisite but nerdy looking woman with weird 50’s pointy glasses, her hair is in a bun and she’s wearing a hippie sun dress. She is looking over the board deciding what to order. The coffee shop decor is in coffee colored motifs.
Klee: ‘Don’t get the mocha, it’s awful, they use imitation chocolate.”
Nanette: “I was thinking about the Almond Milk I’ve never seen you around here before. Does your wife know that you talk to strangers?”
Klee: “It’s my twin sister’s ring. We swapped rings at 18. We have sworn never to take them off until we get married.”
Nanette: “That’s a new one. Either you’re married or you are too close to your sister.”
Klee gets up and holds up a picture on his qPad (Product placement alert) of him and his sister.
Nanette: “OMFG the egg split in the womb, eh she’s like a mirror image. She’s beautiful by the way.”
Klee: “We only have each other.”
Nanette: “That’s good, I mean I’m sorry.”
Klee: “Can I buy your coffee?”
Nanette: “No, but I’ll buy you a re-fill… of your Mocha…”
Klee: “Can you join me for a moment?”
Nanette: “I’m the only one at the gallery. I’m afraid I have to run. We’re not open yet anyway. Maybe another time. I’m always here at 7:30 A.M.”
Klee is disappointed. Nanette leaves and she lets the door shut behind her.
Its hot in the coffee shop. He is sweating. The Baristo is an early 20 something, heroin-thin, with dyed black hair, tats and a face-piercing.
Baristo: “I’m so sorry, my dear, the air conditioner is not working. We have a man coming at 10:00, I mean arriving.”
He winks at Klee and looks him up and down. ‘Delicious’ he mutters to himself under his breath.
Klee goes back to his tablet. The ceiling fans are on and two floor fans are trying to cool the room. Weird Indy gay punk music is playing on the alternative college radio station.
Klee: “I’ll never get the job I want. Six years in the Army after College. Roaming around Afghan. Why did I do it?”
A full-figured Black woman about his age is at the next table.
Natase: “I was in Afghan and Iraq. I was in six years but I got messed up in Iraq. I’m looking for work too. I got a good lead though. My girl Ramona just got a surprisingly well-paying gig at Thermoroak. I don’t even know what she does, but they hire Veterans. You fine, boy, too bad I’m married. I’m Natase. Formerly Sergeant Natase MNFI signal company.”
Klee: “Klee, formerly Captain Klee, Aviation Brigade 4th ID.”
Natase: “Well Sir, Let’s apply for a job.”
Klee: “Thanks for the lead. You are the most beautiful person I’ve met in a month.”
Natase: “You better watch it or Mr. Natase will beat your ass.”
Klee: “Roger, Wilco, Sergeant! Can you show me their HR page?”
Natase: “Right here, Klee.”
She sits across from Klee. They go to the website and spend twenty minutes creating logins and filling out the applications. A huge man come in who looks like a bodybuilder. The man extends a hand.
Nathan: “I’m Nathan.”
Klee: “I’m Klee. You look like the ‘Rock’
Nathan: “I get that a lot. I’m a Samoan.”
Natase: “Klee’s a fellow unemployed Veteran.”
Nathan: “I’m a cop with MTA. I work nights so I can meet this lovely lady for coffee. I was in the Army eight years. Bosnia, Iraq. So at least I’m not unemployed.”
The three sit down for coffee. They exchange phone numbers and emails. Klee gets up and leaves the couple alone. The Baristo winks.
Baristo: “I’m Bennett, do come back! I promise we will have air conditioning!”
Klee walks out into Delancey Street. It’s even hotter outside.
Friday Night: Klee’s LES Micro apartment
Klee is asleep in his bunk. There is a young man asleep in the bunk across the aisle and a young woman asleep above him. Four people share the tiny space. Klee, a Uruguayan Software Engineer named Gertrude, a young stockbrocker named Watahashi and a Receptionist for a Large Law firm named LaKeisha. Watahashi and Gertrude are both gay. They found the apartment through an LGBT site and they added the others to share the costs.
There is a tiny shower and toilet under the storage space. Everyone has a set 30 minute shower time. They share everything. The doorbell rings. They ordered Chinese. The three of them divide the food into four portions. LaKesiha comes back with everyone’s laundry.
The four eat and fold laundry. Klee sees a message pop up on his tablet from 5:00 PM. It’s from Thermoroak.
Klee: “I got an interview!”
LaKeisha: “So you can keep paying rent.”
Gertrude: “You can keep shimmying around here naked. I don’t care, I had four brothers, but you too seem to find it interesting.”
Watahashi: “Oh yeah.”
Gertrude: “You know the rule: no-one gets busy in here except me, then you Nortes can get the heck out!”
They all laugh. Klee sends his response. Interview Monday.
Saturday 35th Street Pier Ferry ⛴ Port
Klara is about 55, bespectacled with expensive shades, wearing shorts over a bikini and sandals. She is thin and tanned. She is buying Ferry tickets. She walks over and stands by a rail with her beach bag. She is an old friend of Klee. She worked at a PX he frequented at a Kabul Army Base. She had his email and she contacted him around 5AM to see if he wanted to go to the beach. Klee comes walking up with time to spare. He is wearing a beach shirt and shorts.
Klara: Good to see you again. It’s been a while.
Klee: I’m glad you contacted me. It’s been a weird time.
Klara: Well I got back and I took a job with the PX at Fort Burr. I knew you were from Manhattan, so I took a chance you were in town.
Klee: You look great. I’m not used to seeing you out of your PX gear.
Klara: You’ll see a lot more than that when we get to the nude beach.
Klee: I’m looking forward to it. I can take it if you can.
Klara: You can take it if you ask for it. You just never asked in Kabul. You were afraid of getting in trouble.
Klee: OK. I’m asking. My god look at you.
Klara: Not bad for an old Austrian lady?
Klee: Not bad for anyone.
Klara: You’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen. You should be a model or a movie star. There I said it. We can speak freely now.
They get on the boat first and they sit up top in the front row. The wind is roaring by. Klara moves close to Klee.
Monday: Thermoroak Corporation 37th and Lex
Klee walks into the ground floor reception. He gets a temporary badge from security and he heads up in the escalator to the 37th floor. He waits in the reception area. A woman walks in. She is elegantly dressed.
Klee: “Natase! Did you get an interview too?”
Natase: “Klee! I sure did, maybe we will work together!”
Klee: “I wonder if it’s a group interview.”
Natase: “That would be weird but whatever.”
Klee: “I always get nervous. I never know how to prepare.”
Natase: “I research the company and I prepare questions they might ask me and one I might have for them. I can’t figure out the job from the listing though.”
Klee: “New job titles I guess.”
Klee sees the slogan on the wall: Thermoroak: a division of Bündeskörp ‘Working for a better tomorrow today’/Arbeiten für eine bessere Morgen heute‘
Klee: “Muttering to self. ‘What in the hell do they do?’
A group of men dressed in blue jumpsuits in a security office are monitoring the two through a hidden camera/recording device.
A man dressed in blue comes out with a large tablet device.
Klee looks back at Natase and he follows the man out. A woman comes in dressed in blue.
She leads Natase back through the glass doors.
Klee is led into a large New York corporate meeting Room.
There is one man seated at the far end.
Interviewer: ‘Name’s Klaxxon. I’m the director of your group. Let’s cut the bullshit shall we? Do you roak the Schmiee?’
Interviewer: ‘Last chance, son.’
Klee: ‘Yes sir, since I got out of the Army, I do roak the Schmiee.’
Interviewer: ‘Good, because one of our new Big lines is medical Marijuana. We need motivated people. Are you motivated?’
Klee: ‘Yes Sir!’
Interviewer: ‘We picked you and the other girl right off of your application. Same IP address for the WiFi. A coffee shop on Delancey. Don’t look surprised. We do our homework. We know your war record. We know who you live with. I need you to lead a team.
TO BE CONTINUED
I know that you just love Stephen King. You also like eating liver and you like scuba diving. I don’t.
de gustibus non disputandamus
1. The Shining: A great movie by Kubrick, based on a book with potential but a lame Hollywood ending.
King hated the movie. Sorry you don’t like one of the greatest Directors ever.
May I say: Shelley Duvall was absolutely perfect for her role as were Jack Nicholson, Scatman Carothers and the ‘Redrum’ kid.
Caveat: Kubrick totally lifted the final scene of Jack’s frozen face from… wait for it: ‘Hatchet Jack’ frozen dead in the snow with the Hawkins .50 in his hands in Pollock’s brilliant ‘Jeremiah Johnson’.
2. It: We already knew clowns 🤡 were evil: see John Wayne Gacy and every other clown that ever existed. ‘Only evil hides behind face-paint!’
3. Pet Sematary: I liked it the first time I read it when it was called: ‘The 🐒 Monkey’s Paw. Caveat: the movie was excellent, especially Fred Gwynne: ‘The ground is sou-ah up there!’ Caveat 2: The Ramones song.
4. The Stand: What sappy shit. Caveat: The movie – Matt Frewer as Trash Can Man.
5. Carrie: In contention for one of the worst stories/movies in American history. ‘Ooh a High School revenge story, how original!’
6. Misery: Writers wallowing in their own grandeur. It’s like when Hollywood makes movies about movies or plays.
7. The Green Mile: More thinly disguised anti-capital punishment literary bowel movement. Hated the book 📖 hated the movie 🎥.
8. The Dark Half: Really boring. Couldn’t even follow it.
9. The Running Man: Maybe his only good book.
I can’t go on.
I found this article in Scientific American:
I am a genetic freak. I hate hot weather. No joke, temperatures above 45 Fahrenheit (No Metric you shitty Jacobins!) are uncomfortable 😣 for me.
But I can tolerate heat that would kill most people. When I was in Iraq 🇮🇶 (Just me, only I was there. Not the entire U.S. military, allies and civilian population. It was all me!) Temperatures ranged up to 123 degrees Fahrenheit (But not in Brumaire – no Bonapartiste Metric).
When I was on base, I would run three nights a week ( I ran at midnight when there were no night missions. The big bases had half-marathons 5k’s 10k’s — a sign we had been there too long.)
I would go on patrols with 100 pounds of equipment all day and night. (Taller people’s ballistic plates weigh more) I drank water constantly. I only felt heat exhaustion once after being out of the gate for more 24 hours.
At any rate, I run all year long: sub-zero in January, deep snow in February, 98 degree Fahrenheit July days with extrême humidity (Pronounced humility — like chimney (Pronounced chimley)).
I’m larger than most people. I’m low body fat even at 235 pounds. That has nothing to do with it. I’ve only ever seen super-skinny people go down from heat stroke.
In other words. You have to get used to running in the heat. Don’t run long distances at first. Drink water before you run. Build up slowly. Carry water with you. Don’t commit to a race where you aren’t ready for the heat yet or you will over-extend yourself. If you feel sick, stop.
Even if you’ve run in the heat before, May and June are dangerous. You haven’t had time to adapt.
Accept the reality that heat and humidity are dangerous. If you aren’t ready, don’t do it. Train yourself, drink water. (Only moronic shit-heads say ‘hydrate’)
If you have any other conditions, see your licensed medical professional.
You also may not genetically ever be able to run long distances in heat and humidity, so enjoy running within your limits.
Peace be the Botendaddy
Munchen 24 Dezembers 1918 Jägerstrasse verlassenes Büro von Professor von Änstädt
„Glück Gesundheit 🤧 Gottes Segen Freude Frieden ✌️ allerwegen Fröhlich 😁 Weinachten und einen gesegnetes neues Jahr!“
Pareczenethy ist immer noch in seiner Uniform. Er ist noch nicht entlassen worden. Er ist unrasiert und dreckig. Er geht die staubige Treppe hinauf. Die Lichter sind draußen im Philosophischen Gebäude. Es ist fast 16:00 Uhr. Er öffnet die Tür. Von Änstädt sitzt auch in Uniform hinter seinem Schreibtisch. Seine Füße hoch. Er ist mürrisch.
“Alles ist scheiße 💩 Meng Geehrter Häär… der Krieg ist vorbei. Wir sind alles auf einen großen Haufen Pferd 🐎 scheiße.“
„Keine Probleme Mengen Geehrter Häär. Meine Wohnung wurde von den gottverdammten Kommunisten und dem Scheißbagger Eugen Leviné gestohlen. Ich werde diesen Juden Bastard selbst erschießen und ich bin ein verdammter Jude! Scheiß auf diesen diebischen Schwanzlutscher! Arbeiterparadies mein Anus!„
“Keine Sorge, alter Kamerad, Häär Schliessmann hat uns gebeten, für das XVII. Wilhelminische Bataillon eine Kompanie aus der Universität zu gründen. Also sagte ich was zum Teufel?“
“Ich habe genug gehabt. Ich habe seit drei Tagen nicht gegessen. Lass uns ein paar kommunistische Jugendliche umbringen, die dem Abschaum ausweichen.“
“Mein liebster Freund. Das Problem ist einfach. Sie sind eine philosophische Weltungschauung. Sie sind der schottischen Philosophie des 18. Jahrhunderts verschrieben, in der Individualismus, Streben nach wirtschaftlichem Erfolg und die Rechte des Menschen im Vordergrund stehen. Wie unser Land, das vom teuflischen Satans Woodrow Wilson zerstört wurde, musst du existenziellen Nihilismus annehmen.”
JaWohl! Meng Geehrter Häär. Dass bedeutet das der Existenzieller Nihilismus ist die philosophische Theorie, dass das Leben keine intrinsische Bedeutung oder Wert hat. In Bezug auf das Universum legt existentieller Nihilismus nahe, dass ein einzelner Mensch oder sogar die gesamte menschliche Spezies unbedeutend ist, ohne Zweck und unwahrscheinlich, dass sie sich in der Gesamtheit der Existenz ändert. Nach der Theorie ist jedes Individuum ein isoliertes Wesen, das in das Universum hineingeboren wird, das Wissen “Warum” nicht kennt und dennoch gezwungen ist, Bedeutung zu erfinden. Die inhärente Bedeutungslosigkeit des Lebens wird weitgehend in der philosophischen Schule des Existenzialismus erforscht, wo man möglicherweise ihre eigene subjektive “Bedeutung” oder “Zweck” schaffen kann.“
“Wunderbar! Meng Geehrter Häär Professor! Es ist, als ob Sie ein futuristisches elektronisches Lexikon komplett plagiiert hätten (Valkriepaedia? Wikipedia?)! Und dann ein noch nicht erfundenes Übersetzungstool verwendet haben!
Das is Ja unglaublich! Einen neuen Philosophische für den Neues Jahrhundert!“
Also Sprach der Botendaddy
’Defender of the Faith’ is a 1962 story by Philip Roth about a Jewish Sergeant, Marx, who is a combat Veteran just back from the war in Europe and his manipulative Jewish draftee Grossbart.
Without going into the story in depth, the story told about Jewish soldiers in the U.S. Army at the tail end of WWII is one I’ve seen before.
My distant family, three of them, the first born in America, all joined the Army to fight in the Spanish-American War. Somewhere a faded sepia-toned photograph ala Butch Cassidy may show them in their super-slick SAW uniforms with their slouch hats, slung pack and Krag rifle. Man, they looked muy macho.
Long story short, our family tradition has literally extended to every war from 1898 to this day. So the topic is very sensitive to me.
Jews post-Korean War rightly or wrongly, had a reputation as draft dodgers. They served in solid numbers through the Korean War, but Vietnam and the college deferment was a huge blot on our reputation as Americans.
Even worse, by the epoch of the War on Terror (I served until 2011) the percentage of Jews in the Army had fallen to a level so minuscule that it equaled the number of Muslims. 3,400 souls in the entire Army. I was stunned. A higher percentage actually served in Theatre in Vietnam. It’s a statistical fact.
I don’t think there were more than five Jews in my Brigade in Iraq. Out of 3,500 soldiers… Unfathomable… Then, when I got back, only two Jews in my Battalion… me included. WTF?
Who pulled the charred remains of our brethren out of the ovens in 1945? The same U.S. Army. The same U.S. Army that wasn’t good enough for us by 1965?
When I first joined, early in my long unillustrious career, we had Passover services at Ft. Benning where 44 Jews showed up. 44! That’s a lot for anywhere.
I remember a Jewish recruit whining to me about how his sergeant treated him because he couldn’t do enough pushups. He wanted me, a Jewish Lieutenant to stand up for him. I refused and I made him do more pushups until his spindly arms fell off. I was furious. He was an embarrassment to my people.
Maybe Roth’s Sergeant Marx and I were more like the vicious Sergeant Waters from ‘A Soldiers’s Story’ who thought that by brutalizing the weak links he would bring up the image of black Soldiers in the Army.
This was exactly the story of Defender of the Faith. Grossbart plays on Marx’ emotions as Marx just returned from the front: 1945 Germany. Grossbart weasels his way out of orders to the Pacific. Grossbart whines for special privileges on account of being Jewish, then takes advantage when he gets them. Like me, Marx was furious and embarrassed for his people.
Marx gets Grossbart’s orders changed back to the Pacific. He does it not to defend Grossbart whom he views as a bad example, but to defend the reputation of American Jews in the Army.
I originally hated Roth. I thought he was ‘too Jewish’ and he made our people look like self-indulgent perverts. Sure, the Psychiatrist’s couch in Portnoy may be a veiled reference to Kafka’s cockroach, but Roth’s story is much harder than Neil Simon’s rose-colored Biloxi Blues, where the snarky Jewish wise-ass brats put one over on the over-matched, shell-shocked combat Veteran Sergeant Toomey.
Where was Toomey’s thanks for saving those brat’s people? Simon never gets the point, does he. Contrast Wouk’s Caine Mutiny where the mutineers’ Jewish Navy JAG lawyer, Lieutenant Barney Greenwald, has sympathy for Queeg, because Queeg stood up to serve long before many others did and help keep Greenwald’s mother from being made into ‘soap’.
In Roth’s ‘Defender’, the wise-ass Jewish brat doesn’t get away with it. Marx knows what the stakes are: he saw it in the liberated concentration camps and he knows who liberated them.
Roth, with an unblinking gaze, speaks an ugly but unsaid universal truth about the wise-ass Jewish kid who thinks he’s too special and too smart for the Army. Yes, I’ve seen them first hand trying to game the system more than once: don’t any of my soul brothers dare tell me I haven’t seen it.
Roth was excoriated by the Jewish community for telling this story and he stood his ground. This is who we are, warts and all, Roth instructs us. This story is a triumph of truth over self-deceit.
Some of us, in the end are Sergeant Marx, the patriot, and some of us are Grossbart, the shirker, who makes a mockery of his own faith.
Call me what you will, but given my family history: from The Spanish-American War through Iraq, we jealousy guarded the reputation of the Jewish soldier in the U.S. Army until apparently there was no-one left to care.
RIP Philip Roth
Peace be the Botendaddy
Only the Showdown represents true muscular American Wild-West cowboy 🤠 (Pronounced Koe-Bwah) bravado. The good guy vs. the bad guy. Face to face.
Two men face each other at high noon in the dusty street of a frontier town. No silly sentimentalism, compromise or emotional 😭 Schwachheit.
No special weapons other than the macho phallus-like muscular six-gun.
The Sherriff vs. the shitty scumbag bad guy. Yes the bad guy. Not conflicted, he is rotten and shitty. You, the audience hate him because he is a complete irredeemable piece of shit. He must die so that his evil sins can be expiated by fire. His soul is beyond salvation.
Frank Miller is the bad guy, released from prison by wishy-washy judges and slimy politicians so that he can wreak havoc on the defenseless town.
The Sheriff is the epitome of good. He has no vices. He will risk death rather than compromise his principles. Gary Cooper is the good guy. Grace Kelly is his new bride 👰 a pacifist Quaker.
The Sheriff is old and past his prime. Sure he can leave town like a filthy yellow-bellied coward but a true American can’t leave the problem for the next guy. He has to stay.
Real Americans, both good and bad, always have the showdown at the agreed to time and place. But the duel is “faggier” because it is European and hence gay 🌈 and man-on-man bottom-passive *hot* The showdown is muy muy macho like Ricardo Montleban.
Only the shittiest coward doesn’t show up. The French call failure to show up “the little death”. I made that up, but you get it.
The townspeople are unprincipled, apathetic 😐 self-involved, sniveling yellow cowards. One by one they back out. They deputy won’t fight unless Cooper recommends him to be the next Sherriff, but Cooper won’t compromise his principles for that slimy dirtbag. Only the 14 year old kid offers to stand with him, but like a true American Cowboy 🤠 Cooper must fight alone.
In the end, the bad guys are so shitty, that they fight four on one. Shitty, scumbag, rotten cheaters. Of course they die one by one. The wife drops her stupid pacifism and becomes a true American by shooting one of the bad guys through a window.
Of course the head bad guy Frank Miller is so rotten (Pronounced Un-American) that he actually takes Grace Kelly hostage. Grace Kelly! Miller is a total scumbag piece of shit! Of course she scratches him and Gary Cooper shoots him to shit like he deserves.
But who was shittier and more un-American? The bad guys who can’t help being rotten? Or, rather the slimy shitty cowardly townspeople who let Cooper face the bad guys alone. The conclusion is obvious.
In the final scene, The Sherriff after vanquishing the shitty bad guys stares down the yellow-bellied townspeople whom he just rescued and he drops his shield in the dirt.
Everyone knows that the movie is based on the original 1934 Japanese thriller サムライ対悪い男 ‘Samurai tai warui otoko’ by Watanabe Uweyuki Yakazuke.
In this epic black-and-white Japanese thriller that takes place in the 17th century, a samurai must try to defend his village against shitty bad guy criminal scum bag thief, killers, led by WaLuigi-wa.
Noone in the town is willing to help them fight the bad guys because they are all a bunch of filthy disgusting Cowards.
In the end the samurai must go it alone and the only person that comes to his defense is the silly, stupid, wimpy, nerdy good guy who is almost incapable of helping but stabs one of the shitty bad guys in the back with a bamboo pole by accident.
The leader of the bad guys holds the Samurai’s daughter hostage. She performs Baru-Ki-Ka-Ru by kicking him in his shitty ballsack, so the Samurai can kill him with nunchaku.
The Samurai then scolds the villagers who lose face due to their shameful cowardice and the village is renamed 臆病者の臆病者の村 which means Village of the shittacious cowards.
The Samurai walks off into the sunset 🌅 with his daughter and the nerdy 🤓 guy who is in love with the daughter and has proven himself worthy by slaughtering a bad guy.
”Popcorn with butter?”
Peace be the Botendaddy
It was a very strange place, but it was a strange place that he’d gotten used to rather quickly. How many years had it been? More than a few, but not that long. It was very possible that it was the best job that he ever had.
He’d been a little bit more important maybe a little more relevant in years past, but now it all just didn’t really seem to matter. He had no boss really. The biggest incentive was just to take care of the customers, maintain the facility and keep the residents happy.
It was 6 o’clock in the morning. They used Earth clocks because why not? He ran and worked out a few days a week. Today was one of his running days.
The atmosphere was strange. It depended really on where you were on the planet. The poles were incredibly wet and contributed to retaining the atmosphere. The rest of the planet was basically desert with an occasional oasis here and there. There was no real smell. It was a clean smell actually. In fact the entire planet was hypo-allergenic.
Of course, there was the underground. From all he had heard, it was a very rich environment that had been very carefully built up over the years with massive underground structure. Oddly, not a single structure existed anywhere on the surface.
The only structure on the entire surface was Waystation 9. Back in the day it would’ve been called an airport, and like all other airports, it started out ad basically a small airstrip.
I suppose that you could say spaceport but that’s just a little bit corny, isn’t it? At any rate, it was time to run. He had his own building. One story, full gym, water cistern, food cabinet, kitchen, refrigerator, theatre room, extra bunk rooms, technology room, design room, meeting room and more.
The radiation meter was down to zero, so he could leave his quarters beforehand he unbuttoned the complex.
He put on his shoes, shorts and T-shirt and he went out to the track. It was always cool and dry, always about 55°F. It almost never rained down here. Rain was an event.
He took off Running. The track was actually his idea, they basically said ‘look if you want to try build yourself a track make yourself some deals for materiel and build yourself a track.’ The sand had a slight crunchy feel. It wasn’t dusty unless there was a sandstorm.
He was one of the two site managers. There were always only two site managers and it was the same way every day, eight hour shifts overlapping by four hours for twelve hours coverage. The opener opened the spaceport’s radiation shields, the closer buttoned up. Then it was eight hours of bizarre radiation.
During the storms, people did maintenance, fueled up, worked out, went to one of the clubs, workout studios, art studios, galleries, restaraunts. Inside it was like a gigantic beautiful multi-level shopping mall and series of hotels.
The spaceport could only be open for 12 hours a day and it was closed for 12 hours a day. That was the rule. There was some kind of strange disruption in the atmosphere that created radiation. This radiation storm went on for about 8 hours a day, so Waystation 9 had to be buttoned up.
He was going to run 5 miles today. It was pretty much flat everywhere you could see. There were mountains way up to the east but he had really not explore that much. At some point, he figured he would get out there.
He had his cycle so he could peddle out there, but of course distances were much longer than they appeared to be. If you got stuck out and you didn’t have supplies in that environment and you got caught in the radiation storm then that would not be a good situation.
Oh you could survive out there, there’s a special little kind of tent that you could bring if you were going to bicycle for a day out there but you better bring extra tires and extra supplies maybe even a second bike.
He once tried a journey to the foot of the mountain, but he never climbed up, he just took a look around, camped out in the cave, waited it out for 12 hours and then pedaled back
It didn’t have to be a monotonous job, you could find ways to occupy yourself, ways to stay interested. He actually had fairly good relations with the residents. They were known as were known Holeans.
Holeans were genuinely nice people and why not call them people? They were intelligent beings like us, sure they looked a little bit different – almost like the typical aliens as we imagined from Area 51 but a little more robust, a little more hair but they were an attractive and interesting people.
The Holeans had one favorite interest: curios, antiquing we would call it. They did not like to leave their own planet. I don’t know that any of them ever did very often. Maybe every now and then a few of them would travel by freighter to go visit somewhere.
I know there was a few that were buyers of goods who traveled a bit, but they preferred to let the merchandise come to them. You see, they ran an exotic import-export business and that was the deal. They get the import-export business, while the visitors get the spaceport.
Holea had plutonium-platinum pellets – don’t ask me how they work, I’m not a chemist but I will say that the pellets were incredible for powering spacecraft. They also had water as I mentioned before. All you could possibly need: the poles were essentially a mixture of giant oceans and swamps.
Underground, there was an enormous amount of water. The Holeans lived above the water in their structures down beneath the surface. I always imagined that they had some type of boats or maybe even ships under the surface, I don’t really know how it worked.
So that was the deal, we get the fuel, we get the water, we get the spaceport and they absolutely get their pick of the import-export business. Sure, they were interested in occasionally exotic foods but they were mostly interested in the merchandise: Strange woods, interesting metals, intricate carvings, coins, objets d’art that could’ve been thousands or tens of thousands of years old nobody knew.
I think they had more pleasure running their various family kiosks in stores than they did in collecting. I’m sure they had things under ground maybe museums and galleries places for curios, but they like the little cubbyhole stores that we go back as far as possible, little circular staircases to get from one to level to an other.
But when you walked in, you had a feeling that the import-export stores and been there for decades or maybe even hundreds of years, actually I don’t know how long they were there… could’ve been hundreds of years but as you know, these things grow up over time.
Jean-Claude Deblois, the runner, was the morning concierge, or you could call him a site manager, the other concierge, her name was Francine Chantal Delacroix. I don’t know how they both ended up having French names but I think that’s just one of those things that happens.
They didn’t really get along and they didn’t really not get along. I think they were just the only other people that they could talk to. Both kind of viewed the world same way, but were very separate – almost like it a brother and sister that had grown up and moved apart for 30 years and then moved back together.
He kept running, the track was nice – not yet covered with sand. The surface was excellent with a good grip, it stayed in very good condition despite the radiation storms and it seemed to never buckle very much and it never wore out or cracked.
My name is Pochemu as you would Pronounce it. I am a Bolean. Boleans are from the twin planet in synchronous orbit with Holea. I lived with Deblois. This was my first tour of duty. Boleans provided security for the Holeans. Holeans are a religious people, we view them as a nation of priests. We look alike, but they are more white and we are more blue.
Boleans are violent, industrious and highly intelligent. We have been at peace for a long while, except for a few minor skirmishes around the edges of our region of solar systems called the Aal Mog grouping.
I am an officer in the Royal Armed Forces of Bolea. I suppose my career is stagnant which is why I volunteered for this post. I miss my wife and daughters, but other than that it’s good duty. This story isn’t about me though.
Working with aliens is cool. Yes, you reading this are outer space aliens to me. It’s cool because my boss isn’t here. As long as I facilitate for the concierges, the guests and the Holeans, I’m solid. I fuel a report once a month. We use your months, because why not? Systens work if everyone agrees on them.
DeBlois. He’s a cool guy. I run with him some time. Boleans Run, our cousins, the Holeans don’t. They swim.
Eepoporque is my counterpart. She’s only a Captain. Ambitious and snotty. I wouldn’t want her in my command, but I’m her rater on her BAER: Bolean Army Evaluation Report. She is DelaCroix’s facilitator. We don’t tell the concierges what to do, nor the Holeans. We just report and keep the peace. Imagine… Boleans as peacekeepers. Thank Lord Khufu my dad isn’t alive to see it. Oh well.
It’s a long way across the spaceport. There’s a lot of hangars. I think it’s actually 45 miles square. We use your miles, too because.. why not?The enclosed portion is like a giant covered City about 20 miles wide Running South .to North. The morning concierge lives on the North end and the evening concierge lives on the South end.
Funding, yes. Every planet, every civilization runs on the almighty, wait for it… dollar. The Waystation is funded by a non-profit: Hwardjionsczenz. They ran the first space ports, hotels and restaraunts. You can get a used spaceship from their rental division. My brother and I bought a small Kyrellian cruiser. We fixed it up. The new ones suck, the old ones used good materials.
I went outside to run with DeBlois. He was easy to catch. Boleans who are in shape can run a two minute mile at Earth gravity. We’re just different. I slowed my pace to nine minutes to chat with DeBlois.
”JC! What’s up Blay?”
”I’m really roakin’ – eight minute mile today.”
”Pochemu, you ready for your shift?”
”As ready as you are. There’s a new Kapoolian Coffee shop that just opened up. Imagine when a Bolean walks in, they still hate us from the Sadérrhillian conflict of the Difth Cluster Vortex, back in the Schamponian epoch.”
”Listen you big blue bastard, everyone’s making money now, they don’t car who’s ancestors were man-raped and pillaged.”
”Yeah, no drama anymore JC. We Boleans love drama, but here I have orders: play Everything low key.