text:
My utopia

Oh yeah, and I got this from the quiz Mei memed us.  Guess I’m not getting there any time soon.

Hi-tech, Post-scarcity Anarchist Individualism, e.g. The Culture in a number of the novels of Iain M. Banks

Hi-tech, Post-scarcity Anarchist Individualism, e.g. The Culture in a number of the novels of Iain M. Banks

You’d rather skip the inconvenient practicalities of social development and revolution, and go straight to a society in which resources and possibilities are limitless, and who can blame you? Why mess about with complex social systems when you can have all-powerful sentient machines with a sense of humour and recreational sex till the bovine protein synthesisers reach their point of origin. And if you get bored with having your every imaginable desire on tap, you can always join Contact and agonise about whether it’s more unethical to go around imposing freedom on less utopian societies or to continue to exist while not imposing freedom on them.

See the story behind this quiz at

Which Utopia are you building?

Big Sister: Day 6

I got the bullets off the Trigger boys in the end, in return for another adult-size sleeping bag and two more buckets. Sensible trade, on their part – the last thing they needed was to be fighting each other for the basic comforts. It didn’t take them long to find the cameras in the fridge, and they keep accidentally throwing stuff on top of them, the scamps. I’ve said if any go dead, they don’t get dinner or fresh buckets, and so far they’re not pushing me, cause they don’t know how far I’ll go, and frankly neither do I.

We’ve killed some time this week with “Store-room confessionals”, a good way of getting to know your looters. I told them their dinner would depend on their answers.

Trigger Grumpy went first. I expected him to be the most trouble, but once out of the fridge with the door closed behind him, fuck me if the bastard didn’t look straight into the camera and start weeping.
“This isn’t me,” he kept saying, and he looked younger than I’d thought, early twenties maybe, with hair just long enough to curl and a little chin-dimple that was beginning to be lost to stubble. He begged me to get him away from the other two, said he’d lost his family to the Flu and escaped a quarantine hostel (though he was hazy on the details of how he’d done that) and they just picked him up and made him start looting with them.

“Seems a lot of effort for them to go to,” I said, “when they could just kill you and keep more for themselves. Guess you must have some special skill they wanted you for.”
Turns out he’s military, trained in ammunitions, and he knew where to get the guns from. Which begged a few questions, such as why take them to the armoury if they didn’t already have guns to make him? Why was he in a hostel if he was qualified to be guarding it? Why stay with the others when he had as many guns as they did and more practice at using them? He clammed up after that. I gave him macaroni cheese, for effort.

Next was Trigger Happy, who didn’t want to talk about his past or how he’d fallen in with professional looters, but was happy to spend the next fifteen minutes explaining what he was going to do when he found me, swearing almost as much as Jezza on a Monday morning. Eventually he ran out of ideas and started smashing up the store room, which didn’t contain much besides empty tins and full buckets at that point. I left him a bucket of soapy water and disinfectant, a mop and the threat of no more bucket changes til it smelled of roses down there, and later watched him grudgingly cleaning it up under the watchful eye of the third Trigger, who’s been keeping the other two in line since the beginning.

His confessional was interesting. Before I even asked him about his situation he threw a challenge at me, and put me on the defensive. Who am I to keep them there? Who am I to hold an entire storeful of food to myself? And probably because I’ve been asking myself that question on a daily basis for the last couple of months, I responded quicker than I should’ve.
“I let people take what they need,” I said. “You saw the setup I had when you came in, you could’ve gone on your way with a week’s supply; you didn’t have to get greedy and go looking for the source.”
“What gives you the right to the source?”
“What gives anyone the right to anything anymore? Possession’s ten tenths of the law now, and that was suiting both of us pretty well until you walked into my fridge – at least I didn’t get here by waving guns around.”
Which I shouldn’t have told him. I was supposed to be gauging how much of a threat he was.  I tried to keep a bit of control after that, and when he wondered how I did get here, I told him, “You first.”

Then I got the full story of the gang. Trigger Grumpy was a soldier, but he wasn’t a resident at the hostel, he was a guard. The three of them were security, and after the order came not to release people on the 28th day, parties were sent out to collect more supplies, since the depots were almost empty by now. They were given firearms (it was a risky business, with looting gangs and quarantine refusers out there) and they were given a list (no doubt compiled by my “breakers and auditors”) and once they were far enough away from the hostel they figured why keep going back with this stuff? The only real reason would have been for the anti-virals, but the supply of those had to run out sometime, and they weren’t the first guards to desert before it got to crisis point. If they didn’t go back, they’d be presumed dead or diseased, and nobody would go after them, so they stole the lists and went freelance. They were going to take this place over for themselves. They didn’t know it was occupied already, but the set-up was enough of a clue to prepare them for the possibility. I didn’t press him on what they’d been planning to do about that if they hadn’t got locked in a fridge, cause I was more interested in the hostels.
“So why aren’t they letting people out?” I said.
He laughed, or maybe choked.
“What’s going on there, not too different to what you’ve got going on here. People’ve been kept in shitty conditions too long, not given information, unreliable food, taunted, messed with. The quarantine managers are afraid to let people out in case they go for the remaining supplies, take it all back.” He paused long enough to let me take that one in. “Not many left to let out, anyhow,” he continued, “but enough for riots when they see how few security are left.”
I couldn’t resist responding, “Yeah, I hear some of those deserted.”
“I saw an opportunity to get out of the round-up, and I took it, just like you. You got lucky, is all. I wouldn’t have been working for those fucking flag-wavers if I was sitting on a storeful of food, either. I did what I had to.”
“Sure. And more besides.”
“You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” he said calmly.  I decided I wasn’t compelled to justify myself to him, and let him fill the silence. “You had to keep us from finding you, sure, but you wouldn’t be doing all this Big Sister shit if you weren’t enjoying it.”
Well, a little.
“Not at all. I’m just wondering how to get rid of you without compromising my safety. Easiest would be to turn off the cameras and look the other way while you run out of air. Riskiest would be to let you go. What would you do?”
He dealt with that one pretty creditably. Ran a hand through his hair, looked straight at the camera and said, “I’d keep me on. I can help you get the others out the way. We’d both rather they were gone but not dead. Two of us could watch in shifts in case they came back. You’re smart, and you’re handy, but I don’t think you know how to fire a gun. I’d be good security – I’ve got experience, and a man’s voice is more threatening to a gang of looters – that’s their prejudice, not mine. Reckon we could both do with the company, too.”
Not a bad pitch, all things considered. I considered all things.
“I mix a mean Martini, if that’s a decider,” he added. It wasn’t, but the rehearsed half-smile to camera was.
“Big Sister will keep your CV on file, but for now we regret we have no suitable opening for a person of your skills.”
That broke his calm, but he didn’t kick himself half so hard as I did. I should’ve made it plain from the start that I wasn’t alone here. They didn’t need to know that. I could’ve been the spokesperson for a whole armed gang. I’ve been an idiot to let them see me as a weak, lonely woman. Not his prejudice, no, just his veiled threat to intimidate me into thinking I need him.

As he went back into the fridge, he asked, “Did I earn tinned stew or dog food for that?”
Honestly there’s not much difference between the two, I think the dog food tastes a little better – less salt. I gave him the dog food, in a plastic cocktail glass with an olive in it, but I gave him a tin of beans, too. It’s nice to have somebody to talk to, even if he is a skeezy bastard.

Uninvited Guests

So, I’ve had a fun day.  Three nasty-looking looters set off the proximity alarm early this morning, blokes in their late 20s or 30s.  Most looters I’ve seen so far are very young or very old, half starved and terrified.  These looked like they’d been doing alright for themselves and had a fair bit of experience.  I watched them clock the open invitation and the rat maze for distractions in less than a minute – they didn’t even stop to take the free food.  They’d bust through the shelves and started heading for the kitchen store almost before I’d silently buzzed the locks open, and the bastards even shot a couple of my cameras en route.  I was lucky they chose to investigate the kitchen before the stairs, or they might have made it to the Outer Inner sanctum, and I’d be scrambling away over the rooftops with my bug-out bag.  As it was, I caught them in penalty box number one – straight through the store cupboard and into the walk-in fridge.

As I was telling my mate Ash only the other day, if you’re ever looting a store, prop open the doors as you go; just cause they opened when you pushed them, doesn’t mean somebody isn’t sitting up in a control centre ready to lock them behind you.  The noisy buzzers can easily be taken out of those remote-locking intercoms, and you won’t know anything about it until you hear the click.  You’ll be relieved to discover that there’s an inside handle on the fridge, but when you try the door, just to reassure yourself, and find that it doesn’t open, even when you barge it with your shoulder and use creative language on it, confusion will quickly turn to panic and you’ll curse whoever’s with you for getting you into this, and they’ll curse you back, and it’ll be hilarious for anybody watching on hidden cameras in the shelving.  Walk-in fridges are pretty tough – those insulated walls can take a hell of a pounding and, it turns out, even a bullet or two, but you don’t want to do too much of that, cause shooting through an industrial-size tube of tetrafluoroethane in an airtight space would only be funny for a minute.   I’ve got to admit these guys know their stuff, cause one of the gang grabbed the rifle off of Trigger Happy before it was too late and yelled at him to save his ammo for the bastard fucking with them.  I took that as my cue for the tannoy announcement.

“Welcome to the Big Sister house.  Day one: the housemates arrive and settle in.  After ten minutes yelling at each other about who let the door close, they realise they’re in an air-tight box where shooting is likely to release poisonous gases.  It’d probably be an idea for them to get rid of those guns before they do each other an injury.
“The housemates’ first challenge is an act of trust, to gain Big Sister’s approval.  Outside the fridge is a secure storage area.  In half an hour, Big Sister will open the door and let you out there.  Do not try to open the door of the storage area.  Leave your guns, bags and jackets in the storage area.  Turn out your pockets and leave the contents there.  Go back into the fridge, and close the door behind you.  If you successfully complete this challenge, half an hour later Big Sister will open the door again and you will find food and bedding in the storage area for your use.
“You really want Big Sister’s approval right now.  You do not want to fuck with Big Sister.  Big Sister has spent the last two months turning this store into Fort fucking Knox meets the Temple of Doom.  If you complete all your challenges without being an arsehole, Big Sister will reward you and let you leave.  If you want to find out what happens if you’re an arsehole, be an arsehole.”

They laugh, of course.  It is kind of a ridiculous situation, and as many have noted, I am hilarious.  Trigger Happy begins to suggest shooting the other door, but the smart guy who took his gun does that looking around talking thing they do when they haven’t figured out where the cameras are yet.
“Big Sister, I take it you can hear us as well as we can hear you?”
I decide not to engage in conversation until I’ve got their guns.  If they think I can’t hear them, so much the better.
“Give me the guns,” he tells the other two.  I’ve counted two pistols and a rifle on them so far, and I’m nervy, cause anybody with that many guns on display’s got to have a few more hidden. I’m glad when his boss says, “And the rest, come on,” and Trigger Happy takes another pistol out his jacket.  Trigger Grumpy gets grumpy, though.
“I’m not giving all my guns to some psycho bitch on a tannoy!”
And the boss forgets I heard him talk about saving ammo for “the bastard who’s fucking with us” and goes all Trigger Tranquil.
“Big Sis is just being cautious, that’s all, am I right?  Anybody’d be nervy, bunch of guys with guns busting into their safe house.  We’d do the same, wouldn’t we, fellas?  We came looking for food, not trouble.  So here’s what we’re gonna do.  We’re gonna give the guns to Big Sister, so she can trust us.  But we’re gonna keep the bullets, just on this shelf, here—,” the camera judders as he empties the rifle chambers and slaps the pistol clips down on the shelf, “—so that we can trust her, too.”
“Big Sister will consider your offer,” I say, and put on a Blandest Hits of 2020 playlist interspersed with Colmart jingles on repeat.  Cruel, but I have to cover the noise of the drill while I put some extra security on the outside of the store cupboard door, and the condescending fuckhead was pissing me off.

When I get back to the Inner Sanctum, I check over the footage I’d missed to make sure they haven’t put the ammo back in the guns, then turn the tannoy back on. They’re visibly relieved when the music stops.
“Big Sister will open the door now.  If you leave the guns and the bullets, you’ll get three tins of stew, three tins of beans and three sleeping bags.  If you leave only the guns, you’ll get what I consider to be a fair swap.  Do not touch the door on the other side of the storage area.  You have been warned.”
Click.  Like a shot, Trigger Grumpy’s through the door and launching himself at the electrified handle of the store cupboard door.  Trigger Grumpy gets very grumpy, and uses some language that causes me to start peeling labels off the tins I’ve put aside.  Then Trigger Happy pulls a loaded pistol from his boot and starts shooting at the door.  I was really hoping they wouldn’t do that, because my planned response is a bit of a bluff.  By now, though, they’re nervous enough to back away from the fog machine smoke that starts billowing under the door, and when the flash-bangs go off, cracking open the bottles of almond essence, Trigger not-so-Tranquil-anymore yells, “Get back in the fucking fridge,” throws the guns down behind him and slams the door.

Big Sister wasn’t entirely happy with the way they handled that challenge, but at least the gun that Trigger Happy sneaked through was loaded, so I got more out of it than Trigger Cautious had hoped.  I am nothing if not magnanimous, and gave them two label-less tins of dog food and one tiny tin of beans, two adult sleeping bags and one child-size bag with pink flowers on it, a gallon of water and a bucket.  My entertainment’s sorted for tonight, I think.

What else shall I do with the Triggers?

What just happened?

What do you call a looter who doesn’t loot?  Seriously, I need to come up with a name.  I think I’ve had breakers and auditors.  Breakers and auditors with guns.

They came in through the Open Invitation and wandered the maze through the designated route, like good little rats, but they didn’t take anything – just made a lot of marks on a clipboard and then got gone, even boarding up the window they came in through before they left and putting some fresh locks on the doors.  I left the locks, but took the board down – looking too secure invites more thorough investigation – I’d rather keep my Open Invitation open.

Don’t get me wrong, may all my future looters be so civilised, but something makes me think they could be back for more than an inventory.

In answer to Mei’s “what food are you” meme, it’s tempting to go with lemons: bitter and twisted and at my best with a gin & tonic, but that’s too obvious.  I think I might be Cherryade, with a fizzy & bubbly surface, loud and attention-grabbing, leaving you with a sour aftertaste and the nagging concern that you’ve absolutely no idea what I’m really made of (though it sure as hell ain’t cherries).  I’m concentrating on drinks, for some reason.  There’s not a whole lot left in the Booze aise.

Speaking of which, I have looters in as I type – it’s quite exciting, after the monotony of the last coupla weeks.  I was afraid, at first, that the police would be coming to clean out the store to supply the quarantine hostels (or whoever is still safe enough to be running the hostels, which still aren’t officially letting people out), but it turns out to just be a group of kids, none of them older than 17 by the look of it.  I’m watching them on the monitors right now – I never saw anybody looking so frightened while acting so tough.  They’re following the path I set, looks like they’ve found the prize.  That’s all the Tim-tams and crisps gone…oh, and one of them has the sense to take the rice and beans – I’ll have to re-stock the bait after they go.  They’re still hanging round talking… come on, fellas, appreciate the company but it’s time for you to turn around.

Fuck it, one of them’s looking through the gap in the shelving – I’ll have to block that from behind after I’ve seen them off.  Yep, they’re gonna try and climb over.  Time for a tannoy announcement…

I’m a Quarantine Refuser

So, everybody’s got a Disaster Manifesto, even if nobody really thinks it’ll work. Here’s mine – hole up where you can’t be found and sit tight until everybody else is dead. It’s working for me so far.

The newsnets have dubbed the likes of me “Quarantine Refusers”. Thankfully there’s so many unidentified dead that they haven’t yet been able to make an accurate list of us out of the missing. And there’s a use of the word “Thankfully” I didn’t think I’d see myself making. Misanthropic curmudgeon I may be, but that’s a new low. As penance or punishment – swear I didn’t cut and paste:
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.
Not cause of heaven or hell or karma or any of that shit, it’d just be nice to feel like I’m any kind of loss to the world.

Anyhow, turns out us quarantine refuseniks have good reason to stay away from the hostels, if the blogs from those who’ve escaped them are anything to go by. The ABC newsnets are claiming they’re set up to work on similar lines to the successful quarantines in China, with new arrivals isolated and given food until it’s safe for them to join the green-lighted people inside. The escapees, however, tell tales of hotels crammed to double capacity, healthy people being forced into rooms with those already coughing blood, being locked in, food not arriving, handsets confiscated, families broken up… and all enforced by police supported by a network of Emergency Support Officers recruited mostly from security firms. I wonder if Coll’s finally living his dream.

I also wonder how much of this is a botched attempt at containment of the disease, and how much is just population control. Maybe those who’ve been sitting in their luxury bunkers for weeks just want to limit property damage and ensure there’s more food left for them when everybody else is dead. Maybe the authorities had my manifesto. Is that paranoid? It’s difficult to tell these days. I’ve always held that no conspiracies are necessary for powerful people to be arsewipes, but it does seem like this snapped into action like a sprung trap the instant the riots started. Perhaps I should be out there, smashing up the security stations, instead of in here washing down the last of the chocolate fondant puddings with a bottle of Prosecco.

I must learn to give a shit about other people before I die.

But I’m not dying just yet.

Sorting my lifetime supplies

My first week in isolation has been eerily undisturbed. The local newsnets fill with vids of people boarding up their homes and happily toddling down to their local quarantine hostel, and my CCTV screens show the odd hopeful looter making their way through the wrecked store. Here I am, all prepared for a desperate last stand, and the wailing sirens and ranged forces of law and order have failed to lay siege to me. I feel kind of snubbed.

I’ve been busy, though. We don’t have a huge warehouse built onto the store, but there’s plenty here if you know where to look: the cafe kitchens are always well-stocked, and a week’s stock for the cafe is one person’s lifetime supply (that’s my favourite joke just now – I have a lifetime’s supply of all essentials, measuring a lifetime as the time until the supply runs out). The shelves weren’t entirely picked clean before the looters were ousted, so the supply situation’s not so bad. I’ve taken as much as I can reasonably fit up to my inner sanctum, and I’ve set up a sort of maze leading casual explorers away from the kitchens, to a little stock of goodies – a decent enough haul to persuade the average looter to get gone without poking their nose further. Plus, I found some wireless home security kits in the hardware section, so I’ve set up a network of cameras and alarms that’d make Coll cream his pants.

I’ve also had a little time to sit thinking about why I did this, and I can understand why it’s hard for some of you to believe. Thing is, I don’t expect to face the consequences. I look at how this thing’s spreading round the world, with the whole of Asia and half the Middle East covered, and the newsnets talk like it’s just another flood or drought or war, but it’ll be under control before it gets to the English-speaking white folks. It’s bullshit – you know how we’ve kept it back so far? We haven’t. We’ve ignored the signs. Because to really be safe, we’d have had to stop the wheels turning, give out all the food, crash the markets. Instead we just got corporations to sponsor steri-sprays and face-masks, and those sponsors wouldn’t want the advice leaflets to say “Don’t work, don’t shop”. Now it’s too late. This is where it all comes down. Holing myself up here, it’s not really about survival, except in the short-term. If I’m going to go out coughing blood, or gasping my dehydrated last by an empty storage tank, I want to do it without fighting past hundreds of others for the privilege. Mei’s part of something bigger, but I’ve got no real reason to make it through into whatever’s left of Canberra after the quarantine. I’m here because I’m not getting herded into a make-shift prison to die at the government’s convenience. If we’re all going to hell, I’m taking my own damn handcart.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking to go out any time soon. I’ve got it pretty damn sweet here, just now. I’m running two 50” homesets, drinking the most expensive wine in the store and figured I’d best use up the Deluxe range sirloin steaks with a whisky-cream and organic shallot peppercorn sauce. Tomorrow I’ll nab a fryer from the household isle and make some chips. I have a lifetime’s supply of potatoes and I should use them up before they start sprouting.

And I Feel Fine.

I want to savour this, because I probably won’t get to say it again for some while, if ever; so believe me when I say, cheeses priced on a popsicle, you will not believe the day I’ve had!

It all started with a newscast. It could have been just an ordinary day at the office, but someone decided to let slip that the deaths in Sydney last week were confirmed as blood flu, and this led to a series of events that placed me in my current situation: holed up in the security booth, the sole occupant of my former workplace, while Canberra goes to shit around my electronic eyes and ears.

Some local reports will tell you that I started the panic buying. That’s a lie – they were rioting before I even came on the air, I just turned a random stampede into a choreographed ballet of loot and run. Who knows how bad it could have been without me? I can relate word-for-word my almost-entirely-improvised announcement, because I recorded it for posterity. It was my finest hour, my greatest performance, my tribute to Boal’s Invisible Theatre and, in all probability, my legacy, and it went like this:

Greetings shoppers, I’m Elaine, and I’m here to enhance your looting experience on behalf of Colmart on this, our last day of business.
The recommended items of the day are cough-drops and booze, but I can see the more discerning shoppers are headed for the tinned goods and the pasta & pulses aisle. As I speak, I see on security screen 2 that there’s an altercation going on over a 2kg bag of tri-colour fusilli, and — yep, clean-up on aisle — too late, there goes a shopper and a trolleyful of corned beef and — come on now, shoppers, no fair looting her while she’s down — instead, I’d grab your last carton of semi-skimmed longlife before the security guards grab you, yes, you with the oh-so-flattering cycling shorts, on your bike, they’re coming round the back of aisle 3, no, THE OTHER WAY, where the cereal used to be…that’s it, keep running! He got away, Dorothy, he got away…
Here come the reinforcements, and I can announce… They’re coming for you, lentils and jellybeans, and the tills have been closed, I repeat, the tills are off, and staff are being evacuated. I’ve been asked nicely to get my arse off the air, but don’t worry, people, I’m barricaded in here with the shut-off switch, I can see the security screens for inside and out and I’ll be announcing when the cops arrive, so keep on looting — it’s like the Christmas rush and the January sales all rolled into one, here, people, you gotta stock up like there’s no tomorrow, because the rumour has it there’s no tomorrow.

At this point I left them with a stirring dose of an aptly titled REM track, turning it up loud enough to drown Jezza’s frantic banging on the office door, while I finished off my own preparations.
I’ve been squirreling away supplies in the DJ booth for weeks, and I’d made out I was going camping after work to explain the sleeping bag, water containers, camp stove and large rucksack, which I’d filled with gas canisters, a small crate of tinned food, sundry luxury items, various locks, bolts and latches and a cordless drill. The aluminium sheet for securing the skylight had been hidden behind the sound desk about a week back. I’d already secured the office door, so I took care of the roof, removed the security tag and cork from a large bottle of vintage Moët and sat back to watch the show. When Jezza started using the fire extinguisher as a battering ram, I texted him a photo of myself, champagne and cigar in hand, D-locked round the neck to the door handle.
“Leave me be or it’s going on the store socnet,” I called. The story was already on the store socnet, as it turns out, and was doing the rounds of the local newsnets until they took down everything but the evacuation procedures.
Jezza was shouting that he didn’t give a fuck if it injured me, it was his fucking door and they should hack it the fuck down. He’d managed to wrangle the assistance of the fire brigade, but they didn’t seem too happy with that idea, and after telling Jezza they were a little busy to sort out his industrial disputes, what with the looting and rioting around the city, I heard their footsteps retreat. Twenty minutes later the security screens showed Coll striding towards the fire escape, blowtorch in hand, Jezza dragging himself along after with a face like a ripe tomato. I watched them climb roofwards.
There were several loud thumps from above before the smash and crackle of the skylight shattering onto the metal sheet, then the brief hiss of an oxyacetylene flame, but the aluminium didn’t even get glowy before it fizzled out into swearing.
Coll’s tones were a little too low to make out, but after Jezza’s thundering “Whaddya mean it’s outta gas? Where the fuck do you keep the stuff?” I patted a desk drawer, smiled to myself and poured another glass of bubbly. Then I listened to Jezza alternately fume, cajole, threaten, plead and insult me for a full 43 minutes before he finally gave up and left me to it.
They cut off the cameras, then the power, and I’d just filled my fifth container before the water went, too. I got enough charged batteries to run essentials like a light and a handset for a few weeks. When I was sure they were really gone, I ventured out to turn the power and water back on, arrange the cameras to my satisfaction and secure several other doors on the way up here.

I hear that hostels and hotels are being secured and set up for quarantines. I prefer to sit out the epidemic from here. Whatever Jezza and Coll are doing now, I expect getting me out of this room has fallen a few steps lower on their to-do list. The days from here on in will be mainly uneventful, and also numbered. Don’t let me get gloomy, my macaronis; talk to me, sing to me, entertain me as I record my further descent into madness for your delight and edification. Let’s try to make the coming weeks pass like a fart, not a kidney stone.

Making preparations

So, looks like I’ll get my wish about moving on from this dump – I’ve been made redundant. As of today, I’m working my three weeks’ notice.

Worst part about it is I can’t even blame Jezza, though I won’t pretend the hint of glee under his faux-regret tone went unnoticed. Turns out the experiment with “Tannoy Greeters” has been officially designated a flop, and the Colmart family are disinheriting us all. They’re going to have announcements recorded weeks in advance by a professional polenta-pusher with an Equity card, and piped into all stores on the half hour, every half hour. Next time I pass by the Leisure and Lifestyle aisles and hear the rustle of a malicious whisper, I’ll remember that, and smile. Nothing else to do now but make preparations for my departure.

That in mind, I believe I’ve got a meme owing on preparations, and a little barney on a friend’s blog the other day got me thinking about isolation and quarantine. Everybody’s got their Blood Flu emergency box of beans and bandages, but nobody’s really talking about how they’ll avoid catching the virus – because, y’know, much as I’d hate to be caught without supplies, the first rule of survival is don’t be dead. In this case, that means being in isolation before everyone else thinks of it, so I’m going to take back my disparaging remarks about Jack’s attempt to isolate himself from his own family, even though there’s not a sniff of flu as yet on his half of the continent. Myself, I don’t pretend to be in anything resembling a “quarantine”, but reading about Mei’s situation gives me an awareness of when I’m in contact with people, and I realise I’ve been living in pretty isolated circumstances as a matter of routine.

I always had to be self-reliant. My folks washed their hands of me the day I told them I wanted to go to drama school. Gifted with what my mother liked to call a face for radio and a body for truck-driving, I’m not exactly inundated with auditions, but I work and I manage. When anything’s gone wrong in my life, whether it’s with a contract or the plumbing, I’ve looked up how to fix it myself before calling out the experts. It’s partly a lack of funds, and partly, for want of a better word, pride – if I can do something for myself, I will. I live alone, work alone and generally avoid people. I shop online, drive to work, cook and eat alone, spend my leisure time walking and camping in the outback alone. In fact, at this point, I probably haven’t been in especially close proximity to another human being for longer than Mei. Which means that if the Blood Flu is, as we speak, spreading through Australia in its silent phase, I’m safe as a cheese sarnie at a vegan convention.

Could misanthropy be my salvation? Should I thank my parents for instilling in me a crippling social dysfunction? I am making some preparations, but just to be especially paranoid or mysterious or both, I’m not going to say on a public forum what they are. Let it be known, though: I got my ideas. I’m researching systems and squirrelling away supplies. I’m gonna be just fine.


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Friday, June 23, 2017

Biblical Patterns and American Presidents - Perry Stone on The Jim Bakker Show

Watch here: Biblical Patterns and American Presidents - Perry Stone on The Jim Bakker Show

Perry Stone
Jim Bakker Show 2017 | Show# 3267 | Aired on June 23, 2017
America, Bible, Christians, President
A Morningside Studios Production

Pastor Jim and Lori discuss America’s leadership and its correlations with patterns in biblical history. With special guest Perry Stone.

God does nothing to scare you, but to prepare you. -Perry Stone

A prudent man sees trouble coming and prepares. -Perry Stone

2 Thessalonians 2:7 MEV For the mystery of lawlessness is already working. Only He who is now restraining him will do so until He is taken out of the way.

James 4:10 KJV Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and he shall lift you up.

Ephesians 6:12 KJV For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

Daniel 2:21 AMPC He changes the times and the seasons; He removes kings and sets up kings. He gives wisdom to the wise and knowledge to those who have understanding!

Revelation 13:1 NIV The dragon stood on the shore of the sea. And I saw a beast coming out of the sea. It had ten horns and seven heads, with ten crowns on its horns, and on each head a blasphemous name.

Matthew 7:15-16 MEV Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?

1 John 2:18 KJV Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists; whereby we know that it is the last time.

1 John 2:22 KJV Who is a liar but he that denieth that Jesus is the Christ? He is antichrist, that denieth the Father and the Son.

Proverbs 27:17 MEV Iron sharpens iron, so a man sharpens the countenance of his friend.

2 Thessalonians 2:3 MEV Do not let anyone deceive you in any way. For that Day will not come unless a falling away comes first, and the man of sin is revealed, the son of destruction.

Revelation 12:7 MEV Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought.

Daniel 11:1 KJV Also I in the first year of Darius the Mede, even I, stood to confirm and to strengthen him.

Proverbs 22:3 NLT A prudent person foresees danger and takes precautions. The simpleton goes blindly on and suffers the consequences.

Matthew 24:7 NCV Nations will fight against other nations; kingdoms will fight against other kingdoms. There will be times when there is no food for people to eat, and there will be earthquakes in different places.

Revelation 6:8 KJV And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

Revelation 6:15 KJV And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains.

1 Kings 22:39 KJV Now the rest of the acts of Ahab, and all that he did, and the ivory house which he made, and all the cities that he built, are they not written in the book of the chronicles of the kings of Israel?

1 Kings 21:16 KJV And it came to pass, when Ahab heard that Naboth was dead, that Ahab rose up to go down to the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite, to take possession of it.

1 Kings 22:22 KJV And the Lord said unto him, Wherewith? And he said, I will go forth, and I will be a lying spirit in the mouth of all his prophets. And he said, Thou shalt persuade him, and prevail also: go forth, and do so.

Ecclesiastes 1:9 KJV The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.

Exodus 1:8 MEV Now there rose up a new king over Egypt, who did not know Joseph.

Deuteronomy 30:5 MEV The Lord your God will bring you to the land which your fathers possessed, and you shall possess it. He will prosper you and multiply you more than your fathers.

Daniel 12:4 KJV But thou, O Daniel, shut up the words, and seal the book, even to the time of the end: many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.

Revelation 13:18 MEV This calls for wisdom. Let the person who has insight calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. That number is 666.

Matthew 13:39 NCV And the enemy who planted the bad seed is the devil. The harvest time is the end of the age, and the workers who gather are God’s angels.

Iran vows ‘Death to Israel’ as it unveils its latest missiles during National Army Day parades (but at least one looks like North Korea’s ‘fake’ wonky rocket) -Daily Mail

Hundreds of thousands rally in Iran against Trump, chant “Death to America” – TV -Reuters

Trump Will Withdraw U.S. From Paris Climate Agreement -New York Times

2017 Is Going to Be the Worst Retail Apocalypse in U.S. History -Charisma News

Map reveals where billionaires are stockpiling land that could be used in the apocalypse -Business Insider

The Apostasy of America (Day 3)

Pastor Jim & Lori discuss the apostasy of the world today and where America is headed according to biblical prophesy. Headlines U.S. Directs Public Schools to Allow Transgender Access to Restrooms - New York Times Scripture Daniel 7:25 MEV He shall speak words against the Most High and shall wear out the…

May 31, 2016

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The Royal Mysteries

October 18, 2013

In "Acts"

A Visit with Evangelist Alveda King (Day 1)

Pastor Jim and Lori Bakker discuss the social and political issues plaguing modern society with special guest Alveda King. Quotes And I’ll tell you, America’s going to have to speak up. The church is going to have to speak up. - Pastor Jim We’ll just have to continue in the love…

Shop Amazon Smile and help give a 0.5% to Love For His People!

Love For His People Inc

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The Let's Play Archive

by The Dark Id

Part 20: Episode XX: In Which Old Men Are Kicked in the Head

Episode XX: In Which Old Men Are Kicked in the Head

Verse 6: The Gods Speak

Right now where were...we? Wait.. Floating fortress...? Death of the goddess...? Did... I miss a verse or two here?! What happened last time... Oh right... fantasy atomic bomb.

Folks... I believe the crazy train has entered the station.

We're tossed into another event mission. Here Caim can learn and laugh at the Union solders getting their eyes burnt out and other fun facts.

Directly north of where Caim begins, we come across a soldier who apparently raided Papa Caim's old armory when the Black Dragon ate Caim's parents and such.

The jerk has a change of heart now that he's doomed to dying a slow, painful death at the hands of severe burns and radiation poisoning. Do Fantasy Nukes have radiation...? I'll have to look into that... Anyhow, talking to him twice nets Caim the final weapon of this chapter.

In any case, chatting with Verdelet due north triggers the next cutscene.

"The blood of the goddess has been spilled?"
"I-I know not... Is this the end?!"
"What do your human scriptures say is to happen upon the death of the goddess?"
"The writings are brief and unclear. Though, the last verse simply states 'spill the blood of the goddess upon the earth ye tread; thou art boned.'"

Caim just decides to pimp slap Verdelet out of the blue.

Baldy really needs to shut the fuck up about my sister dying. I'm starting to get pissed.
"He's an old fool. Let it go."
"We've toiled away our time and failed the goddess in our inaction and weakness! Forgive us gods for our incompetence has doomed us all."
Fuck this noise.

And so our hero kicks a 72 year old man full force in the teeth. Drakengard!

Then... we can STAB them! Good plan, dragon.
"No, I didn't mean..."
Let's get to it!

So, it turns out Caim's dad was a samurai or something. Or a dork that thinks a $300 replica ninja sword he bought off EBay is totally awesome.

Nobuyoshi Weapon History posted:

In a far-away Eastern land, there was a poet who made a living reciting songs.
But he keenly felt the limits of his own skills, and so be made a pact with a
With the power of the ghost inside him, he began to compose glorious and
beautiful songs. His fame spread through the city, and before long, he was
named the official Poet to the Imperial Court.
But one day, the ghost returned to him, and she said thus: "Your life as
a genius poet is over. You shall henceforth never sing a song again."
It was as the ghost said. The poet fell silent and no more songs came from his
lips. His dream gone, he plunged this sword into his breast. It still gleams
with the glistering of his blood.

Hey, maybe we'll get lucky and Inuart will do the same thing. Also, someone tell the weapon history writers that the vague oriental land that makes katana swords ought to be in the west. Flipped around world and all... Just saying.

Verse 7: Emergence

Unfortunately, the violent meeting of Verdelet's face and Caim's foot has done little to stop his constant rambling and doomsayer nonsense.

Caim decides he needs to work out the last of his frustrations by murdering each and every last remaining Imperial soldier. At least those who somehow weren't disintegrated when the trio of nukes dropped on the battlefield.

Speaking of battlefield, the hellish burning red sky and the silhouettes of the dead cyclops giants is a wee bit creepy. Don't expect the game's tone to get any more chipper any time soon.

Speaking of things that aren't chipper, dapper, or ragtime fun: zombies. As it turns out, Fantasy Nukes do not emit radiation. They emit the T-Virus.

This results in Caim having to re-kill half of the enemies he initially slays earlier in the stage. Zombie Imperials are fairly nasty in groups, as their rotting skeletal state somehow makes them much quicker at attacking and hit for twice the damage.

The most annoying bit about Imperial Zombies is the fact Caim has to dismount Red to make them rise from the ground. Drakengard takes the "when there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth" thing quite literal, as he must apparently wait for the express elevator from hell to spawn the jerks.

On a note that pleases me quite a bit, this is the absolute final verse where the Union and its whiny bitch soldiers ever rear their collective of utterly useless heads. Thank fuck. May history forever remember The Union as the most useless army to ever exist.

Ahahaha. Oh...you wish this was as bad as it would get. This is a light Sunday afternoon stroll in the park. This is a 40-degree day.

No... Sorry... Thermonuclear War Apocalypse is not on today's menu. If you'll wait a bit, I'll go fetch the menu with today's specials.

What? That moon. Yeah, I was going to ask you about that before. I don't remember it looking that way.
"That's no moon. That's a space station!"

Verse 8: Menace

Well, okay. Maybe it's not a space station. It's just a gigantic floating fortress. Wait...what?

Alright, just one very filler aerial mission and it's on to the Kingdom of Zeal.

The concept of magic which doesn't utilize methods to kill people is a foreign concept to the denizens of Drakengard's world. The Empire seems to be the only ones with a progressive goal. Granted, the end game of their plan is the end of the world. But...details...

Oh, it's got the chronic hook-up from up in VA Bea-oh right... Yeah, it's pretty high up there alright.

Red makes a dramatic attempt to board the Death Egg...

...before just giving up and blowing it off until the next chapter. Lazy dragons these days, I swear.

Bonus Content:

Movies -
Caim: The Human Mute Button

Music -
Chapter Five Ground Mission #2
Chapter Five Aerial Mission #2


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Structure of Muskogean Languages

Course time:
Tuesday/Friday 9:00-10:50 AM
The 90, Room 211

The Muskogean languages of the southeastern U.S. include Choctaw, Chickasaw, Alabama, Koasati, Mikasuki, and Muskogee. This course focuses on central theoretical challenges in describing these languages: grammatical tone and aspectual grades; agentive/nonagentive person marking; verbal number suppletion; grammatical relations; and switch-reference. All the languages in the family are endangered: we will spend time surveying the status of each language and community efforts to revitalize them.


text:
A Christmas Story - The Musical

Date: Saturday, December 9, 2017
Time: 7:00 PM
Calendar12/9/2017 7:00:00 PM12/9/2017 7:00:00 PMAmerica/Los_AngelesA Christmas Story - The Musical At Little Theatre on the Bay2100 Sherman Ave., North Bend, OR 97459Website:

Little Theatre on the Bay
2100 Sherman Ave.
North Bend, OR 97459
Map & Directions

Phone: (541) 756-4336
Online ticket sales are not accessible within 24 hours of a performance. There may still be tickets at the door, so don't despair. The box office opens 1 hour prior to each performance.
A Christmas Story - The Musical

A Christmas Story - The Musical

Nine year old Ralphie Parker wants one thing for Christmas, and one thing only: An Official Red Ryder Range Model Carbine Action BB Gun. There’s only one problem: everyone else is convinced he’ll shoot his eye out! Undeterred, he begins his saga of convincing all the necessary players, from his sweet but protective Mother, to his straightlaced teacher, Miss Shields, all the way to Santa Claus himself, that he needs that gun for the protection of his loved ones, and maybe even a little cowboy glory to call his own. Filled with quirky and lovable characters, this zany, heartfelt, and nostalgic musical is as delightful as the biggest, shiniest present under the tree on Christmas morning.

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text:
Chapter One: Faye? Faye?

“Hurry up, you lousy piece of rotten meat!” The green monster, his scales full of grime and sweat, beat the side of the large ship with his tough hand. “My dead mother can do this faster than you!”

He was talking to a slave, perched on top of a high, wooden mobile staircase. The slave’s paw, covered in white fur, was hot and sticky. He was nimbly holding a heavy panel, trying to reattach it to the side of the Cargo Ship, after fixing the pipes it held inside. The Gowak’s taunts angered him, and his eyes were furrowed with silent fury. The panel slid in, and he turned to look at the filthy Shipper for the first time. “Done!”

The gowak grunted, and walked bow-legged over to the entrance hatch.  “It’s about time…” He snapped, passing the Mrow.

Narl was immune to his comments due to prolonged exposure to it. The mrow turned his yellow eyes toward the Garage door, and out onto the rocky exterior. He could see the layers of the canyon, all different shades of auburn that had grown so boring over the years, but that wasn’t what was important. Narl was looking for the light outside. In great luck, it was dark and the shadows told him he was done. He took in a deep breath, and shook off grease on his paws.

Jumping down, he landed on all fours, and was just as comfortable as on two, thanks to the digitigrade structure of his legs. He stood up, nonetheless, and dashed down to his quarters.

The hallway connecting the Docking bay and Cargo Hold to the backroom Slave Quarters was nicknamed by its walker, the Chapper’s lane. All the things that had been dragged and scraped along the cheap metal had created a hard, prickly floor. Narl’s feet were thick and covered in callus, so the pain of Chapper’s lane hadn’t stung for a while now. He dashed around the corner, and through the broken door that hanged slack on its hinge. “Faye!” He called. His mouth was curled in a smile by the simplest reason. “Faye!” The other slaves, who where shuffling in, growled between hard breaths. He turned to his left. There she was, a soft, creamy brown queen with long, fluffy hair.

Narl jumped over to her. “Faye! Oh, how are you?” He wrapped his hands around her arms.

She looked back with blue eyes sparkling. “I am very good, honey. My foot feels so much better, thank you.”

“Oh it was nothing.” He let his tail, tipped with a back tuft, twitch; a sign of relief. “Anything for my beautiful wife.” She rubbed her muzzle against his, and brushed some sweat of his fur. Earlier that day, hours before the work, she had told him of her foot. He massaged it, and could tell something was strained. He tied his grease cloth around her foot to help it, but he could tell there was something more. Narl read his wife’s eyes; she couldn’t work all day, and spoke himself to do her job as well. The beautiful Faye had thanked him so, witch was enough reward for the white tom.

They sat down on an empty cot, an un-sanded plank of wood shelf, and embraced one another. It was a couple of minutes before a shriek echoed of the cold metal walls. It was a familiar call, announcing the coming of dinner, but still blood curdling a sound. As always, the scraping of paws, dashing down Chapper’s Lane, quickly followed it. These were the slaves that, for some reason, couldn’t make it down to the Quarters in time. Be it no access to time-tellers, or an overtime job. Their slave keepers, the eight intelligent lacking Gowaks, didn’t care what the reason. They marinated a policy of only feeding the mrows that were there.

Narl helped his wife up, and headed over to the line. The main face of their masters handed out their dinner, a plant similar to the earthen potato, ground up with cheap meat. Each got about one hand full of it. The mrows chewed on it and finished the meal quickly. The Gowak lingered at the door for a while, watching them eat, and spat on the ground. “Lights out now.” He hissed between his crocodilian lips, and turned his key to turn off the dim bulb.

The quarters were plunged in darkness, and all of them swallowed their last bites. A couple of stragglers came huffing into the room. All of them sighed, knowing they wouldn’t get any food until tomorrow. Narl squeezed himself through the crowds of Mrows, holding onto Faye’s hand to guide her. They came to their cot, shared to give space for others, and climbed into it. He laid down on it, and put both his hands over the spot on his chest where it was also black, and got back up. He used his claw, blunted, to remove a new splinter that had come up in the wood. “Okay, dear, you can come in.”

Faye climbed over one leg at a time. “Oh, Narl. You let me live in luxury, you don’t have to.”

He got into the shelf next to her. “Oh, but Faye, I want to. You deserve to live in Luxury.” This was the end of their conversation. Many of the tired slaves wanted nothing more to sleep, and that meant no romance of the couple around them.

The two curled up, holding each other’s hands, and closed their eyes. Sleep came on swift wings for both of them, although not deep. Unexpectantly, a Gowak’s hiss flooded the room.

            “What!” It yelled furiously. “Unacceptable!” The light was switched on, and many of the slaves jumped. Narl looked up and hit his head on a pair of another Mrow’s feet. He growled, but couldn’t say anything before the Ship Port Captain continued his rant.

            “Which one…? Tell me witch one of these filthy mops, damn it!” The Gowaks smashed his foot on the worn metal ground.  Faye twisted her face. She hated that word, Mop, the most hideous thing one could all the Mrows.

            Another worker entered the room. He was apparently hovering outside the door before, and waiting to be called in. His yellow eyes, small and sharp, looked around the cots at the frightened faces of his property. The few lines of confused muttering ended now. He turned his head all around once, and then looked toward the center. His long, lanky arm lifted it up limply, and the worker extended a single, scaly claw. “That one.”

            Every eye in the crowded room followed his finger with fright. Its condemning point aimed right for the brown, beautiful Queen. Narl’s jaw dropped, and looked at Faye. His wife seemed just as startled as him. They looked in each other’s eyes, carrying out a conversation revealing that Faye had no idea what she did.

            The captain raised his chin, letting his scaly plumage, hanging from his head, fall back over his neck. “That one?”

            The lanky worker nodded vigorously. “Yep, sir. I didn’t see her come t’ work today.”

 The black-and-white tom held his tongue from commenting on that sentence. He turned back to the captain, a large Gowak with wide-spaced eyes. He was walking in a half-circle, looking at Faye sideways. “Slave, what is your name?” He finally said in a high, calm tone.

She stood up and let her tail hang down. “Sir, my name is Faye, sir.” Her voice jumped vowels with fright to match her large blue eyes.

The captain nodded once, still looking up. He cupped his hand toward himself and curved his wrist in. The Slave Master looked down to look at Narl’s wife. “Come here Faye.”  He cooed in that voice, like calm before the storm. Narl put his hands on her shoulder, rubbed her, and then let the brown queen go. Her walk was followed by every eye in the building. The other Gowak had backed up to the door, half hiding again. The Ship Captain took her hand, dwarfed by his own, and led Faye to the hallway outside their quarters. The other mrows began to follow, but the worker grimaced at them. They ended up crowded the doorway like school-children, with Narl pushing himself to the front.

The other six Gowaks were in the hallway as well. Their presence was a sign of an event bigger than what the Captain wanted it to seem. He kneeled, his legs being plantigrade, and let his toe-claws scrape the ground with a whiny screech. His thick arm wrapped around Faye’s shoulder with an eerie lightness. “Faye…” He whispered. “Did you go to work today?” As he spoke, the Monster noticed the cloth wrapped on her foot.

She looked to the side, and breathed. “No, Sir. But, my husband, Narl worked for both of us.”

The Ship Captain smiled. “No. Mops can’t have husbands.” The workers snickered, looking at each other with grins. “Another mrow did your work today?”

“Yes sir.” She said with a nod, hoping he’d understand.

Leaning back, the Gowak took his hand off her. “The work got done, then? Well, still, I can’t let you continue with this behavior. What if other slaves began to do that? You surely understand that I have the amount of mops that I do for a reason.” He paused, allowing Faye to agree reluctantly. “May I ask why you didn’t do your work today?”

“My foot hurt, sir.”

The Ship Captain’s laugh was like a barking snap. “Your foot hurt? Her foot hurt!” He looked behind him at the other workers, laughing in rasps. He took a breath before turning back to Faye. “Faye, Faye. I can’t let my slaves just stop working because they hurt. That would promote laziness among you things, and you are already too sloth.”  She looked at Narl, and again agreed.

“So, my darling, the work got done? Were there any problems?” The monsters grumbled with a general “negative” tone. He nodded quickly, and smiled grimly. “Don’t be lazy again Mop, I own you.”

Faye closed her eyes tight, and thanked her higher power for granting the Captain kindness today, although it shown dimly. She opened them more calm and grateful. “It will not happen again, sir.” Narl smiled at her.

“I know it won’t.”  The green lizard whispered, smiling. His neck snapped in, and his long mouth became a hook. His jaws snapped around her neck, his canine slicing right into her jugular. Red blood splashed out her like a great flame, staining her soft, brown fur. The monster’s mouth dripped with her blood, highlighting his smirk. His claws, now dug into her cold body, pulled out and let the corpse, fall back. As Faye hit the ground, her wound shot more liquid upon herself and the ground. “The work got done without you.” He growled after the deathly pause.

Narl vaulted himself out of the crowd. His claws unsheathed and teeth glimmering in the dim light. “You bastard!” His eyes were full of primal fury and confused rage. His back curled, and the tom landed face down on the Captain’s shoulder. His teeth bit into the shoulder, but only penetrated the rough hide. The Gowak was on his feet, and whipped his hand over his chest. His claws dug into the tom’s back, and he slung him onto the wall.

He hit the wall with a crack, his neck tossing his head back. Narl’s spine stiffened. He tried to raise his paws, but it was useless. He was stuck in a floppy position in the corner. A gurgling anger slowly leaked from his half-open mouth.

The Ship Captain looked at the crowding slaves. “Anybody else?” He snapped, throwing his hands back. “Anybody else lazy?” He pointed at the bloody body. “Anybody else a hero?” A growl escaped him, slowly dissolving into a breath. “Or does anybody else know who they work for? Does anybody know what they are?” He turned at the mrows, all receding back in their quarters like frightened birds.

The captain snarled at the slaves, then turned around. He swung his arm toward the other Gowaks. “Back to your posts.” They followed silently, gleaming joyfully.

Narl growled as they walked off, and he could barely see the mrows slinking back in. They would be quiet…they were extinguished flames….they were scared. Narl would’ve continued the thought, if he hadn’t been drawn into an unwilling sleep.

His eyes slowly opened, and he blinked twice. Narl took a deep breath. “W…what?” He leaned forward, climbing to his feet. His back was dull with pain, that he couldn’t quite remember getting. Running his hand along the ground, he could tell he wasn’t in the cots. His mind began to seep back to the body. Narl was angry. Eyes adjusting, he could see he was in the hallway. Narl turned his eyes, and could see Faye’s feet.

“Faye!” He smiled. Maybe his beautiful wife new what was going on? “Faye!” He walked over to her. Then he smelt it…blood. His breath began to race out of his mouth. Weakened, he dropped down with his legs sprawled in all directions. His white paw eased under her head, pushing out dried blood. “Faye…?” He mumbled. “Faye, speak to me.”

Narl suddenly heard her; breathing out a sigh of relief, and then a horrendous, shriek. He chocked on his breath, and his heart shattered. “Faye…? Faye, Faye? Faye! Faye, oh Faye!” He pushed his muzzles against her breast. “Faye…Faye…” His tears mixed in with his wife’s blood. The tom moaned between long, sobbing gasps, hoping his hugs would bring the lifeless shell back.

Like a flash of thunder, his memories came back. His precious’s foot, the scraggly worker, the Ship Captain…  His grasp tightened around his wife. They did this! This useless death… Narl growled. They killed, massacred his innocent wife!  He felt as if his eyes were suddenly so dry, and his muscles tightened. Faye was dead! Killed by those hideous monsters…the demonic eight workers. Cowards! All weak and pathetic! His depression grew to rage. Scum tyrants, bloated with undeserved power.

Narl stood up. The fur all down his spine prickled up. Hideous, bumbling, fiends. How dare they think eight idiots could rule over the mrows, a proud people…

Eight. The word echoed in his mind like a church bell. Eight, weak monsters. Monsters…monsters…monsters…

His eyes narrowed, his pupil became slits.  Narl stood up, his legs stronger than they could possibly be. Claws flexed, he let them dig into his palms. They’ll pay for this! His thoughts began to race, and began to just blur into meaningless jumbles. Narl leaped on four legs, skidding across Chapper’s Line. He took a graceful leap, and hid behind a large cargo box left overnight. He pulled his head up with his front legs over the crate. There was one of the guards, leaning hapharazadly against the wall. His tail straightened out, and he pulled back his head, growling viciously.

The guard looked up. “Wha’? Liam?” He brushed the back of his claws against his plumage, the bright colored scales that hung down from a string on his head. As expecting of the worker, lazy and apathetic, he went back to his daze.

Narl climbed to top of the wooden crate. A skill common to Mrows, he could sit so still, hiding in plain sight. His wait was brief. Sporadically, the white-and-black slave leaped. He landed on the guard’s shin. Narl slithered up his back, dragging his feet to create long slashes along his skin. “Hell fire!” The Gowak tried to grab Narl, but the mrow was moving swiftly. Teeth digging into his shoulder, he let his weight hang on the worker’s shoulder.

The guard tried to scream but a white paw clamped his mouth. The lanky one, the monster who pointed out Faye, suddenly bent over. His thick tail swatted the mrow, and the additional plumage swatted him. Narl hung on tight, but still flipped over onto the Gowak’s chest. His claws stabbed into its chest, and the other hand kept the mouth shut. The guard swatted him again, and holding on was getting harder.

Narl’s blind rage was giving him strength to hold on. He pulled himself up and bit at one of his eyes. Suddenly, the Gowak’s mouth flew opening, throwing the mrow to the ground. “Mop! Mop!” He shouted. Narl pounced, wrapping all his legs around the Gowak’s neck.

The Gowak twisted his neck up, screeching. His grip on the reptile’s neck tightened, and in a swimming motion, the mrow got his paws on the top of its head. The guard titled right, staggering sideways, inching toward the Captain’s Quarter. Plowing claws pulled Narl’s torso to the top of the monster’s head. As the guard opened its long mouth, Narl’s claws darted into the thin lining of its upper mouth. It felt to him as if he had no mind anymore. Things were not thought, they were done. Using the arm-strength he had learned as a slave, he ripped back with the gowak’s head, and his legs crushed his neck.

A satisfying crack from the monster’s skull echoed in Narl’s paws. He propelled himself off the gowak’s back, sliding on the ground. The towering beast fell to the ground with limbs flopping. Two deep breaths later, the Gowak showed its true form. The shadow of ever scale slugged together. They combined into a floating, twisting and bubbling ball of black goop.

Narl growled a gasp in times of instinct.  He knew that it was coming, but somehow did not plan that. Now, all he thought was that it couldn’t be touched. The glob swooped down, charging for the fluffy creature. He tumbled behind one of the boxes to dodge. The maneuver wouldn’t buy him much time. His hands were behind him, searching blindly on the floor. Something finally touched against his fur. As the Gowak blob flew toward him, Narl grabbed the item. Without looking, he lodged it with force toward the enemy.

The flying splinter of wood hit the creature on the blunt, flat side, but it was enough for the fragile Gowak at its true nature. The glop seemed to shrink for a split-second, and was gone.

            Narl grinned in a grim joy. It could be done…

“Hey, what’s going on down here!”

            …And could be repeated.

The approaching gowak looked over the boxes. His yellow eyes scanned the area. “Hey!” He snapped. He laid reptilian hand on a crate, pivoting around. “Where are you? What’s going on?”  Suddenly, his eye’s caught the Gowak’s reptile corpse.

Narl exploited his shock. He pushed out with his back legs and leaped over the body to the other side. The guard pulled out his gun, a strange orb-like thing, and fired at the air where the black tip of fur once was. “Get out here!” He hissed.

Narl slid out from behind the stack of crates he had jumped to, grabbing the corpse’s own weapon. He rolled over. His stomach was up and his arm was holding him up. In that awkward position, he let out a ray from the gun. It released silently, zipping thought the air. The red, glowing laser hissed as it shot through the guard’s eye. He screamed, clutching the bleeding hole on his face, but the scream faded into a gurgling noise of blood and bile. He tumbled to the ground.

Narl ready the handgun again. The true-form showed itself quicker than the last. The black blob’s bumps seem to come and recede quicker than before. A silent shot fired straight through the bottom, and it was gone.

He didn’t even look up after that. Yellow, slitted eyes turned toward the weapon. It was such a basic technology. The red Merr, the core orb of the gun, had a small ring of the spotted-mineral Leppa stuck to it, and a steel bar thin enough to bend held a lump of Pike over the entire thing.  If the Pike touched the Merr, the reaction would start. The Merr would release its mass into a highly charged bolt of some kind. Without the Leppa, with witch the Merr was unexplainably attracted too, the energy would radiate from all sides. But the mineral held it in place, creating an aim-able missile. It was so simple…so effective. The tom clutched in his paw.

He got up onto his legs and began to dash out of the shipping room. There were six other Gowaks in the port, and Narl really had no specific idea where they were. Letting his instinct-full legs take him, he came to the communication hub. Screens, buttons, dials and meters lit up the entire dim, metallic wall. There was no one in it.

A scaly tapping came charging toward him. “There’s an intruder! Two guards down!” He called in a raspy voice. Narl receded behind a wall, pressing his fur against it. The panicked gowak slapped his fingers onto a board of buttons. “Danger! Intruder!” He looked around at the dials, searching for the right one.

The white-and-black mrow aimed and fired. A red, glowing beam pierced into the Gowak’s muscular leg. “Aaaah!”  The monster screamed. His legs gave way, letting him fall to the floor. Narl hopped toward him. Curled over, the crocodilian creature spat at him. “Mop!”

The mrow opened his mouth, showing his glistening fangs. A primal noise escaped him, part hiss, part growl, and part blood-curling scream. He fired another shot into the monster’s snout. Narl held down the Pike, letting a continuous string of silent energy go. The true-form had barely time to materialize before a beam hit it.

Knowing it was truly dead, he hissed again. “Mop!” He growled, low in his throat. Five more Gowaks haunted this place, and they had surely heard his growls.

A yellow-spotted mrow blinked awake. The other slaves were so exhausted their sleep could not be bothered, but her relatively easy work hadn’t made her so tired. She slowly climbed out of her cot, paw pads gently touching the floor.

“Hello?” She whispered. The mrow quietly scurried out of the room. Her foot stepped in something sticky, her eye quickly following. Holding back a gasp, Seni stared at the blood. The cold body of the mrow killed earlier remained on the ground. She leaped back and dashed down chapper’s lane. She was sure she heard something.

Seni’s paw steps made only a faint pitter-pitter on the cold ground. Her arms were held up to her face, hiding her gasping mouth. The racket she heard had died down. The yellow mrow, covered in black spots, had no idea where it came from.

…Then there was another crash.

Narl leapt backwards, catching the corner of a crate with his paw, and spun the rest of his body around in midair. His outstretched back-paws swiped the tip of the Gowak’s nose. The creature growled, but continued charging forward.

The skinny mrow landed in all fours. The guard shot down, missing as Narl back flipped to safety. The tall crocodilian made a hiss, spluttering with his bleeding nose. He shot another silent red beam. Again, the mrow dodged.

The Gowak walked closer, raising his gun. He was slower this time. Narl crouched, prepared to dodge again, when he realized his tail was against the wall. Blinded by fury…he walked into a corner.

“Stupid mop…” The guard smiled, aiming his gun right for the mrow’s head.

Blindsided, the towering monster fell sideways, landing in an awkward position. Seni breathed heavily on top of a box behind the creature. Her job-tool, a crowbar, was clenched in her paws.

Narl stared at her for a few seconds, shocked. The surprised dulled quickly. He slid on the back calluses of his paws to retrieve his lost gun a few steps away. Just as the huge Gowak began to grunt back in to consciousness, he let the lasers fly. Three shots. Two for the scaled body, one for the black grime.

Seni began to hyperventilate, her breaths loud and quick. She had hit the Gowak in an impulse…and now she was scared. The white tom knew she was not going to be able to do anything like that again.

“What the kirf is going on here?” A deep, boisterous voice echoed across the halls.

The black-and-white mrow leaped over the yellow counterpart, turning to hiss at her. “Hide go- now!” His voice was almost hidden under the growl.

She didn’t let go of her crowbar, nodding nervously and scampering behind some boxes. She picked a particularly removed pile- way in the back of the storage room- and hid behind them. Metal rod shaking in her hand, she tried to control her breathing to remain hidden.

Narl leaped on top of a barrel. He pressed his belly against the top, hugging it as tightly as he could. He could see a shadow of a great beast down the hall, closer toward the Docking Bay. He stretched out his arms and sank onto the ground, keeping down as he creeped closer.

The Guard beckoned a friend over, from behind a wall. The two charged, gun’s first, down the empty room. Narl drew back his neck a little, shocked by the strange use of organization from the stupid creatures. He jumped out of his hiding spot, nonetheless, and rolled head-over-heels across the floor. The sharp heat of the lasers swooped past him. On all fours, Narl jumped onto the wall, and leaped onto the floor in front of the two.

The two Gowak’s growled, firing down. The mrow drew back, avoiding most of the blast to only have his tail hit. Back against the floor, he shot. The laser pierced through one of the Guard’s shoulders. Narl didn’t have time to look before his companion fired at him. The fallen Gowak clenched his shoulder, hissing. He picked up his gun off the ground.

Narl fired a laser, in mid-jump while dodging an incoming shot. It was off target, slightly, but the energy pierced enough of the standing Gowak to kill him. He fell at an angle. The true-form rose out of his mouth. Narl shot it as he landed back on the ground.

Suddenly, four claws stung into his back. The other Gowak, still grasping his shoulder, pulled himself closer to Narl. The mrow wriggled, but he couldn’t break free from the guard’s hold. Eye’s thin with anger, Narl turned to face him. The Gowak’s mouth was open slightly, teeth barely apart, and letting out a deep chuckle. His claws let go of the injured shoulder and grabbed the gun.

He roared, letting all the energy he could come out of his mouth. The Gowak flinched in surprise, loosening his grip just enough for Narl to pull himself out. He wrapped his claws around the monster’s dangling flare, yanking it forward. It’s neck jerked out, exposing the soft spot on the base of the head. He shot it-dead.

The white tom let go quickly, bounding backwards. His thoughts raced through his mind so fast he could barely understand it.

Don’t let the goo touch me, don’t let the goo touch me!

His paws flew over the metal flooring. If the Gowak’s true body were to reach him, it would enter him. Narl would be gone…controlled as the new host of the horrible parasite.

 The shifting blob lunged down toward Narl. He jumped, landing on his shoulder and sliding against the floor. Thinking quickly, he lobbed the round gun over his head. It vanquished the remains of the guard.

His white ear’s pricked up. Narl could hear the soft plink of his gun landing. He pulled himself up, coughing up some blood and mucus. It had landed closer toward the Captain’s quarters.

The Captain had placed walls in the entrance to his area, so one had to criss-cross to reach it, to prevent noise from bothering him. Narl wasn’t sure how effective the walls were…but the lack of his personal guard coming out made it seem that he wasn’t alerted of the renegade mrow.

Narl walked slowly toward the entrance. He picked up his gun and continued to snake about each of the walls. There were at least seven… it wasn’t a wonder that the lazy Gowak could sleep through landing ships. He poked his nose out.

The Captain’s personal Gowak guard, a tall monster with a uncommonly bright plumage, was near the closed door. Narl was never really sure why he was chosen to be the bodyguard…he wasn’t nearly the strongest. Right now, the tall reptile was rocking back and forward.

“Captain…” He whispered, tapping the steel door with a claw. “Captain? May I have permission to enter? I need to use the facilities…sir.”

The mrow held back a snicker. He was sure the greedy wide-eyed monster would rather the guard piss on the floor than let him use his personal bathroom. “Captain…Sir?” He tapped a claw on the door once more.

Narl stepped out from behind the wall. He wasn’t watching this monster dance on the floor anymore. Two shots silently flew across the short space. He got lucky. The timing was just right to shoot both the reptilian shell, and the emerging blob.

As soon as the scales clanked against the floor, the steel door was slung open. The Captain showed himself. “What the hell…!” His arm clenched a large, more sophisticated rifle gun. The weapon was easily five times more powerful than Narl’s round handgun…probably a lot more than that. He stepped fully outside of the room, eye’s clenched.

The white mrow was standing proud where from where he shot the Gowak. It was a foolish thing, but anger and pride overruled that. The six-foot-two reptile, dawning a metal shield-shirt, stared down at him with wide, cold, eyes.

“…The hero?”  He coughed. The words barely escaped him before he let loose a rapid fire of powerful bursts.

Narl slid sideways, dodging the bursts. As soon as his shoulder hit the ground, he shot back. The red beam hit the Captain square on the metal-shield. It was absorbed immediately. The monster smiled a little.

Barreling, the mrow had little time to avoid the next barrage of beams. He jumped onto the wall, propelling himself across the room, firing his handgun. In rhythm, the Gowak swayed his body to avoid every single one. “Stupid mop!” His hissed, firing back.

Narl only managed to avoid the beam by a few centimeters. He could feel the amount of heat against his leg. Breath rolling rapidly out of him, he tried to shoot again. Once more the shot was taken by the large shield. He jumped over another laser, landing only on one foot when he leaped sideways. Narl stretched out his claws desperately, trying to slash onto the Captain’s eyes. The Gowak slung his arms, batting the white tom off with the side of the rifle. Narl’s back slammed against the hard wall.

He ducked down, letting the rifle-fire go over his head. This isn’t working… Narl thought, feeling blood flow out his nose. Panicked, he dashed out of the room. He covered his bloodied face with his free paw, keeping from leaving a track. The frilled lizard was hot on his trail, letting off powerful bursts whenever he got the chance. His aim was getting better, and Narl was beginning to get scraped.

Black-tipped tail disappearing behind the final wall, the Captain dashed out to follow. The powerful weapon was ready, set against his eye. “Where are you,” The monster cooed, tentatively stepping forward. His head surveyed the area, gun read. “I have no time for these stupid games, mop!”

The mrow’s body was shoved closely against the wall to the control center. The room was adjacent to the Captain’s room…but no doors connected them. Narl caught his breath in the lightly buzzing room, full of buttons and screens. Closing his eyes and drawing a last deep breath, his white foot shot out, breaking a glass screen. CRAAAACK!

The Captain turned around on his heel, racing toward the Control Center. “Got ya.”  He jumped into the room, guns blazing. Narl stood still against the entrance wall as the lasers shot into the machinery. Electric sparks and wires hissed and crackled.

Narl roared, flying out of the shadows. The Gowak’s eyes widened. He was too startled to attack. Arms stretched out, the mrow shoved the gargantuan beast backwards. His leathery scales flew back and crashed against the exposed wiring. Narl lost momentum and fell onto the ground.

The Captain was paralyzed, unable to move from the continuing electrical shocks. His eyes wobbled in their sockets and his bright, colorful flails began to turn black. A horrible, shrieking pop exploded from his metallic shirt-shield as it ripped off his body. It exposed burnt, black scales. The monster’s body grew limp and dropped to the ground, some parts still steaming.

Narl stood over the fallen giant. His small, round hand-gun was tightly held in his paws. Where were the remnants of the Gowak?  His question was quickly answered.

Before the yellow-eyed mrow could see it form, the glop bolted for him. Narl landed awkwardly oh his shoulder. He fired shots blindly into the air. The Gowak dodged, again swooping for a body to possess. He held his ground and fired. The beam went straight through the center of the demon. It was gone. They were all gone.

Narl fell onto his knees, hands against the ground. His stolen gun dropped on the floor, rolling slightly toward the burnt corpse. The mrow’s bloodied nose, starting to clot, dripped with cold taps against the floor. Narl breathed in and out with his mouth, chest heaving.

As his smile rose and pressed his cheeks against his eyes….the mrow began to cry.

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Thursday, April 1, 2010

Forty years after Apollo 13

Jim Lovell leads Rusty Swigert and Fred Haise, on their way toward the launch of Apollo 13, April 11, 1970 [AP].

Dewayne Bevil

Orlando Sentinel

Kennedy Space Center Visitors Complex is holding events in April in conjunction with the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 13 mission, which was coined "a successful failure" back in the day and turned into a motion picture in 1995.

On April 10, the complex will have a special "Astronaut Encounter," featuring Jim Lovell and Fred Haise, the surviving crew of Apollo 13 (Lunar Module Pilot and Apollo 9 astronaut Jack Swigert died in 1982). The astronauts will tell spaceflight stories, including their experiences aboard Apollo 13, which included an explosion en route to the moon, four days in space using the lunar module as a lifeboat and a journey around the far side of the moon on their gut-wrenching trip back to Earth. The appearance starts at 10:30 a.m.

On April 9, Charlie Duke, who was backup lunar module pilot for Apollo 13, will be signing copies of his book Moonwalker at the complex. Two years later, Duke flew to the moon on Apollo 16 and became the 10th man to walk on the moon. Books will be available for purchase at the complex's Space Shop, and the book-signing will begin at 3:30.

Both experience are included in regular admission to the attraction, which is $38 general, $28 ages 3-11. for more information, call 321-449-4444 or go to

Lovell recalls ill-fated Apollo 13

Cynthia Dizikes
Chicago BreakingNews Center

"We were going to a place called Fra Mauro and it was about in the center of the moon," Lovell told the rapt teenagers. "It was going to be different than the first two landings because they landed in the (flat areas) ... but now they wanted us to land in the hills and the highlands."

Instead, NASA's third planned moon landing turned into a life-or-death struggle to return to Earth after an oxygen tank exploded and the crew lost its oxygen supply and electrical power.

"We were in sort of deep trouble," Lovell told the students, whom he encouraged Wednesday to pursue science even if it meant reaching beyond their high school classes.

As a young boy growing up in Milwaukee, Lovell said he consumed all the information he could about astronomy, physics and engineering. His wife, Marilyn, who said she met him in high school, remembered sitting with his mother on their porch watching him try to set off homemade rockets in a nearby lot.

"We would both say, 'He's crazy, this is insane,'" said Marilyn Lovell, laughing. "But, he just kept at it."

Read the full article, HERE.

Captain Lovell at Alder Planetarium

Frank Mathie
WLS-TV - Chicago

Captain Jim Lovell, the commander of Apollo 13, spoke at Adler Planetarium about the mission, which went from near disaster to unbelievable rescue.

Lovell kicked off the planetarium's month long "Shoot for the Moon" celebration. He told the story to students from the city's Air Force Academy High School.

"About 200,000 miles out as you might expect we had that explosion. And right away we didn't know what the situation was but as it turned out we had an oxygen tank that blew up," said Capt. Lovell.

The explosion lead to what many call NASA's greatest hour. The spacecraft had lost two of its three oxygen tanks and electrical power but somehow mission control had the astronauts jerry rig their command and lunar modules for a heart stopping ride home. Four days later they landed safely and the world sighed in relief.

Story & video, HERE.

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Chicken Pot Pie

I have been making Chicken Pot Pie for the past 15 years and it is definitely a family favorite. I decided to put small pieces of broccoli and guess what, it is now a favorite vegetable for my kids!

One double pie crust of your choice–(see recipe)

1 Chicken breast cut into small chunks, boil until done and drain water, set aside.

2 carrots, peeled and sliced.

1 bunch broccoli cut into chunks

1 Potato, peeled and cubed

1 small onion chopped

1 stalk celery, sliced

1/2 cup butter

1/2 cup flour a little less not level

1/4 tsp. basil

1 tsp. salt (estimate)

dash of black pepper

1 1/2 cups water mixed in pan on stove with bouillon to make broth

1 1/2 cups milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Wash, peel and cut all vegetables, boil them or cook in the way you desire, set aside.

Melt butter in large pan, add onion and celery, saute until soft.

Add flour and whisk well making a roux. Let it bubble.

Add milk and broth mixture. Cook this mixture whisking continually until it boils, continue cooking an additional 2-3 minutes, add basil and salt. salt is an estimate.

Add all of your vegetables and chicken, mix well. Season for taste.

Roll out crust and place on the bottom of baking pan, pour chicken pot pie mixture on crust.

Roll out second half of dough and make a top for the pie. Place on top of pie and seal.

Bake in oven for 50 minutes or until done.

Remove from oven and let set a few minutes, pie will be very hot!


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Behind The Mask

Released - Jan 2018 Duration - 104 minutes
Teen girl Melissa Moore begins to receive anonymous phone calls from a stranger, who does nothing but breathe into the phone. At first, she is creeped out by the calls but, as they keep happening, she realizes that it's probably just her boyfriend playing a joke on her. So, she starts to talk back to the "stranger," playing along, and threatening to find him and expose him for being a pervert... referencing the fact that she knows who he is! But, no matter how much she eggs him on, he never speaks or reacts. She begins to anticipate his calls and fantasize about their roleplay ... even masturbating about it.


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Judge says sex worker 'needed' drugs

12th October 2017 6:10 PM
Cherie Mollica was given a two-year suspended sentence on drugs charges.Source:Facebook
Cherie Mollica was given a two-year suspended sentence on drugs charges.Source:Facebook

A SYDNEY sex worker who earned $7000 a week has avoided jail on drug supply charges after a judge found it "not unreasonable" she needed the illicit substances to escape the horrors of the industry.

Police found Cherie Mollica in a parked car on the side of the road in Sydney on March 2016 and a search revealed a bag with a syringe, a large stained glass bottle, a small bag of white crystals and a wallet with almost $8000 in cash.

Almost a litre of liquid GBL, 970ml, was found in the bottle and the crystals tested positive for 1.385g of methamphetamine. GBL, which is sometimes known as "coma in a bottle", converts into better known drug GHB when dissolved in the body.

The 29-year-old admitted the drugs and cash were hers - but denied she was a drug dealer, insisting to detectives she only supplied to a friend and the rest was hers to help cope with her job as a sex worker.

She told police she only ever supplied drugs to one person, a friend who was in the car with her on the day of her arrest.

At a previous hearing Mollica - who is now working in a sales role - told the court the money had not come from the sale of drugs.

She said she consumed "a large amount of drugs" and earned a "large" amount of cash from her sex work. Mollica also said she had been admitted to hospital after overdosing on drugs on one occasion and was rebuilding her life away from drugs and sex work.

The sex worker earned $7000 a week, according to a friend.Source:Supplied
The sex worker earned $7000 a week, according to a friend.Source:Supplied

She told the hearing she lied during a police interview because she was "nervous and didn't want to get in trouble".

A sex worker also gave evidence at the hearing to say she and Mollica could earn up to $7000 in a week and sometimes "a lot more".

Acting Judge Anthony Garling told the Sydney District Court on Thursday Mollica had pleaded guilty at an early opportunity and did not dispute the items found in her car. What was in dispute was the police facts.

He said he struggled with parts of Mollica's account, noting the combination of drugs, cash and certain text messages on her mobile phone were "consistent with drug supply".

However, Mollica's evidence of how she obtained the money was a "perfectly believable explanation" and the Crown "had not reached the required level" to prove the drugs were for supply rather than her own use.

He said Mollica "lived a life" that allowed her to earn a lot of money and it was "not unreasonable to suggest she needed drugs to get on with her life".

Despite that, he told the court she had pleaded guilty to "serious offences".

The judge said Mollica had voluntarily entered rehabilitation and was living with her parents. He was confident she was free of drugs at the moment, but noted he couldn't be sure she would stay that way.

"Hopefully she will not (return to drugs). When she is drug-free her life is much better," Judge Garling said. A letter tendered to the court by Mollica's mother said she was a different person when she was not using drugs.

There were gasps from the public gallery, where Mollica's parents and several young women sat, when Judge Garling said he was satisfied the sentence should be two years' jail, before adding: "I'm of the view it should be suspended."

Speaking directly to Mollica he said: "Young lady, do you understand you have sentenced to two years' jail?"

When she said yes, he told her she was on a good behaviour bond for two years.

"Don't touch drugs of any type for any reason," Judge Garling warned. "Don't think you have had a slap on the hand. It's up to you to stay out of court."

Mollica, who was represented by lawyer Sam Macedone, was hugged by her parents and friends when she sentencing was over.

On the charge of supply GBL he sentenced her two years' jail, suspended, and on the possession of methamphetamine she was fined $500.

Mollica's name was dragged into a case last year involving a Gold Coast man, Matthew Delander, who was facing charges over allegedly firing his gun as he drove his $200,000 Mercedes Benz on Helensvale Rd, at Oxenford in September 2015.

According to court documents, Mollica filmed it on her iPhone, with police alleging her distinctive hot pink-painted fingernails were captured clearly.

She was never charged over that incident.


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Sports » Sports Feature

Another Stro Show?

"There's a pretty good chance that [Stromile Swift] will be spectacular against the Rockets, either in the first preseason game October 10th or the first week when the Rockets are in Memphis November 7th.

"Spectacular, however, is not enough. Now — and it's about time — it will be what he does the next night, and the night after that. Swift has breathtaking talent. Even his unsatisfying one season in Houston was enough to demonstrate that. ...

Another year, another sportswriter waxing eloquent about Stromile Swift's potential. This one's from the Houston Chronicle.

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News & Views » Politics & Prejudices

Terrorist State: The USA

Here is something you need to think about today, and every day, as long as it continues: The United States is engaged in a totally immoral and evil war in Iraq, and has been for nearly four years. It is a war we cannot win, and have indeed already lost. The insurgents, who have so much money they can't spend it all, know they need only wait till politics and the next election drive us out.

This war has cost us immensely in terms of world prestige. Indeed, from an international standpoint, this is the worst thing we have ever done, period. We have gotten thousands of our soldiers killed, essentially for nothing.

We have killed tens of thousands of Iraqis, most of them civilians, and have been an effective recruiting force for all the Middle East's crazies. We have done far more damage to Iraq than Saddam Hussein ever did.

This is the central reality of our nation today. Sometimes I think that talking about anything else — taxes, the collapsing auto industry, even global warming — is a mistake till we get the hell out of Iraq.

Anyone not named George W. Bush knows that the "war," which was never ours to win, is hopeless. No, New England town democracy isn't suddenly going to pop up in some zone where the Sunni and Shia are gleefully murdering each other when they can't find any U.S. Marines to snipe at.

There are decent and patriotic Americans who know this, and yet are genuinely and understandably confused about when we should get out. "Yes," a woman told me, "we never should have been there. But if we leave now won't everything just collapse into murderous chaos?"

Yes, that is a point — as if murderous chaos weren't happening now. Yet it isn't as if, by staying, we could somehow calm things down.

After more than three years, all the signs show that we're just making things worse. The American people don't want any more of this. We are going to leave, hopefully sooner than our delusional head "decider" imagines.

The only positive thing Bush now could do is announce that we are leaving, and that as part of the process of getting out, we will be working to help set up a federation with autonomous areas for Kurds, Shiites and Sunnis.

That would be wildly popular with the Kurds, who have never had a country they could call their own. Would it work? Doubtful. But it would represent something positive, and might give various Iraqis something worth defending.

I recognize that this would mean hundreds or thousands or millions of people might have to move. That's what happened when India and Pakistan became separate countries in 1947, and there was a lot of bloodshed then too.

Not that George W. "Captain Queeg" Bush would be likely to agree to anything that makes sense. The finest columnist in the nation today, in my opinion, is The New York Times' multitalented Frank Rich. Check out his column last Sunday, "Has He Started Talking to the Walls?"

"We've witnessed the troubling behavior of a president who isn't merely in a state of denial, but is completely untethered from reality. It's not that he can't handle the truth about Iraq. He doesn't know what the truth is," Rich said.

"When the president persists in talking about staying until "the mission is complete" even though there is no definable military mission, let alone one that can be completed, he is indulging in pure absurdity ... urgent decisions have to be made by a chief executive who is in touch with reality."

This one isn't. There is more, much more, brilliantly put. But George W. Bush doesn't deserve all the blame for abandoning American values and putting on a bad remake of the decaying Roman Empire.

We are all to blame: The so-called "mainstream media," who were so worried they might be called "liberal" or "biased" that they chose not to report the truth. In return, some got to ride around "in bed with" the soldiers in tanks. Then there were the Democrats, who wanted to have it both ways.

Yes, to paraphrase the immortal words of John Kerry, most of them voted against taking the 30 pieces of silver before they changed their mind and snatched them up. Only much later did they start whining that they should never have gone with the Republicans in the first place.

That doesn't matter now. What matters is getting us out of this mess, and trying to figure out how to start being worthy of being Americans again.

So — do I now finally think George W. Bush should be impeached?

No, I still don't. I've taken a lot of heat ever since I said a few weeks ago that I was opposed to trying to impeach the president.

For one thing, removing him from office isn't practical; there isn't enough time to make a case, and there won't be votes in the Senate to convict him.

But even if we could remove this smirking little man from office, I worry what that would do to our system. Our democracy will be weakened if we get in the habit of trying to remove any president we don't like, anytime they screw up.

Impeaching Bill Clinton over tasteless sex acts was a national farce that made our country look like the worst of Comedy Channel.

And the biggest reason not to impeach Bush is that we voted for this. George W. Bush lied and stole his way into office the first time, and then lied about the reasons for starting this insane war. Yet we re-elected him, long after it was clear what he was selling.

Nobody is innocent. And nobody is offering a white knight who will pop up and clean this up for us.

We have to do it ourselves.

Something nice about the Free Press: Every week, people disgusted with the newspapers urge me to write more criticizing them. I have, however, pretty much decided to stop. The Free Press in particular has virtually abandoned being a newspaper; that is, something that attempts to provide an intelligent and balanced digest of important national, state and local events.

What's maddening is when every so often it does show that it can still be a newspaper. Sunday's paper, for example, had a front page that looked respectable. Granted, stripped across the top was a huge headline about a football game that will never happen.

Otherwise, there was a significant story about the University of Detroit Mercy greatly expanding its dental services and a well-written and carefully nuanced package of stories about aging Nazi war criminals in Michigan.

You just knew, however, that none of those stories would have been there had Pamela Anderson murdered Kid Rock in Warren.

Every week on radio station WUOM I talk to newsmakers about stories that you never hear about. Did you know the Great Lakes are threatened by a new disease that makes fish bleed to death, and the governor can't decide what to do about it?

All I really want from these newspapers is what my muse, Lindsay Lohan, wants from life. Lindsay, who may just be the moral philosopher for the Age of Bush, wrote these two mysterious words to the late Robert Altman's family: "Be adequite," she advised them.

She was trying to tell us all something, which is that we live in a world where our media, whether movies or newspapers, are never quite adequate. And you thought she was just a party girl.

Jack Lessenberry opines weekly for Metro Times. Contact him at


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