Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
Live Together, Die Alone
We took the early morning flight from Julianna International to Saba in the Caribbean, the flight only supposed to last fifteen minutes however turbulence added an extra five as the pilot went up over the low cloud-cover to avoid it. When he dropped back down and the cerulean ocean tipped in tiny white crests was once more visible we could see from the passenger cabin that the pilot was perplexed.
In the cramped tiny plane, barely room for the seven of us we could see through the windscreen and the pilot and co-pilot arguing. Then came the announcement.
"Folks, we appear to have been thrown off course, although all our read-outs indicate we're where we should be, we can't seem to locate Saba. There is an island down there with an airstrip but it’s not Saba. If y'all don't mind we're going to get permission to land and check our bearings."
The co-pilot looked over his shoulder into the passenger cabin at us all and none of us objected so he flipped channels on the radio set on the dash and started talking into it. After a minute he turned to the pilot.
"Did that sound like a Caribbean accent to you? Me neither."
We landed on the narrow, short strip, the plane bouncing twice before the pilot applied full reverse and the plane jittered to a halt. Nobody came to meet us; the airfield appeared deserted.
It was only as we climbed out of the plane, the pilot and co-pilot joining us on the tarmac that a thought struck me. Looking at my fellow passenger my fears were confirmed.
"Hold up everyone!" I said, waving my arms to get their attention. "Something stinks in this equation. Look. We've got the debonair pilot and his plucky co-pilot, we've got the chiselled ex-soldier and his bimbo girlfriend" I indicated the couple who had been sat behind me on the plane, "we've got the techno-geek with his gadgets and over here's the tom-boy girl who's obviously going to end up falling for him and learning a valuable lesson about inner beauty, but I need to ask where I fit into this."
There was a pause as all the archetypes looked one another over. The tom-boy girl sized up the glamorous bimbo, the soldier checked out the weedy geek and the co-pilot did his utter best to suppress his homo-erotic desire for his pilot and instead give off sidekick vibes.
"Isn't it obvious?" said the pilot "You're the cynical, wise-cracking comic relief."
As they headed off towards the nearby building to investigate this strange deserted island I gave them a five minute head start then fired up the engines and got the hell out of there fast. The comic-relief always gets the most gruesome death scene, even if he is usually the last to die.
Money Talks
I had a bit of cash to spare after my recent vacation so I hired a tragic chorus. Its an ailing line of work so I managed to get an entire set of twelve for a song. I have to tell you, its been one of the best purchases I've made in years, and I'm considering upgrading to a choreutai of 50 members including narrative dancers before the end of the year.
In this hectic pace of city life it can be pretty difficult getting around with an entourage of twelve, but fortunately I'm not responsible for their travel costs or feeding but for things like client meetings they really come into their own. When your opposite number sees that not only have you brought more people to the meeting than they have but that they also sing *and* offer exposition on the deal terms they're guaranteed to want a chorus of their own.
Although I did have something of an issue when they serenaded my client with a brief and austere rendition of "he's screwing you over in clause 6.4" it was fortunate for me that my client didn't speak Latin. When we really got down to the brass tacks and the full group of twelve were standing behind me, tallest at the back, shortest at the front, three rows deep, it was majestic.
semper crescis, aut decrescis; vita detestabilis they whispered as my client looked over the paperwork. nunc obdurat, et tunc curat, ludo mentis aciem they sighed as his eyes scanned the various paragraphs. egestatem, potestatem, dissolvit ut glaciem I could barely hear them at all.
Sors immanis, et inanis, rota tu volubilis the client eyed me and the chorus behind, status malus, vana salus, semper dissolubilis a bead of sweat broke out on his forehead. obumbrata, et velata, michi quoque niteris There was a quiet maleavolence to the chorus now as he reached for the pen inside his jacket. nunc per ludum, dorsum nudum, fero tui sceleris
The room fell silent for what I could only qualify as a Shakespearian pause. I was sat back into the chair attempting to appear nonchalant, the client's pen was hovering over the dotted line, and the chorus had been a tangible presence but practically inaudible up to this point. I had been paying no attention whatsoever to their soft-spoken lyrics.
Suddenly the sopranos burst forth with a deafening Sors salutis, et virtutis michi nunc contraria! I couldn't have told you where the snare drum or the crash cymbals had been tucked away, I certainly hadn't brought them to the meeting but they made their presence known with full force at this point. The room was filled with a roaring cascade of energy and emotion that washed over me and the client.
The client was almost shell-shocked as the chorus continued to chant their haunting heart-felt rendition of O Fortuna with orchestral accompaniment and I'm pleased to say that I closed the deal.
Apple-ogees
Acerbia is currently experiencing some technical difficulties due to a somewhat abrupt change by my hosting company. As is usually the case in these situations I have been given fabulous publicity and been left utterly incapable of capitalising upon it.
I say abrupt... they did send me an e-mail but it was all tech jargon and I was sort of hoping that a sub-space warp bubble would solve my problems since it always seems to do the trick for Will Wheaton.
And it was while I was on holiday in the caribbean with my lovely girlfriend so I didn't really pay it much attention, just ordered another Pina Collada instead
Maybe I should update my MT install... you'd all be amazed to discover that I power this site with an old hand-cranked personal publishing system that can tell stories of how the dinosaurs used to blog, y'know stuff along the lines of;
248,000,000 BC, Tuesday
Saw comet in sky heading towards large landmass. Tried to point it out to fellow Acerbiasaurusses but arms too short and stumpy to make them understand. Wish I knew what was going on and wasn't cursed with a brain the size of a peanut. Thinking about starting up a band on MySpace...
Timotei; the Truth Behind the Advertising
Whilst in the Caribbean, my girlfriend and I took a short day-trip flight over to St. Eustatius to climb up the volcano that dominates the island. We followed the Quill trail, taking close to two hours to reach the lip of the crater and peer down inside into the lush verdant tropical rainforest inside. Jack had been forewarned that if any long lost tribes of cannibal Arawak indians resided inside she'd be left as a sacrifice as I legged it back down the mountainside.
As we proceeded down into the crater a torrent of rain began, soaking us almost instantly. I was reminded of every hair care product commercial I'd ever seen as I swept my long hair back and thrashed my head from side to side, luxuriating in the crystal clean, fresh water that splashed down on me through the canopy of the steamy lush forest.
The next day I had a cold.
Foul!
In tribute to the almost one-year anniversary of my arrest at Wimbledon for WILLINGLY SURRENDERING A MULTITOOL to a rent-a-cop who promptly SHOPPED ME TO THE ROZZERS for it, I thought I'd share the article I found in my daily paper this morning;
British Police Proclaim Amnesty A Success
A two month knife amnesty has resulted in record collection of fixed-blade and folding blade weapons say representatives of the United Kingdom's police force. A spokesman for Scotland Yard was incredulous as he explained that several hundred tonnes of knives have been handed in through anonymous lock boxes placed outside police stations across the country; "At first it was just a trickle, and we were worried that with World Cup fever at a pitch we'd have all the knives being taken abroad to stab those foreign football louts but instead they seem to have found their way here"
Among the seized weapons were Stanley knives, pocket knives, kitchen knives, St. knives, machetes, rubber knives, stage knives, and even a Japanese katana. Members of the public however are less enthusiastic. One woman said it had now become impossible to cut through a loaf of bread using only a wooden spatula and would like her knives back please.
In unrelated news roving bands of youths wearing large sponge gloves usually purchased at sporting events have swept the nation with violent pushing and shoving. Police armed response units have been issues with very thick woollen mittens.
Ouch
When I was a child I must have been very clumsy around splintered wood a lot because I remember that my mother kept a piece of magic string in her sewing kit.
The piece of magic string was usually a bright piece of yellow or perhaps green string that would be brought out of a tiny plastic box whenever I had managed to get a splinter of wood (also referred to as a "skelf") embedded in my hand.
Older now I can go years without it happening so I can only assume that there was a prevalence of splintered wood in the area I grew up in, or that my pale delicate skin was much thinner and prone to splinters. Whatever the case there was always the string.
I'd sit on the couch with my mother, hold out my hand and the string would make the skelf vanish. It was a magic trick I was always enchanted by and it is a secret that I will now pass on to you, in case you find yourself with children who regularly stroke pine trees for fun;
Use brightly coloured string to distract the child and the needle its threaded through to prise the splinter out from under the skin.
Trailblazer
As I sat in the paneled boardroom of Cooper-Tillman's I gazed at the dozens of pictures of their outposts across the globe. Cooper-Tillman were now the only remaining explorer's consortium; with so little of the world left to explore and only the remotest parts still inaccessible they had become the only people left trying to discover lost continents and secret valleys.
Remember the tale of the people who find the dinosaurs on a plateau? That was inspired by a real life expedition that never returned from Africa. When asked what had happened Ezekiel Tillman explained about the dinosaurs. And the film about the people who journey to the center of the Earth? One of Robert Cooper's stories down at the Explorer's Club in Sloane Square over cigars and brandy.
When I had answered the article in the Times classifieds section I had done some research on the company and knew that the success rate of all second expeditions was 98%. There was no data to be found about any of their first expeditions to any of the exotic destinations listed on the company charter. Dinosaurs or Arawak Indians had presumably eaten them.
When Robert and Ezekiel met me they went straight into the details, knowing that as a former SAS man and mountaineer I was already suitably qualified to lead their second expedition to Outer Quimper.
"Will we be attempting to rescue any survivors of the first expedition?" I asked, hoping that my concern would seem genuine.
"First expedition?" Cooper looked over at Tillman who shrugged back "Oh yes, of course, the first expedition... well lets just say that if you do find anyone alive there, bring them straight back with you, there's a good fellow."
"Now, we'll be taking a somewhat unconventional route this time, with you taking the lead..."
Aussie Avery the Liar
Aussie Avery was the sort of guy you met in the pub and immediately hated. All he did was complain about how awful London was and yet he drove a high performance car, lived in a penthouse appartment overlooking the Thames and hob-nobbed with the best of them. When he wasn't hob-nobbing he was usually down the pub complaining about how awful London was.
Avery was also a compulsive liar and would go to any lengths to set up and execute a joke, so anything Avery said would be regarded with suspicion and treated as untrue until proven otherwise. Obviously this didn't work in Avery's favor as he would have to go to greater and greater lengths just to pull one over his drinking buddies.
One evening Avery came into the bar accompanied by a sleek English Setter, all panting tongue and brilliant shiny coat.
"Look out boys, Avery's brought us another shaggy dog story" said the barman.
"Whatever it is, it's sure to be a tall tail" said Bill, one of the regulars.
"I'm panting with anticipation already, are you going to make us beg for it Avery?" said another.
"It's not like that you sarcastic poms, this dog's been assigned to watch me by the Secret Service, honest mate, fair dinkum." replied Avery.
Everyone stopped dead. Nobody took a sip or ate another twiglet, in torturous anticipation of the punchline.
"What?" asked Avery, looking round at all the customers.
The barman put down a pint glass with such force that everyone jumped.
"Avery, son. You can only go so far with these jokes. If you're about to tell us that yon English Setter is in the Secret Service because he's a gundog. Or that he went through a strenuous vetting process, we're all going to be very cross indeed. Now here's a pint, sit down, drink it and stop your bloody whingeing, lad."
Avery did as he was told and Agent Rover sat at his feet, watching the other patrons from behind his dark glasses and listening out for any instructions from Central Kennel on his earpiece.
Slinger
Space Marshal Cody Wayles strode out of the local sherrif's office, heading for Qq'rlyxxy's where he intended to gather up his belongings and leave town. His search for the triple-psionic entity known as the Brothers K had been fruitless and he did not look forward to another beaten wagon train through the stars to Bentham, his next destination.
The heels of his grunth-hide boots clicked on the metal deck and Cody remarked to himself how clear the main broadway appeared to be for midday. It was only when he was halfway across the wide empty expanse that he suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed. He stopped in his tracks and looked around, back the way he'd come, squinting in the filtered sunlight as it penetrated the polarised dome that covered the town.
Deakins the Wereleth, Cody recognised the space-bandito immediately. Deakins saw the Marshall and reacted like a cosmic viper, his hand instinctively going for his phased plasma derringer and bringing it up in an arc before firing twice. But the Marshall had bested many men and was quicker on the draw, his accurate blasts cleaving a wide opening in the Wereleth's thorax and knocking his shots wild. One blast struck the dome above and fizzled out on the protective field.
The Marshall didn't believe in coincidences and in his experience space-scum never travelled alone. He set himself square in the street and shouted out.
"I know you're here Brothers K, manifest yourselves!"
In the artificial re-oxy breeze a bundle of magnetic tape blew past at his feet, cartwheeling and floating past like 23rd century tumbleweed. Without looking, Cody knew it had once been Queen's Greatest Hits Volume 1.
Whirlwind
My first mistake was to arrive early, that just showed the host and hostess that I had nothing else to do. I should have been like Michael and Beryl and arrived in a fluster of disgorging coats and apologising that the babysitter was late. Isaac and Patty didn't seem to mind that pathetic excuse despite the fact Michael and Beryl were half an hour early. Beryl immediately excused herself from the room upon seeing that there was still only the five of us, claiming she had to call the sitter.
There was pained silence, despite Michael's attempts to engage me in conversation, asking what I did and if I'd brought the wife. I told him I was a taxidermist and had recently had her mounted and stuffed. He made a joke about wife-swapping and I scowled at him.
Tony and Joyce arrived at the door with Ernesto and Nadine in hot pursuit. They looked like they might have followed each other over to ensure they didn't arrive alone and when they'd been all accessorised up with full wineglasses and small white cardboard plates of nibbles they formed a tight four-person circle of conversation to the exclusion of everybody else.
Alberto, Chris, Debby, Florence, Leslie, Oscar, Raphael, Sandy, Valerie and William arrived in dribs and drabs, slowly filling the house to bursting point with their incesant chatter that put me in mind of a flock of flamingo. Somebody spilled red wine and somebody else poured white wine on top claiming it removed the stain. There were character assassinations of politicians and armchair punditry of a variety of television productions, and have you read this book? Oh you must read this book, my husband and I both read it on holiday to the caribbean.
Everything seemed to pause when Kirk arrived; the eternal bachelor. Everyone had their own in-jokes with Kirk who seemed to be on flirting terms with every woman there or rugby tackling their husbands before sharing some crude joke. It was like watching a paramedic shocking every group back to life as he flitted from circle to circle, investing himself and redirecting the focus of the conversation always onto himself.
Hélène arrived last, slinking into the room without removing her coat. Her eyes were red raw and the vestiges of make-up removed by tears clung to the corners of her eyes. She stood next to me as I watched the life of the party that was Kirk fire his own verbal adrenaline into every conversation. I passed the plate of cocktail sausages to Hélène who tried to eat one.
"Don't you hate the way your throat constricts when you try to eat after crying your guts out?" she said, never taking her eyes off Kirk.
"He's not worth it. Come on, I'll take you home again." I offered, and she accepted.
Severance
"Virgin three-one-three heavy I need you to bank left a full 180 degrees and then continue for a mile before making your final approach.
Lufthansa two-one-seven foxtrot lima you're on course and steady. Drop to 30,000 feet and contact SYSCO in your next sector.
KLM one-oh-one indigo whiskey you're being shunted up in the queue, proceed westbound on heading two-seven-oh..."
Adam was struggling under the load of what normally would have been the work of four air traffic controllers, but it was his last day and he would never have to do this ever again. He scanned the radar screen again and saw the busy blinking trails all forming up perfectly. The real trick to this would be to avoid any collisions and anticipate any deliberate margins the pilots might have added to his instructions. It would only take one drunken sky jock to add 500 feet to his altitude to ruin everything.
Adam's co-workers watched in amazement. They had placed money on whether or not he could handle their scheduled flights and so far he seemed to be holding up under the pressure. None of them yet suspected why he'd volunteered to cover for them, some figured it was a macho thing, others that he was trying to impress Chief Controller Weishaupt and maybe get a raise.
Weishaupt spotted the gaggle of controllers from his office and came out to investigate. As he approached the group some coughed and slunk off elsewhere while others stared wide-eyed as Adam deftly juggled another two flights into his pattern.
"BA two-seven delta zulu I need you to level off now otherwise there's gonna be a collision.
Foxtrot alfa alfa civilian cargo flight zero one bank right ninety degrees then come about one-eighty to your left."
Adam tore off the headset and pushed past the throng of assembled air traffic controllers, abandoning his post. He no longer cared. Weishaupt came roaring up behind him as he stood looking out of the window, but the indignant bellows suddenly silenced when Weishaupt beheld the contrails in the sky and what Adam had managed to spell out.
Uncivil Defence
June 1st 2006
The small, sleepy town of Pegging, AC is a town like any other in the Midwest. Its main street has the usual amenities like a post office and village store and the neighbours will usually give you a friendly howdy as you pass them on the street. But the peace of Pegging, AC was shattered today by the shrill screams of klaxons and the panicking cries of children wailing for their parents as the three minute warning was sounded.
Due to a shift in prevailing wind patterns, the fallout from this morning's atomic pun test had drifted within the city limits endangering the senses of humour of every man, woman and child. With only seconds to secure themselves into the government shelters many were left in a disoriented state and had to be helped by friends or relatives to safety.
Only when the lead-lined hatches covered in religious scriptures and photographs of politicians had been sealed did people begin to relax again and muddle down for the long wait until the all-clear would sound some four hours later. The severity of the situation helped alleviate any secondary exposure effects such as fits of the giggles or anyone reciting lists of homonyms.
One resident of Pegging wasn't able to reach shelter in time and attempted to barricade himself inside the local barbershop. Upon being rescued, it was first thought that Adam Gokkun had avoided the effects of the blast until he mentioned what a close shave he'd had and how he'd cut it all a bit close by the hair of his chinny-chin-chin. Mr Gokkun was taken to Elliot Gould's Career Memorial Hospital with severe paronomasia where he will be asked to write three full seasons of an American sitcom before the effects wear off.
Dee van Über, Director of Acerbia Heavy Industries (nasdaq: ACHI), the company behind the creation and testing of the atomic pun was unavailable for comment but released a statement;
The atomic pun is not something that should be feared by our own populace. It is a protective device that will ensure our continued survival as a nation, working as a deterent against those who would wish to harm us. As with all products however we must refine and improve upon our designs to remain at the cutting edge of wit. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a media that rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it! Also my name is difficult to pronounce and has an umlaut in it, so get away from me you pikey commoner scum.
Acerbia Heavy Industries then announced that the latest incarnation of the atomic pun, the Discrete Anti-contextual Multi-functional Positive Layered Ironic Pun, or DAMPLIP for short was now entering service and was, according to Dee van Über, "protecting all yo' skanky asses from a societal comedic breakdown. Where would y'all have been if the Germans had discovered comedy during the Second World War? Huh? And the Russians, they came this close to discovering sarcasm!"
The family of Adam Gokkun is currently appealing to the Federal Association of Rhetorical Terminology for ACHI's atomic testing license to be revoked. The FART however remains silent.