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Featured Post

Operation Disclosure: GCR/RV Intel Alert for July 21, 2018

RV/INTELLIGENCE ALERT - July 21, 2018 (Disclaimer: The following is an overview of the current situation based on rumors/leaks from sev...

Saturday, July 29, 2017

"Short Story Break? 'Savior of the Realm'" by Dezerro - 7.29.17

Entry Submitted by Dezerro at 6:21 PM EDT on July 29, 2017

[A bit of overwritten satire - must be intergalactic satire day!]
[The moral of the story? - only gods know]


"Pseudo-random noise communicator burst??? Coded of course for encryptic time synchronous message retrieval??? Drane read to himself, then drudgingly advised his communicator.

"Please get agent Durf to explain this so mortals can understand it before he transmits. I know he knows what it means but this is going way up to galactic security boys who, it is known, have condensed rotting fish fumes for minds.

"I assume he's referring to the brief transmissions of noise, containing actual data which can be yanked out in some orderly form so that maybe a human could read them."

For his next official order of business Drane glared at and pounded another button, calling for a research ward who would cull data from recently arrived intel packs.

He knew these wards could at least read, well page numbers for sure, but they would take orders from anyone with a dull blank stare and armpit bulge. "Where do they snag these personnel?” He thought. "From Brainrot colonies?"

The Central Informed Armada had to have their daily fix of DATA! Lack of it would propel them into spasms of convulsing brain hemorrhage with shrinkage around the eyeballs and simulated vacuum cleaner sounds in the attempt to suck in information from anywhere and everywhere.

True, many of them had saved the Realm's bacon on rather frequent occasion but a large number were paranoid to the point of ordering a full chemical analysis of water prior to making coffee. And yes, many performed full open bean surgery with tiny razor sharp knives to ensure safe grounds for the brewing.

So began another day in the spinning of the Realm's security wheels, and churning of the mechanisms of daily operations toward the goal of...Well, of something! No one quite seemed to know, and if they did they hadn't written it down.

At least not legibly...AHA! Another target for Decryption Dept....A massive planet-wide search net for unclear symbols and get them into the computer FAST! Untold vital secrets may be revealed.

Drane Leezarde was the P-DIC or Planetary Data/Intel Controller for Teargon Three, the third hulking planet humming around Dor, it's sun. He stretched hugely and burped a small cloud of pale green gas, which had started forming the night before at the wildest party in seven months.

Then he got up and fanned behind himself for similar reasons, while mentally adding a brand new pair of underwear to his yearly "get” list.

Quickly escaping into the long hallway just outside the four inch thick, lead lined, double reinforced, quadruply bolted, triple laser scanned door of his ultra high security office, he abruptly stopped and crouched slightly.

He slammed the door, sending a jolt through the building knocking a small bit of plaster from the hallway ceiling two floors up. He checked in all directions with a knowing practiced eye, and straightening up, walked to the bathroom to run a moist towel over his face to hopefully wake up a bit more.

"Rough night, huh Jonkers?” He mumbled from behind the wet brown paper to his friend and sometimes co-operator.

"Yea.” Jonkers grunted from within a stall, and suddenly there snapped an extremely loud sharp "BLERRRRRRRRAAAAAAAP! OUCH!...How'd ya know it was me?"

In a nasally twang Drane answered, continuing the tight death pinch on his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Saw you walk in. You looked exhausted."

"I was and still am. Welcome to the morning after.”

"Thanks, you too.”







So the keen verbal drilling went for about ten minutes. Proper security required crisp accurate communication between operators, and constant practice kept the lines taut and zinging. Once again Drane escaped into the hall.

He sensed this was going to be a rough day. Since his attention seemed to be wrapped tightly around the subject of gas, a sudden inspiration propelled him quickly to a rusty hallway security locker.

After seven minutes and twelve seconds of spinning the high security combination lock — enough time for most of the entire planet to expire in a casual afternoon gas drone attack from nearly any two bit partially organized semi-populated asteroid — he triumphantly yanked forth the standard issue G-29.005 gas mask.

He then pulled it over his head, chafing his nose and painfully cracking the cartilage in his ears. Then sucking a deep gushing breath to test the mask for operational status, he inhaled a full thirty nine months of accumulated dust and hardened rat product, and practically choking to death in a heaving retching spasm of convulsed coughing, nearly plastered the rubbery mass to the far end of the hallway wall.

The stretched and straining mask, having failed to completely disengage its heavy elastic straps from the rear of his head, these which were now causing painful uprooting of various clumps of tangled hair, abruptly snapped back into his wide eyed terror frozen face, practically imbedding itself into the soft pale skin.

The concussion, nearly tearing his head completely off of his shoulders, flipped him backward into a full reverse spinning somersault where he continued on around one more dizzying quarter turn and slammed with a resounding quaking crash onto the hard streaked dirty partially tiled hallway floor.

No....No, it would not seem to be the day specially created to sail him ever higher to lofty bounds of joy and success. But he was used to difficult situations, and his thorough training would ensure he toughed it out and survived to stagger home to a good night's sleep.

Tomorrow would truly bloom bright, a warm new dawning. Somehow he carefully peeled himself off the cold impatient floor, finished out his days work, and found his way home early and to bed and to his dreams...


All resonant metallic forms in the known universe had gathered for a celebration. Bells by the billions, gongs by the gillions. The Ultimate Sounding was about to peal forth to the far corners of distant cold space.

They were lined up in a vast wall of expectant ultimate reverberation. All percussion implements from heavy brass hammers to long massive knot ended clubs to gargantuan cannons firing dense spheres of pounding projectiles were lined up directly opposite.

Nearby, he was tightly bound, with hideous writhing hissing green snakes, to a large rotting tree which was itself covered in a ghastly stinking layer of oozing, putrid, purple and black pulsing scum.

And tapering down to small listening holes, securely imbedded into his throbbing ear canals, were two gigantic megaphones aimed directly at the waiting lines of metallic opponents. He could distinctly hear electrons whirring madly in their captive orbits up to five miles distant.

The Great God of Supreme Crashing Thunder, head held high to the heavens, suddenly thrashed down his lightning scepter and all at once a raging pure hell of booming annihilating sound belched forth, tearing time and space to shriveling shreds of frayed reality.


As the waker alarm tapered off Drane shrieked a blood curdling screech, practically shredding his vocal cords to small thin ragged strings. And eyes crossed and sky wide in supreme terror, in one madly sweeping utterly magnificent hurl, swept the alarm cube from the small bed table into a high arching trajectory of furious flight.

It smashed the dirty cracked skylight to shards, flew out over the damp blotchy overgrown lawn, and shattered wildly in a million tiny bits of utter destruction on the face of the massive slab of granite boulder hulking two hundred feet to the north of his apartment door.

Frozen bolt upright staring insanely and statue-like at the far wall, Drane meticulously planned the immediate torturous demise of all timepiece designers and manufacturers, to be completed utterly before the next slow waning sunset.

After four tumblers of coffee and a small hill of cold viscous three year old canned spinach, he felt much better. The sight of the slowly settling green mound flowing quietly over the edges of the yellowed chipped plate seemed to calm him.

And with an evil glare no longer threatening the survival of his wrist watch, he found himself somewhat willing to forgive the clock makers of the world.

He trudged out the front door, slamming it, to his aircar, which he got in and started. And with a quick irritated glance at the tiny alarm parts spread widely and evenly in the distance, whooshed up forty five degrees to one thousand feet cruising altitude and headed to work in the warm morning sun.

"Life was no fun anymore.” The stray thought babbled. He made a mental note to steal a new alarm, a quieter one. It would be the third this week. He decided to be less violent and more responsible but that brought on a severe pounding headache and a dry heave or two so he abandoned the strategy.

If he stopped bribing politicians and threatening the wives and children of various real and imagined enemies of the Realm, things might go better for him. But he didn't, of course, want to be thought of as getting soft on his slowly ascending cracked and pothole infested career road.

And with those cheerful thoughts ping-ponging like rough marbles between pulsing temples, he exited the dented unwashed aircar and strode mightily toward the low dingy gray and black building to prepare for another rumbling revolution of the massive planetary sphere he called his home.

"BURRRRRRRP!” thundered the sound as he fanned the air before his face and slammed the door and sat down to work.

"Hey, what the...” Drane wondered as the chair started to rock and shake. "Are we having a groundquake?” The rocking increased and he felt as though something were tugging at his arm. A pressure on his shoulder. Vaguely the distant voice seemed to get clearer...


"....up. "Pereen, wake up.” "Pereen, hurry, the snakes will heal fast. You were not good to get too close to them. I cut you loose, and took the sounders from your ears. All the metals and pounders are gone for another year.

Here, brush the slime from your back.” And once again Pereen ran with his friend Tersillwett toward Clif Mountain to hunt for food. Many were hungry and the frozen white rain would come soon.

And sometimes the silver sky reaching birds with fire tails coming from far in the sky would spit at them. They would be safe in their caves.

He hoped the horrible dream of the crazy one with the rubber face that comes off and who eats green slime would not come back.

The End


- Dezerro



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