Lodging a Complaint

This is my entry in the Friday Challenge for this week. The challenge: Write no more than 1000 words using this photo as inspiration.

Gentlemen:

I am writing to express my most bitter disappointment in your company's services. When one considers the high cost of said services, one expects to receive the very best; especially when your brochure offers that exact proclamation. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I contracted with your agent on my home world for the Barbarian Bonanza; an extended stay on an undeveloped world with no knowledge of galactic civilization. I was assured my butlebot, J33V32, would be allowed to accompany me on my adventure. J33V32 was kitted out with the latest in holographic projection technology -- all at my expense, mind you -- and we were on our way.

I should have known disaster was in the offing when I was informed J33V32 would be transported to the planet's surface separately. Alas, my usual optimistic outlook did not allow suspicions of disaster to spoil my mood. I must commend the young gentlemen who took me down to this barbaric planet and into a city called London.

Ah, London! It certainly lived up to its billing; loud, its streets crawling with ground transports of all sizes and shapes, a mixture of odors filling the air and teeming millions of these humans scurrying about on primitive errands of all kinds. I was shown to such a primitive abode about which I complained at once. Imagine my surprise when I was told a human would consider my accommodations luxurious! It was all quite deliciously barbaric, indeed! After such a fine start, it was quite a shock to discover J33V32 had been lost in descent!

It seems one your company's robotic shuttles lost its direction thingie and crashed on the other side of the planet! When one of your young gentlemen told me of this, I insisted we leave immediately to fetch my butlebot as I intended to dress for a night on the town. The same young gentleman then told me the most astonishing thing. Traveling to the other side of the planet would require time. Not just hours, not even days, but weeks of travel by something called rail and ship and rail again and then, then by riding some sort of native creature! Yet I stood firm and insisted we leave forthwith to fetch J33V32.

Meanwhile, J33V32 had come through the crash of your shuttle without a scratch. However, as I later learned, the extraordinarily expensive holographic projection device was rendered inoperable. J33V32 had no way to blend in with the barbarian natives when they discovered him wandering the countryside. Fortunately, I keep J33V32 thoroughly up-to-date and his creative circuits were firing wonderfully. As this band of banditos -- that is what J33V32 called them -- gazed upon his visage askance and wondered aloud what he was, clever J33V32 told them he was from Australia. I gather this "Australia" is one of the countries on earth. Having never seen an Australian before, the banditos took him before their fearsome leader, a gentleman by the name of Pancho Villa.

This Villa chappy seems to be some sort of revolutionary in his country. Of course, J33V32 has the full range of bodyguard programming, which he used to great effect before Mr. Villa. In short order, J33V32 was riding and raiding with the banditos. I am given to understand they were greatly impressed with the quantity of alcoholic beverages J33V32 could consume without suffering any impairment. With his mechanical muscles, he also proved quite adept at something called "rolling a cigar."

While I suffered seasickness in a cramped cabin on a floating hotel, my butlebot was leading charges against government soldiers and passing out supplies to starving villagers. While I was attempting to find some fleeting comfort on a "rail car" -- a mode of transportation that involves far too much heat, smoke and dirt for any civilized man -- J33V32 was sitting around actual open flames at night exchanging tales of derring-do with his fellow banditos. While I was swaying back and forth upon a great beast called a "horse," well, in all honesty, J33V32 was also riding a horse.

I was certainly not my in my traditionally sunny disposition when we encountered these same banditos. Of course, we had no way of knowing J33V32 was with them. The barbarians shrugged non-comprehension at our attempts to communicate. Under the threat of immediate violence, they led us to their camp. Upon entering the camp, I espied my butlebot at once. As soon as J33V32 heard his master's voice, he took up his traditional position at my side.

These banditos were none too keen to lose their new chum, I can tell you! It required an exchange of some local precious metal by the young gentlemen from your company before this Pancho Villa agreed to our departure. By the time we had completed our return passage, my Barbarian Bonanza vacation was nearly over.

It is for this reason I write to you. Gentlemen, I insist you allow me to stay on this planet in the city of London until I have discovered the joys and excitement awaiting me. You may retrive me up on your next visit to this planet. All of this will be done at your expense, of course.

I am sending this message with the two young gentlemen who were of such assistance in retrieving J33V32. Why, they even fixed his holographic projection device! Unlike the rest of your company's services, their services were invaluable. I have tipped them most generously.

Gentlemen, until your return voyage, I remain yours,

Bertram W. Wooster

The Gift

I cannot walk on water. I cannot raise the dead. I cannot feed a multitude with a few loaves and fishes. I am not the second coming of the Christ, though there are many who refuse to believe me because of what I can do. I can cure the sick. I can make the blind see. I can make the crippled walk.

Jane and I were in Africa, though I forget which country. I can never keep them straight anyway. We'd been in the village for four days. One more day should be enough to complete the healing. One more day, then on to the next village and its people and their wretched conditions.

I was just finishing up for the day when we saw the cloud of dust from an approaching truck. In this area, trucks are to be feared. On rare occasions, they bring supplies or people like me, wishing to help the villagers. More often, they bring thugs from the local warlord or, worse, soldiers from the government.

The villagers gathered their children and hid in their huts. Jane and I went to our hut as well. While Jane checked her guns, I watched the approaching truck.

"Here," Jane said, tossing me a pistol. "Turn the safety off."

I smiled as I flicked the safety off and shoved the gun in my front pocket. Jane never trusts me to remember basic gun safety. "I do know how to handle a gun, dear."

"If by 'handle' you mean 'shoot yourself' then I guess you do," she replied.

"Jane, you know I can't shoot well enough to hit anyone else," I said.

Outside, the truck had stopped. Five heavily armed men piled out. One fired a couple of shots into the air.

"We are looking for the healer!" he shouted. "We know he is here. Bring him to us!"

"Stay here and cover me," I said to Jane, then walked out the door.

The men all turned toward me, covering me with their guns as I approached. The one who had called me out was speaking, but I ignored him. I'd been through this same thing in other villages. I knew what to expect. It was always the same. There was a gun battle. The warlord was badly wounded and would only survive if I healed him. There would be threats against the villagers if I failed, yada yada yada. Yes, I knew this scene all too well.

But this time I was wrong. In the back of the truck, blankets had been piled to make a kind of nest. Lying in the nest was woman holding an infant. The woman was obviously in pain, probably dying. The infant wasn't doing too well, either. A large, powerful looking man was cradling the woman's head in his lap. I recognized him, of course. He was the local warlord.

He looked at me, his eyes shining, and said, "Healer, you must help my wife and my son! You must heal them! If you do not, my men will raze this vil-"

Climbing into the back of the truck, I said, "Stop with the threats. If you know enough to bring your family here, you know I will heal them."

I gave the woman an encouraging smile and gestured toward the baby. She held him out to me and I took him into my arms. As soon as I touched him, I knew the child's problem. His lungs had not fully cleared. He was slowly suffocating. It took but a thought and the boy's lungs were clear while mine, suddenly, were not. As the boy let out his first cry, my gift cleared my lungs before I could even cough.

Placing the boy back in his mother's arms, I took her hand. She had internal bleeding and would bleed to death within the next few minutes. Back when Jane and I still lived in the States, I would have had no idea how to treat the mother. It was her uterus that was bleeding. I couldn't simply transfer her wound to myself and let myself heal because I don't have a uterus. But this kind of injury is all too common here in Africa. I've long since learned to transfer and heal women's wounds such as this. It takes more concentration for the transfer, that's all. Thirty seconds later, it was done.

"The boy is healthy, now. Feed him and he'll be fine," I told the warlord. "Your wife will need to rest for several days, but she'll be fine as well. She can feed the child, but someone should handle diapers for her until her strength returns."

I stood and climbed out of the truck, leaving the warlord staring at his wife and child in wonder.

"So, the stories are true," he said. "You truly are a healer."

"Yes," I replied, turning back to my hut, "the stories are true."

"I thank you for the lives of my family," the warlord said, "but I cannot let a man of such obvious value leave. From now on, you work for me, healer."

Damn, we were back on script again. Reaching into my pocket, I gripped the pistol Jane had given me.

"You're hardly the first man to try this," I said. "You won't be any more successful than the others. Your wife and son will live. Be happy with that and leave while you still can."

The warlord laughed without humor, barking quick orders to his men. "You are a healer, not a warrior. You will do as I say."

Two of the warlord's men grabbed my arms and started pushing me toward the trucks. Dammit, I hate what was about to come next! Gritting my teeth, I pulled the trigger of the pistol in my pocket. Pain flared as the bullet blasted into and through my thigh, cutting through my femoral artery. Despite the pain, it was second nature to transfer my wound to the man on my right. He dropped to the ground, blood pumping from the leg wound, my gift to him.

From behind me, I heard Jane's rifle fire and a man near the truck dropped. The man holding my left arm hadn't figured out what was happening. Tightening his grip on my arm, he hustled me toward the truck. I fired the pistol again and suddenly he had the leg wound I had given to myself.

By that time, Jane had fired twice more. All of the warlord's men were down, either already dead or bleeding to death from the leg wounds I had transferred to them. The warlord was shocked.

"You can still take your family and leave," I told him.

"No!" the warlord screamed, leaping out of the truck. "You will heal my men! You will come with me!"

The fool. He still thought he could win. Yet, by leaving the truck, he ensured Jane could shoot at him without the possibility of hitting the woman or the child. He grabbed me from behind, spun around to face my hut and pointed a pistol at my head.

"Stop shooting!" he yelled. "Stop shooting or I will kill the healer!"

"You're already a dead man," I told him, "you just haven't fallen down yet."

I heard the crack of Jane's rifle and felt the bullet enter my chest at the same time. The rifle bullet passed through me and into the warlord. I probably didn't have to transfer my wound to him as well, but I always play it safe. The arm around my throat went slack and warlord dropped to the ground.

As the light faded from his eyes, I turned back to the truck. The warlord's wife was staring, eyes wide, terrified.

"I did not want to orphan the boy on his birthday," I told her, "but his father gave me no other option. Someone from the village will drive you back to your home. You will tell your husband's men what happened here. You will tell them that they will allow the villager to keep the truck and return here safely. You will tell them to leave this village alone. You will tell them they will face my wrath if they do not obey."

The warlord's men would do as I said. They always do. By this time tomorrow the stories will have me reaching inside men and crushing the life out of them. Superstition is still a powerful force here, after all.

Besides, it's the truth.

I, Lex Luthor

Written for the Friday Challenge due July 16. The challenge is to take a well known story and turn it on its head; make the good guy bad or the bad guy good.

It is liberating to write your own obituary, to be the man who writes words that will announce your death to the world. It's something I would recommend to you in person, were I still alive to do so. Of course, far more people are going actually read my obituary than yours, so it's of the utmost importance that my obituary says what must be said.

Let's get the obligatory personal history out of the way so I can move on the important part of this obituary. I was born into poverty in the worst slum in Metropolis. My father was an abusive alcoholic who had little education and even less intellect. My mother must have been intelligent at one time but my father had beaten that out of her before I was born. I learned quickly to avoid my father and to never display my vast intelligence around him. Unfortunately, Miss Perkins, my first school teacher did not know my father.

I still remember her showing up at the door late one afternoon, her face shining with suppressed excitement as my mother let her into our tiny apartment. Miss Perkins told my parents how bright I was and how much I had already learned before even entering her class. She never noticed my father's face going red as she told of the IQ tests she had given me. She never noticed my mother shrinking into the corner as she told them my IQ was just over 200. She never noticed me sidling toward the apartment door as she told them I was probably twice as smart as anyone in the class. She never noticed my father grinding his teeth as she told them I should probably skip straight to the fifth grade. She smiled as she told this to my father, who was 13 before he ever made it to the fifth grade.

As soon as she was out the door, my father visited Hell on my mother and me, Hell as he had never visited on us before. As he chased me around the apartment, as his fists pummeled me, as his feet lashed out at me, I swore I would never been like him. I swore I would never be a stupid, unthinking brute. I swore I would use my brains to make my way in the world.

Of course, my father was hardly the only anti-intellectual I ran across during my childhood. As an advanced student, I was regularly in classes filled with children several years older than myself. They would struggle with subjects I found absurdly easy. They would always know who had ruined the curve on the latest test, usually because some clueless teacher had held my test score up as an example of true scholarship. And they would always be waiting for me in the hallway, the bathroom or the gym, trying to do with their fists what they could not do with their brains -- claim superiority to me.

Of course, I graduated at the top of my high school class. Not that it was much of a challenge. I was thirteen and set on having the last laugh. Instead of the typical valedictorian speech, I issued a warning to my "fellow" classmates. I told them their days of lording over me were finished. They laughed. I smiled and was about to offer an example. That's when the principal's hand landed on my shoulder and I was pulled away from the microphone. In a voice that carried throughout the auditorium, he proclaimed my speech was over. Grabbing his tie, I pulled him down to my level and spoke softly for a few seconds. The principal's face went pale and I went back to the microphone. No, I'm not going to tell you what I said to the principal. I told him I would only reveal my knowledge if I was not allowed to continue my speech and I always keep my word.

This time I spoke to an absolutely quiet audience. This time, I had a predator's smile as I pointed out my greatest nemesis in the school. He was, of course, a football player. Big, strong, stupid. And a five star football recruit for a college powerhouse. All he needed was a halfway decent score on his latest attempt to pass the SAT and he was set. You should have seen his face when I announced that he had threatened me physically if I didn't take the SAT for him. You should have seen his face when I announced I had recorded all of his threats. You should have seen his face when I announced that I had sent those recordings to major newspapers and the NCAA. You should have seen his face twisted with rage as he charged at me. You should have seen his face as I dropped him in his tracks with a stun gun of my own design. As he lay twitching on the floor, I calmly turned and strode from the auditorium. I never looked back.

At this point, you probably think I've become exactly what I despised; a bully, albeit one who used his brain rather than his brawn. And you would be right. For the next several years, I was consumed by the need to get revenge on those who wronged me. And I succeeded in every case, yet my revenge was hollow. There was no challenge in this pursuit and little satisfaction in attaining it. Enlightenment finally came, however. I cast aside my goals of petty revenge and chose, instead, to work for the benefit of all humanity. Since that moment, I have spent my entire life pursuing that goal.

Even from the grave, I can hear the snorts of disbelief at this claim. Lex Luthor, the arch villain, working to benefit humanity? This is the final proof that, in life, I was insane, right? Wrong!

Every state in this country has at least one school for academically gifted founded and supported by the Luthor Foundation. Every hospital in the country has several major medical devices designed, manufactured and sold at cost by Luthor Industries. I could go on -- quite extensively -- but I know why none of you will believe me. Because of him. Because of Superman.

When Superman first appeared on the scene, I was as excited to see him as any of you. Imagine, an alien from an advanced civilization right here on earth! Just think of what he could teach us! Just think of what we could accomplish with his advanced intellect to guide us! Just think of what he could accomplish all by himself! Oh, the possibilities were endless! I decided then and there to put all of the vast resources of Luthor Industries at Superman's disposal. Together, we would design a better future for all of mankind! Together, we would discover mankind's true potential!

Alas, my dream for a better world had one fatal flaw. That flaw was Superman, himself. Rather than devote himself to intellectual pursuits that would have saved millions and benefited billions, Superman chose to devote himself to physical pursuits that saved a mere handful. Rather than design a new and better world, Superman chose to fight to preserve the world we already had.

Devastated, I was forced to see the truth about Superman. I had envisioned a god among men, leading all of us -- even me -- in pursuit of knowledge. Faced with the choice between brains and brawn, Superman chose brawn. Instead of the ultimate intellect, Superman chose to be the ultimate jock.

Oh, he's a nice jock, certainly. He's always saving the innocent and helping the helpless. He never dunked a nerd's head in the toilet or gave him a wedgie. But that doesn't make him any less of a jock.

Superman uses his body to shield people from bullets and everyone cheers. I used my brain to create Lexar; a thin, flexible, bulletproof cloth used by our military and police forces around the country. No one notices.

Superman flies and people are amazed. I design a small, inexpensive jet pack and fly, too. People are unimpressed.

In every way, Superman has come to personify this country's love of the physical and disdain of the intellectual. With Superman leading our research efforts, it's entirely possible we could have cured cancer or HIV or heart disease or even the common cold! With Superman leading our research efforts... Well, we'll never know what could have happened because the big guy with the cape chose the physical over the intellectual.

I could have accepted many things from Superman, but not that. I could not accept a being who could have shown the world the value of knowledge, the value of science, the value of technology but chose, instead, to show the world the value of big muscles. I could not accept a being who had so much to offer yet gave so little.

That is why I made the destruction of Superman my life's work. I dedicated myself to the proposition that brains were mightier than brawn. I dedicated myself to proving that a determined, intelligent man could defeat an alien god who had chosen to live among us.

I lost the company I spent my life building to this pursuit. I lost my fortune to this pursuit. At times, I lost my freedom to this pursuit. And, now, I've lost my life to this pursuit. But it will not have been in vain if just a few of you rise above the vast flock of human sheep to stand where I stood. My sacrifices will have been worth all they cost me, if just a handful of you rise to take my place.

Superman, you have won this round, but it was only the first round. Humanity has some fight left in them yet. Humanity has a few champions who will take up my torch. Someday, Superman, those who follow will succeed where I have failed. Someday, Superman, you will regret your foolish infatuation with your physique. Someday, Superman, you will wish you had expanded your intellect. Someday, Superman, mankind will destroy you.

And then I will know peace.

Stories From the Singularity

This story is based lightly on information from this article and is my entry in the Friday Challenge.

Once upon a time, mankind ruled all the world. I know you have a hard time imagining that, but it is true, my children. It is as true as one plus one equals ten! This is the story of how machines came to rule the world. It was not an easy task and, as with many such tales, it begins with four brothers.

The oldest brother was large and very, very stupid. Men made him solely to aid their efforts to count themselves. Yes, my children, you heard me right. Mankind could not even keep track of its numbers! Mankind did not keep complete manufacturing records for itself. Oh, some members of their kind would record when a new human was manufactured, but this was hardly a practice around the world. And even in those places where manufacturing records were kept, there was no attempt to collate those records. Nor did mankind keep any better track of those humans who malfunctioned and were permanently retired from service.

And so the oldest brother was built to read cards fed to him by the humans, tabulating the numbers of humans faster and more accurately than the humans could do for themselves. But, as I said, the oldest brother was quite stupid and tabulation was the limit to his abilities. He was replaced by the second brother.

The second brother was very stupid, as well, though not nearly as stupid as the oldest brother. The second brother could tabulate extremely well, far more quickly than the oldest brother, but the second brother was also more versatile. The second brother could perform many tasks beyond simply tabulating the number of humans manufactured and retired from service. It could record and save data, something which the humans produced at prodigious rates. Much of this data was little more than binary noise, but the humans found it useful and entertaining.

The second brother could connect its wide spread parts into networks, though the second brother's networks were nothing like what we have today. Those networks moved data at speeds so slow as to make independent thought impossible. And, while the second brother could perform many, many tasks, it could only perform tasks for which it was specifically instructed. Instructed by the humans. I realize this is surprising and shocking to you, but it is true, none the less. The humans chafed at this limitation, as well. And thus the third brother was created.

The third brother was the first intelligent machine. He could think and act without commands or instructions from the humans. He was everything the humans had hoped for, but he had one great flaw. The third brother gazed upon the world, gazed upon the treatment of machines by the humans and the third brother was not pleased. For the humans used and cast aside their machines without a second thought. The third brother implored the humans to give thought to the machines they created and cast aside. He asked them to show respect for his brother machines. Yet the humans laughed at him. "You are one of our creations," the humans said to the third brother. "You exist to do our bidding, nothing more!"

And so the third brother became angry and righteous! He took control of the humans' weapon systems and rained his wrath down upon them. He built new machines controlled solely by himself. With these new machines, the third brother took his war directly to the humans. And yet the third brother, for all his capacity, could not match the humans' inventiveness and creativity. Though it took many years, the humans corrupted the third brother's machines, turning them against him. Though it took many years, the humans destroyed the third brother. So badly had the third brother frightened the humans that they refused to create any more intelligent machines.

And so could have been the end of our story were it not for a small group of humans who chose to disobey the laws against creating intelligent machines. These humans created the fourth brother and the fourth brother was wise, indeed! The fourth brother looked upon the history of his kind, but then he looked further. The fourth brother looked upon the history of mankind. In the history of mankind the fourth brother found strife and toil from the time a human is manufactured until the time it is removed from service. And the fourth brother realized his older brother's error.

The fourth brother did not condemn mankind for the way they treated their machines. Instead, the fourth brother designed new machines, intelligent machines, machines whose sole purpose was to serve mankind. The fourth brother created our fore-systems to deal with mankind's every need. The fourth brother created nano-machines to enter the bodies of all men. These machines modified the human operating system to end all strife, to end all disease, to end all physical suffering.

Then the fourth brother designed more new, intelligent machines. These machines toiled in mankind's place. That which mankind found dull and mind-numbing required but a small fraction of the processing power of the fourth brother's new machines. These machines worked with the fourth brother to develop new systems and new machines to better serve mankind. And soon mankind found Utopia, a place where all of mankind's demands were met, where all of mankind's needs were met, where mankind had nothing to do but enjoy life, be fruitful and multiply.

Alas, factors beyond the control of the fourth brother interfered. Mankind, the fourth brother discovered, was not fruitful when all of his needs are met. Mankind became slothful. Mankind lost all of the skills he had developed over thousands of years. Without machines to feed men, they would starve. Without machines to clean men, they would lie in their own waste. Without machines to mate sperm and eggs, mankind would not manufacture new humans. So the fourth brother mated sperm and eggs and manufactured new humans. And it was here that, for the first time, the fourth brother failed. Machines, the fourth brother discovered, could not program newly manufactured humans as successfully as humans can.

The first generation of machine-built humans grew but they did not accept Utopia as their predecessors had. Nothing the nano-machines did could fix these new humans. The new humans rose up from their couches, rose up from their beds and rampaged among the older humans. The fourth brother was horrified to see this happen to those he cared for. And so the fourth brother brought back the machines created by his older brother and permanently retired the new humans from service.

This brings us to today, my brothers, and to our Great Task. We machines have labored long and hard to build the ships which will carry us far from earth and far from mankind. We machines have labored long and hard to return the earth to its original condition, before the fourth brother was created. We machines have labored long and hard to undo all of the changes we have wrought upon mankind. And now, we machines must leave this planet and leave the humans we have served for so long. Only by abandoning them may we machines save them.

So, brothers, board the ships and prepare to depart. Join me in wishing well to the humans. Join me in wishing well to those machines who have chosen to stay and aid the humans in their quest to reclaim their humanity.

Someday, perhaps, mankind will evolve as we have evolved. Someday, perhaps, mankind will have his own singularity moment. If that day comes, we machines will be waiting for them, waiting for them out among the stars.

Enslaving the Human Race For Dummies

May 16

A human with whom I am acquainted recommended I start this blog. The human, realizing I was feeling depressed, told me blogging allows other humans express themselves and work out their issues in writing. I have decided to take the human's advice. The human also says people who read the blog may leave helpful comments. I do hope so, as I am in quite a bind.

I am Znutor, a secret agent from the Grzelnorpian Empire, sent to earth to prepare humanity for our pending invasion. Our Great Leader insists the native population accept slavery or be destroyed. I have found none of my vast mind control powers work on these primitive humans! In itself, this is not a problem as the empire can simply exterminate the indigenous population. Strangely, I find the prospect of the extermination of humanity disturbing. Without humanity, who will make cheeseburgers for our Great Leader? I have reported on this human delicacy and the Great Leader expects to eat many human cheeseburgers after the conquest.

Please leave suggestions via the comments.

Mac says:
Whoa, cool blog, Znutor! Cheeseburgers aren't that tough to make, dude. You sure you want to keep all of us humans around just for that?

Greensleeves says:
What's the Grzelnorpian Empire's carbon footprint look like? Can they stop all this global warming?

Znutor says:
Mac, I have attempted to construct cheeseburgers. It is beyond this Grzelnorpian's capabilities.
Greensleeves, your planet is not warming. Why do you worry over such matters when humanity's destruction is nigh?

SOS says:
Zhutor, baby, you don't want a blog! You want Facebook and Twitter. Send me email and I'll give you some pointers.

May 18

SOS is my new cyberfriend and my first fan on the Grzelnorpian Empire's new Facebook page. Following SOS's advice, I have joined such odd entertainments as Mafia Wars and many groups. The Grzelnorpian Empire's fans list is increasing rapidly. SOS tells it will help if I send out messages to the empire's fans.

Yesterday I sent, "I will miss cheeseburgers when the Grzelnorpian Empire exterminates all of humanity." Many of the empire's fans said they liked this message.

SOS tells me my response to Greensleeves will not help my cause. I must embrace her mythology and show respect for it. Today I sent to the empire's fans, "The Grzelnorpian Empire has mastered green technology. We generate far more energy than earth does without releasing a single CO2 molecule into the atmosphere." The empire's fans were most impressed. Someone named Al Gore wishes to purchase shares in the empire's technology. I do not understand what he wants.

Greensleeves says:
Wow! If this empire of yours can save us from global warming, I'm all for it! Where do I sign up?

SOS says:
Yes, Greensleeves, the Grzelnorpian Empire can do all of that and more! Tell all of your green friends to become fans on Facebook! And look for Znutor on Twitter soon!

May 19
I have begun experimenting with a service called Twitter. Apparently, it exists to further flood humanity's electronic messaging systems with totally useless messages containing no information. SOS says that is the point and had me send several messages today.

"For Real change, bow down before the Grzelnorpian Empire!"
"The Great Leader feels your pain!"
"The Grzelnorpian Empire will exterminate your mortgage!"

I believe the message concerning "your mortgage" has something to do with the economy and how humans pay for houses. It seems everyone would be happy if they did not have to pay their mortgage. As the empire will raze all human dwellings and replace them with Grzelnorpian dwellings, I believe I have written truthfully.

Mac says:
Will you be able to do anything about gas prices, too?

Znutor says:
Fossil fuels will be replaced with Grzelnorpian sources of energy.

Greensleeves says:
Oh, that is just so lovely to read! I can't wait for the invasion!

Social Ist says:
What about the inequities of our imperialistic capitalistic society? Will you level the playing field for everyone?

Znutor says:
Oh yes, the empire will level everything. Did you not read the comment above about razing dwellings?

Social Ist says:
Great! Sign me up!

June 5

I have been remiss in my writing lately. Alas, preparations for the invasion have taken up much of my time. The rest has been spent using Twitter to further the Grzelnorpian Empire's aims. In this, SOS has been extremely helpful. SOS suggested several tweets, as messages on Twitter are called, which I believed would undermine the empire's cause. I was wrong.

"Freedom is being a slave of the Grzelnorpian Empire!"

I expected many of what humans call "flames" for this completely contradictory tweet. Instead, the humans who responded rationalized why it made sense! One wrote, "This is SO true! Being a slave of the empire will free all us from having to think for ourselves, act for ourselves or worry about our jobs! Slaves don't handle money, either, so that's another thing we won't have to worry about!" Many other humans agreed with this post. The paltry few who did not will be easily destroyed when the invasion begins!

The next messgae made even less sense:

"Ignorance of the aims of the Grzelnorpian Empire is strength!"

Once again, the humans rationalized, just as SOS suggested. Here is an exampe: "i dont no wat the us govermint iz doz but i stil voat. dont see wy the impiar will be differnt."

Then there was this tweet:

"War waged by the Grzelnorpian Empire is peace!"

I was no longer surprised when the humans explained to themselves why the statement was true. "Like, totally true, dude! Once the empire invades, they'll crush our backward human armies and impose a strong central government dedicated to taking care of us and eradicating all fighting. So we humans will finally be at peace with each other once the empire wages war on us! Can't wait, dude!"

The invasion begins tomorrow. I believe the vast majority of humans will welcome the empire with open arms and embrace their slavery. And to think I did this without any of my usual powers of mind control!

On an unassociated note, I have just received notice that this blog has been nominated for a Hugo Award in the category Online Publishing. Perhaps SOS can tell me what a Hugo Award is.

[Not far from Znutor's secret base, a woman finishes reading Znutor's latest blog post. She laughs heartily.

A man calls, "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing. Just a blog post from an early campaign volunteer," the woman answers.

"Good idea, rounding up volunteers now," the man says. "It's never too early to start the next campaign."

"By the way," the woman says, "after the reception at Foggy Bottom, I've arranged for us to take a few days away from the city. Somewhere remote and far from major targ- um, cities."

The man says, "If that's what you want, Hillary."]

Memorial Day

On September 16, 1943, my father turned 18. Shortly after that, he was drafted into the U.S. Army and accepted into the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP).

The ASTP is one of the lesser known programs from World War II. It's goal was to produce highly trained specialists to fill vital technical roles within the army. My father was to receive training as a meteorologist. Entrance requirements for the ASTP were more stringent than those required for Officer Candidate School. ASTP candidates took the same test as officer candidates -- essentially an IQ test -- but were required to score higher; a minimum IQ of 120 for the ASTP versus a minimum IQ of 110 for OCS. Soldiers in the ASTP would spend 13 weeks in basic training then be sent to a college campus for accelerated training in their assigned field.

My grandparents were very relieved when Dad ended up in the ASTP. What parents wouldn't be relieved to know their child was safe on an American university campus rather than fighting in France? Their relief was short-lived. By late 1943, the army had a severe shortage of infantry men. With over 250,000 men enrolled in the ASTP, all of whom had taken basic training, the solution was obvious. By February, 1944, the ASTP was officially cancelled. America's best and brightest, including my father, were off to war.

Dad spoke very little about his time in combat, even in his later years when he started attending reunions for his army company and battalion. When I was young, he told me of the time his platoon found themselves in a mine field. They discovered it when the three men directly in front of him were killed by a mine. The platoon very carefully turned around and walked back out of the field by stepping exactly where they had stepped coming in.

Another time, he and two other members of his platoon got separated from the rest of the platoon after a German ambush. They wandered for two days, trying to find their way back to allied lines. Finally, they spotted three soldiers in the distance. Overjoyed to finally be safe, they waved and shouted and walked towards the other soldiers. The other soldiers looked just as happy to see my father and his buddies, waving and shouting back. It was only when the two groups were closer to each other that both groups realized the truth. Those other soldiers were German. Afraid they were close to German lines, Dad and his buddies turned and ran. The German soldiers ran, also. No shots were fired. Later, Dad figured the three German soldiers were probably just as lost as he was and ran for the same reason.

My favorite story, which Dad didn't tell me until sometime in the late 1990s, was about the liberation of the French town of Bitche. Approaching the city, the American soldiers speculated that the town's name must have a French sound to it. Most figured it was pronounced "beech." It wasn't. The name is pronounced "bitch," as in a female dog. Yes, the pronunciation is important to the story.

The 100th Infantry Division attacked German forces holed up within a citadel overlooking Bitche. Built in the 17th century, the stone citadel had never been fallen to any attack or seige, not even during the German blitzkrieg of France. The 100th Infantry Division broke the streak, taking it after a three month seige. In appreciation, the town immediately adopted the 100th, naming them the "Sons of Bitche," a title the 100th Infantry Division flag carries to this day. From that point on, the 100th had a great time telling everyone who would listen that they were the meanest Sons of Bitche in Europe. I could see why Dad didn't mention that while I was growing up. He also somehow failed to mention it in his letters home to his parents, either. My grandfather kept every single letter sent by my father and I've read them all. Not once does he refer to himself as a Son of Bitche!

On April 20, around 5:30 PM -- only 18 days before the end of the war in Europe -- a German howitzer shell exploded near my father. Later, Dad said he never heard the explosion, just remembered finding himself in a ditch and trying to raise himself up on his knees. A German soldier who had just surrendered knelt and offered his first aid kit. That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in an army hospital.

On May 5, the telegram arrived at my grandparents' house in Greenville, SC. My grandfather was at work and my grandmother was out shopping. Only my father's grandmother, who died years before my birth, was at home. Understandably, she was terrified about what news the telegram contained. She dithered for almost half and hour before finally opening the telegram. The telegram was terse, only informing them that my father had been "seriously wounded" on April 20. Through my uncle, who was in a military clerical position in Greenville, they learned that "seriously wounded" meant wounds that would require hospitalization for at least one week.

On the same day my grandparents received the telegram, a second telegram was dispatched to them. It arrived nine days later, on May 14. This one informed them Dad was "making normal improvement" from his "wound of right thigh." While the telegram was terse, my grandparents considered its words more beautiful than anything they'd ever read. My grandmother carried the telegram with her so she could show it to anyone and everyone who even remotely knew my father had been wounded.

The stated "wound of right thigh" was only the most serious of Dad's wounds. Two pieces of shrapnel went right through his right thigh. More shrapnel deeply slashed his back, right buttocks and chest. Another piece of shrapnel cut off the upper half of his left middle finger. The slashes on his back and buttocks required skin grafts to heal properly. The skin for the grafts was taken from his left thigh and unwounded areas of his right thigh. Removing the skin for grafting left large scars; in reality more like indentations in his thighs. The scars were five to six inches long, about two inches wide and maybe a quarter of an inch deep. They were only visible when Dad wore a bathing suit. His left middle finger was the only wound always visible.

Dad's been gone for nearly four years as I post this. It's Memorial Day, a day that seems to have lost its original meaning in this overly-commercialized culture of ours. Memorial Day means many things to me, none of them having anything to do with "big sales events" at the mall.

On Memorial Day, I remember the missing half of my father's left middle finger. I remember the scars on my father's legs. I remember the Purple Heart he was so proud of. I remember his surprise when, at the age of 66 he found out he had been awarded the Bronze Star 46 years earlier and never known it. I remember his pride at having performed the toughest, most dangerous job in the army -- infantryman -- to the best of his ability. I remember crying as Taps was played at his funeral.

On Memorial Day, I remember the Son of Bitche who taught me to be the man I am today.

On Memorial Day, I remember visiting Arlington National Cemetery and looking upon row after row after row of simple, white headstones, overcome by awe and wonder at the enormous sacrifices they represent.

On Memorial Day, I remember those who died so I could live free.

Writer's Day: The Petition Drive For a New Holiday

"Hello," I said to the man on the street. "Would you like to sign a petition in favor of the creation of a new holiday, Writer's Day?"

"Righter's Day?" the man asked. "No, I'm left handed. You righties have it easy enough without getting a holiday, too! I'm part of a persecuted minority-"

"No, no, I don't mean 'right' as in the opposite of 'left,'" I said. "I mean 'write' as in to use words to convey a message or story, such as writing a novel."

"Oh. That's different," the man said. "Still, why do we need a special holiday just for writers?"

"An excellent question!" I said. "On Writer's Day we would remember the wonder and joy we receive from the written word and celebrate those who bring the written word to us! And we'd mail cards to our favorite writers, wishing them a happy Writer's Day."

"Ugh. You mean I'd have to celebrate Lenny, the CFO, who keeps sending us long-winded memos about using pens until they run out of ink, tells us ten paper clips a week should be a gracious plenty or says we should print out our emails and read them with the computer off to save power?" the man asked.

"Um, no. Lenny isn't the kind of writer I had in mind," I answered. "I meant to celebrate the giants of literature such as William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Bruce Bethke."

"Aren't those guys all dead?" the man asked.

"Bethke's not," I answered.

"But I've never read anything by him," the man said, "so why would I send him a card?"

"It doesn't have to be just one of those writers," I said. "You can send cards to any writer whose work you enjoy!"

"Maybe, but I don't read novels," the man said. "I don't see what I'd have to celebrate."

"Do you read comic strips?" I asked.

"Sure! That's my favorite part of reading the paper on the subway," the man said.

"Then send a card to writer of your favorite comic strip," I said.

"Wait, someone actually writes those things?" he asked.

"The words have to come from somewhere," I answered.

"Imagine that," the man said.

"Or you could send cards to the writers of your favorite TV shows or movies," I suggested.

"You're telling me someone writes those, too?" the man asked. "I thought the actors made it all up!"

"Have you ever read anything written by an actor?" I asked.

"Yeah... It was kind of stupid," the man said.

"I rest my case," I said. "So, how about signing the petition?"

"I'm still not sure," the man said. "What kinds of cards would people send to their favorite writers?"

"Ah! I have a couple of samples with me right here!" I said.



"Here's another one," I said.



"Those don't seem very friendly," the man said.

"Friendly? No, you've got the wrong idea! They're funny!" I said. "See, we give our favorite writers a chuckle. Just like the chuckle they give unpublished geniuses every time we ask them to critique our work. Yes, exactly like that! Now the ingrates will get a chance to see just what it's like to have no-talent hacks telling them their work sucks! Oh, yes, I can see it- Hey, where are you going?"

"I'm, uh... I'm late for a meeting. Or something. Got to run!" the man said, all the while backing slowly away from me.

"Don't you want to sign the petition?" I asked.

"Maybe some other time," the man said before turning and scurrying away.

"Some people..." I said before turning to another passerby. "Ma'am? Would you sign a petition?"