*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
-- Have you played Carthage?
Who hasn't?
I am a level 87 Hoplite.
Better accomplishment, I'm one of the top modders of fan content in the three universes. I'm the creator of Athena 2 -- (in the Carthage community considered the finest simulation of naval battles ever posted). I bring this up because my breakthrough is co-opting the Carthage game engine to produce animations for my show. This was no small feat: Carthage was one tight smile. A closed engine. No one was meant to crack it. I did. My fans are the beneficiaries.
Take episode -1: It opens with me in my therapist's office discussing the show that I am creating; a show within a show; two episodes before my birth in #0, an adult me discusses what the show will be -- portrait of a modder as a young man, with me played by a daring legionare, my therapist a blue Orc.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
I told my mother: the only way you are getting me on that spaceship is if Carthage is publicly networked to this and all the other ships, and I mean true 9 Yggdrasilian lines -- no old seven networks -- we don't run this game on power crystals.
(The old sevens don't support full body in body integration -- which is to say, you can't be in you, can't feel the heft when shaking your spear).
That was eight months ago, and here I am, with no Carthage to play, but for the graphics engine I stole; iterating images for the next episode of my show, which can be viewed directly in your eyeball at: youtube4.com/mylifeaboardthedelta7201-88-imross/ep15.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
My therapist aboard the I.M. Ross is one Martin Huntley. He's not the type of therapist who can get you drugs; as such he is of little use other than as a comic foil, (let me say this about all the medical staff: the I.M. Ross is a miracle of spaceship design, and yet when you go to Med Deck, nothing but crackers and Tang).
The thinly veiled Huntley in my show is called Dr. Blueorc. He chews on goose skulls while pretending he has a clue what my character says to him. Whatever, Huntley -- you think you're going to start a humble little practice when we land at Unicorn 1? Fat chance. You're heading to the mines, Jerk.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
In episode 0 I land on my parent's farm in a pod.
This did not happen.
I padded my childhood with fantasies to make my show better product. For instance the space cow made of ice is not the reason we had to get on this spaceship. We got on this ship because we're rich. Poor people still live on Earth -- Earth is a trailer park.
When I think of those poor people on earth, breathing in the dust, drinking filthy water, I'm jealous. There are so many video games I've missed since we got on this spaceship.
And then I forget about them, and daydream about being Kal-El. Because here I go, a sun baby off into the deep dark.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
I wanted my show to be one hundred episodes in before the I. M. Ross lands at Unicorn 1. We're at today in 14 episodes, and there's no way I'm getting 86 more out of the next two and a half years of blah.
And this sad truth is how I came to follow Jimmy around with a camera. These were spitballing sessions, merely; certainly Jimmy can take no credit for what is now coming.
For yesterday while Jimmy and I were walking the bridge to school we saw several crew members rushing past bystanders on the bridge below, their badges beeping with the appropriate security clearance as they head into Northwest Core.
"They's in a huh-ree." Jimmy said.
(Jimmy does not speak in a cockney accent anywhere but for on this show)
"They were, Jimbo."
"Wonduh what fo."
"Perhaps, Jim-Jim, it has something to do with the docks, I think that's where they're headed. We should investigate this."
"Could be good for our show."
"My show, Jimmers -- my show."
So we snuck down to level 7. It took some tricky maneuvering to get by the Bots, but Jimmy says the older sec-bots like these on the Ross are kind of like a Sony-Nissan Rogue when it comes to jimmy-jacking it. He turned the Bots to sleep mode with his Sony-Nissan-Pepsico handheld. I credited the handheld and denied Jimmy his claim that it was his modification of an alarm clock app that shut the Bots down. Jimmy is a dreamer, man.
We made our way down the hall.
The corridor was empty.
"Spooky." Jimmy said.
"Relax, Pal -- I'm here."
"Being an 87 Hoplite is shit in the Adult Wing, Carlos."
"You're negativity offends me."
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Shuffle, shuffle. Rampart. Fog. Engine cores blowing all over. When the I M Ross took off from Boston, it blew two of them. My mother's brother, Steve Wilman, trapped my hand in his, but wouldn't look at me; I was stuck to him for the last forty-seven seconds we were earthlings.
My mother. My Uncle. And me.
My father stayed in Lowell. He's a scientist.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Jimmy took scout position, he was dunking sec-cams every fifty feet with his Himboy 27, (that's the spiffy handheld he's so proud of). I was in the rear with the gear, (in this case, my 186mm scan-cam, (the 3D feed of Jimmy dunking down all the hallway cams can be viewed @ gRANDtHEFToTTO.ewetoob/jimmersbjammers4.
Sooner or later someone above would spot the security dropping offline and come looking, so we had to act fast. Whatever had those adults tizzying, (docking aliens likely), we had to move on it.
We followed the level 7 NW track all the way out to the 7-West rotary, and from there Jimmy and I had a dispute on which exit to take; he thought we should go to the executive suites, me, I was sure the answer to the commotion on level 7 would be at the police station.
I rocked his scissors, so we went to the Pork Chops.
And that's where we saw him. It was Dr. Martin Blueorc Huntley, handcuffed to a desk. Seven suits semi-circled around him.
I doped up the audio with the scan-cam, tapped my tooth, and we had voices:
"Where is she, Martin?" asks a porker in a suit.
"I don't know." replies Huntley in a fearful voice, a voice gurgling on that fear-milk adults get in their throats when shit fubars.
"No one has seen her since yesterday, no one but you, Huntley."
"She left my office at One, and that's the last I saw her, Pete. I've told you!"
And it was here that porker Pete popped Huntley with an open hand on the back of his neck.
"That hurt." Jimmy whispered.
We were hiding in an oddly-designed air duct that gave us a perfect angle on the interrogation.
"Who do you think they're talking about?" I whispered back.
"Hold on." Jimmy said. He pops out his Himboy again, and fiddles around, "It would appear Blueorc's one o'clock was Susanna Windemere."
"Wow. She's hot."
"Indeed."
The pigs smacked Huntley again, this time his cheek. He would have fallen over in his chair from the impact were he not cuffed to the desk.
"You think Blueorc did something to her?"
"I don't know."
"You think we should investigate this?"
"We could, Jim. Or we could go back and write our own version of it so we can upload an episode before the whole I.M. Ross finds out Huntley's a murderer."
"I'm more interested in detective work than I am the show." Jimmy said.
"Fair enough. Let's get back to Huntley's office before these snouts figure out how to do their jobs."
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
My father, the scientist, is an asshole. As my Uncle Steve Wilman will tell you: Dr. Johnny Rojas is a cowardly coat who stayed on earth not because he could only afford to send my mother and me to Unicorn, but because he has another family down there he plans to get another year or two out of. I ask Uncle Steve what kind of family. He starts looking around for my mother at that point, and checking me for recording devices.
I only mention this to you because episode 9 is going to cut back and forth between Martin Huntley's murdering Susanna Windemere, and what I imagine Doc Rojas's new family to be: green goblins.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
"Damn."
"What?"
"They beat us here."
-- Agents all over Huntley's office. Agents and robots.
"Well, well, well -- no body."
"I smell a cover up."
-- We crawled back down the air duct.
"You know, Carlos, this space ship has a lot of human-sized ducts."
"I'm bored of this, Jimmy. Let's go back, and rewrite this whole mess for the show."
"No. I'm going home. I have to crap."
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
THE END
(I warned you)
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
I told my mother: the only way you are getting me on that spaceship is if Carthage is publicly networked to this and all the other ships, and I mean true 9 Yggdrasilian lines -- no old seven networks -- we don't run this game on power crystals.
(The old sevens don't support full body in body integration -- which is to say, you can't be in you, can't feel the heft when shaking your spear).
That was eight months ago, and here I am, with no Carthage to play, but for the graphics engine I stole; iterating images for the next episode of my show, which can be viewed directly in your eyeball at: youtube4.com/mylifeaboardthedelta7201-88-imross/ep15.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
My therapist aboard the I.M. Ross is one Martin Huntley. He's not the type of therapist who can get you drugs; as such he is of little use other than as a comic foil, (let me say this about all the medical staff: the I.M. Ross is a miracle of spaceship design, and yet when you go to Med Deck, nothing but crackers and Tang).
The thinly veiled Huntley in my show is called Dr. Blueorc. He chews on goose skulls while pretending he has a clue what my character says to him. Whatever, Huntley -- you think you're going to start a humble little practice when we land at Unicorn 1? Fat chance. You're heading to the mines, Jerk.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
In episode 0 I land on my parent's farm in a pod.
This did not happen.
I padded my childhood with fantasies to make my show better product. For instance the space cow made of ice is not the reason we had to get on this spaceship. We got on this ship because we're rich. Poor people still live on Earth -- Earth is a trailer park.
When I think of those poor people on earth, breathing in the dust, drinking filthy water, I'm jealous. There are so many video games I've missed since we got on this spaceship.
And then I forget about them, and daydream about being Kal-El. Because here I go, a sun baby off into the deep dark.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
I wanted my show to be one hundred episodes in before the I. M. Ross lands at Unicorn 1. We're at today in 14 episodes, and there's no way I'm getting 86 more out of the next two and a half years of blah.
And this sad truth is how I came to follow Jimmy around with a camera. These were spitballing sessions, merely; certainly Jimmy can take no credit for what is now coming.
For yesterday while Jimmy and I were walking the bridge to school we saw several crew members rushing past bystanders on the bridge below, their badges beeping with the appropriate security clearance as they head into Northwest Core.
"They's in a huh-ree." Jimmy said.
(Jimmy does not speak in a cockney accent anywhere but for on this show)
"They were, Jimbo."
"Wonduh what fo."
"Perhaps, Jim-Jim, it has something to do with the docks, I think that's where they're headed. We should investigate this."
"Could be good for our show."
"My show, Jimmers -- my show."
So we snuck down to level 7. It took some tricky maneuvering to get by the Bots, but Jimmy says the older sec-bots like these on the Ross are kind of like a Sony-Nissan Rogue when it comes to jimmy-jacking it. He turned the Bots to sleep mode with his Sony-Nissan-Pepsico handheld. I credited the handheld and denied Jimmy his claim that it was his modification of an alarm clock app that shut the Bots down. Jimmy is a dreamer, man.
We made our way down the hall.
The corridor was empty.
"Spooky." Jimmy said.
"Relax, Pal -- I'm here."
"Being an 87 Hoplite is shit in the Adult Wing, Carlos."
"You're negativity offends me."
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Shuffle, shuffle. Rampart. Fog. Engine cores blowing all over. When the I M Ross took off from Boston, it blew two of them. My mother's brother, Steve Wilman, trapped my hand in his, but wouldn't look at me; I was stuck to him for the last forty-seven seconds we were earthlings.
My mother. My Uncle. And me.
My father stayed in Lowell. He's a scientist.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Jimmy took scout position, he was dunking sec-cams every fifty feet with his Himboy 27, (that's the spiffy handheld he's so proud of). I was in the rear with the gear, (in this case, my 186mm scan-cam, (the 3D feed of Jimmy dunking down all the hallway cams can be viewed @ gRANDtHEFToTTO.ewetoob/jimmersbjammers4.
Sooner or later someone above would spot the security dropping offline and come looking, so we had to act fast. Whatever had those adults tizzying, (docking aliens likely), we had to move on it.
We followed the level 7 NW track all the way out to the 7-West rotary, and from there Jimmy and I had a dispute on which exit to take; he thought we should go to the executive suites, me, I was sure the answer to the commotion on level 7 would be at the police station.
I rocked his scissors, so we went to the Pork Chops.
And that's where we saw him. It was Dr. Martin Blueorc Huntley, handcuffed to a desk. Seven suits semi-circled around him.
I doped up the audio with the scan-cam, tapped my tooth, and we had voices:
"Where is she, Martin?" asks a porker in a suit.
"I don't know." replies Huntley in a fearful voice, a voice gurgling on that fear-milk adults get in their throats when shit fubars.
"No one has seen her since yesterday, no one but you, Huntley."
"She left my office at One, and that's the last I saw her, Pete. I've told you!"
And it was here that porker Pete popped Huntley with an open hand on the back of his neck.
"That hurt." Jimmy whispered.
We were hiding in an oddly-designed air duct that gave us a perfect angle on the interrogation.
"Who do you think they're talking about?" I whispered back.
"Hold on." Jimmy said. He pops out his Himboy again, and fiddles around, "It would appear Blueorc's one o'clock was Susanna Windemere."
"Wow. She's hot."
"Indeed."
The pigs smacked Huntley again, this time his cheek. He would have fallen over in his chair from the impact were he not cuffed to the desk.
"You think Blueorc did something to her?"
"I don't know."
"You think we should investigate this?"
"We could, Jim. Or we could go back and write our own version of it so we can upload an episode before the whole I.M. Ross finds out Huntley's a murderer."
"I'm more interested in detective work than I am the show." Jimmy said.
"Fair enough. Let's get back to Huntley's office before these snouts figure out how to do their jobs."
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
My father, the scientist, is an asshole. As my Uncle Steve Wilman will tell you: Dr. Johnny Rojas is a cowardly coat who stayed on earth not because he could only afford to send my mother and me to Unicorn, but because he has another family down there he plans to get another year or two out of. I ask Uncle Steve what kind of family. He starts looking around for my mother at that point, and checking me for recording devices.
I only mention this to you because episode 9 is going to cut back and forth between Martin Huntley's murdering Susanna Windemere, and what I imagine Doc Rojas's new family to be: green goblins.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
"Damn."
"What?"
"They beat us here."
-- Agents all over Huntley's office. Agents and robots.
"Well, well, well -- no body."
"I smell a cover up."
-- We crawled back down the air duct.
"You know, Carlos, this space ship has a lot of human-sized ducts."
"I'm bored of this, Jimmy. Let's go back, and rewrite this whole mess for the show."
"No. I'm going home. I have to crap."
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
THE END
(I warned you)
0 comments:
Post a Comment