Glibertarians.com 2018 Archive

Category: Welcome to the Party

  • Influences & Formative Experience. A journey to Libertarianism

    Being a libertarian can be tough.  As our logo (I think of it as ours.  The founders may be first among equals, but its the participation of the Glibertariat that makes this place amazing.) alludes to some of the misconceptions people have about libertarianism. The public discourse and the education complex don’t discuss the ideas that underlie the philosophy.  So how do people arrive at it?  I like hearing other people’s stories so I thought I’d share mine.

    I grew up a poor black boy in…wait, no, I know the difference between shit and Shinola so that’s another guy.  I did grow up in a rural area of N. Carolina and went to a Southern Baptist church.  I suppose that had an impact on me.  I started out a kid with not much appetite for authority, tons of questions about why, and intolerance for bullshit.

    My favorite show was the Dukes of Hazzard.  I think that had a big impact on me.  I don’t know of any other show on TV that was so anti-authoritarian and so subversive while appearing to be nothing more than country kitsch.  The authorities were corrupt, venal, petty and incompetent.  Which almost made it a documentary.  The Duke family were loving, fun, and had cool cars.  And they never meant anyone any harm, even the corrupt government trying to destroy them.  I didn’t realize for decades how formative that show was, but it set the stage later.

    I grew older and more obstinate.  The more I learned, the more questions I asked about why.  And the more I realized that most of the authority figures in life didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground, and either way couldn’t find it with both hands and a map. And with that realization, the more I began to question why they should be able to tell me what to do simply because they had managed to remain breathing. From there to questioning others in authority like politicians and cops wasn’t a huge leap and fortunately, around the time I was 11 I had an experience that helped me make the jump.

    In the 5th grade the sad, pathetic nature of bureaucracy became crystal clear to me.  We had an assistant principal that all the kids and parents adored.  She truly was great with us kids; a good balance of discipline and love.  When the principal announced his retirement due to health reasons a temporary principal was put in place while the school board decided on a permanent replacement. Full of nonsense about our form of government and a naive belief in the right of the people impacted to petition the government for redress I started a petition.  I sent it around to kids and parents, asking for signatures supporting Mrs. Sandy (the asst. principal) for the principal position. The temp principal who had worked for the system longer and wanted it because of that, despite having spent years trying for a principal position without success, was not pleased.  She went so far as to call me into her office for a dressing down and to demand I hand over my ‘stupid little petition’.  This did not go well for her when I told my parents about our little meeting and her threats to suspend me if I didn’t comply.

    My mom was something of a mama bear; if I was in the right she’d go to the mattresses for me.  But woe betide my ass if I didn’t behave well.  And the words, “This is bad enough your dad will handle it” struck a kind of liquid terror in my bowels on the few occasions I heard it.  Dad was usually the less strict, so if he had to do the disciplining I knew I had seriously fucked up.  Anyway, they both had my back and went up to the principal’s office the next morning and had a little come to Jesus meeting with the harridan.  I am still not privy to the exact conversation, but she steered clear of me from then on out.

    It was at the next school board meeting where I had that lesson about petty bureaucrats reinforced even harder and cemented my hatred of those pathetic types.  The hiring of a permanent principal was on the list, I showed up with my petition and duly handed it in to the board.  I was interviewed by the local newspaper for a front page story.  And thus the lessons.

    First, despite the petition having about 70% of the parents and students at the school signing on, Mrs. Sandy was passed over for the bitchy-bitch.  The board accepted the petition, but they didn’t even look it over or read it.  I mean, after all, what do the peasants and their children know about education?

    Second, the news reporter got my quote wrong in the front page article the next day.  They quoted an 11 year old wrong, changing the meaning of my words.  I mean, this adult had one fucking job in a small town newspaper and they couldn’t even accurately write down what I said.  That also made me pretty furious and long before the The Orange Cheeto turned the phrase around on them, cemented the idea of Fake News in my head and further stoked the fires of my skepticism.

    By the time I hit college I’d had seven more years to shape my philosophy of politics and negative experiences of people in power.  I labeled myself a conservative.  But my religious indoctrination had also created a disgust with hypocrisy and a desire for clear, moral consistency so I often found myself at odds with certain conservative opinions. I’d also started reading Heinlein.

    It is a little hard to articulate how big of an impact Heinlein’s novels had on me in regard to political thought.  While it was never stated outright in that fashion, the NAP was there in his work,  presented questions of moral agency, letting others live their lives as they see fit so long as they don’t offer your violence.  (And the idea of non-monogamy, but that is a different post).  It gave me a springboard to start looking for other works to help my burgeoning interest in a political ideology based on liberty and personal autonomy.

    The final piece was a principled lefty prof, my adviser. In an age of ‘speech is violence’, no platforming, and all the rest of the Ctrl Left totalitarianism, it sounds odd that a lefty prof might recommend such kulaks and wreckers as HL Mencken, Rothbard, Milton Friedman, FA Hayek, and the like to a student discovering his politics seems unimaginable.  But it happened.  Because Mr. Collins was a liberal, but he was also a man who felt he had a duty to his students, and who took the goal of educating his students into thinking for themselves quite seriously.

    I can’t claim I was completely reasoned into my thoughts on politics and libertarianism, but those are some of the sources that helped shape my thinking as I grew up.  That’s how a corny country show from the ’80s, a petty bureaucrat, an incompetent reporter, a science fiction author, and a lefty professor helped me to develop my politics and outlook on life.

    What’s your story?

  • What Are We Drinking; or a very special National Tequila Day Post

    Dearest Glibertariat, as some of you may know (or not), every day is a national day of something, to the point where the entire concept almost becomes empty…like my glass…right this second *runs off to fix that*, but what you need to know is that July 24th–TODAY–is national tequila day, and I can think of no better reason to clear some space off of your shelf and celebrate the pluralism of ‘murrica by drinking something that cannot be legally produced here! I have recruited the Boyfriend (henceforth TBF) to help me drink a bit of every  tequila in my home and asked the other Glibs to join in with their notes on such an effective beverage.

    My portion of this is storied including a reposado that I received as a gift for marrying a couple who met on TOS, a bottle given to me by my aunt and destroyed by a theater major 14 years ago, a couple of bottles that my roommate LOVES and a bottle of mezcal that she declines to finish, so I’ll be helpful. We’ll be rolling through easiest to hardest to drink.

    Mixed tequilas as found in jesse’s house

    Clase Azul Reposado

    • Jesse: This is too easy to drink, almost desserty. Nice notes of vanilla, kinda sweet. I can sip this at room temp and not flinch.
    • TBF: Really smooth. I’m guessing oak-barrel aged [J: we looked, he guessed right]. It’s the color of honey and has citrus, vanilla and clove notes.

    Casa Noble Reposado

    This has a special place in my heart. 15 years ago my aunt gave me this bottle, which I saved for New Year’s Eve. I brought this and a bottle of OJ, took the first sip of the tequila and gave the OJ to someone who had a bottle of vodka and looked lost…it made her night and I proceeded to drink the Casa Noble straight all night until a theater major cracked the cork into the bottle and I—most of the bottle deep at this point, and quite possibly stoned (things are fuzzy here)–proceeded to spend the night enjoying it in reverse. Because of the corking it’s sat on a shelf for years and I’m using today as an excuse to try it again.

    • TBF: You goofed. I can tell this was good once but it’s oxidized to shit. All the flavors are muted to the point of being uninteresting. I’m getting some wood and leather, it’s like drinking Jesus’s sex dungeon, but it’s incredibly smooth.
    • Jesse: [glumly] I goofed. *pours out the rest of the bottle with chunks of cork floating in it, contemplates buying a new bottle because it was that good…even at this price point.

    Espelon Reposado and Espelon Añejo (bourbon barrel aged)

    I’m pairing these together because they were similar. The reposado was a bit softer than the Añejo, which we found surprising, and the reposado was a bit simpler with the Añejo having a more complicated and more bourbon-ey profile.

    • TBF: *cracks reposado bottle open* HELLOOOO SPRING BREAK. This is all very agave, very drinkable, but not a ton of complexity.  This screams going to a frat party in your sweatpants senior year of college. This is why your roommate’s margaritas are so good. I just thought she was skilled. *tries the añejo* way more complex, more vanilla and bit harsher. The bourbon notes ask the question “Jesse, why are you making me drink tequila when you have bourbon in your house?” This is a frat party in sweatpants in KY.
    • Jesse:  If we kill off everything  below [the reposado] and make this the plastic jug tequila the world will be a better (or maybe worse) place. Still sippable but we’ve definitely stepped down a tier from the Clase Azul and Casa Noble [circa 2004]. The añejo is good, but I’m happier with the reposado *has more reposado*.

    Mezcal Embajador de Oaxaca (blanco)

    Kinda the oddball here. I hoped TBF would enjoy it since he likes Islays. My roommate decided it was undrinkable and I’ve been chipping away at it for a while.

    • TBF: This smells like nail polish and smoke. It’s like a structure fire at a nail salon off the nose. *Sips* Do moonshine distilleries explode like meth labs? You know what, they probably do. That’s what I’m getting from the flavor. Can we go back to the Clase Azul?
    • Jesse: I’m getting more smoke and less “Vietnamese women perishing in a fire”. It’s got a warm front, extremely bland middle and smoky/spicy finish. It’s surprisingly easy drinking for how smoky it is, but not particularly interesting. I’m definitely circling back to the Clase Azul.

     

  • A Call for Articles

    Sounding the Glibhorn

    As we have made clear from the beginning – this site runs off content from all of us. The Shadowy Figures That Run Glibs post much of the content – but we could not get by without the contributions from all of you, the Glibertariat. We’d like to push the amount of content a bit, and thus we are calling on all of you who have thought, “Huh, I should write something up on [subject].” DO IT! Lash your typing orphans, give extra bananas to your infinite number of monkeys with typewriters…whatever it takes to share something which means something to you.

    “Easy for you to say! How in the heck do I even get something published here?”

     

    How To Submit

    If you look at the top of our page, you will see a link titled “Leads/Submissions.” When you click it, this will pop up:

     

    Write your elevator pitch and click “Submit to the Glib Editors.”

    As for preparing your first file to send in (when we say “thank you, plz send”):

    We’re pretty flexible. Microsoft Word documents, Google-docs, PDFs, Notepad docs, or just copy and pasted into an email–we have handled at least one article in each of these formats before.

    If you’re savvy enough to embed the pictures you want into your own post, go for it! We try to preserve as much of what is submitted to us as possible, including formatting. If not–hey, that’s fine, too. You can see some of us are pretty big on images, and we’re happy to supply our own (plus alt-text). If you have pictures you want us to use* but you’re not sure how to do all that fancy tech/formatting stuff, we can work with that. Label your pictures clearly, make note in your post exactly where they should go, and be sure to send the images in the same email as you’ve sent your proposed article.

    You can apply the same idea about labeling to image captions and alt-text. For example, if you put the following line between two paragraphs in your article: “Image 1” goes here; caption: words that mean things; alt-text: more words that mean things, you can expect we will grab the picture titled “Image 1” that you submitted with your article, we’ll embed it on that line, and we’ll caption and alt-text it as you indicated. Easy, right?

    What’s In It For You?

    Mostly, a little fleeting glory and acclaim from your fellow Glibs; the chance to share something about which you are passionate; the possibility of getting something off your mind and out on the page where you can examine it; and the opportunity to forge stronger connections with all the wacky denizens of Glibs.com.

    Also! If you contribute two or more articles which we run, SP will upgrade your site user status so that you have your own byline (instead of Guest Contributor) and the user bio from your dashboard will show in the author box at the bottom of your articles. You’ll be GlibFamous!

    So, what are you waiting for?

    Ready? Set? Submit!

    *Please note that pictures should be free to use; so you’ve taken them yourself or the owner of the image is fine with it being used without their being remunerated for it, or even, perhaps, given credit. Two good sources for images: https://unsplash.com and https://pixabay.com

     

    Looking for a comprehensive how-to draft your subsequent articles in WordPress? Read Tonio’s excellent post on the topic. Working with WordPress: A Guide for Glibs Authors

     

    Fine Print

  • Constitutions, guns and limited government: a constant uphill battle

    As I may have mentioned before, I hail from the far away land of Romania, a country with a history of communism which basically wrecked the country and without a particularly strong tradition of limited government, where most peasants were still serfs almost up to the 19th century. I was asked before on various positions on limited government Romanians hold, and thought I’d write a quick post on it, mainly an anecdote, really.

    Romanian built, number 1 best quality, good price
    Too scary for locals, but we export them

    Are notions of limited government increasing? Not really. You would think after a history of bad government and massive abuses of power, many would think to give the other side a shot. But sadly, this does not happen. We just need the right top men, you see. One problem is that people want things and rarely thing of the implications, the ramifications, and both the expected and unexpected consequences. They have the view of government which does everything they want and nothing they do not. And I am talking here about the upper echelon in terms of intelligence, education, and professional success. As such, I have little hope of clear improvements in the future.

    As an anecdote, I will talk of someone I know who is, let’s say, someone I had high hopes of when I thought of a move towards freedom in Romania. He grew up in communism, finished Polytechnic university in Bucharest, got his PhD in France, and was a very successful semiconductor engineer. Of course, for most of his life, he was the kind that didn’t pay much interest to things outside his field, and only recently did he read some books on economics and political philosophy. But this makes him more knowledgeable than most in my company who did not read anything on these topics, although they have really strong opinions on politics and economics. He is what, for Europe, would be vaguely classical liberal / libertarian on economic issues, although quite vaguely. When he reads a libertarian book, he often agrees with what it says, but he simply cannot get past his many years of thinking that government must do way too many things in society. So this generally causes a few days of thinking a bit differently, followed by a comeback to the old ways.  So he would not be a reliable voter for strictly limited government, and if he is not, I have little hope for most other Romanians.

    As a Romanian, he hates guns. He thinks they are dangerous and wants them banned. The government’s job is to disarm the population, he states. In this he is joined by his brother, also an engineer by trade in semiconductors, who immigrated to the States and now lives in a leafy and quite lefty suburb of Boston. His brother also hates guns and republicans in general, and thinks America is too right wing.

    But, to be fair, the guns are scary amendment is desperately needed in the US. though
    We need ourselves a better version of one of these things in Romania

    The man I speak of trusts his brother’s judgment, and I had several debates with him on US politics which ended because his brother is his ultimate argument and tells me he is more informed than me because of what the brother tells him. I, frankly, find this rather annoying because his knowledge of US culture, economy and its politics is probably 10% of mine. And his brother’s does not seem much better, as he forwarded to me some emails that could have been taken directly out of the New York Times. I remember speaking about certificate of need legislation in US and he outright said that is not true, such things do not exist; it is not possible in a capitalist country like America for the government to prevent a hospital from expanding, let’s say. He did not really care to read about it because he had his sources. This is his answer.  It is obviously impossible to argue with someone whose main argument is “my brother told me this so it must be true.” I have asked countless times for data for his claims, but he literally said, “I do not have data but it is true. I have my sources,” – his main source being his brother. This is quite dispiriting. Someone who is more politically knowledgeable than most people I know, one of the few to have actually read some economics. If he can’t argue properly and form a more informed opinion, who can? Most Romanians still tell me that the US is the land of no government and unrestrained free market capitalism, and they believe that. Especially when it comes to the completely private and completely unregulated healthcare systems you Americans seem to have.

    Recently I hear the complaint – coming from the brother originally, of course – that the problem with US in that the constitution is too difficult to change as to disarm the population. A smart, accomplished engineer with some knowledge of economics does not give a jot of thought to the ramifications of what he claims if it will lead to his preferred outcome. He would be so willing to see all guns banned for civilians, that he would tear the constitution apart for this. Of course, he does not claim that. He says only the second amendment, not others. But if you give the power to easily change the second, how would you prevent that power being used to change the others? How can you create a system where just one article of the constitution is easily changed? The ridiculous view of government doing everything I like and nothing I don’t.

    What is the point of the constitution is it is easily changed? Majorities are fickle. One may have the 51% now, the others the next time. Laws change with majorities. The whole point of the constitution is that it is not as easily changed and it needs broad consensus. And if you look at US history, many bad things came exactly when the constitution was not respected. How can we get a more libertarian view in Romania when people lose their reason when it comes to topics they feel strongly about? How can we argue when people say, ‘I don’t have any data but my brother told me”? I do not know, but I do not have my hopes up, lest I be too often disappointed.

  • SPRING BREEEEEEAAAAAAK!!!!!!!!1!11!

     

    “Naturally, I’m misanthropic. But the Negronis are helping considerably.” -Anthony Bourdain in The Nasty Bits.

    Now that my wife is a professor, and I’ve shifted my career to become a professor at a hilariously shitty community college, it turns out there are some pretty cool upsides. For the first time ever, we get to enjoy BOTH spring break AND not being poor at the same time. That means it’s time to drink some tasty booze instead of Popov vodka Jell-O shots or whatever nasty shit I can no longer remember drinking in college.

    Hi. I’m Negroni Please and I’m here to help you get fucked up.

    It seems wrong to talk about drinking and not start with my namesake. So, let’s get down to some Negroni business. For those of you not in the know (and are too goddamn lazy to google it) a Negroni is equal parts Gin, Campari, and Sweet Vermouth with an orange twist. Easy peasy.

    Allegedly some dude named Count Negroni asked his bartender to fortify his favorite drink, an Americano, and the bartender whipped up the first Negroni by adding some gin to the cocktail. So basically an Americano (made with equal parts Campari and Sweet Vermouth, with a splash of soda) is the boring buttoned-down Ward Cleaver drink and a Negroni is the “FUCK YOU DAD” version.

    Pointless Side Note: According to Wikipedia, James Bond drinks an Americano in “From a View to a Kill” because “in cafés you have to drink the least offensive of the musical comedy drinks that go with them.” I don’t know what that means. But James Bond said it, so I’m certain it’s sophisticated and dripping with panache.

    Regardless of the supposed origin, sometime around 1919 this wonderful cocktail took off AND THE WORLD WAS NEVER THE SAME. Or something.

    So what do you need to make an acceptable Negroni? The obvious, classic, no-brainer answer here is Campari. Campari is a type of Italian bitters with a beautiful ruby hue. Once upon a time, this color was achieved with carmine dye which is made from crushed bugs. Unfortunately, those days are over, and now we get artificial coloring instead of all-natural organic bug parts. Campari is essentially just an herbs/fruit infusion in alcohol, and my wife says it tastes like she imagines cough syrup from the Great Depression would taste. Whatever. She likes Michelob Ultra and mixes flavored LaCroix with her red wine so it’s not like her opinion matters here.

    If this description of Campari doesn’t already have you running out to the liquor store to buy some, then you just need to watch this 1984 Campari commercial by none other than Federico Fellini.

    What the fuck was that? I don’t know either, but I do know that now you want some Campari. That’s the power of marketing, baby.

    Next up you need Gin and Sweet Vermouth. If I’m just mixing up some cocktails for a random after work drink, then I’m all about cheap and ubiquitous. New Amsterdam Gin is cheap enough for homeless people and actually works pretty well in most cocktails. And even Yanomami Indians in the heart of the Amazon have access to Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth. Mix equal measures of these ingredients and add an orange peel twist and you’re all set.

    But what about those times where you need something a little more refined? Something smooth and sophisticated like…. SPRING BREEEEEEAAAAAAK!

    Well, first off, you can keep the Campari, as it’s always a welcome addition to the drink, but you should consider giving Gran Classico a shot at the title. Next, you should up the ante with your other booze. The most perfect vermouth ever gifted to man by the liquor gods is Carpano Antica. This stuff is pricy (for a mixer) but the vanilla and cocoa notes are well worth it for a quality cocktail. Especially when paired with Gran Classico, it makes for an excellent Negroni. But you don’t have to stop there! Carpano Antica is also perfect friends with bourbon and makes killer Manhattans. For gin, you should pick your favorite top shelf gin. My favorite is St. George Dry Rye, but you can’t go wrong with any St. George gin. For you Hendrick’s lovers out there though, keep that nifty little apothecary bottle on the shelf. Hendrick’s is a bit too delicate to hold up well in a Negroni, and you end up wasting it while the drink’s balance is a little off.

    OK. We’ve done the basic Negroni which is good. But it’s time to expand on the Negroni and get to the drinks in this family that really shine.

    Looks suspiciously similar to a Negroni…

    The Boulevardier

    Despite my name being Negroni Please, the Boulevardier is actually my favorite cocktail, but Boulevardier Please just doesn’t have the same ring to it. The Boulevardier is pure awesomeness and you NEED to learn how to make it at home, because absolutely no one wants to be caught trying to pronounce Boulevardier in public after a drink or two.

    The Boulevardier proves that the best way to improve on the bright complexity of a Negroni is to swap out the gin and bring Whisk(e)y to the party. According to some (other) douche on the internet:

    “A simple substitution? Hardly. The bittersweet interplay between Campari and vermouth remains, but the whiskey changes the storyline. Where the Negroni is crisp and lean, the Boulevardier is rich and intriguing. There’s a small difference in the preparation, but the result is absolutely stunning.”

    Also, you’re going to change your ratio a bit. The Boulevardier can certainly be made in the simple 1:1:1 ratio of the Negroni, but these days most people up the whiskey and go for a 1.5:1:1 ratio or even a 2:1:1 ratio. For me it depends on the proof of the whiskey. Anything 80 proof automatically gets a 2:1:1 pour from me, and the 100 proof stuff usually gets a 1.5:1:1. Play with your booze of choice and find the ratio you like. The more whiskey centric your ratio is, then the more this drink turns into a riff on a Manhattan. The less whiskey you use, then the more the Campari shines and the drink is closer to a classic Negroni.

    I don’t really like Gran Classico in my Boulevardiers so I stick with Campari. As already mentioned, Bourbon and Carpano Antica are so good together they’ve got to be boning behind closed liquor cabinet doors. So stick with the Carpano Antica. (If you’re feeling cheap, then any sweet vermouth should work in a pinch. I’d stay away from Dolin though. It’s a little too light to hold up well in this booze fest).

    What whisk(e)y to pick though?

    My absolute favorite bourbon for pretty much anything is Eagle Rare. Unfortunately, neckbearded hipsters buy anything from Buffalo Trace as soon as it hits the shelves, so sometimes that’s not an option. If you’re a rye fan, then you likely already know that Rittenhouse Rye is a powerhouse that works in pretty much every whiskey cocktail. If you want to go the bourbon route, then you can’t go wrong with anything Bottled in Bond as the higher proof helps the bourbon stand up to Campari’s bullying. Old Granddad 100 (or 114 for that matter) are good choices, as is the Evan Williams 100 (but the lower proof expressions of both are too soft, weak, and girly). In general though, just pick any bottle you like and I’d bet you can find a ratio where your favorite whiskey works well with the Campari and Vermouth. Personally, I would avoid the wheaters though. That same wheaty softness that makes them so smooth also gives a slightly muted flavor profile that gets crushed by the Campari. While Weller 12 is a kickass bottle to drink neat, I find it washes out too much in most cocktails. But hey, whatever floats your boat.

    Also if you wanna get fancy schmancy you should flame your orange twist for this one, as allegedly the flamed twist pairs well with the slight smokiness of the whiskey. I don’t know. I can’t really tell much difference, but over-earnest bartenders (ahem. That’s Mixologist mother fucker) with handlebar moustaches assure me this is the case.

    Need something even MORE decadent? Ok. Let’s drink some Left Hands. The Left Hand is a Bourbon Boulevardier using Campari and Carpano Antica. But things get a little interesting by adding Chocolate Bitters and a brandied cherry garnish. Bitter Truth Xocolatl Mole bitters are generally preferred here, but Fee Brothers Aztec Chocolate Bitters will work, too. Most recipes call for 2 dashes, but I find that to be a little too understated. I usually opt for 3 or 4 (depending on the ratios and volumes I’m mixing). As previously mentioned, the Carpano Antica has some vanilla and cocoa notes that play really well with bourbon. The chocolate bitters bring those flavors to the fore and the whole thing works beautifully. Play around with it and I’m sure you’ll find a ratio you like.

    As for the brandied cherries. You can make your own like a good little hipster, but if you’re lazy like me then you simply want a jar of Luxardo Cherries. These little dark orbs of deliciousness elevate any cocktail that calls for a cherry and they don’t taste like those nasty neon-red maraschino cherries that you grew up with. Save those for your Shirley Temples. If you’ve never had Luxardo Cherries, then you are missing out. Even if you ignore all this nonsense, you should get a jar of these babies and stick ’em in pretty much any booze concoction you can come up with. Or just eat them. Mmmmmmmmm, booze cherries. Seriously. They are ridiculously good.

    Now go forth, you lushes and imbibe the bitter-sweet ambrosia of the gods. I’ve got one more shitty lecture to prepare before SPRING BREEEEEAAAAK and then I’ll be drinking myself into sweet oblivion.

  • Belated Anniversary Post

  • Glibs of Future Past – Chapter 1: The Undiscovered Country

    Undisclosed Location

    The Future

    The sounds of shells landing abated, the dust settled in the tunnel. New Guy looked around and saw that the others were recovering from the shelter stance, returning to business as usual. It had been a fiercer bombardment than usual. He checked his watch, gifted to him by an old timer just before the Battle of Chicago; it had been passed from soldier to soldier, a token of good luck. Swiss motion, 24 hour dial, even after the hardscrabble life of campaigning, it still worked beautifully.

    1357, he had his meeting with the Boss, Saint Petawatt, in three minutes.

    The shelling would resume in 13 minutes, the pajama boys operating the heavy pieces demanded a 15 minute break every hour and Herself was a generous God-Empress to the contrite and faithful. They had kept up the bombardment for months now, blasting the earth away, hitting bedrock, slowly mining it out one shell at a time. It’d takes a year to breach the honeycomb of deep bunkers at that rate. Maybe longer if they slouch on their breaks, he thought to himself.

    The tunnel he was in was one of dozens, maybe hundreds that had been carved out by ‘Steel Balls’ Sloop when the war started going south. At first it had been almost like a party, a festive atmosphere, a group of people united in just cause. Stone heads had been carved into the rock around the arsenal doorways. Sasquatch sketches appeared above the bunkhouse entrances. By christmas everyone knew that the war would turn around.

    That’d been two years ago.

    Now?

    The lights flickered weakly, the halls echoed with calls to help move ruble.  

    “Hey, you the new guy?”, a woman poked her head out from the sliding steel door next to where he was standing

    He nodded, “Yeah, is it time?”

    “Saint Petawatt will see you know.” The young blonde motioned for him to follow.

    New Guy walked through the door and down a small flight of rusting metal stairs that groaned under his average weight.

    The blonde lead him down a narrowing corridor, until they reached an office door. The pressed teakwood contrasted starkly against the dark granite. On the door a simple brass plaque: BOSS

    “Alright New Guy, Saint Petawatt doesn’t fuck around. Especially since they got the Old Man. Answer her questions, be direct, don’t be afraid.”

    The young lady knocked three times on the door and a powerful voice called from within:

    “Enter!”

    She opened the door and New Guy walked through.

    The office was small, spartanly arranged: a few shelves of combat manuals, a map of the US on the wall, marked with flags, a small blue cluster surrounded by red stood out.  On the desk, a laptop and a picture of an old man, who looked like every inch a mad scientist. Between the picture frame and laptop a Taurus Judge sat, well maintained but clearly used.

    The Boss stood, she was short with silvering hair and a hard gaze, softened behind yellow lenses. She motioned for him to sit.

    “Welcome, please take a seat. I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances, but…”, she gestured around, “There’s not many of those left these days.”

    He sat in a hardback dining room chair, the only one available.

    The Hacker pulled out a manilla folder from a file drawer and laid it on the desk. She began flipping through, and after a moment looked up.

    “Why did you join us?”

    “I’m sorry?”

    “Why are you here, in this bunker, fighting for us? It says here you were in Chicago, Herself released a general amnesty after that. You could have tossed that pin on the ground and never had to worry again.” She pointed at the pin in his collar, a face, moustached, wearing a tophat and monocle. “You didn’t, though. You stuck it out and now you’re stuck here.”

    As she spoke the ceiling began to tremble, dust falling in small streams. The barrage had begun again.

    “I’m fighting for freedom.”

    “Hmm.”

    She flipped the folder closed, “We’re losing this war, newbie, every day those shells dig another few inches out of the granite. They’ll breach our defenses eventually. There’s no way out,” she sighed and took off her yellow shaded glasses, pressing the arch of her nose with her fingertips. “We just got word, the last transmission from our bureaucratic sympathizer came through. They poisoned his breakfast, replaced his unsalted butter with salted, his tap water with mineral water. The sensation of taste caused a brainstorm. We just lost our last connection to the outside. The news he sent wasn’t great, either. The Southwest has been cleared. Vhyrus and his harem along with Sharpshooter were holding down half the pajama boys in the country. They were crushed by a landslide of brass. Now every Pajama Corps is on the way here. They were the last of us holding out, outside this bunker.

    Hell, they’re sending everything. Every Pajama Corps’, the commie mechs, they resurrected the Moment. Even Herself may be arriving soon, in all her tentacled glory.

    So, why did you join us?”

    “I want to make the world a freer place. If I die here, then I know I’ll have left a legacy, real resistance to evil power that want to conquer everything.”

    The Hacker put her glasses back on, “Well, you won’t be dying here. Hate to break it to you. But you might just get your chance to be a martyr, in another time, a different place. Come on,” she stood up, holstered her gun and gestured for New Guy to follow her. They walked over to a bookcase, she pulled a volume out and the bookcase swung away. She went down the tunnel, lit by a string of hanging lights. New Guy looked around then followed her.  

    The tunnel opened to a small room, a glass cube looking down into a large chamber with a dais in the center. Directly in front of them was a bank of screens; external camera feeds, graphs and scrolling walls of code.

    Sitting and staring at the screens in a swivel chair was a grotesque thing. A neckbeard, arms from knuckles to elbows covered with a layer of cheeto dust, a crust of unidentifiable dried, well, something, formed a sort of sheath that held the dust tight. He turned to face them, a nervous tick pulling at his cheek.

    “Petawatt! Good to see you! <Snort> It’s been some time since you graced us with you superior presence <snort>,” he collapsed into a chortingly mess at his seemingly hilarious pun.

    Petawatt shook her head, “Right. I’m here to check on the status of the Chamber.”

    “Oh, right. Yeah, I took the code Titor sent us before that whole incident at the CERN black hole. I mixed in some of my own prose. I think we’ll have enough to rip open a portal.”

    New Guy looked around, “What is this place? Nobody ever mentioned this.”

    “This is what all of Q’s bequeathment went to,” she spread her arms showing off the room. “He left a substantial amount of (((gold))) to use in the event of his death, and after those perfect holographic tits lured him over a cliff, we used his (((gold)) along with the Old Man’s to finance and build a time machine. Titor was helping before Herself’s forces trapped him in the event horizon of a singularity. The formula was incomplete, but fortunately Neckbeard over there has figured out that mixing his prose with the partial formula will activate the machine.”

    “Is that what my mission is?”

    Petawatt was about to speak when the base was shook with a massive blast. An alarm cut the air in perfect 4/4 time. Two men rushed into the room from her office tunnel.

    A large man in fatigues with a SIG SG 550 slung over his shoulder was first. Shortly behind him was another man, almost as tall, wearing a pickelhaube and sporting a perfect handlebar moustache.

    “Commander, Sloop,” she greeted them in turn. “Sitrep?”

    The commander went first, “Serious breach, looks like a shaped explosive, blew a hole through the security door at one of maintenance tunnels.”

    Sloop followed up, “We’ve got units responding, but I think this is the big one.”

    The Intercom suddenly buzzed, Imperial Troops have entered the base! I repeat. Imperial troops have entered…, the voice was just as suddenly cut off.  

    “Scheisse!”, the commander cursed.

    “GUYS!”

    They all turned to face the neckbeard, who was pointing at the screens from the exterior CCTV. The images showed thousands of pajama boys rushing the freshly blown breach. On another screen more pajama boys ran from another tunnel, just as an explosion consumed it. Once again the base shook. Several wire bundles fell from the ceiling and the lights dimmed. After the second they came back up. A third explosion tore the air. This time the lights stayed dim.

    “Damn,” the hacker exclaimed, “Damn! We need to buy more time.” She looked at Sloop, then the Commander. She gave them a slow nod and off they rushed. She slapped the neckbeard on the back. “Altright pudyanker, let’s see if we can make this work.”

    He began furiously typing. The alarms cut off, came back on, and then with a whine stopped.

    The hacker snatched a radio off the desk, “Commander, you copy?”

    “I’m here, en route to the first breech with a battalion of Swiss Guards. We’ll hold for as long as we can.”

    “Good Hunting, Commander. Rufst du, mein Vaterland! Over and Out”

    She switched through channels before getting on again, “Sloop, you copy?”

    “I’m here, got the killdozer rolling, got my amazons with me, isn’t that right, darling?” There was a loud war whoop,  “Ready to lay those commie mechs out. We’re heading for the second breach now.”

    “Good Hunting, Sloop. It’s been an honor. Over and out.”

    She turned the frequencies again, this time a general broadcast, “Attention Everyone! This is Saint Petawatt. The Boss. The Imperial forces of Herself have breached our base at multiple points. Report to your squad commanders for orders. I know that each of you will do the cause proud. Stay strong, make them pay for every inch. Do it for the Old Man, do it for the orphans, kick ass and take no prisoners!”

    “Uh, Boss,” the neckbeard pointed at the external screens again. A slithering shape cut across them. One by one the cameras cut off; a slimy, scaly tentacle the last image before static. “She’s here.”

    “Alright. Seal the room.”

    The neckbeard hit a large red button on the desk, a blast door dropped from a hidden compartment above the entrance tunnel, closing off the room.

    “Get him down there, start the process. I’ll direct it from up here,” she ordered the neckbeard, who gestured for New Guy to follow him. They went out a door on the side of the glass cube, down some stairs, out to the floor. On the dais a large glass cylinder was lowering from recessed storage.

    “They ever tell you what happened to the Old Man?”, the neckbeard asked, scratching at the orange perma-glaze on his right arm.

    “No.”

    “It was the second strike they made against us. The first was when the got HM with a supersonic shockwave from a THICC killbots’ twerking. About twenty minutes after that, us founders, we called an emergency meeting, cause we knew it was happening. Only without the Ron Paul laserlight gif. They slung 20 pounds of semtex under the Old Man’s panel van, had a chemical trigger, set to blow at the presence of underage pheromone. We were scraping him off buildings halfway across town. Couldn’t take the chance that he’d get away.” He sighed. “They’ll be scraping us off the walls of this room by tonight.” He idly scratched at his other arm, sitting in contemplation. “Well, better make sure they need a mighty big power washer.” He belched with finality.

    “So, here’s the mission you’ve already accepted: we’re using a machine to send you back in time, we need you to do two things. One, make sure that the Glibs assemble and impress upon them the warning of doom from the future. If we are united and given a forewarning we stand a better chance. Two, once we’re assembled you need to use your future knowledge to help us find a counter-candidate to leverage against Herself. Someone so different that Herself won’t be able to beat them, like Rand Paul, but with charisma.”

    “But why me? I’m just, well, I’m nothing special.”

    “Yeah but you’re an unknown normie. They nailed Titor, Guy. You don’t just ice a time traveller without knowledge of how they operate. That means the forces of Herself might just have access to time travel. They know our faces. If one of us went back, well they’d try and stop it. But you? Eh, they’ll not see it coming. Why would we choose some rando from the ranks, right? Uh no offense,” he finished with a nervous chuckle.

    ‘Alright, come on,” he extended a hand. New Guy demurred, stepping up on the dias himself.

    “Well, while Saint Petawatt is revving the system, let’s see how it’s going, shall we?”, Neckbeard flipped in the walkie clipped to his belt.

    The radio was set to cycle, the white noise was intercut with horror.

    “This is tunnel three, flamethrowers ineffective against tentacles.”

    “Has anyone seen the killdozer? Red Mechs are in bay 12, we’re getting slaughtered.”

    “If anyone can hear me, tell my wife I-”

    “…стрелять в них всех…”

    The last transmission he got before he flipped it off was simply the slurping sound of tentacles knotting and pulsating with excitement.

    Turning, the Neckbeard waved at the Hacker, the intercom clicked on, “Yeah?”

    “You listening to the radio, boss?”

    “No. I’m revving up the machine. Why?”

    “It’s bad. I’d say from the chatter you got five min-”

    The blast door sounded, a deep –CLANG-

    Then another -CLANG- and another.

    A buckle appeared, a dent, from their low vantage point they couldn’t see the door properly but they could see Saint Petawatt snatch up a shotgun from its boot under the table, sling it over her shoulder.

    Neckbeard looked at New Guy, in rushed and aspie tones, “If you would kindly step onto the circle, please, now please.”

    New Guy stepped in the circle on the dais, the cylinder above him began to lower.

    ~

    There was another loud -CLANG-, the blast door fell inwards. Saint Petawatt spun around, hurriedly typing, smashing a key before a figure emerged from the dust cloud.

    ~

    From the dais, they could only see the top of its head. A glorious shock of blonde hair.

    ~

    The figure was across the glass room in a second, with a single blow it swiped at the Saint Petawatt, throwing her through the glass wall and onto the floor below. She rolled as she landed, coming up to a kneeling position, slinging her shotgun around and leveling her aim. The figure hopped down the the cube.

    ~

    The cylinder had lowered completely around New Guy. Neckbeard stood close. Working feverishly on a dropdown laptop. Laser focused, seemingly unaware of the action to his back.

    ~

    “Libertarian Moment!” The man proclaimed, running a hand through the hair and pulling the leather jacket straight. His face was shocking jigsaw of sewn together flesh, oozing pus from the rough stitching. “Join us <Facial Software Scan>, Saint Petawatt, <Scan> Supra Prime,<Scan> Surprise Pe-”, Saint Petawatt blasted the man in the face, the shot sluiced away the sewn skin, bits of green pus and blood painted the wall behind him.

    The voice raised an octave, “To be sure, your act of aggressive self defense is justified but it won’t stop the,” octave drop, “Libertarian Moment!”

    A metal skull with yellow glowing eyes fixed on the Boss. The machine advanced, one step at a time, with each step another burst of buckshot tore away skin, revealing the machine beneath. The Jacket and Hair remained pristine.

    Neckbeard finally finished on the laptop, spun around, pulling a large revolver from his threadbare sweatpants.

    Saint Petawatt fired the last shell, but the Moment kept advancing, now stripped save for the Jacket and Hair from the waist up, the pants and leg flesh sheared off, like a snake molting. It reached her, grasping her throat with metal fingers.

    Neckbeard fired. The first round took out an eye, the next round the other. The Moment dropped the Hacker and clutched at its blown out sockets. He walked quickly across the room, emptying the wheel gun into the chest of the bot, with each round another burst of sparks shot out.

    Getting to Saint Petawatt he gave her a hand up, “The honor is yours, milady,” he bowed and extended his arm towards the twitching machine.

    She stepped forward and fished out her pistol. The blind and dying robot groped out, looking for flesh to rend, but she sidestepped the arms and pressed the barrel against the machine’s head.

    “My website was better.”

    She pulled the trigger, the metal skull exploded into bits of hot steel and silicon.

    With a deep sigh she holstered the gun, turned towards New Guy, gave a thumbs up, then patted neckbeard on the arm, “Good shooting, pudyanker. We’ll get you that creepy cartoon pillow, yet.”

    There was a squealing noise as the Hat and Hair tried to slither away, find another bot to assimilate.

    “Oh no you don’t!”, she fished into her pocket and pulled out two neon red shells. Quickly, she grabbed up the shotgun, racked the rounds and fired. A burst of flame shot from the barrel, then another, incinerating the crawling things.

    “Are we ready?”, she turned to Neckbeard

    He nodded eagerly, “Yeah, we’re ready, just got to hit the ignition.”

    At that moment there was a terrible noise. A sopping roar, that chilled all living things to the bones. New Guy felt it in the cylinder, he doubled over, doing his best not shit himself in fear.

    A tendril crawled through the broken glass of the now ruined control room above them. Then a larger tentacle followed. Soon a great whirling mass appeared, it’s trembling tip turning about, searching for something. The mass shivered with anticipation when it honed in on the Petawatt and the Neckbeard.

    “Get to the keyboard,” she whispered from the side of her mouth.

    Neckbeard turned and scrambled up the dais. His movement triggered the wet, green mass, which shot out, knocking the Hacker over, then subsuming her in a mess of slimy appendages. Several thin tentacles wrapped around Neckbeard, even as he reached out to hit the final key. They swarmed over his body, seeking purchase and perhaps more.

    “Tentacle rape? Really? I’ve had wet dreams worse than this,” Neckbeard snarked, in a single clenching movement of his laborious cheeks he sheared off some tentacle ends, this shocked them enough to slack just enough. He hit the Enter key.

    The great roar was renewed. A helmet dropped down from the ceiling, blocking out New Guy’s vision. There was a bright flash and suddenly his mind was filled with dates, names, addresses. The helmet retracted, the cylinder was surrounded.

    With Octopus-like tenacity the tentacles were seeking out a single crevice. The chamber began filling with gas. Blue, smelling of marijuana and petrichor. New Guy suddenly felt a falling sensation, his vision dilated. The cylinder cracked open, a thousand tentacles burst in. A single one wrapped itself around him before darkness fell.