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07 Aug 03 - 01:28 PM (#998439) Subject: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Peter T. In the third year of the 21st century, strange signs of activity began to appear on the fourth planet from the Sun, Mars. This activity coincided with the extraordinary phenomenon of a closer dance between the great planets of Earth and Mars than had been known since the pause between Ice Age 3 and Ice Age 4, when Homo misnamed sapiens began to rise to what passes for consciousness. Early in the summer, and strangely unreported in the press, due to the usual glut of war news and pictures of semi-clad semi-famous women in the papers of record, brief flashes of light appeared on the surface of Mars. A flurry of e-mails among eminent astronomers, many of whom had been burned in the previous year's comet hitting Earth story, eventually discounted the flashes as aberrations in the main telescope on Mt. Palomar observatory that had been the telescope of record. Curiously enough, a folk musician with a side hobby in astronomy, had also, the same night, wandered out into his backyard while the song circle of which he was a part was mangling "The Water is Wide", and seen the strange flashes in his souped up reflector, which he put down to dope. The government of the United States, somewhat paralysed by the stupidity of its senior leadership, though informed of these events, was ordered to "stay on message", which did not include Mars. As Secretary of Secrets, Dafft McDafft said at the time: "We have no information at this time that Mars has links to Al-Qaeda, which you must admit makes it somewhat unique on Earth." When informed that Mars was, in fact, not on Earth, Mr. McDafft merely responded: "Whatever." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * August 7. Daybreak. "Marge." "Mmffmm?" Marge had trouble getting up early in the morning. This was her one complaint about farming, except for the fact that she was the breadwinner in the family, given the state of farming. "Ain't never seen anything like it. Must be some kind of meteor. Just crashed in down along the back 40." Marge took a sip of her coffee. "How about a light plane, one of the Kennedys maybe?" She was an avid reader of every grocery store tabloid. "What would a Kennedy be doing in Iowa?" "Howard Dean is here, anything could land here. Early primary, you know." "Well, I don't know." "Of course it could be those Martians." "What Martians?" "You see, Ty, that is what comes of your not keeping up with current events. If you read the National Sleaze, you would know better." "Was that the smiley face on the moon issue, or the one with the cucumber with J-Lo's behind engraved on it?" Ty was not one for tabloids. "Shows. Shows. I will have you know that there has been an extensive correspondence in the Letters to the Editor in the National Sleaze between the leader of the Martian army and various concerned American citizens for months now." "'Bout what?" "Concerning" -- he hated how she tried to improve his English during conversations -- "Concerning their preparations to engage in a pre-emptive strike against what they see are Earth's buildup of weapons of mass destruction. They think Earth is proposing to take over the solar system." "Are we?" "We launched 4 satellites in the last 3 months heading for Mars. Xanthrobbl, their Fearless Clarboth, believes them to be spy satellites for a future Earth invasion." Ty scratched his head. "And you believe this stuff?" Marge looked at her husband, considered the ins and outs of divorce yet again, put it back in the pending bin, and replied: "Xanthrobbl seems to mean business. Of course, there are some doubtful parts to his story." "Such as?" "He wants Julia Roberts as a hostage." Ty looked at Marge, and then out the window. In the distance, a thin trail of smoke could be seen rising from over the waving fields of genetically modified corn. It was probably time to see if there was anything in this. "Well, better go have a look. Want to come along?" "No, got to get the kids ready for school. If it is Martians, Ty, be sure and get a picture. National Sleaze pays big dollar, and we need big dollars right about now." She was always bitching about money, sighed Ty to himself. He went out to the den, got his camera, kicked the dog, and headed out. |
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07 Aug 03 - 01:50 PM (#998457) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: mack/misophist I understand. We all have boring days from time to time. But why write about it? |
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07 Aug 03 - 01:59 PM (#998466) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,Jaime Olayson - reporter for the 'National S Jaime drove east-by-northeast through Lower South Upper West Kneadawhore* Iowa just as dawn was breaking on the horizon. He winced as the light sliced through his optic nerves, sensatized as they were by the hours spent perusing the internet for ideas for a new feature column in the 'Sleaze'. He knew if he could only attract the editorial attentions of Jr. Assistant Coordinator (articles,sub-supervisory)Pre-editor Lana Lewis his career in tabloid journalism would be made. Just as he passed the billboard reading "Welcome to East Lower South Upper West Keadawhore" Jaime noticed a trail of smoke rising from the back 40 of the nearest farm. Slowing his car, he watched the emergence of a farmer from the dusty farmhouse, who exited with some sort of device cradled in his arms, and followed closely by a limping hound. |
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07 Aug 03 - 02:03 PM (#998470) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST *Kneadawhore - from the ainciant cahokia work needahour, meaning "D*mn this place is flat!" |
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07 Aug 03 - 02:15 PM (#998480) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Peter T. * * * * * * * * * * * * August 7. 2:00 p.m. Paris, France The telephone rang, in that French way. "Allo?" "Hello, is this Monsieur Truffle, the eminent French film director?" "I have that privilege, and who might I be speaking with?" "Hello, my name is Lana Lewis. I work for a major American newspaper, and we are working on an article about some astonishing coincidences that seem to involve you, your last film, "Champs de Mars" and the impending attack of Martians." "I am tres sorry, but I -- " "No, seriously, Monsieur Truffle, they are truly eerie." Monsieur Truffle had had his fill of Americans for one day. The war in Iraq was one thing, but his French-American liason officer had somehow talked him in to having a breakfast meeting with possible buyers from Miramax for his new film, L'Attacque des Champignons; which had not gone well. Even the croissants were unfortunate. He put down the phone, silencing the babbling voice at the other end, and turned back over in bed to continue his in depth discussion of the symbolism of Jean Vigo with Marie Oscur, his crack editor and current mistress. |
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07 Aug 03 - 03:29 PM (#998517) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST AhHdewronron dove into the ice tower of the Supreme Clarboth - secure in the knowledge that the higher officials of the Clarbothick were all occupied with the impending invasion of Nextinner (known to the indegines as "earth"). The play of light through the dust impregnated ice glowed softly in the near-purple; casting AhHdewronron's scales into near-ecstacy - and incidentally displaying them to the best advantage to the Clarboth personal's event-adjucator coiled in the closest niche of the tower's interior. AhHdewronron had been waiting for many slowmoon cycles for the event-adjucator's non-neuter phase to coincide with AhHdewronron's own phase shift. At last - the time had arrived. |
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07 Aug 03 - 09:48 PM (#998713) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Bee-dubya-ell August,10 The Sunday sun was shining intermittently on the 100,000 plus fans who had flocked to the Hawlinassa Memorial Speedway for the 19th annual RiddaCrudd 400. This year's race was especially important because the pollsitters, Bubba Clem Jeter and Elroy "Redman" Jernigan were locked in a tight race for the leadership of the NARBWA* points board. A new attendance record had been set for this year's race and many of the fans parked in the infield had been partying since Friday evening, drinking coolers full of Budweiser, waving flags (both Union and Confederate), farting, urinating off of the tops of hundred-thousand-dollar recreational vehicles, mooning each other at will and just generally having a good old time. At 11:00 AM, infield denizens Mikey Joe Cruddup and his brother-in-law Buford Lee Batten grabbed their "Live Free or Die" folding chairs and staggered up the ladder to the top of Buford's "Poor Man's Winnebago" (a converted worn out potato chip delivery van) to get a better view of the start of the race. They had just settled in with fresh Miller Lites in hand when the pace car pulled off of the track and the crowd cheered as the race began in earnest. Bubba Clem and Redman were neck-and-neck and battling for the lead when a bright silver car with no markings appeared to pull away from the rear of the pack, passed everybody else like they were blue-haired grandmas out for Sunday drives and took the lead. "Who in the hell is that?" exclaimed Mikey Joe. "I been to six races this year and I ain't never seen that car before." "The question ain't 'Who in the hell is that?'" replied Buford Lee, "It's 'What in the hell is that?' If you hadn't had so many of them beers last night you mightta noticed that that car don't got no wheels, ya damned moron." "Well I'll be shit!" replied Mikey Joe. "When they start lettin' cars with no wheels in these races?" "No, ya damned idjit!" hollered Buford Lee in exasperation. "It ain't a car! It's some sorta flyin' thing. Must be one of them publicity gimmicks or something...." The rest of what Buford Lee was going to say was forgotten as the thunderous racecar engines suddenly all went dead quiet at the same time. Silence fell like whatever silence falls like. The only sounds to be heard were coming from a handful of rooftop boomboxes, but they quickly exploded, cutting off the strains of "Sweet Home Alabama" and prompting numerous dives from RV roofs in mostly futile attempts to escape plastic shrapnel. As the powerless racing cars coasted to a halt, the little silver vehicle continued around the track and pulled to a stop right on the finish line. A door - well, maybe it was a hatch - opened up and a slender fellow about four feet tall dressed in a suit that appeared to be made of the same material as his vehicle stepped out. "Hi, ya'll." the little fellow announced. Somehow, nobody found it at all unusual that he was able to broadcast over the speedway's PA system without using a microphone. "My name is Trom Bron. That's Martian for Willy Joe. I hate to mess up ya'll's afternoon like this, but me and my buddies was flyin' over and seen this big crowd down here and thought maybe ya'll could help us out. Now don't go gettin' scared or nuthin'. We ain't here to attack ya'll or anything like that. We was sent here to try to locate a feller that escaped from one of our Martian insane asylums and we just thought that seein' as how there's so many of ya'll here, maybe one or two of you might have heard of him. His name's Mushky Ib Wannba in Martian and I think that translates to George W. Bush in English. If any of ya'll know where this feller is we need to get him back to Mars in a hurry. The time-release drugs that have kept him in a state sorta resembling a human being are about to wear out. In a few more days he's gonna turn into, well, let's just say that the situation's gonna get real fecoventilatory if you know what I mean." TO BE CONTINUED.... * NARBWA: National Association of Redneck Boys With Attitudes |
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07 Aug 03 - 10:07 PM (#998720) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Rapparee On hot summer nights, when the mosquitoes buzzed incessantly and the air hung like a wet, smothering sheet, they would sit on the front stoop and hope for a breath of breeze. Almost always they were rewarded only with the cloying scent of honeysuckle, which hung around them like miasma. "What's that up there?" he asked. "That red thing?" "Mars," she replied. "You'd know that it's at its closest approach in 60,000 years if you'd watch something on television besides professional wrestling." He burped, then drained his can of Budweiser. "That reminds me. That outdoor show I like is on. They got a good one tonight about using enough gun when you hunt catfish. Oughta be important to watch, what with the catfish-huntin' season just around the corner." And he went inside. She heard the toilet flush, and then the noise of the television. God, she thought. If what she heard was right and Mars was going to attack, was there any way she could direct them to him first? |
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07 Aug 03 - 11:29 PM (#998759) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: katlaughing (Aside: Bravo! Good starts ya'll! Peter..."crack editor?" Conjures up all sorts of possibilities other than the usual!:-) |
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08 Aug 03 - 06:15 AM (#998863) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Leo Condie August 12th GUY WITH STUPID NAME DESTROYS CHANCE OF HUMANITY SURVIVING WASHINGTON (CNN) -- In what critics are calling "a good excuse to make fun of that ridiculous surname", Vice-President Arnold Schwarzenegger today scuppered any hope of a peaceful resolution to the looming Mars crisis when he announced his plan to run for the position of Supreme Clarboth. Viewers of the So Late That It Actually Ends Up Being Broadcast On The Following Morning at 10am show were shocked as he announced his intentions to the presenter, the late Strom Thurmond. His appearance attracted millions of patriotic Americans to tune in to the show, where he first of all joked that he intended to "kill doze stoopid marshans, ja?", unfortunately causing a kloghrikkkktor missile to fire at some other continent, wiping it off the face of the earth. Film critics and political analysts alike are condemning this move. One such journalist, Jimmy Bogger of the New York Times, wrote: "This move will do absolutely nothing for the journalistic profession. There is neither sex nor scandal involved in this little escapade, and frankly, I think Schwarzenegger has lost the plot. And what is the deal with his name? What a shit. Jesus." Patriotic Citizens, however, greeted the news with a blank look, thanks in part to the Department Of Homeland Security's newly implemented and entirely constitutional Remove People's Brains law. Donald Rumsfeld is 72. |
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08 Aug 03 - 02:36 PM (#999066) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,John Hardly not to worry. I've done the calculations. Considering travel time, the invasion would have to already be underway in order for the invasion to reach here by the end of August. Also, with the cost of gas these days, no invading force could afford the trip. |
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08 Aug 03 - 02:40 PM (#999068) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST one word solution to that. beans |
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08 Aug 03 - 03:06 PM (#999076) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: MMario From:Jaime Olyason To:Lana Lewis Subject: Spaceship Landing at Kneadawhore, Iowa Message:WHAT do you MEAN no one is interested?!?! I'm telling you this is an actual spaceship - in the cornfield of some farmer named Tyke - or somedamthing. It was still hot from re-entry when we got there! Honest! Lana - I *swear* this isn't anything like the crocodile-kid from last june - no fake, no nothing. honest to god flying saucer stuff! And the Sleaze has exclusive rights. Tide (or whatever his name is) was still kinda groggy - not enough caffiene in that boys diet if you ask me - I got him to sign an exclusive contract with us - he thought it was a phot-release. Look - you are the JACASS pre-editor - at least try to get me through to an actual Editor. Jaime ps- Last friday was great - we should do it again some time. J. PPS - YES! I turned my expenses in! YEESH! |
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08 Aug 03 - 03:06 PM (#999077) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Peter T. August 8. London. A press room off the Houses of Parliament. "Right. Next question -- Dominic?" "Professor Challenger, many people are saying that the rash of sightings of meteors and comets are part of what the Americans refer to as the "silly season", and that there is no threat of invasion from Martians. How do you respond?" Professor Challenger, dean of exobiology, looked up from behind his spectacles, which glimmered in the light from the overhead projector he had been using to describe the nature of the local solar system. "As a wise man once said, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. While it is true that no trace of EE life has been located --" "EE life?" "Sorry, jargon. 'Earth equivalent'. The biochemical structure is not there, unless there is either (a) a very powerful screening mechanism being generated by the beings who inhabit Mars for no real purpose that I can see; or (b) they are of a completely different biological pattern entirely; or (c) it is all a Jodrell Bank." A buzz ran through the press. Dominic, the dean of reporters, interrupted again. "Are there reports from Jodrell Bank?" Professor Challenger smiled briefly, cleared his throat, and said: "No, there seems to be something interfering with transmissions from all the radio telescopes around the world, linked to the incredible surge in sunspot activity over the last week. It is wreaking havoc with a range of galactic experiments." And so on. Eventually the conference ground to a halt. Professor Challenger mopped his brow, and sidled out of the hall, found an exit, and, on a whim, decided to clear his brain with a walk alongside the Thames. He tipped his hat to Boudicca's statue, and went out into the middle of the bridge, traffic dwindling in the late evening, the river spangled with broken images of London by night. He looked up in the sky to the southeast, where Mars, the source of all the fuss, was on the rise, barely registering in the bright night haze. |
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09 Aug 03 - 04:04 PM (#999472) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: JenEllen August 9, dawn in the Midwest Timothy "Webmaster" Fontaine sat in his vinyl booth at the Squeeze Inn and watched her from afar. She was what the guys, in the shop class that Tim failed, called a 'carpenter's dream'. Her denim shorts covered bony hips, and the twin bandannas she'd fashioned into a halter top covered nothing at all. Her platform sandals only served to accentuate her long, thin legs, and her overall appearance was otherworldly, to say the least. Tim thought to himself that this would be to his favour, for if they were found by the Martians, they might take kindly to a human who was paired with one of their own. Tim concentrated on his menu as she walked past. "Webby?" she ventured, pausing for a moment on her way to the bathroom. "Um, Pamela, hi." he answered Tim killed the engine and the headlights as they turned off the main road to the farm, but his Grandmother knew the precise moment he'd returned. Grandmother's intuition, she'd always claim, but the truth was she was constantly worried for her grandson, and probably kept him closer than would be considered 'normal'. She peered from her upstairs window to see Timothy and a girl exit the cab of the truck. She smiled to herself as she climbed back into bed beside a snoring Grandpa: Timmy's got a girlfriend. Pamela stifled a nervous giggle as they entered the kitchen. Webby shot her a withering glare that she completely ignored. Tim thought his high-school nickname came from his knowledge of computers, which was pretty scarce in these parts, but Pamela knew that it came from the guys who'd taken phys.ed with Tim, and after seeing him in the showers had certain questions about the lack of branching on Tim's family tree. Tim's sock feet and Pamela's thick cork soles hid the sound of their retreat to the basement. Tim's oasis was lit by a single bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling. 60 watts doesn't go far in the dark and dank, and Pamela found herself both marveling at the tidy space and rubbing the goosebumps from her bare arms. "Hungry?" Webby asked, and when she nodded yes, he led her to a paisley TV tray flanked by two overturned apple crates. She sat and absentmindedly rubbed a bruise on her shin while he messed with a plate of sandwiches and opened twin bottles of soda. As they ate their olive-loaf sandwiches, Tim told her why he'd fashioned the storm cellar as he had. The Martians were coming, he was going to be prepared, he was going to survive. Pamela's eyes remained flat to any observer, but in her mind, they were the size of dinner plates. This guy was a fucking fruit-loop. She rationalized it, as she always did at closing time, and continued to nibble the crust of her bread as Tim continued the much-practiced speech of his plan to survive, and eventually infiltrate Martian society. "....and that is where you come in," he finished with a flourish, "....my pure bride, my Eve." At this, Pamela choked mid-drink and copious amounts of grapefruit soda dribbled from her nose. "I saw you last weekend with Jack Cooper at the grocery store," Tim continued, handing her a paper napkin, "You said you wouldn't get in his car and go with him because you were saving yourself, well, this is what you were saving yourself for." At this, Pamela laughed and her smile was wide enough to take Tim's pickup truck in sideways. She used the tissue to both wipe the grapefruit foam from her upper lip and the tears from her eyes. "Had I been drinking?" she offered "Sometimes I'm a virgin when I've drank too much..." She collapsed into laughter again and only stopped the split second before he punched her in the face. That Web-Toed sonofabitch HIT me! was her last thought before Tim hit her again, and again, and again, and again. Grandma lay in bed, she'd heard a muffled female laugh and then a rhythmic thumping against the support pillars in the basement. The cobwebs fell away from her passions and she reminisced as she watched snoring Grandpa sleep. She rose and looked out the window again to see Timothy in the dawn, carrying his spent lady-love to the barn. To be young and in love she thought as she snuggled back into bed. Timothy walked behind the barn and scraped a small hollow into the manure pile. He threw Pamela and her bony limbs into the pile with no regret. Today's straw and manure would cover her body, and with the Martian attack imminent, he was sure no one would ever find her. He cleaned the stalls as numbly as he ever did, and scattered the offal across the spot where Pamela lay. He wiped his forehead and sniffed the air as the smell of bacon and eggs wafted out to the barnyard. The one thing that never crossed the breakfast-cooking Grandma's mind as she sipped her tea and perused her "National Sleeze Martian Issue" magazine was that there are worse things on Earth than in all the heavens combined. |
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09 Aug 03 - 10:00 PM (#999520) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Rapparee "We have cultivated them long enough," The Rangathor said with a careless wave of his bejeweled tentacle. "It is now time to harvest." |
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09 Aug 03 - 10:05 PM (#999522) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Bee-dubya-ell The continuation.... Now folks, here's the situation. From a logical point of view, of all the possible places that Trom Bron and his crew of Martian looney-catchers could have chosen to inquire about the whereabouts of George W. Bush, a stock car race should have been the last one they would have chosen. Sure, there may have been 100,000 people there, but of that 100,000 people, 99,999 thought that George W. Bush was just slightly less holy than God. The sole dissenter was a reporter in the press box who regularly wrote for the Arts and Music section of a nearby metropolitan newspaper, but who had been pressed into service as a sports reporter when the paper's usual racing beat reporter accidentally shot off the little toe on his left foot. Had Trom Bron and crew stopped off at a folk festival or a jam-band festival and asked if anyone had heard of George W. Bush the almost unanimous answer would have been, "Hell yeah. We know where the sumbitch is. He stole the Presidency, wrecked the economy and started an unprovoked war. You say he belongs in a Martian looney bin? Take him! Get his ass outta here! Goodbye and good riddance! You guys wanna smoke some of this before you go?" But, at the Hawlinassa Memorial Speedway their inquiry met with stoney silence. The entire crowd save that one reporter - and he wasn't going to open his mouth for fear of severe bodily harm from the 99,999 severely brainwashed people there - replied, "Who? Never heard of him. You sure you got the right planet?" So, Trom Bron climbed back into his little silver vehicle, turned control of the speedway PA back over to the track announcer, fired the racecar engines back up and allowed the race to resume. He took a quick farewell lap around the track and shot straight up into the stratosphere. From the top of the one-time potato chip delivery van Mikey Joe Cruddup looked over at his brother-in-law Buford Lee Batten and asked, "Hey, was that a man or a woman? Awful short for a feller, but I didn't see no tits. Whatcha think?" Buford lee responded by taking a cold Budweiser out of the cooler, giving it a vigorous shake and opening it directly under Mikey Joe's nose, sending a stream of cold carbonated beer into his sinus cavities and causing the most excruciating pain Mikey Joe had ever experienced. "I swear to God, boy. When I get home I think I'm gonna shoot my Mamma for havin' a daughter dumb enough to marry a sack of shit like you." ***************** Meanwhile, in Washington D.C. the time released drugs in the system of the being Earthlings knew as George W. Bush were slowly wearing off. In seventeen more days, on August, 27 he would be revealed in his true Martian identity. All over the world, people were speculating about a Martian attack that would happen on that date. Hah! Little did they know that the Martians were already among them and that the worst of them all, the one who had caused such devastation to the surface of the planet Mars that its inhabitants now had to live underground, invisible to their Terran neighbors, held the most powerful position on the planet Earth. To be continued.... maybe.... if I feel like it.... |
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10 Aug 03 - 10:57 AM (#999667) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Peter T. August 10. Lana Lewis' apartment, Manhattan. Dear Diary, At last a day away from two headed dogmen -- my editors -- and a few minutes to talk to myself, for example, about what possessed me to give in to Jaime, who, for God's sake, uses CAPITAL LETTERS to make emphases, which my Columbia journalism professor used to say was -- but he was better at relative clauses than relations anyway -- must clean this place up (after? before?) the Martian attack. Still fuming about being hung up on Monsieur Truffle, whoops, lost a "by" there, especially given that great voice, wouldn't mind being directed by him -- Eh bien, Lana, you are sitting in le Cafe de Deux Magots, Sartre is there, Simone is there, and you are naked, and when you get up and walk through the Left Bank, Sartre's walleye straightens up of its own accord, and you are given the Croix de Guerre for services to France.... Where was I? Must get that frog on the phone, where is that book. Course I will have to pay for it, but I am the indefatigable, intrepid, Jimmy Olson type. Well, at least this time he was decent, may have had something to do with the buzzing of the Eiffel Tower last night by a bunch of souped up demitasse cups and saucers. When I pointed out the startling coincidence that the 4 sites that have reported funny things are exactly the 4 sites from the first 20 minutes of "Rencontres Intimates de la Quatrieme", he got very quiet. Especially since both of us knew that in the next 20 minutes of the film, the director of the film in the film is abducted. So we are on for an interview Tuesday, if I can get to Paris. IF I CAN GET TO PARIS. Hah. Hmm. Maybe that Jaime is on to something. |
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10 Aug 03 - 09:14 PM (#999978) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Matt_R In Las Cruces, New Mexico, 9-year-old Jaime Morales adjusted his 4.5" German-mount refractor to gain a more focused view of his target, the planet Mars. The media hype over the historic apogee of Mars had filled his pre-adolescent mind with unbridled excitement. His goal achieved, he gazed long at the Red Planet quavering in his telescope's lens. The dark canyons, the bright sandy expanses ... Jaime knew the Martian landscape uncommonly well for a boy of his age. Gustav Mahler pounded in his head. As he directed his gaze heavenward, he slowly became aware of a slight disturbance in the atmosphere above him. Jaime's great-grandfather, a tribal elder at Mesa III on the Hopi reservation, had an uncanny, spiritual intuition about the weather. Jaime had inherited the same intuition but to a smaller degree. He kept it a secret between him and his great-grandfather. But it was active now, and he perceived an increase in temperature above him that grew consistenly hotter. As the heat because swelteringly oppressive, Jaime sensed a sharp pain in his hand. He jerked back from his telescope to find it's metal frame drooping noticably. In a sudden flash of insight, he dove behind one of the several monolithic sandstone boulders that lay in his family's back yard. The heat increased steadily. With a burst of energy, he shot off like hare across the yard toward his house. An intense humming filled his ears. He stopped in his tracks and looked upward to see a large black disk hovering above him. He was overcome with heat, and knew no more. |
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10 Aug 03 - 11:16 PM (#1000057) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: mg In Roswell, New Mexico, all the Pepsi machines started blinking in code. mg |
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11 Aug 03 - 09:16 AM (#1000187) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Peter T. "Challenger." "'Allo, Professor, how is the melting season where you are?" "Truffle?" "The same, mon ami." "I hear that Alpes Maritimes are actually Alpes Maritimes." "I suspect that we will be hearing about global warming from our activist collegues, n'est-ce pas? But on to business. I have received a disturbing telephone call from an American journalist, who has pointed out the coincidences between the sitings to date and the ones mentioned in "Rencontres". As Scientific Advisor to that film, I thought you might be able to shed some light on it for me." Challenger got up and turned the air conditioning down. "Fascinating, Truffle, fascinating, hadn't made the connection myself at all. Sheer coincidence as far as I know. After all, I didn't choose the sites, or not all of them, anyway. You chose the one in Iowa I recall --" There was a brief cough on the other end of the line. Monsieur Truffle had been bedding a cornfed starlet at the time of filming. "Well, but Challenger --" "Perhaps, if there are Martians, they got a copy of the film. Video night on the Sea of Capellanus." "You are joking, mon ami, but you forget that I am abducted in the film. Of course, in the film I am abducted by Emmanuelle Beart, which is unlikely." "We should all be so lucky, comrade." "This American girl says that she has some other material that she is willing to share with me when she arrives. She is coming to interview me tomorrow. Would you be willing to participate at some point by telephone?" There was a high whine and a shriek and a long silence at the other end of the line. "Allo? Allo? Allo?" And the line went dead. |
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11 Aug 03 - 09:35 AM (#1000199) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST From:Lana Lewis To: Jaime Olayson Subject Your latest submission Message: jimbo - You actually expect our readers to believe that a soda machine in Roswell has spelled out the entire text of 'War of the Worlds' in Morse code? Puh-leese! There *is* a limit to the gullibilty of the public despite what some politicians may think. and as far as the "sighting" by your little namesake in New Mexico - I've told you before that there will be NO nepotism in *my* section of the paper. I don't care if he's not related to you - we both know he was named after you because his grandfather thinks you are the next Pulitzer. Ha! Right! JACASS Pre-Editor Lewis ps - wednesday was even better then friday. See you sometime this week? Lana PPS: What the hell is a mobile personal enviromental regulator and why in G*d's name would you spend $1,243 dollars to buy one? and what makes you think I'll approve it on your expense form? L. |
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11 Aug 03 - 09:55 AM (#1000207) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST NATIONAL SLEAZE |
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11 Aug 03 - 01:16 PM (#1000309) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos It was late Monday night, and there was no reason to be at the hangar, but Soren "Slate" Magnussen had a flair for doing things for reasons others could not see. So he was there, as the moon crept up out of Sheepshead Bay, cleaning the nacelles on the sole asset of Magnussen Charter, until the nose of the little corporate-style jet twinkled lustily in the moonlight. He felt a deep, abiding affection for the little jet, even though she was hocked to the ailerons, and when he wasn't protmoting a contract or actually flying someone -- which was most of the time -- he enjoyed just making her look perfect -- even at 1:30 in the morning. He would lose himself int he detail work, polishing and tuning and tweaking his love until she looked perfect. So he didn't hear the footsteps coming across the tarmac of the Sheepshead Flyers airport until they were so close the person might have been walking right over him, except he was up on one of the wings polishing a cowling, and she...well, she was on the ground. "Excuse me...I'm looking for Mister Magnussen." He tightened a holding screw, wiped the surface one more time, ran quickly throuogh a mental list of possible cololection agencies who might be looking for him, and looked down at her, deciding to take a chance. "I suppose you found him. What's on your mind?" "My name's Lewis, Mister Magnussen -- Lana Lewis. I need to get to Paris by tomorrow morning....and I understand you can help me." He climbed down and dropped the last few feet to the ground, shoving the polishing rag into his back pocket. He was taller than she had thought, a good six feet four, broad shouldered, and he had one of those Swedish dimples in his square chin that makes some people look terribly masculine. "Maybe I can, Miss Lewis, and maybe not. For one thing, there's the question of a charter fee." "I am sure we can make some sort of satisfacotry arrangement...." And she steered him slowly back across the tarmac, holding his arm in the moonlight, explaining in throaty, soft but urgent tones what she had in mind. |
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11 Aug 03 - 05:03 PM (#1000449) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,Kabaloo Borrough, biographer He was a stowaway on the Spaceship of Life; one of only a few who knew for a fact that there was intelligent life "out there" for sure. This whole Martian thing was some kind of elaborate spoof, OR the Martians had inbred so much they'd dumbed down, for as his hero, Sir Arthur C. Clarke, was heard to say, "The best proof of intelligent life in space is that it hasn't come here." Back to that stowaway bit...he was a pimple on the arse of most people whom he met: short, nerdy, pop-bottle glasses, permanent squint. They called him Mr. Magoo, but his real name was Fairly Pute with a silent "e" (yes, he had strange parents, test-tubes themselves it seemed some days.) He didn't mind the Mr. Magoo, except he was only in his twenties, that is twenty hundreds and this century's real Mr. Magoo had to have been at least four times that. So, he was unwanted by the fairer sex, a social inept caught up in the flotsam of jettisoned science, exploration of the nether regions of the Universe, and the fiance of a transplanted Martian back from when they had intelligence but were still stupid enough to fall in love, with another species no less, and emigrate. His beloved was name Xselion Bethers, she was a princess of a lesser region on the back side of Mars, the blue side no one ever sees, and they'd been engaged for a very long time. Now, with the coming invasion, they were both thinking it might be time to finally tie the knot so that she would get permanent resident status and not have to go back to rule in her parents' stead over those idiots she left behind. Besides...she'd just had all 37 of her nails polished, which worried him...they were quite long and very red. |
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11 Aug 03 - 07:23 PM (#1000510) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,Arnold Schwarzenegger i will now take questions from the press. sorry, i did not hear your question about whethuh the ma-shuns have invaded. |
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11 Aug 03 - 11:00 PM (#1000613) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: mg 11 August 2003 Well, the whole entire population of Roswell is having a bad hair day. All hair products ceased to work today...teenagers won't leave the house...frizz for some, flathead for some, lank locks, undone permanents....there are lines outside some of the beauty shops...metrosexual men are having a time of it too..the older men who were never quite comfortable with goo on their hair hit the barber shops and all went back to crew cuts. |
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12 Aug 03 - 12:01 AM (#1000637) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos Slate Magnussen used to brag that his little Transcon two-engine 6-passenger executive charter jet was so smart and so balanced, it could fly itself. And at 34000 feet high over the rhythmic, slow, summery swell of the Atlantic, he was giving it the opportunity as he tended to a summery swell of entirely different rhythms in the passionate person of Lana Lewis, presently located athwartships on the rich carpeting of the executive lounge area just aft of the galley in a state of extreme dishevelment. Because of this involvement, he was at a distinct disadvantage when the autopilot failed and every alarm in the cabin began to go off at once. They could feel the plane start to dip down on the starboard side and begin a long curve around to the right, and they could feel the pressure shift of a rapid descent as it did so. Within seconds, Magnussen had leapt to his feet, buckled his jeans, and rammed his way into the cockpit of the little craft. He instinctively grabbed for the stick and fought her up. She began to respond and he brethed a sigh of relief to discover that the hydraulics were working even though all the electronic decices seemed to have gone south at the same moment. Lana, by that time, had pulled herself into some semblance of dress and staggered forward to the cockpit. When they had left they had been plowing a purple night so rich in darkness and starlight as to seem like a dream, and endless purple pool riddled with sprays of silver jewels marking endless trails into the cosmos. Now, the endless diadem of stars laid out on a dark velvet roadway was marred by something she had never seen before; as she came into the cockpit and saw the view forward she swallowed a scream. Magnussen looked up and frowned. Across the night sky, an iridescent skein of tentacled bolts of energy was forming and writhing and reforming from instant to instant, as though the entire hemishere had been converted into some gigantic Teslian-coil exhibit--the size of a planetary orbit. Magnussen swallowed, hard and steadied the course of the speeding plane as best he could where it had been, based on what he copuld see of the stars. He knew something was happening, and whatever it was, it was more than he could think about. He held on to the stick and stared at the whirling links and limbs of lambent leaping light. The thought of prayer intruded into his thoughts for the first time in some twenty-nine years. |
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12 Aug 03 - 01:42 PM (#1000943) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,Back in the ice tower... AhHdewronron vented helium from every pore of it's body; and sank bonelessly to the warm graveled floor. It's encounter with the Clarbothic scheduler had been everything it had ever contemplated in a recreational mating. It was positive the sensor-memories would serve to make its scales quiver and tendrils curl through the slowmoons of its neuter phase. It certainly never recalled a previous mating which had so quickly and so thoroughly terminated the non-neuter phase before! AhHdewronron vented even more helium, as even its sound senso flaps closed in lethargic sensuality. *Copraphagic MAMMELS* skrieked the Clarboth's personal event scheduler - rousting AhHdewronron. *HAIRY reproducing GAS-BREATHERS!* 'ShubopshuBop!' - gasped AhHdewronron 'What has occurred? I would have thought you would be sessile for at least a tendril-arc!' *we must have missed a queue-call from the Clarboth! Look at the view-vid of NextInner! The attack has begun!* |
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13 Aug 03 - 10:49 AM (#1001231) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: MMario *please stay tuned to your local radio stations. Updates on the Martian situation will be broadcast as soon as available . IF the condition Alert is upgraded from Burnt Umber to Carnalian this information will be distributed as soon as possible. In the event the Carnalian Alert is upgraded to a possible Vermillion Alert then local broadcast will cease and you will be instructed to tune your radios, TV's and MP3 players to Civil Service Channels to be designated at that time.* Now back to our regularly scheduled braodcast. Tonights Selections include this number from the Latest MudCat Blue Plate Special - release XIII - code named "Light Mediterranean Ocean" .... |
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13 Aug 03 - 10:52 AM (#1001235) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos [My god, there's been a leak!!!! A.] |
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13 Aug 03 - 05:43 PM (#1001502) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos Magnussen settled into the pilot's chair and reached for the radio to try and raise some sort of connection with humans. He set freq after freq on the dial and listened hard. All that came in was a faint whistling sound and a series of distant repetitions of Top Hits from 1959, the sounds of Buddy Holly and someone going "Doo-ron-ron, a-doo-ron-ron". "Time warp shit," he thought to himself, trying another useless frequency. Outside the amazing display of coruscating, twining energetics continued, and the humming purr of the jet engines kept on going, and the sweeping, rolling dark waves of the Atlantic -- roughly 400 miles southwest of Gib, he figured -- passed by in the sweet, strange summer night. He heard a rustle behind him, smelled the faint perfume of her as she moved in from the galley, put one hand on his shoulder from behind. "What do you think, babe?", she asked quietly. "Are we gonna get down in one piece?" "If I have anything to say about it, you bet we are, sweetheart!", he laughed. "But there is a slight possibility I don't, of course....". His grin faded as he checked another radio setting. |
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13 Aug 03 - 10:17 PM (#1001639) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Bee-dubya-ell BE AFRAID. BE VERY AFRAID. |
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15 Aug 03 - 01:43 PM (#1002838) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos The White House operator put down her intercom receiver in a huff. The nerve!! All she had said was, "You mean Paris, Freedom,don't you, Mister President??" She started placing the call to Mister snaffle...Waffle...Triggle...well, whatever...and wondered if there were still openings at Kinko's in Arlington. |
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16 Aug 03 - 12:10 PM (#1003235) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: JenEllen August 14, New York City Murray was in a meeting when the lights went out. It was probably the kindest thing that could have happened seeing as he had procrastinated beyond his usual limits and had come to the conference room decidedly unprepared. When the word came through that they were evacuating the museum, he sighed in relief and loosened his tie. He entered the street a pardoned man, well, perhaps it was only a stay of execution until he had to go back to work, but he felt at that moment as free as he ever had. He walked for hours, marveling at the very un-New York way that the people in the street were talking to one another, and it reminded him of home. Those thoughts consumed him for a few more blocks, and he found himself at the foot of an enormous apartment building. I wonder if she still lives here? he thought to himself, and then ducked into the lobby. He climbed the many flights of stairs, losing track somewhere in the double digits, until he reached a door that had "DO NOT ENTER--ROOF ACCESS" emblazoned on it. "Shit!", he muttered, then retreated one flight. He found the door at the end of the hall, straightened his dangling tie, then knocked. He heard the fumbling of latches, then the door opened a crack, and a blue eye could be seen peering out into the dark hall. "Jesus! Murray! What are you doing here?" she gasped. Murray stammered some explanation and instinctively asked: "Is this a bad time?" Her face twisted into that sarcastic grin he'd always loved, as if to tell him no, that city- wide power outages were he favourite time to host high-school reunions, and she pulled the chain and opened the door. "I was just walking home and passed by here and wondered if, ya know?" he offered. She wandered around the apartment, lighting more candles to brighten the unknown, and replied, "Yeah, thankfully it was my day off. I'd have never made it." The two stood, sizing each other up for a moment more before Murray blurted: "Hey, I got a call from Mom. She said if I ever saw you..." Finally back on common footing, she grinned at Murray. "Oh, how are things? Everyone okay?" She walked to the kitchen and called over her shoulder "You want a glass of wine?" Murray followed her to the tiny kitchen and leaned on the counter. "You aren't going to believe this," he started, "Apparently Pam Hodges beat herself to death and buried her own corpse in the Fontaine's manure pile..." She spit the wine back into her glass and sputtered "Ewwwwww, gawd Murray." "Hey, at least that's what Timmy says..." "How disgusting....and they worried about us coming to the 'big city'. Ha." With the ice broken, the two finished off the bottle of wine in familiar gossip. Murray finally leaned back and told her the secret he'd kept for nearly 10 years. "You know, I remember the exact second I realized I loved you." "Get out..." "No, I'm serious. Remember Ms. Charles' senior science class? You stopped us mid- project and said you had to convert everything from standard to metric? I said 'Oh, if they find out you can do that you'll never get into NASA', and you laughed." "Yeah, so?" "No girls ever laughed. At me, maybe...but never at my jokes." "Gawd, no wonder you can't get a date." she laughed. "And you were right, I didn't get into NASA." "Yeah, me neither. Someone must have snitched." The two sat in silence for a moment longer before she reached over and playfully swatted his knee. "Hey, you up for a field trip?" With a candle wedged into the newly emptied wine bottle, the two half-drunkenly made their way down the stairs. When they passed the lobby and continued downward, Murray remarked she might well be leading him to the same fate as Pam Hodges, and she turned around, eerily holding the light under her chin, and cackled "Yessss, my pretty. My manure pile in the basement! mwuah-ha-haaaaa!" She then handed him the candle and said "We're here." She opened her storage locker, and barked at him to hold the candle higher as she rooted around in a pile of boxes. Minutes later, she found a large, battered cardboard box and follwed Murray and the candle back to her apartment, swearing under her breath as the box corners caught the banister at every turn. When they got back inside, she set the box on the coffee table and went to the kitchen to find more wine. Once again she called over her shoulder. "Open it." Murray dusted the top of the box a bit, then pulled back the lid. Inside was some filthy posterboard and a bunch of styrofoam. "Oh dear lord..." he called to her "This isn't?" "Yup." she replied, returning with two fresh glasses. "Mom sent it all to me when she figured I wasn't coming home and she could just as well turn my bedroom into a sewing room." She dug through the box and pulled out some twisted coat hangers. "Voila, our first science project!" The two worked diligently, by candlelight, dusting off the styrofoam balls and rebending the coat hangers until a perfect 5th grade version of the solar system evolved on her coffee table. They arranged their faded posterboard as a dingy backdrop and stood back to admire their work. "Wait a second..." Murray said. "I may not work for NASA, but I still think it needs some updating..." and he rushed forward to bend Mars' coat hanger just enough to bring it closer to Earth than it had been in 60,000 styrofoamy years. When he turned and looked at her, she was smiling. |
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16 Aug 03 - 02:29 PM (#1003264) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos [60,000 styrofoamy years???!!! Oh, dear God, my sides are aching!!!!!! ROTFLMAO...bloody brill. A] |
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17 Aug 03 - 02:12 PM (#1003636) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Peter T. Dear Diary, God help me when the editors get this. UNOFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT: NOT FOR CITING OR QUOTING (buzz, sound of traffic outside usual flimsy Paris windows) LANA LEWIS: "There, I think that's it. Well, here I am, Lafayette, etc., talking to the eminent film director, Monsieur Claude Truffle -- MONSIEUR TRUFFLE: That's "trouffle" as in, as in "trouffle." LANA LEWIS: Oh, not like Francois Truffaut. TRUFFLE: Yes, just like, you are mispronouncing his name as well. LANA LEWIS: Sorry. In any case, to begin, I was wondering what you thought of the many coincidences between your film "Rencontres Intimes" and the slew of sightings we have -- TRUFFLE: "Slew?" LANA LEWIS: Er, whole bunch. TRUFFLE: Ah. Well, where to begin. I think it is important to keep in one's mind that film is essentially a Dionysiac medium, associated with dream and desire, and is engaged in constant struggle with, for example, science. One has only to examine a universally known film such as Renoir's Dejeuner sur l'Herbe, to see -- LANA LEWIS: Painting. Dejeuner sur l'Herbe is a painting. TRUFFLE: We are speaking, bien sur, of the film by Renoir, not the painting by Manet, though of course it is a hommage. LANA LEWIS: I thought Renoir was a painter. TRUFFLE: The son, Jean Renoir, a filmmaker. LANA LEWIS: Oh. TRUFFLE: En tout cas, we can see from as famous a film, known to all in France at any rate, that notions such as artificial insemination, trips to the moon, and industrial development, are subject to Dionysiac ridicule and the explosion of the carnivalesque. We are, as filmakers, like the goatfooted man in the temple of Diana. Moreover, considering Godard -- LANA LEWIS: May I interrupt for a moment, sorry. TRUFFLE: Please. LANA LEWIS: This is all very enlightening, but we are dealing with a film in which, after the initial visitations to earth, the director in that film, who is directing another film, is abducted; following which unspeakable things happen, and what I want to know is, what do you think? TRUFFLE: As I was saying before you so charmingly intervened, I am proceeding to that point. LANA LEWIS: Is there any room service in this hotel? TRUFFLE: Pourquoi? LANA LEWIS: I need a drink very badly, I have not washed in 24 hours, and my head hurts. TRUFFLE: But why did you not say so at the outset? (Sound of telephone being taken off the hook. Unclear words in French (?>) spoken). TRUFFLE: A matter of moments. LANA LEWIS: What? TRUFFLE: I am well known in this hotel. It was the set for "Trois Croissettes", and upon release, the hotel made millions. Someone has gone to fetch you some new clothes, there is some Chateau d'Yquem on the way, as well as some lunch. LANA LEWIS: Um. TRUFFLE: As I was saying, the nature of film is such that modernity, however enthralling, is a realm of dreams, which must continue to be supported by the medium itself; the prosaic is always being broken in upon by -- (The prosaic is broken in upon by -- |
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18 Aug 03 - 10:33 AM (#1004024) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos refresh |
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18 Aug 03 - 12:22 PM (#1004083) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Donuel Tensions were running high when the 10 meter asteroid struck west of Beijing and registered 6 on the Richter scale China armed its nuclear weapons for an enemy yet unknown. They searched for the attacker to no avail The Chinese sent an urgent message to the White House: "Do you know who warranted this attack?" President Ahhnold responded: "make no mistake about it, this is a surprise to us, your message is important to us, ahh...That is all." Within fifteen minutes China launched with grim intent It was clear to them by our reply: "Make no mistake about it. This is a surprise. To us your message is impotent to US, that is all" Within minutes the staff of homeland security was safely deep unerground. |
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18 Aug 03 - 02:29 PM (#1004159) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos Calumny Hartropism chortled gleefully at the master console of her fathers' battleship. The communications screens were blinking violently as she moved her pads along the track-lines and read the translator's version of the resulting messages. "We've got them completely bolloxed!", she lisped to her faithful gormian, Nongo. The gormian -- not up to speaking High Mars TOngue -- slapped the floor with its primary pseudopod in respose. Calumny and Nongo understood each other on some other frequency. "Look, Niongo!! The groups are getting mad at each other because they think our messages were actually from themselves!! Talk about primitives!! Holy moly!!" The High Mars equivalent of "Dig your grave, Imperialist Scum!!!" was crawling across the display, crudely translated from the Mandarin original. The bridge doors hissed open and the imposing form of Admiral Hartropism slitherd through the lenticular opening and onto the bridge. "CALUMNY!! What are you doing on my bridge!! How many times do I have to tell you to stay off this level when the vessel is in condition yellow!!! Go below immediately!" The Admiral was an affectionate being, but a force to be reckoned with when crossed. "Yes, father. I am very sorry, honored Antecedent!," she replied, and slumped off the bridge with the gormian capering cheerfully at her heels. |
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19 Aug 03 - 08:37 AM (#1004579) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST Thousands of earthlings gaped at the display of Aurura Borealis - unaware that the vivid light display s were not the normal natural display they thought; but rather the result of ionization by the engines of Martian warcraft approching ever closer. |
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19 Aug 03 - 10:16 AM (#1004647) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos Refresh |
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19 Aug 03 - 02:52 PM (#1004798) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos On the East Side of New York, towering over the river and the hiomes of the extraordinarily well-to-do, stands a high office building that is never offered for sale, never open for rent, never listed in advertisements of trade, and never mentioned in the records of City Hall as the address of a business. On the 25th floor of this building, after three days of incessant Tesla effects across the horizon, day and night, the Tellurian Council was in session. The faces of the men and women in attendance -- every hue of homo sap yet encountered -- were troubled. Several minutes after the gavel came down in the large meeting hall, causing the 125 attendees to break into small clumps and groups throughout the reception hall, a tall, brown-skinned man with extraordinary strong cheekbones and bottomless dark eyes cast of pure sea-blue strode to one of the small auxiliary office rooms and picked up the phone. "It's no use. Even with the extraordinary powers they were given by the UN, they can't coordinate an armed response with any certainty. They just don't have the common motive..." He listened carefully for almost a full minute. "No, don't do that. A small group of us think the Advanced Technology Section may have a possible response they aren't talking about. Let me investigate before you do anything rash." He exchanged a few more comments and nodded. Hanging up the phone he crossed the large hall and spoke a few words to the towering figure Niils Tiilson, an Armenian who looked descended from a Viking. Seven feet tall, three hundred pounds of pure beef, Tiilson listened to the hasty report from the highly focused agent and nodded his head. The agent, moving like someone whose urgency far transcends the conventions of the moment, strode out of the room and headed for the elevators to the street so rapidly as to startle those who noticed, and strike them as most unseemly. |
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19 Aug 03 - 03:27 PM (#1004814) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,Jaime Olyason From: Jaime Olayson To: Lana Lewis Subject: Can it be *true*? Message: WOW! the Tellurian Council has had another one of their super secret sessions - as I'm sure you;ve heard - who hasn't? Anyway - what you may not have caught is they are thinking of re-activating the most feared and effective combat team of all time! I can't believe it, but apparently it's true. Even though the retirement of the unit was the only thing every government of the world has EVER agreed on - and even though they made the commander and every individual in the unit - right down to the mascot's groom - swear to NEVER EVER go into the field again - it seems that against this Martain menace the big bosses have decided to rescind the banishment. Do you believe it? Can you even consider the oppurtunities this is going to open up for us, the 'Sleaze, and reporters in general. myGAWD - The MUDCAT COMMANDOS in action again!!!!!!! y'know? I had *such* a hardon for Sgt. Kat when I was in junior high. Hope I get to meet her this time around! j. |
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19 Aug 03 - 04:51 PM (#1004847) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos [y'know? I had *such* a hardon for Sgt. Kat when I was in junior high. Hope I get to meet her this time around!] Dear Gawd have mercy and pick me up off the floor!! My undies is at risk!!! LOL! A |
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20 Aug 03 - 03:33 PM (#1005402) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST Marge trudged through the dusty driveway of her rural Iowa driveway on her daily trip to the mailbox, which stood crookedly at the junction of the drive with the equally dusty road. Perhaps the check from the 'National Sleaze' would be in todays post. Perhaps Ty hand't been fibbing when he said the the publication had actually purchased his pictures. Perhaps she might even think about letting him not sleep on the sofa. No; letting him eat at the kitchen table again would probably be sufficient - no need to get lax and spoil the man. She mused on various suitable rewards and punishments for Ty - depending of course on the arrival of the promised check - and it's amount - but shook off her daydreams as she reached the mailbox. Opening the door - she took out the latest delivery. bill. bill. Advertisment. Bill. Letter for..... The remaining mail spilled, forgotton out of Marge's shaking hands. She stared, pop-eyed, at return address of the innocent seeming envelope clutched tightly between her shaking fingers. She never expected to see THAT on a letter from the East Lower South Upper West Keadawhore Rural Free Delivery! Slowly - she opened the letter - read the short note inside - and with great dignity promptly fainted. The envelope and letter fluttered away from her now lax fingers - the first line of the return address flashing as the envelope tumbled in the breeze: Sgt. K. Laughing |
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21 Aug 03 - 08:37 AM (#1005806) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST the freds is comin' the freds is comin'! |
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21 Aug 03 - 05:51 PM (#1006115) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: katlaughing Poseurs should check the origins before usurping identities: click here |
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21 Aug 03 - 09:25 PM (#1006215) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos Aw, go for it Kat --- I dunno who wound up the idea but it is kinda kewl, innit?? (Honest, i don't)!! A |
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25 Aug 03 - 09:18 AM (#1007742) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,MMario with barely 48 hours before the estimated time of attack the entire world falls stangely quiet. |
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25 Aug 03 - 10:50 AM (#1007779) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos On the 38th floor of the same building, the tall brown-skinned man with the deep blue eyes sat in council with an odd collection of geeks, labr rats, hackers, cross-eyed wirewrappers and other learned if eccentric people. A small Teslian coil demo unit sat on the table between them, sparking and writhing its tendrils of electromagnetic charges across the surface of a small blue sphere. From time to time someone would stick their index finger against the sphere and all the tendrils of charge would loop and curve until they all seemed to radiate from the fingerprint. When the finger was withdrawn, the coils of electic charge would go back to appearing random. The blue-eyed man was frustrated and was showing it in spite of his training; his jaw muscles were tense (which made he well-formed cheekbones stand out even more) and his nostrils flared. "We don't know how it's being done, and in fact we don't even know that it is being "done" and isn't just a natural byproduct of some aspect of planetary proximity...", a tall bearded fellow with extraordinarily white skin and extraordinarily thin arms was intoning. " I would rather believe that the Teslian discharges that are now being reported from the poles down to the equator are...y'know...some sort of phase interference between two fields brought ino proximity...something like that..." The thick dark summer night outside their desperate meeting was not quiet, despite the fact that it was four in the morning. Beyond the glow of streetlights and advertisements splashing into the night sky, beyond the streak of gray hinting at a late-summer dawning, the bizarre tendrils of energy added a degree of light to the night sky that made the night seem bizarre and unsettling. In the shadowed streets of the city, usually abandoned except for an occassional taxi, scores of people strolled in the streets, solving their fears and insomnia by taking to the sidewalks, surporsed to find many of their kind already there. Above them, more intensely than ever, the coils and streeaks of electric charge wrapped across the sky, over, and over. |
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25 Aug 03 - 10:57 AM (#1007783) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,MMario Press Release: Microsloth Corp. 8/25/03 8:59:00 am For Immediate Release: Reports that the Welchia Virus orginated on the planet Mars are completely and totaly unfounded and unsubstantiated. However, in the best interest of users of Microsoft products the critical Windoze update 00021234567-987654-A"Mars Security Update" should be run ASAP. |
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25 Aug 03 - 12:43 PM (#1007839) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Bee-dubya-ell MEMO TO: Sgt. Kat @ Mudcat Commandos It has come to out attention that another strike force is preparing for anti-Martian activities over on the Mother of All BS Threads under the leadership of Colonel Little Hawk. Colonel Hawk has enlisted the Idaho Regiment as part of his strike force and is coordinating with its leader, a militiaman known as Rapaire. It is of utmost importance that the activities of the Mudcat Commandos and Colonel Hawk's followers be coordinated so as to maximize available resources and minimize the possibility of friendly fire incidents. Suggest you contact Colonel Hawk ASAP. That is all. |
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26 Aug 03 - 11:07 AM (#1008378) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: Amos |
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26 Aug 03 - 11:28 AM (#1008390) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST,MMario OH NO! It's started! Amos has been prevented from posting. Only a martian attack could cause that (because he is a m*c user - thus immune to virii and such) |
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26 Aug 03 - 04:06 PM (#1008542) Subject: RE: Mudcat Summer Story: The Martian Attack From: GUEST ShubopshuBop slithered quickly across the bitterly cold, bone dry gravels between ice towers. The timing was correct to reach a private estivation chamber before one of two events occurred - either the total annahilation of Nexinner - or the budding of the illegal offsring resulting from recreational mating with AhHdewronron. perhaps both. 'What a gestation-termination present' ShubopshuBop thought - 'should my little Ramallamadongding arrive just as Nexinner vanishes for all time!' |
