Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

Cyrus, by Theseustoo

18 Sunday Jul 2010

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

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Cyrus

by

Theseustoo

Chapter 18, Part 2:

Bablyonian Soldiers

Babylon is an ancient city which has, over the course of centuries been invaded and inhabited by several peoples, including the Sumerians, the Chaldaeans and more recently, the Assyrians. Each in their own turn, these various peoples and their sovereigns contributed successively to the building of Babylon’s walls and to the adornment of her temples. Among the most famous builders of all these monarchs were two queens. The first of these queens, Semiramis, reigned five generations before Nitocris, the later princess; who was also the mother of the current Assyrian king, Labynetus.

Semiramis raised certain very famous embankments in the level plain near Babylon to control the river, which before her time used to overflow its banks; often causing serious floods throughout the region. This taming of the Euphrates by Semiramis had ensured that crops would not be damaged by floods; ensuring good harvests from all the farms in the region. This had laid the foundation for the wealth and self-sufficiency Babylon now enjoyed.

But the later of these two queens, Nitocris, was even wiser than her predecessor. Observing the great power and the restless enterprise of the Medes, who in their revolt against their Assyrian overlords, had captured many Assyrian cities, including Nineveh, Nitocris anticipated that she too, would be attacked in her turn, and immediately she had spared neither herself nor her Babylonian subjects in the effort to strengthen her empire’s defences.

Originally the River Euphrates, which flows through the very heart of Babylon, had run in a straight course toward the city, but by excavating a series of looping channels some distance upstream, Nitocris made it wind so much that, as a vessel sails along the river it comes in sight of the village of Ardericea in Assyria three separate times on three different days. Then she dug a huge basin for a lake far upriver from Babylon right beside the stream. This basin was so broad that its circumference measured four hundred and twenty furlongs. The soil she had excavated from this basin was then used to build the broad and high embankments which lined the waterside in Babylon along both sides of the Euphrates.

When Nitocris had finished her excavations, she brought a great many large stones and bordered the entire margin of the reservoir she had thus created with them. The combined effect of these excavations was that, as the river was made to twist and turn, its current was considerably slowed. By this means, however, not only had she tamed the river, but she had also rendered any river-borne invasion too circuitous to be practicable. Such a slow-moving fleet would be ‘sitting ducks’ for artillery attacks from the riverbanks.

The only alternative to a naval invasion was an overland approach across the broad plains through which the river Euphrates now flowed so circuitously that it would have to be bridged – for it was still too swift and deep to be forded – at who knew how many points? And either way, even at the end of the voyage it would be necessary to skirt the lake and thus any invader would be forced to take a long and circuitous route before approaching the city itself. Such a route would give great advantage to the skirmishing style of warfare practiced by the Assyrian horse-archers. By Cyrus’ time, however, these had been mostly destroyed by the Median spearmen of Cyaxares and Astyages.

By now, what precious few horse-archers Labynetus still had left he kept with him in the heart of the city; safely inside their city barracks. Until Cyrus had determined to seize this ancient stronghold for his own capital, however, they and a relatively small complement of infantrymen had successfully deterred any Median incursion; relying mostly on their city’s own defences for their security. Now, however, Babylon was not only the Assyrian’s final stronghold; it was indeed all that now remained of the once-great Assyrian Empire.

The main purpose behind Nitocris’ excavations had been to prevent the Medes having contact with the Babylonians and thus to keep them in ignorance of her affairs. She feared that if they saw the fabulous wealth of Babylon they would most certainly want to take it for themselves; for the province of Babylonia lay in the most fertile region in the whole world, locally called the Land between the Rivers: Mesopotamia. For this reason all of Nitocris’ excavations had been dug on the side of Babylon which faces the passes through the mountains, where lie the shortest roads to and from Media.

While the soil from these excavations was being thus used to build up the city’s defences, Nitocris also engaged in a simultaneous project, although this one was on a somewhat smaller scale than those already mentioned:

Because Babylon was divided by the Euphrates into two separate parts; before Nitocris, anyone who wanted to pass from one of these divisions to the other had to cross in a boat; and the citizens found this very inconvenient. While she was excavating the lake above the city, Nitocris thought how she might simultaneously eradicate this inconvenience and also enable her to leave another monument of her reign.

She gave orders for immense blocks of stone to be hewn and transported to Babylon, and when they were ready, and the basin had been excavated, she turned the entire stream of the Euphrates into the cutting, and thus for a time, while the basin was filling, the natural channel of the river was left dry in the city itself.

Immediately she set her builders to work, first lining the banks of the stream within the city with quays of blue-glazed brick. She also bricked the landing-places opposite the river-gates, adopting throughout the same fashion of brickwork which had been used in the town wall. After this, using the hewn stone blocks which she had already prepared, she built a series of pylons to form the basis of a bridge, as near the middle of the town as possible. The blocks of these pylons were then bound together with iron and lead to resist the current once the lake was filled and the river was once again returned to its previous course. From Nitocris’ time onwards, during the daytime, square wooden platforms were laid, from pylon to pylon, on which the inhabitants could now cross the stream; at night they are all withdrawn to prevent criminals from crossing from one side to the other under the cover of darkness to commit robberies or other crimes.

Apart from building all of these famous monuments and defences Nitocris also planned a unique deception: She had her tomb built in the upper part of one of the main gateways of the city, high above the heads of the passers by, with this inscription engraved upon it:

“If there be one among my successors on the throne of Babylon who is in want of treasure, let him open my tomb and take as much as he chooses – not, however, unless he be truly in want, or it will not be for his good.”

This tomb continued untouched and the gate unused by Nitocris’ son until Cyrus came to Babylon. He too respected the tradition which had been established by Labynetus long ago, when his mother had died, and refused to either use this gate or to open Nitocris’ tomb. Indeed no-one would use this gate for fear of inviting upon themselves the event which they felt was symbolized by having death thus ‘hanging over their own heads’, so to speak, were they to walk underneath Nitocris’ mummified corpse. In any case, Cyrus was not so short of wealth that he felt it worth the risk of invoking the curse which the inscription implied would be cast upon any ruler who should be impious and unscrupulous enough to rob the dead.

The tomb of Nitocris would remain thus undisturbed until Darius III should ascend the Persian throne. To him it would seem monstrous that he should be unable to use one of the gates of the town, and even more monstrous that a large sum of money should be lying idle. Worse, this treasure would actually seem to be inviting his grasp and yet he was unable to seize it. Finally he would claim that because he was unable to use the gate, since driving through it meant having the dead body over his head, he would insist that thus he would eventually be obliged to open the tomb in order to remove both the corpse and its treasure. Instead of money, however, all he would find would be the desiccated remains of the cunning Queen Nitocris and an engraving on her stone sarcophagus which said:

“Had you not been insatiable for gold and careless about how you acquired it, you would not have broken open the sepulchres of the dead.”

***   *****   ***

Performance Review – Four Horsemen

18 Sunday Jul 2010

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by Gregor Stronach

Gentlemen. Firstly, let me congratulate you on what has been a fairly busy century for us all. We know that the work that you have all undertaken for the past 100 years has essentially been ‘on the job training’ for the actual Apocalypse, and all four of you have shown great promise.

In particular, some of the self-directed strategy initiatives conceived by individuals have shown us that our implementation of negotiated accountabilities for each self-managing employee was, indeed, a wise decision.

Your individual reports have been collated, and have been included in this document to assist in the interdepartmental communication process, a problem area identified during the last round of SWAT Analysis reports we asked you to file in 1965.

Death

This has been a particularly busy century for you, and we’re happy with your performance over the period of review. There are, however, a couple of small problems.

We are pleased with the exponential growth of completed tasks appearing in your monthly reports, however we fear you might be over-committing yourself. The incidence of ‘near-death’ experiences has jumped an unacceptable 65% since 1971. This burgeoning figure needs to be halted. May we suggest you allocate more time to the individual deaths in hospitals, rather than wasting entire afternoons at the football on the off chance of a stadium disaster?

In writing this assessment, we have taken into account the numerous memos you’ve sent regarding workflow from other departments.

In the short term, you’ll be pleased to know that we have seconded key staff from the departments of Luck and Fate to assist you. They will be applying their own methodology to assist in getting you back on track. However, your autonomous workload should remain stable. Taking too many at once causes problems, a lesson you should have learnt before your recent work in New York.
We want you to succeed and meet your goals, but not by the easiest route possible. You will need to be in peak form come the Apocalypse, and you’ll thank us for being this strict with you when that time arrives.

War

We are more than happy with your performance this century. In particular, your re-introduction of trenches to the field of battle in Europe was a master-stroke. WWII, we believe, was the pinnacle of your achievement for the assessment period, but we also acknowledge that, between major battles, you have been keeping yourself busy with minor incursions and skirmishes around the globe.

In particular, we’re pleased with your new ‘micro-scale’ warfare. Introducing ‘turf’ wars to the suburbs of major metropolitan areas has proven very useful, particularly for Death, who has not had to travel so far out of the major cities to make his collections.

We know you understand the workflow structure of this organisation, and that you need to keep both labour motility and the geographic warzone concentration ratio very slim to facilitate maximum efficiency for Death and, where applicable, Pestilence. With this in mind, please be aware that whilst scattered skirmishes and guerrilla warfare in mountainous regions may well be the most entertaining aspect of your position, they don’t really leave the high concentration of putrefaction that Pestilence requires to carry out his microbiological specialty work. We hired him for his abilities with germs, but since the humans legislated against your two departments in tandem, his case-load has dropped significantly.

On a final note, we are pleased that you have changed tactic, and moved with the times. Getting yourself elected President of the United States was a move of unparalleled genius, and we’re very happy that the faith we placed in you when we hired you hasn’t been erroneous.

Pestilence

You have been our poorest performer for the past 100 years, and we think that perhaps you may have been resting on your laurels and letting the other departments pick up the slack. You have let modern ‘science’ get on top of your work, and as far as we can see, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do if you’re to be ready for the Apocalypse.

We acknowledge your recent efforts with viruses – in particular HIV has kept Death reasonably busy, but with such a narrow initial vector program in place, it was never going to be wildly successful. This is a clear-cut case of putting all of your eggs in one basket.

Your continued attempts to claim Cancer as your own work has been brought to our attention. This must stop now, as we have all read the story of the little boy who cried wolf.

Occasional plagues every now and then won’t cut the mustard either. We all know you can do locusts at the drop of a hat, and frankly they aren’t advancing your case. Simply conjuring up insects when times are a little lean is becoming passe. There hasn’t been a decent rain of toads for more than 200 years, despite frequent requests from us that you show us evidence of your work.
Bubonic Plague has disappeared, Tuberculosis is controlled, and the humans have almost wiped out Small Pox as well. You’d better hope that War manages to sell his stocks of it to those wonderful folks in Iraq before March 2003, or you’re going to find yourself looking around for a new job.

Famine

A disappointing start to the century has been more than made up for by your recent efforts in Northern Africa. We understand that, for the most part, your workflow depends on how busy War has been, but we note that your recent development of harsh climate control, including El Nino, has been working well. Crop Failure is still the index by which we will be grading your performance, and as it stands you’ve been doing quite well. We’re pleased with your efforts in Australia – you managed to record a drought in every decade throughout the 1900s.

We received your memo concerning the interference by celebrities in your efforts, and you probably noticed that we had Death send two very clear warnings to Bob Geldof. He’s also working on Sting and Bono at the moment, and we’re expecting results very soon.

There’s still the matter of your overall performance, though. WE have it on good authority that fewer people died from famine in the 20th century than in the 19th century, despite the fact that the population grew by 400% in those 100 years. You’ll need to pull your socks up, straighten up and fly right. We know it hasn’t been a total disaster, which is why your contract hasn’t been terminated. We have faith in you, and we’ve seen you work. If you are having motivational problems, we can arrange for you to take a short holiday, and perhaps see a guidance counsellor. Just keep us informed.

Conclusion

We still don’t have a firm date for the Apocalypse, but we’ve got our IT department running up some code to see if they can second guess The Creator on this one. We’re envisaging sometime mid-century, which means that you’ll all need to be on your toes, and make sure you check your email every day. We didn’t spend $50,000 on those laptops in the 80s so you could sit around playing Solitaire all day.

Your salary reviews have been finalised, and most of you will be receiving a small end-of-century bonus. Wages will continue to rise, in line with the Consumer Price Index of the United Kingdom, and we’ll be instituting a performance-based bonus for each decade. Gentlemen – these bonuses are not automatic. We are giving each of you the opportunity to shine. Dazzle us.

If you need to contact me at any time, you may do so my calling my secretary and making an appointment.

Yours truly,

Thomas Coltrane
Grand Master
United Grand Lodge of Freemasons.

Gregor Stronach will probably now be found under a bridge with his eyes gouged out.
This piece was first published boldly, we might add – by Rum & Monkey  OK, a couple of the dates are a bit off whack, but we thought it was worth it anyway.

“American Radical” – Under Discussion.

14 Wednesday Jul 2010

Posted by in Politics in the Pig's Arms

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Following a screening of “American Radical: the trials of Norman Finkelstein, Antony Loewenstein, Peter Manning and Peter Slezak gave a “Q&A” – a real “Q&A”, Reuben Brand put together a short montage.  The Pig’s Arms is pleased to republished it here for your consideration.

First published by Antony Loewenstein at http://antonyloewenstein.com/

ABC News Goes Off News

13 Tuesday Jul 2010

Posted by in Emmjay, The Public Bar

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I have this entrenched pattern of behaviour at the end of the day that goes: drive home through peak hour Sydney traffic for an hour or so, arrive home and pour some kind of liquid relief, assemble something resembling food for First Mate, Tim the Cabin Boy and for me, and flop in front of the ABC news.

But as the ABC’s decline into mediocrity or worse, as the cliché du jour says, as the ABC “races the commercials to the bottom” and incredibly, as they stretch out this bit of linguini to “cover” 24 hours of News, they have unwittingly set me free from the chains of habit.

I don’t know whether you’ve listened to ABC News radio, or as an antidote to insomnia watched the interestingly arrayed Virginia Trioli on ABC2 in the morning, but the modus operandi is well-established here and here.

OK, it’s not just that they run a tightly-repetitive cycle that’s so off-putting, it’s the bloody content.  Who’s responsible for throwing together this dog’s breakfast of thin, gruelling, regurgitated tripe?

Let me illustrate.

Take a look at the news items that show up on the increasingly not worth the trouble web site.  A quick scan this morning reveals the cheerful parade:

  • Liquid bomb plotters jailed
  • Oil spill, oil spill oil spill
  • Gangster’s girlfriend charged over murder plot
  • Men ‘possibly’ shot in mass brawl – let’s hope so, otherwise this item loses its punch
  • Child sex scandal
  • Drunk attacked after attempting to wrestle croc
  • Death toll in Uganda
  • Scary economic news
  • Outrageous medical fraud / misinformation
  • Endless speculation about political power / malfeasance, skulduggery and incompetence.

There was more folderol, but I’m sure you get the drift.

Today is clearly a pretty upbeat day – after last week’s headlines with photographs of one deceased digger coming back from Afghanistan and another being buried by his family and all the political heavies – 2 out of the 5 headline articles – only broken by an apparently important game of soccer going on in South Africa.

I used to think that the ABC was the last refuge for staying in touch without having to sit through or listen to unremitting trivia, gloom and despair.  I used to think that it was important to stay informed and keep in touch. But when I stopped perving on Juanita Phillips and actually listened to her speak her lines I  fell into a rather deep disappointment.

We were given a warning when Kerry O’Brien mistook insolence for investigative reporting and Tony Jones confused his guests’ shameless self-promoting buffoonery with “public debate”.  We should have heeded the warning sooner.

But now, I can comfortably set those silly notions aside, comfortable in the knowledge that there’s nothing left to miss and sink into a post-work stupor, blissfully numbed, reminisce about the days when the ABC was more than just a recycler of BBC comedy and take a long pull on an exquisitely dry martini.

…. also showing off over at the Daily Bludge

From Here to Nairobi Chapter 8 – the Hippos are Restless

12 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole

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Murchison Falls

By Neville Cole

Michel’s plan is shoot the Murchison Falls segment without the girls and have them meet us for the Gorilla trekking segment at the Impenetrable Forest in three days. Although clearly frustrated, Michel is determined that the documentary must go on and calls an emergency planning meeting upon our arrival at Paraa Lodge. Michel has repeated several times to everyone in earshot that if Jean and John are not at the Black Pearl Lodge by the time we arrive, he will personally cut off their testicles with a rusted machete.

Christo, as is his fashion, disappears immediately upon landing and I, in my own inimitable style, have found myself comfortable spot under the verandah out by the bar. The only other guest in the vicinity is an older gentleman drinking a gin and tonic. He is dressed in a white suit, white shirt, white wing-tip shoes, is wearing a white wide-brimmed hat, has a full white beard and is smoking from, of all things an ivory-handled pipe.

“You with that froggy film crew, are you?” he says in the drippingly precise, public school tones of a very proper English gentleman.

“I’m just travelling with them for a few days.”

“Hmmm…” he notes taking a long thoughtful puff, “Didn’t think you looked French. Still, riding around Uganda in a Russian helicopter isn’t my cup of tea.”

“Nor mine, actually” I admit. “My pilot’s gone AWOL.”

“AWOL, eh?” the gentleman sniffs. “Bloody messy business if you ask me.”

“Yes. He flew off to the Seychelles three days ago with a plane full of young ladies.”

“Left you stuck with a bunch of frogs, did he? That’s not cricket.”

“No,” I admit. “I don’t suppose it is.

“You are, I take it, an American?” the gentleman says after a long pause.

“No,” I reply. “Australian, actually. I just live in the States.”

“Different colony, same story” he replies with a wry chuckle and then finally turning to actually look in my direction concedes: “I’ve nothing against Americans, you know. I’ve worked with them for many, many years to each others great benefit, I may add.” Then, after pausing to draw a long draft of smoke from his pipe, adds without a hint of cynicism: “the only problem with Americans is…they sue.” It is no longer imperative that I actually add anything to the conversation so I sit back with my cold beer and listen to the old man ramble.

“I’ll say this for Americans” he continues happily, “their children are extremely polite. They always call me ‘sir.’ You know, I met one on my first Americans at this very lodge. 1952, it was. I was just a lad here with my father to visit the Falls. I’ll never forget that american. A big, bold, brash, whirlwind of a man. He was holding court right here in the bar when my father and I arrived. Telling the most marvelous tales of adventure. Apparently he had crashed his plane quite nearby. Trying to dodge a flock of Ibis or some such thing. Caught a wheel on the Lodge’s telephone line and his plane went right down. How’s that for luck? Got to be the only telephone line for a hundred miles! He was bloodied and bruised and broken; but that didn’t stop him coming to the bar for a drink.” The old man caught me in his gaze and asked me almost in a whisper: “do you know who that American was?”

“No idea,” I answered truthfully.

“The first American I ever met was…” like a true storyteller he takes a moment for one more puff from his pipe, “Ernest Hemingway.”

“Hemingway? Really…” I add. “Right here in this bar?”

“That is a fact,” the gentleman smiled. There’s a photo of him up behind the bar that was taken that very day.”

A smartly dressed waiter appears as if he has been waiting for his cue. “Gin and tonic, Colonel bwana,” he says quickly exchanging the empty glass for a fresh one.

“Good man,” the colonel replies, “good man. My good man in Africa, that’s who you are Thomas.”

“Thank you, Colonel bwana,” Thomas replied with a big smile, “and you, bwana? Another beer for you? It is a very hot afternoon.”

“Yes. Thanks, Thomas. Another beer sounds perfect.”

The colonel sipped on his gin and tonic in quiet reverie as I stared out over the blue and purple horizon. It was an unexpected sight after burnt reds and browns of Kenya.

“Magnificent, aren’t they?” the Colonel notes. “The mountains of the moon. All these years, I never tire of looking at them. Of course, you know of the expedition of Burton and Speke.”

“I’ve seen the movie,” I reply, fully aware that this will ruffle the Colonel’s feathers.”

“The movie? Bah!” the Colonel spits. “I’ve heard all about that movie! Completely preposperous. Total fabrication. You do know that Speke had no intention of waiting for Burton to return before presenting their findings to the Society. It was his specific intention to get back to England first and take all the credit…and I hear say that the movie actually claims in the epilogue that Speke was correct about Lake Victoria being the source of the Nile when, in fact, it provides only one of several feeder rivers to the Nile. Ridiculous!”

After my movie comment the Colonel was a lot less inclined to regale me with stories. In fact, a few minutes later he pays his tab and leaves with little more than a hrumph goodbye. I spend most of the rest of the afternoon drinking and thinking about the Africa of Hemingway, Burton, Speke and, I guess, the Colonel. This leaves me feeling uncomfortably colonial and quite drunk. As dusk is falling I decide to go back to my room to freshen up before dinner. Thomas holds the door for me as I stumble toward the exit.

“Please Bwana,” he says as I fix my gaze on a pair of grinning hyena seated like demented sheepdogs only a few feet off the path, “pay no attention to the dogs. Some of the guests have been feeding them and they are coming back every night now. Please ignore them and they will go away.”

Wandering drunk back to my room I am suddenly aware that in Africa I am more than just another colonial, I am food. I’ve read that hyena jaws are so strong they eat their prey bones and all. They may be efficient eaters but not always the most proficient hunters, preferring to clean up after lions; but how hard could if be to take down a middle-aged, drunk ex-pat Australian? I stagger just a little quicker back to my room in so much of a hurry that I do not notice the grazing hippopotamus just outside my door until I have practically tripped over it.

Asking a hippo to wipe his feet before coming inside is always a mistake..

This is not good. Many times I have been warned that hippos – especially those away from water – are the most dangerous animals in Africa. They tend to spook easily and when frightened charge with surprising speed right at their target swinging their large teeth with their big powerful necks in a six foot arc from side to side. More people are killed by hippos in Africa than any other animal, including lions.

I freeze as the hippo stares at me with beady, bloodshot eyes. I can hear it snorting with disgust and can tell it is contemplating a charge. Only now to I realize just how drunk I am. Instead of slowly trying to back away, my marinated brain decides this is too good of photo opportunity to pass up. I reach into my pocket and pull out my handy Nikon.

It isn’t so much the photo that pisses off the hippo as the flash from the camera. Emitting a sort of grumbling snort the beast turns sharply in preparation for attack. I am about to turn sharply and run myself when both my arms are pinned to my side from behind.

“Don’t move,” the voice says. “Stay right where you are.”

I do as the voice commands and, after what seems an eternity but is more likely about two minutes, the hippo walks slowly down the path to find a quieter spot to graze.

“Well,” Christo says lighting a joint and inhaling deeply, “you look like you could use some of this.”

Hell Hospital: Episode 9

12 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by in Hell Hospital

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HELL HOSPITAL

Episode 9

By theseustoo

Though still entranced, Elaine performed the ritual flawlessly...

The evil presence once more exuded itself into Elaine’s consciousness; it had done so with increasing frequency lately, especially when, as now, her assistants were on their lunch break. This time it stayed long enough to allow itself to be noticed by Elaine’s conscious mind. Elaine felt a certain amount of fear, mingled with anticipation as the dark presence communicated directly with her mind.

When Swannee’s corpse arrived at the morgue Elaine immediately recognized that this was the trouble the cards had warned her about, but the presence in her mind had lulled her into such a feeling of warmth and security that she could only allow herself to lay back and drift in the feeling as if in a cocoon; a strange awareness gradually grew in her entranced consciousness and she realized that she knew now what she must do; the presence had dictated the ritual to her entranced mind and, still entranced, she performed it flawlessly, uttering the incantation in an unknown, alien and ancient tongue as if it were the one she had been speaking all her life…

***** ******* *****

When Catherine didn’t return home for several days, it did not surprise her eldest boy, John; he’d been through the routine several times before and knew she would probably be kept in hospital for a few days at least, to enable her to rest and recover a little before returning home. Good boy and dutiful son that he was, he took over looking after his younger siblings like a real trooper; fortunately his eldest sister, Vivienne; little more than a year his junior; was quite a capable cook and helped him to organize the cricket team into squads to do the housework and shopping, which they fitted in around their normal school schedule.

Not knowing how to tell Catherine’s children about what had happened to their parents at the hospital, no-one really tried; everyone excusing themselves by thinking, someone else is bound to, anyway: The police thought that, as the incident happened on hospital premises and involved a hospital worker, the hospital would of course notify the victim’s family; they thought too, that perhaps in this instance discretion allowed them to waive this onerous duty, although it was normally theirs; but the hospital would surely want to inform the family themselves and, the chief inspector told himself, charitably, they surely had that right. The hospital, of course, thought the police would notify the family of the perpetrator and victims a crime as they usually do and so quickly relieved themselves of the burdensome task in a similar manner. When weeks passed and neither parent came home, though worried, John and Vivienne nevertheless carried on as if nothing untoward had happened, not wanting to upset the other children, especially the ‘littlies’.

Catherine was taken immediately to the psychiatric wing’s secure ward, where she was put into a padded cell and sat alternately thumbing a rosary and praying for her deceased husband’s forgiveness and babbling incoherently about a cricket team while she awaited psychiatric evaluation. After some time under observation it was evident that she was hallucinating; it was evidently some kind of religious delusion and Catherine appeared to be receiving instruction from two sources; one whom she referred to simply as ‘the Dark One’, and another whom she called, St Helvi… The psychiatrist recognized the name of the hospital’s patron, of course, but it was far too early to understand the significance of this name to his obviously delusional and manifestly psychotic patient. The police had ordered her to be kept in a secure ward and under constant 24-hour surveillance, but although the manner in which she had killed her husband had been dramatic, the psychiatrist thought the police’s instructions a little unnecessary; women who kill their husbands in a fit of jealous rage rarely commit further murders, but of course, he did not care to question police instructions too closely and obligingly obeyed them.

***** ******* *****

Swannee’s corpse had been laid out on the slab when it arrived; the blood drained out from his wounds, leaving him white as a sheet. But instead of telephoning the coroner to come and perform the autopsy, Elaine placed seven black candles around the cadaver; one at his head; two at his shoulders; another two at his waist and a final pair at his feet, uttering a strange incantation as she did so. Finally she made a motion as if pulling something towards her on the end of a rope, as she sang the final words of her chant, “Though you are dead, yet shall you live; the blood of the sacrifice has not flowed in vain; you are my servant and will do my bidding; now come to me, for I am your Mistress!”

Somehow the word ‘mistress’ seemed a little odd; but she didn’t want to further confuse with a gender anomaly a corpse who was, she realized, bound to be confused anyway at finding itself reanimated. But when she ordered the cadaver to sit up and it did so, she realized her meaning had been understood clearly. “Follow me!” she ordered, and led the now undead Swannee out to her car.

***** ******* *****

The incident had happened on a Friday so Loreen fortunately had all weekend to lay low and hope people would forget about the blonde strumpet who had lured her unwitting prey to his death, albeit accidentally. She had clocked out over an hour before she had seduced the unfortunate Swannee, so as long as no-one remembered her or recognized her, she thought she would probably be safe. She spent the weekend wearing dark glasses and dying her hair several shades darker… When she arrived for work on Monday morning, Paula caught up with her as she queued up for lunch. Catching hold of her elbow, Paula said, “Hey, did you hear about what happened to that kitchen-hand we both fancied? I think it happened just after you went home…”

“No…” Loreen said, as innocently as she could, “Do tell…”

After Paula had related the whole sordid tale, Loreen gave every impression of being flabbergasted, “Well I never!” she said, and then, “Poor Swannee… So who was this slut he was with anyway; did they ever find out?”

“No…” said Paula, “I was speaking with one of the policemen who came and interviewed everyone who was there; he said no-one seemed to know who she was; at first I thought it might have been you, but I checked your clock-card and you’d already gone off-shift… Like the new hair-color by the way…”

***** ******* *****

Confessions of Johnny “the Nose”

08 Thursday Jul 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Johhny "the Nose" disguised as Johnny "the Pig"

Porkies by Gregor Stronach

July is a bastard of a month. Truly, I hate it. But as a month, it is tinged with bittersweet happiness, as each passing of July1st brings me one year closer to release.

My name is Johnny ‘The Nose’ Nostramo, and I am currently imprisoned in Sing Sing, serving a 17 year stretch for attempted murder.

This is my story.

It began when I was introduced to Johnny ‘The Head’ Capaduccio, a hulking, arrogant man in his late forties. Johnny the Head was a career criminal from the mean streets of Brooklyn, who had grown up running numbers for his father, Alphonso the Head, and his gang, the Head Breakers. Johnny yearned to take over the mantle for the Head Breakers, but when his talents for outright thuggery were noticed by Johnny ‘Arms’ Armando, well… let’s just say the Head Breakers were the first to feel the wrath of the new team on the block.

When the two Johnnies started out jacking trucks and running small-time standover operations, they were making a decent living. For three years, they kept their operations low key, opting for the low-risk side of organised crime.

But one dark February evening, while they were burgling a warehouse, they heard a noise… guns were drawn, lights extinguished and an agonising ten minute waiting game began. The waiting game finished when Johnny the Head called ‘Olly Olly in for Free’, and everyone came out of their hiding spots. There was another gang in the warehouse, burgling it from the other end.

The other gang was a two-man operation as well. Johnny ‘Legs’ Licciardello and Johnny ‘The Body’ Bonaducci had grown up together, pilfering money from street vendors, graduating to selling stolen cigarettes to church-goers on Sunday mornings.

It was a tense few minutes as the gangs figured out what to do… should they fight to the death, winner takes all, or co-operate, and form a new gang, one where all of the pieces came together…

The answer should be obvious to you all, by now… the Johnnies came together as one, forming a ruthless partnership that became known as the Voltronio Gang – a group of career criminals that, when put together the right way, formed a super criminal that was easily greater than the sum of its parts.

I joined the gang in the summer of 1993. It was a heady time, made even more so by the fact that the Voltronio Gang was looking for someone to help with the books. My part-Jewish ancestry, the reason behind my now-ridiculous nickname, stood me in good stead with the other Johnnies, and I became the fifth gang member with remarkable ease.

Things went well for a number of years, and we slowly rose to the top of the crime ladder in Little Italy. We had it all… cars, women and a really, really cool hideout in the back of an old butcher shop, just like in the movies. We even had use of a small portion of the cool room – 15% of it was ours, as stipulated by the conditions of our lease, but we were so tough, we often used up to 20%… after all, what could old Johnny the Butcher do? It’s not like we were ever late with the rent… I saw to that personally.

Our undoing came in the form of a woman. Her name was Johnny ‘The Boobs’ Booberini, and she was beautiful, like a carved statue of the Madonna holding twin baby Jesus’ in her arms, cradled to her chest. She was Johnny the Head’s girl, but she quickly began to exert an influence over the body of our gang. It was her idea to try to heist the shipment of diamonds from Johnny the Jeweller, a rich merchant who often stopped by the butcher shop to buy things, like steak, and sometimes sausages too.

Plans for the heist were laid out over several weeks of meeting at the old butcher shop, and we had the whole gig planned down to the tiniest detail.

Arms was in charge of the guns, Legs in charge of the getaway, Body was there for muscle and Johnny the Head was there to keep things calm and deal with unexpected situations. I was to stay back at the shop and man the radio, keeping an eye on the front of Johnny the Jewellers shop with a video camera we had installed the week before on a telegraph pole across the street.

Everything was going fine, until Johnny the Boobs came to the shop. The boys had just left, and I was preoccupied with watching the video monitor in front of me, checking up and down the street for the police.

It’s my fault that it all went wrong, really… I will admit that I got distracted by Johnny the Boobs when she asked me how things were going… she really was a beautiful woman. I gazed into her eyes while I thought for a couple of minutes, trying to come up with a snappy reply. When I finally stammered out that everything was fine, it wasn’t… I looked at the monitor, and discovered that the boys had been rumbled. The cops were everywhere, and they weren’t there to buy engagement rings.

I don’t know which one of the boys spilled the beans about the hideout after the shooting was done, but somehow Johnny the Cop, the chief of police, knew where to find me. Johnny the Boobs had done a runner already, but I knew that I had to stay behind, in case any of the other members of the Voltronio Gang made it home… but none of them did.

I waited there for two whole days, helping myself to frozen meat from Johnny the Butcher’s stock, leaving him promissory notes to replace the steaks that I cooked over a lone gas ring in the corner of the office. We had nicknamed that gas ring ‘Johnny the Burner’, and it was the unofficial eleventh member of the gang. There were other unofficial members, but I can’t remember who they were now… it all seems so long ago.

I was chewing a particularly satisfying piece of gristle when the door was kicked in from the outside, and Johnny the Cop stood there, alone. Always the glory hound, he had come to arrest the final member of the ruthless Voltronio Gang by himself, assuring that he would keep his job for at least another five years.

But age had wearied Johnny the Cop, and his nerves failed him. I reached for my gun, Johnny the 9mm Glock, and put a bullet in his chest. For some reason, despite all of my training on the mean streets, I resisted the urge to make sure he was dead with a shot to the head. Instead, I dragged him into the cool room, and left him there to die.

They found Johnny the Cop the next day. A combination of the shock of taking a bullet to the chest and the cool room’s temperature had put him into a state of suspended animation – but he was alive enough to position himself on the floor before he passed out.

When they found him, he was lying on his back, spread eagled, except for his right arm – the index finger on his right hand was positioned delicately on the end of his nose. That’s how they knew it was me.

I was arrested four days later in a hotel in Skokie, Illinois. I was brought before Johnny the Judge to plead guilty, and he sentenced me to 17 years for the attempted murder of a cop.

So that’s where I am now… locked up in Sing Sing. My only hope now is that I can survive the next six years unscathed… and as long as I don’t drop Johnny the Soap, I should be fine.

First published at Rumandmonkey.com yonks ago

Live Sheep Export: Cruel, Ruining Local Industry and Exporting Jobs – Reuben Brand’s Update

07 Wednesday Jul 2010

Posted by in Reuben Brand

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Sheep transport - Dubai

By Reuben Brand

Live export is not only cruelly exporting Australian animals; it is crippling local industry and exporting our jobs. Writes Reuben Brand

After conducting numerous investigations at livestock markets and abattoirs throughout the Middle East, I returned to Australia with hours of footage and hundreds of photographs that document the inhumane treatment these animals endure at the receiving end of the live export trade.

These investigations were launched by Sydney Lord Mayor Clover Moore during a forum at Parliament House in Sydney, where I spoke alongside representatives from the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA) and the Australasian Meat Industry Employees Union (AMIEU).

Since my return I have been working closely with local meat processors and Australian meat workers who are now doing it tough due to the fact that there is simply not enough livestock to support local industry because they are all being shipped offshore.

The myths about why live export is important are many; the most common are as follows:

Myth: “Many people do not have the luxury of home refrigeration, and supermarkets are often inaccessible and unaffordable to those living in regional villages.”

Fact: Australia predominately exports to the Gulf region which, despite industry claims, is a very prosperous region for obvious reasons. Oil. The idea of “a lack of refrigeration” is not only an extremely ignorant and un-researched claim, but it is highly culturally offensive. People in the Middle East are not Bedouins living in tents, during my time living in the region I saw more luxury vehicles and high-rises than I see in Sydney or any other “developed” country. Supermarkets are very plentiful and very accessible, all of which stock a huge variety of chilled meat – with Australian chilled meat as the cheapest and most sort after of all.

Did I mention that Dubai has air-conditioned public bus stops and indoor ski slopes? But apparently no one has a fridge. Go figure.

Myth: “The supply of live animals is also important for religious and cultural reasons.”

Live sheep in a car boot - Dubai

Fact: Yes, there are religious celebrations that require live animals – only two times a year.  Eid al Fitr, which marks the end of Ramadan and Eid al Adha, that marks the end of the pilgrimage to Mecca. Only twice a year – but we continue to send live animals 365 days a year.

I spoke to one of the young migrant workers at a livestock market in the region who told me he does not get paid by the local livestock company for his services. Rather, they give him a small amount of food and let him sleep in the holding pens with the animals. He has a Diploma of Associate Engineering and this is what he gets. This kind of cheap labour comes at a very high price and is all the more reason for Australia put an end to a trade that treats both humans and animals so appallingly.

The solid fact of the matter is that the live export trade is exporting Australian jobs (to countries that in some cases don’t even pay their employees) and is crippling our meat processing industry.

During a recent trip to Townsville and Dinmore in Queensland, I interviewed meat workers who are now either unemployed or have had their shifts cut right back and are trying to survive on government handouts.

In Townsville I watched as truck after truck, loaded with cattle, drove straight past the local abattoir. One local meat worker, who is now unemployed, told me that the export vessel docked in the harbour was not only exporting cattle, it was exporting the jobs of approximately 250 people who had just been stood down.

“Nobody is working today and yet there is a boat with thousands of cattle leaving. Thousands! You know, that’s a whole months’ worth of work for us,” she said.

According to Grant Courtney, President of the AMIEU, 40,000 people have lost their jobs and 150 processing plants have been shut down due to the live export trade – over 700 of these job losses have happened in the past six months alone.

“I can’t understand why the Government is sticking its head in the sand when thousands of Australian jobs are being lost due to this trade,” he said.

Another man I spoke to who lost his job at the local abattoir is now struggling just to keep his family afloat. His fiancé, who is also pregnant, has now had to go back into the workforce to try to support their growing family.

With no money for food or bills, no fuel in the car, debt collectors breathing down his neck and relying on donations to survive, life is becoming increasingly tough he bravely told me.

“Lately it’s been getting pretty bad… we’ve even had to go down to the local community centre and grab food vouchers… You start to appreciate things like that when people donate food and money vouchers so you can live.”

Shift cut backs and job losses at the processing plant in Dinmore now have workers pondering the future of the Australian meat processing industry. As one woman told me, if the Dinmore plant is suffering, which is one of the biggest in Australia, then she can’t see hope for the survival of any of the smaller ones.

“Every boat of cattle that leave this county, leave the Australian worker and I know what it feels like without work…it’s no good saying that the live cattle export doesn’t contribute, it certainly does. Because it’s just got worse and worse,” she said.

With a daughter who has a terminal illness and needs a surgery that could save her life, this woman courageously sat and gave a first-hand account of how the live export trade is affecting her life and many others who are now in the same boat.

Andrew Martell, a sheep farmer from central Western NSW, attended the live export forum at Parliament House last month and made some points during Q and A time – he also told the room that he receives the same amount of money for his sheep regardless whether he sells them to exporters or local industry.

Kuwait abattoir - 2009

So why on Earth would you want to send sheep offshore to be slaughtered and transported inhumanely when you could have it all done here and create much needed jobs in the process?

It is an absurd idea to think that all people in the Middle East buy their daily meat from a wet market – can you imagine how long it would take just to buy a single steak? Local supermarkets and butcher shops operate on a cuts and carcass trade where the outcome for the consumer would remain the same with a chilled meat trade.

Independent research, conducted by ACIL Tasman, shows that a sheep processed domestically is worth 20 per cent more to the Australian economy than one exported live.

According to the Australian live export industry this trade contributes $1.8 billion to the economy, so by using their own figures, if we phase out the live export trade and implement a chilled meat trade for export we could have an industry that injects $2.16 billion into our economy. Not to mention the huge impact it will have on Australian jobs.

A chilled meat trade is not only a sustainable alternative but is also extremely lucrative for all involved, be it farmer, processor or meat worker.

To view a video of Reuben’s investigation in the Middle East please click here

To view interviews of meat workers please click here

Reuben Brand is a freelance journalist who has worked extensively in the Middle East. For more information please visit his website at: www.reubenbrand.com

Geoffrey the Inept V – Bussed

05 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by in Big M

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Colonoscope - don't know much about it, but I'll look into it for you..

By Big M

Geoffrey’s dinner plans had not gone as well as expected, that is, Geoffrey’s virginity was still very much intact. Morticia was horrified that he had not bothered to do a MasterCook inspired meal, so placed the frozen dinners back in the refrigerator, and cooked an omelette with chorizo, onion and zucchini on the side. Geoffrey felt a real pang as he watched the zucchini being diced, his libido shrinking in proportion to the remaining zucchini.

It was a busy Monday morning in the hospital clinics. Geoffrey hadn’t had a chance to speak with Morticia, as she was allocated to the Colonoscopy Clinic, whilst he ferried patients in and out of the general clinics. Geoffrey wondered what sort of person would specialise in colonoscopy. Clearly men who liked wearing bow ties and very short fingernails.

Sister Kent and Mrs Tickle were already enjoying a cuppa and a smoke in a sunny spot around the side of the hospital. Mrs Tickle had perfected the pelvic floor exercises, so that they were almost second nature. It had been a big weekend. They’d been out with the MaNICs, and had persuaded them to abandon the pub-crawl, in favour of staying at one particular club. They had chosen the local RSL, for two reasons, one, they were already there, and, two, it was desperate for members, so they’d joined en masse. Tess had relived her early days as a barmaid, lending a hand pulling schooies.

The comical figure of Dr James came blustering towards them, resplendent in his red fluorescent ‘Emergency Coordinator’ vest. “Where’s the fire, James?” Uva couldn’t help herself.

“Fire, Fire, what fire.” James looked around nervously.

“No, it’s a saying. What’s going on?”

“Oh…er…terrible bus crash…expecting lot’s of casualties. I’ve declared an ‘External Emergency’ so, you two know what to do?”

Tess and Uva nodded. “Have you sussed out just how many casualties we are expecting? Have you spoken to the ambos or the wallopers?” Uva mumbled out the side of her mouth as she lit another durry.

“No, it’s a bus crash, of course there’ll be lots of casualties!” James shook his head at her clear lack of understanding. “I’ll initiate a full P.E.N.I.S.”

“We’d all like to see that.” Tess tittered, then waddled off to perform her allocated ‘External Emergency’ jobs, which included notifying the switchboard, and distributing C.B. radios to each ward. Uva set about warning the wardsmen, bed-makers and kitchen staff of the impending influx. She did this by having a quiet smoke with the leading hands of each group. She knew that James would be closing the Outpatient Clinics and transferring people from Emergency into that area, cancelling booked surgery and calling in extra staff.

It turned out to be the most exciting day of Geoffrey’s career. Dr James had instructed him to cancel all the clinics, and send the patients home, so that he could open his own emergency room. He did this with gusto, much to the consternation of most of the medical staff, as well as the patients, some of whom had travelled long distances for their consultations. No one was more upset than old Mr Collins, who had two meters of colonoscope in his colon when Geoffrey burst into the clinic room to warn them that the clinic was about to close. Mr Collins leapt off the metal bed, in spite of intravenous sedation, taking the colonoscope with him. The professor of gastroenterology roared at Geoffrey, as they struggled to lift Mr Collins back onto the bed. Thankfully the only thing broken was the colonoscope!

The entire hospital was made ready for the influx of casualties. Patients had been discharged from wards; beds had been washed and made. The Day-Stay Surgery ward was converted into a regular ward. ‘Walking wounded’ had been transferred from Emergency to the clinics, with Geoffrey, and, thankfully, Morticia, in charge of their care.

They waited, and waited, until, eventually, one lone ambulance pulled into the Ambulance Bay. Emergency Doctors and Nurses spilled into the bay to care for their first casualty of the Great Bus Crash of 2010. The back doors of the ambulance were flung open. Everyone craned their necks to look at their first patient. It was a middle-aged man, sitting up on a stretcher, his right hand in a bandage.

The Director of Emergency was outraged. “Don’t you bumbling fools understand the principles of triage?” She roared. “Walking wounded, like this chap, can be treated at the scene, while you attend to more intensive cases!”

“There are no more intensive cases, this is the case.” The more senior ambulance officer replied, concealing his contempt for the ED Director. “This is the bus driver who was in the crash. There were two empty buses en route back to the depot. This poor bugger was following and failed to brake in time, thus running into the back of the other bus!”

Dr James called an urgent Executive Meeting the next morning. The nursing directors were exhausted, as they had spent the previous afternoon and evening trying to get the hospital back into usual shape. Even Acacia was tired, but that was fairly normal for her, even her stenographer’s pad felt like a lead weight in her hand. James was about to call the meeting to order when Uva interjected. “Total cock up, James.”

“Pardon, the meeting has not yet been opened, Sister Kent, besides, we don’t use those sorts of words here in the Executive Suite.” James was displeased. Acacia fumbled with her pencil, trying to remember how to spell ‘sweet’, as she’d given up on short hand.

“Well open the bloody meeting so I can tell you what a complete PENIS you are.” Uva was livid. “Clinic patients kicked out, inpatients discharged early, wardsmen unnecessarily pushing empty beds around the hospital, staff being paid overtime, extra food brought in and wasted, plus, we are the laughing stock of the tabloids. Did you read today’s headline? Great Bus Crash of 2010, one sprained wrist!”

“Well…er…a man in my position…er…can’t, I mean, doesn’t read anything, I mean, everything.” James stammered away. He glanced at Tess, who had a face like an ogre. “Mrs Tickle, are you all right?”

Tess exhaled. “No, not really, this whole business has put my pelvic floor back at least two months.”

“Well.” Dr James began again. “Last night I received an email from the head of the Health Department stating that both the hospital, and me, have been nominated for a special Emergency Response Award. We’ve had the most rapid response to a perceived external threat in the state. In addition to these awards I’ve been empowered to give two awards for Emergency Response to staff whom we feel particularly deserving. I’m nominating Nurse Riley and Nurse Libitina.” His speech was interrupted by the hot spray of black coffee laced with brandy that was being ejected from Uva’s lips.

“Morticia, a little creepy, but a very competent nurse, Geoffrey, does something right for the first time in his life and gets a prize for it!” Uva wiped the coffee from her chin, whilst she dug around in her pockets for her Camels and lighter. “What about the staff who came in from home, the wardsmen, bed-makers, kitchen staff?”

James held his hand up. “Sister…er…Kent. The decision has been made. I’ve emailed my recommendations to the Health Department this morning.” He looked down and noticed the dappled pattern of coffee on his shirt and tie. Thankfully he always kept spares in his office. “Anyway, I declare the meeting closed, unless there are any further…er…comments?” He looked around. Both Uva and Tess shook their heads in disbelief, whilst Acacia continued to scribble across her pad, trying to remember what was said after ‘executive sweet’. James left the room. Uva and Tess sat and stared, the blue smoke rose upwards from the Camel in the corner of Uva’s mouth, a long cylinder of ash threatened to collapse on itself. The only sound was from Acacia’s pencil criss-crossing the page.

“Bloody Geoffrey!” They both chimed.