[LNH/ACRA] Master Blaster: Insufficient Postage (Special #3.1)

Saxon Brenton saxonbrenton at hotmail.com
Mon Apr 17 09:34:04 PDT 2006

[LNH/ACRA] Master Blaster: Insufficient Postage (Special #3.1)

After the revelation that Master Blaster had edited WikiBoy (the
Legionnaire that anyone can edit) into producing a cure for AIDS in his
semen and distributing it in the manner that your Acraphobe oriented
minds think that he would have, you will recall that WikiBoy said:

|    "Wait a second.  You can't just go ahead and cure AIDS!  What
| kind of effect will that have on the world?"
|    "Not much, really," admitted Master Blaster.  "I mean, besides a
| couple of shitty Tom Russell stories, when has anyone ever had AIDS
| in the Looniverse?"
|    If Tom had asked Saxon Brenton to use Anal-Retentive Archive Kid,
| then Anal-Retentive Archive Kid would appear in this spot and the
| reader would discover whether or not Anal-Retentive Archive Kid still
| is HIV-positive.
|    But Tom didn't ask, so ARAK doesn't appear here.

     Oh crikey Tom, what makes you think that's going to save you?

Master Blaster: Insufficient Postage Add-On
(Master Blaster Special #3.1)
'Drunken Ramblings'
by Saxon Brenton

Acraphobe content warning: contains drunken college students

     It was a party, and it was very late.  Or maybe it was very early.
Dunno.  Anal-Retentive Archive Kid - Wendle to his friends, since he
was off duty from being net.hero support staff at the moment - took a
sip from the last bottle of his home brewed mead that hadn't been
scarfled up by Frat Boy and rowdy friends.
     He held up the bottle to the light and smiled as he mused on how
good a batch this lot was.  Damn good batch.  Damn good batch of brew
for a damn good city.  Net.ropolis was mobile across a couple of states,
and for the purposes of this story the legal drinking age was 18 rather
than 21 years old.  This was to keep all lined up and in sync the age
when youngsters were considered adult enough to drink and vote with the
age when youngsters were considered adult enough to enlist and go to
war.  It also made it easier for the non-U.S. based Writer.  The age
restriction would change back the next time the city moved across a state
border, or whenever some other Writer wanted to do an Animal House style
story that involved college kids having to go to great lengths to get
the kegs for their parties.
     And what a party!  Victory!  The Dave Thomas Deluxe U quidditch
team were top dogs in inter-university comp!  Ha!  Take *that* Calisota
State!  Go Growliwags!  Roof roof roof roof roof!  Gods, I've gotta go
for a pee, thought Wendle.
     The aforementioned Frat Boy staggered over and plonked himself down
in a chair on the opposite side of the table.  It was only then that he
blearily noticed the unconscious Lenny the squirrel, lying sleeping on
his back with his head over the edge of the table with mouth open and
snoring.  But Lenny wasn't the only one who was out of it by this stage
of the morning, not by a long shot, and so Frat Boy just carefully
pushed the squirrel to one side, before turning back to Wendle and
trying to remember what he'd been about to say.
     Oh yeah.  "Good brew, man," he said, raising the bottle in salute.
     "Was just thinking the same thing myself," said Wendle.  "Cheers,"
he said, matching the toast.  Wendle's mead might not be made in large
quantities compared to the volumes usually needed to cater for college
parties, but what there was always ended up being drunk - and not just
because students would drink anything alcoholic that didn't actually
have cat's wee in it.  He'd had to hide his own stash of bottles in the
cooler in the trunk of his clapped out old second hand car, but that was
nothing new.
     "Listen, I've been meaning to ask you a question," said Frat Boy.
     "Try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book
every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in
peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations," replied Wendle.
     "You were about to ask what the meaning of life was," said Wendle,
nodding sagaciously.
     Frat Boy examined his memory to see if that was correct, and then
shook his head.  "Nah.  Don't think I was gonna ask what the meaning of
life was."
     "You sure?"
     "Pretty sure."
     "Huh.  That's funny.  I was sure that you were."
     "Was prob'bly the booze talking."
     "Damn good brew."
     "Can't argue with that."
     "Okay then."
     "But I mean, I wouldn't need to ask the meaning of life anyway.
Ev'rybody knows that it's 42."
     "I pr'fer the Monty Python version," said Wendle.  "You can do
something constructive with try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat,
read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and
live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations.
With 42 it's more like, oh, so that's the meaning of life then, is it?
That's nice.  And it's kinda this abstract... thing," he said, waving
his hands in the air to indicate the general airy-fairyness of the
universe, and spilling some of his mead in the process.  "And then
because you can't actually apply it to everyday life, you kinda put it
aside and then the world goes down the toilet, sort of thing."
     "Poor bloody world," commiserated Frat Boy, taking another swig
from his drink.
     "Poor bloody world," agreed Wendle.
     "WikiBoy," said Frat Boy.
     Wendle frowned.  "The meaning of life is WikiBoy?" he asked.  That
was a new one to him.
     Frat Boy paused.  He was pretty sure that that wasn't what he had 
     "I mean," continued Wendle, "I guess we could edit him into being
this really wise dispenser-of-wisdom type person.  But that would only
mean that he *knows* the meaning of life, not that he *is* the meaning
of life."
     "Nah nah nah," went Frat Boy, cutting through the other's rambling.
"You heard how he had the cure for AIDS?"
     "Oh.  Yeah.  Cool, innit."
     "So, did you get your HIV-pos fixed?"
     "You dint?"
     "Nah," repeated Wendle, taking another drink.  "Had to beat
WikiBoy off with a baseball bat."
     "No shit?  Why?"
     "Bum chumming with guys makes me throw up," said Wendle.
     "Really," nodded Wendle.  "Tried it once, just to see what it was
like.  Got the shakes, an' then I puked all over the place.  Touching
guys just makes me feel all icky."
     "Really?" repeated Frat Boy.
     "Took us ages to get the carpet clean," added Wendle, lost in thought.
     "You dint turn green when I started sleeping with Frank," Frat
Boy said, referring to the huge and be-freckled redhead who worked part
time as a masked Mexican wrestler.
    Wendle stared at him, not sure what he was getting at.  "Yeah, but
like, you weren't asked me to get involved, were you?  You sure as shit
weren't forcing me to get involved."
     Frat Boy stared at Wendle, then said, "You're a real pal, you know
that man?"
     "You get someone like the Preacher, and it'd be like, if he doesn't
like something, then he'll act like that means that God doesn't like it
either.  An' then it's all hellfire an' brimstone an' screaming at people
about how God doesn't approve of bonsai gardening or landscape painting
or nude jello wrestling.  An' you don't do that.  An' that's just so
frickin' cool, man."
     "Yeah, well," said Wendle.  "You know how it is.  Sooner gnaw my
own head off than join with fundies in persecuting anyone."
     "Fundie Christians?"
     "Fundie *anybody*," spat Wendle.  Then a look of grumpiness was
alloyed into the anger on his face.  "Sometimes I think the pagan fundies
are among the worst.  With the monothetis... monosei... momothes... the
one-godders," he said, settling on a word he could get his tongue around,
"you can at least see that it's in their nature to think that there's
only one truth, so you know why they start crapping on about how they're
the only ones that have it, even if they're obviously wrong.  But you'd
think us pagans would know better.  But no-ooo."  He looked over to Frat
Boy.  "You ever heard a fundamentalist Wiccan going on about how moon
deities are always female?  I mean, have you ever heard such shit?"
     "Nuh," said Frat Boy.  "So, there's a lot of them, are there?"
     "What, fundamentalist Wiccans? "
     "Male moon gods," said Frat Boy with the immense seriousness that
drunks can bring into focus on trivia.
     "A few.  The Norse," and here Wendle thumped his chest with one
fist to remind Frat Boy that he considered the Aesir and Vabir his lot --
pity it was the hand with his drink on it and a large amount splashed
down the front of his shirt, "have got Sol the sun goddess and Mani the
moon god.  And then there's his lot," added Wendle, waving his hand in
the direction Lenny,  "have Yhi and Bahloo."
     "His lot?" asked Frat Boy.
     "He," said Wendel with a failed attempt at great dignity, "is an
angel from the Dreamtime."  Then he added in a Basil Faulty voice, "He's
from Alcheringa."  This explanation would probably have been more
impressive if said angel hadn't been unconscious on a table, snoring
with a noise like a buzzsaw, sleeping off being as nissed as a pewt.
"There are several others," added Wendle.  He frowned, "Damned if I
can remember then right now, though."  He started to stand up in a
particularly wobbly fashion.
     Frat Boy waved him to sit down.  "Don't go rummaging for your
Junior Word.chuck's Guidebook.  I'll take your word for it."  This was
just as well, since although Wendle's mind was capable of just about
anything once armed with the Junior Word.chuck's Guidebook, his physical
co-ordination was currently somewhat compromised.
     "Okay," said Wendle.  Then: "Smeg."
     "I gotta go pee," said Wendle, and started to stand up again.
Then he fell to the floor; his physical co-ordination was currently
somewhat compromised.  "Smeg," he said again.
     "Here, come on.  I'll help you up," said Frat Boy.
     "Nah," went Wendle, waving an arm ineffectually.  "Don't wanna get
touched by other guys."
     "Thass okay," said Frat Boy with drunken munificence.  "You're such
a great pal, not for being a racist bastard an' all..."
     "Homophobic bastard," corrected Wendle.
     "Homophobic bastard," agreed Frat Boy.  "You're such a great pal
that I'm not gonna have sex with you."
     "Thass cool.  So lemme go to the john."
     "Can't go to the john," said Frat Boy, shaking his head emphatically.
     "Why not?"
     "Somebody stuffed toilet rolls down all of them, an' they're all
blocked up."

Anal-Retentive Archive Kid created by Saxon Brenton.
Frat Boy created by Uplink. Not reserved

Saxon Brenton
(who'd been planning on working on `Bride of C'thulhu' #9 over the weekend)
     saxon.brenton at uts.edu.au     saxonbrenton at hotmail.com

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