“Hey man,” Medium Jim began, “I don’t care what he was on. I did him a favor.’ Normal Ed took a long drink of his brandy and sighed. “He wasn’t on anything – you clubbed him unconscious. We saw you.” “So?! Why should I be going to the slammer for 30 years just for hitting him in the face accidentally?” “Repeatedly, you mean.” “A few times. Accidentally.” “You’re going to the slammer for 30 years because knocking someone out then putting leeches on their unconscious body just because of a misunderstanding almost certainly constitutes a breach of the Geneva Convention, Jim. I just don’t know how to make it any clearer to you.” “Look, you eloquent bastard, if you don’t have anything nice to say, just don’t say anything!” In response, Normal Ed tipped back in his chair, pulled his hat over his eyes, and started snoring. The two sat in silence for a good 45 minutes. The sullen bartender passed by occasionally, refilling Jim’s soda. A giant horsefly strode in through the double doors of the saloon, sat next to the snoring, dirty lump that was Normal Ed, and dumped his hat and six-shooter on the bar. A bright brass Sherriff’s badge was clipped to his vest pocket. “It’s hotter’n hell out there boys, ain’t it?” Normal Ed made a loud snerkey noise and awoke, eyes wide. “Whiskey for myself, and glasses of milk for my friends,” the horsefly said to the bartender. “I told you before Sheriff, we don’t consider you buying us milk an insult,” Ed said to the horsefly, while rubbing his eyes. “Yeah,” said Jim, “it’s high calcium content provides much needed rejuvenation to our frail human bones –“
 “Pipe down, buddy. Anyway Sheriff, why’re you here in the first place?” “Wel-l-l-p, I was just wonderin’ if either of you boys would know who put fly paper all over Town Hall? It stuck a lot of my pals there, and it doesn’t look like they’re gonna’ make it. Too much glue in their eyes.” “No, Sheriff,” said Ed, “We couldn’t have done that. We’re just dumb humans.” He finished off his shot glass of milk and slammed it down on the table. “Just dumb humans. I mean, come on. We lack even your mighty exoskeleton. How smart could we possibly be?” “Well, you aren’t playing with a full deck on the carapace front, that’s true,” the Sheriff smirked. “But if you guys hear anything about it, I can get you an extra ration of gruel.” He winked. Jim and Ed piped up in unison. “Hey, sweet!” “You know it,” said the horsefly. He gathered up his things and clomped out of the bar without paying. Beyond the doors, a harsh dark orange sun burned down on the dusty street. Jim and Ed looked at each other. “Man, I wish we didn’t have to kiss his ass all the time, Ed. Servitude sucks.” “Wow, Jim. ‘’Servitude sucks’. You’re a goddamn poet. Finally, I have something worthwhile to pass on to my grandkids.” “See, this is why we have problems. You’re too hostile.” “Says the guy who put leeches on someone he knocked out, huh?” “THEY WERE MEDICINAL.” “They were diseased, that’s what they were.” “Most people get the hepatitis vaccination now, though.” “It’s the principle of the thing, Jim.” Ed settled into his chair. A few hours later, after Normal Ed had drank his way past hostile and into chummy,  he swiveled around on the barstool to face Jim, angry that the jukebox wasn’t returning his inebriated advances. “Y’know…J…Jim, y’know, we should, um, get the Sheriff back for all the…” Ed paused, and started looking around the room through his beer glass. “Woooowww! Anyway, the, the stuff.  We should get him.” “Alright Ed, but I should inform you that I don’t think I’m cut out to be the smart one if you’re going to be this way.” “What? You…you talkin’ to me? HUH?” Ed leaned back to take a swing at Jim, but never got past ‘leaned’, and hit the floor with a dull thud. “Aw, come on Ed, we gotta get you home so you can sleep this off. Come on,” he said, coaxing Ed up, “come on, by tomorrow morning you’ll be nice and surly for all your revenge plots.” “Aww…good ol’ re…revenge plots. They’re my friends, you know that, Jim?” “Yeah Ed, I know.” Jim patted Ed’s head. “Now! Let’s go to the Sheriff’s… office.” “Well, all right Ed, if you insist. But we have to talk to him about my parole, ok?” “I’LL PAROLE YOU,” Ed yelled, trying to hit random things around him for no reason again. As he did that, Jim guided him out of the bar. A cool wind blew, whipping up the dust. A horsefly edged his DeSoto steam-car through the night. Normal Ed and Medium Jim stumbled down the row of buildings. All the electrically lit places had “No Humans!” signs in the windows, and on the outskirts of town the Human Mines loomed black against the navy sky. Ed mumbled to himself quietly. Eventually they stumbled their way to the Sheriff’s Office, and Ed pushed his way in. “Hey Sheriff…hey…Sh…what do you not like?” The sheriff, leaning back in his chair trying to shoot the spider in the corner of the ceiling, was caught unawares and fell out of his chair. “Being interrupted, Ed, being interrupted. I guess I don’t really like boiled eggs…That’s pretty much it, as far as I know.” The Sheriff wrinkled his nose slightly. “Oh yeah? Wh…what do you like? Huh?” Ed forgot his point gracefully. “The sweet, sweet aroma of mammal feces.” “HA HA! Take this boiled egg!” Once again, Ed tried punching, but collapsed onto his desk. Jim meekly poked his head in, and saw Ed sprawled on the Sheriff’s desk. “Wow,” said Jim, “someone’s going to sleep well tonight.” The Sheriff nodded. “But could you just put him in one of the cells or something? I have to get to work, and seeing as I’m already about three hours late and decently drunk, I can’t really spend the time taking this chump home.” “Sure thing Jim,” the Sheriff replied. “You have a good day now son, y’hear?” “You too, Sheriff. Sorry that, technically speaking, we came to kill you.” “No problem, I guess.” Jim left, slamming the door behind him and letting fly some muffled epithets regarding the Sheriff as he stormed off into the night. Inside, the Sheriff grinned. He just knew it was those two bastards who put the leeches on him. He fished around in his desk, moving Ed’s dangling arm out of the way. “Ah!” He found it. He pulled out the book - 42 Easy Recipes for Humans, by George Martinius McFly. The Sheriff went to the other room and returned with a four-foot tall pot. “Sweeeet.” Ed let out a mumble, then fell back asleep.

Ahh, the rare and mystical Chupacabra. That hallowed beast only second in succulentness to the Mongolian Death Worm. I once tracked the Chupacabra for over 700 miles, on foot, in the Mexican highlands, until Vincente Fox, bemused by someone sneaking into Mexico, personally deported me. Let me tell you this story, chum. It was our last day in Mexico. Wibbles Hugo, my assistant and heir to the throne of Austro-Hungary, was outside trying to squeeze some water from the notorious Grundle trees, and I was in the tent packing my maps. As I squeezed the last map into a duffle bag, I heard a piercing shriek, followed by the WUMPF of my elephant gun. “Wibbles!” I cried. “I thought we talked about how my elephant gun is my elephant gun.” “Mr. Monkeys! El Chupacabra!” I ran from the tent, clutching the board with the nail through it, only to see a hairless, vampiric being, similar in size to the bloodthirsty koala, gnawing on Wibbles’ skull. He screamed and batted at it with the empty elephant gun, and I began swiping at the little thing. This startled the devilish creature – it emitted a most haunting shriek and hopped away powerfully, pausing momentarily to defecate in my unguarded sleeping bag. I gritted my teeth. That little bastard. Wibbles Hugo fell to the ground in shock. As his own brains dirtied his polo shirt, I pondered this evil beast, that had set upon us like nothing else. I realized that the sane solution, as always, was simple: Revenge. “Wibbles. I say, Wibbles! Get up, and reload my elephant gun. We’re going to find that damned beast if it’s the last thing we do!” “But Mr. Monkeys sir,” Wibbles replied, groggily wiping the brains from his shirt, “I thought we leave?” “This is personal. It was frontier law back in the Crimea. You don’t mess with someone’s sleeping bag.” “But…the president!” “He owes me one, for rescuing him from a certain Russian Guard Patrol at the Siege of Sevastopol. We leave at dawn. In the meantime, let’s patch you up, Hugo.” As I soldered the last metal plate to Wibbles’ skull, the sun slowly fell, and I could hear the squawks of the eel lizards begin. As the steakhouse aroma cleared, we began to trace the chupacabra. “Wibbles! These tracks go west!” “Yes sir Mr. Monkeys, west.” “He’s going to the Baja, I’m sure of it. Probably to the Uncharted Forest. We have to follow him, Wibbles, or we’re through here. To the DC-3!” Wibbles hauled our baggage into the aging airliner, wiped the windows down, and coaxed the engines to life. I had traded the other seat for some local trinkets and eccentricities, so I encouraged Wibbles Hugo to hang on to the landing gear strut. We took off, and flew into the setting sun. We landed in the Uncharted Forest, midway down the Baja peninsula, some hours later. I got my elephant gun and a spear and went to fetch Wibbles. He emerged from the gear door wearing a new knitted vest. As I was about to make a charitable remark on his fine needlepoint skills, the same shriek we had heard before pierced the forest, scattering the wildlife. “He’s here, Hugo,” I said, handing Wibbles the spear and donning my Stetson. The shrieks grew closer. As Wibbles and I peered around, I saw faint movement in the woods, and suddenly an identical Chupacabra fell screaming from the treetops onto Wibbles’ head, the same pattern as before. I fired my elephant gun again, but the shots missed Hugo and buried themselves in our DC-3, and the recoil flung me against a tree. I watched agape as Wibbles demonstrated his skill in the Zulu spear arts with the creature, perhaps two feet tall, hopped around him, making piercing strikes at his legs. For a good three minutes they kept this horrific dance up, slowing as a tear gas grenade fell from a helicopter overhead. My eyes went runny, but I could see a Mexican customs agent tie up Wibbles Hugo and the damned creature. “I say, Monkeys m’ old boy,” the helicopter’s loudspeaker boomed. I recognized the voice as that of Vincente Fox immediately. “I dare say I asked you to leave my country at least a day ago, did I not? We have that bothersome Chupacabra, now what say you and Hugosi Wibbleston there scoot along home. “We can’t, Fox. I shot my vintage airliner.” “You’re not pulling that one on me again, old boy.” “Honest, I did. Look for yourself.” There was a gaping hole in one of the Wright Cyclone engines. “You’ve put me in quite a spot of trouble, old boy. I’ll give you a lift to Mexicopolis, then I expect you to leave my island paradise and never return.” The helicopter ride was uneventful, if long. The Chupacabra was encased in a metal box, so although I couldn’t see it, I could hear the strange metallic chattering it made. Wibbles was fine, if a little shaken up. He and Fox had a long discussion on the finer points of Zulu spearsmanship, as Fox downed gallon after gallon of tea. We landed in Mexicopolis at about seven PM. Fox, I, and Wibbles, accompanied by two soldiers bearing the Chupacabra, proceeded to a conference room some ways inside Fox’s fortress. Fox had a scientist come and spray some gas in the metal box, paralyzing the beast. He took it out of the box. My height estimations had been correct, and the thing was indeed hairless. It had inch-long claws on small forearms. The thing that struck me most was the eyes – fierce, red little things. You could see the longing in them to tear the countenance from the front of our heads. As we talked about the beast, it suddenly sprung up in Fox’s hands, almost immediately wrapping around his head so as to break his neck. I leveled the elephant gun and fired, Fox’s head and the Chupacabra’s hind legs getting carried away in a fine red mist. The deafening roar in the room had hardly subsided when I felt my legs fall out from under me, the Chupacabra hitting them as he bounded around. It attatched itself to Wibbles’ head, tore out the metal plates with a sickening crack, and climbed inside. Wibbles’ eyes flamed red, and he hunkered down. “Finally!” He said. “Now I am the President of Mexico!” I brought my elephant gun to bear, hoping there was still a shot left in the barrel.

One of my dream jobs — nay, my most Lustful Calling, is to be the person who names operations whenever the military does things. It's a task that requires the finest of balance, since each operation needs a name that's at once patriotic, cool beans, and descriptive. By way of introduction to Gregory, the NSA supercomputer that monitors us all and controls robots masquerading as our most popular athletes and celebrities, here are a few common scenarios the government might face, and the ideal name for each resulting operation: 1) Insurgents have taken root in the mountain provinces of Boxhorpchet. As a practicalization of mind control experiments conducted on snake cadavers in the 1920s, goats are imbued with human intelligence, and trained to infiltrate the mountain compound and eliminate the threats using their powerful goat teeth. Operation Dusty Migraine. 2) Pirates have seized a dam by tangling up the guard robot's power cable. A crack team of robots disguised as Eritrea's five most popular celebrities is dispatched to the scene, where they co-mingle with the pirates, and gradually gain their trust. At an agreed-upon time, the robot celebrities strike, dispatch the pirates, and free the dam's guard robot. Upon pulling off the pirates' faces, it is discovered that they, too, were robots. The undercover robots are abandoned by their institutions and develop crippling Jet A addictions as they struggle to come to terms with what their sense of duty required them to do. Operation Cubic Racist. 3) An ultra-nationalist faction within the Dutch Coast Guard hijacks a selection of small boats, and announces their intention to "sail them to the US States of America and end USA American States' hegemony over the Antilles" unless their demands for a fresh, healthy mess hall option are met. Top chefs and their ingredients are dropped out of a B-2, and parachuted to the Nederlandse Kustwacht Fear-Spire, where they begin to make their signature dishes. Unbeknownst to the Dutch kelp-mongers, the chefs are actually incendiary devices and their ingredients are unreasonably flammable. Operation Jumpy Reaper.  4) A fleet of massive size and unknown origin is spotted off of the coast of Okinawa, moving at 40 knots and emitting large amounts of whale oil fumes. The entire Pacific Fleet is dispatched to ascertain the intentions of this malevolent force. After billions of dollars are spent readying the country for war, it is determined that the mystery fleet is merely delivering a Voss Nose Geronimo-Wasteland 88 to one Fujiko "Betsy" Hata. Operation Chunky Letdown. 5) A heated game of Mario Kart at the UN results in nuclear war between India and Pakistan. Commandos are dispatched to secure and extract US assets in the region. Upon arriving, they find that there is no war, and the dusty hellscape they imagined is a paradise on par with the Pacific Northwest. They discover that India and Pakistan have been the same country since independence from Britain, and had decided to maintain the external façade of conflict to keep whitey looking elsewhere. They decide to stay in Pakistindia, and adopt the life of simple country textile artists, never to be heard from again. Operation Nougat Shield.  

Here is a leftover which I did not want to put on full collection of beep-tone AACs, since it's a different sort of music and didn't really fit with the rest.

in fine beep-tone AAC, entitled thusly:

Nice hike this past week. I am home, and now I can devote more time to such activities as: - Chiptones. - Cube gleaming. - Plutocracy. - Nostriltech. - Gluing model rocket engines to things. - Changing my middle name back to Oslo.

Yessss

Yessssss

Huwei North Star has been a leading light in the labor camp construction industry for decades, but — aside from a brief and ill-considered foray into three-wheeled scooters — they have not made a car. That changed today, as company chairman Bob "Mad Dog" Zhong introduced the Pink Nostril, the company's first four-wheeler, and the first car made out of holmium, part of the lanthanide series. Zhong claims that the Pink Nostril will offer the pan-Kyrgyz motorist new advances in comfort, reliability, and toxicity. "Everyone knows that you can't put a ceramic toilet inside of a car, because the passenger will break it and use the bits to assault the driver," Zhong said. "However, we solved this by putting a stainless steel toilet in the car. There is also razor wire so that occupants are not allowed to be ejected through the windshield in case of collision." The holmium chassis, body, and headlamps raised some questions, however, particularly from rivals at pan-dimensional conglomerate Voss Nose, who currently manufacture cars out of transition metals vanadium, rhodium, and noble gas xenon. "Everyone knows vanadium makes a great suspension, tire, and steering tiller," said Voss Nose chairman and Former Japanese Prime Minister Tsutomu Hata," but a lanthanide? Disgusting! Immoral!" Analysts, too, were dubious. "I wouldn't say that the bulk of the US and European markets hate whatever nationality Huwei North Star is," said a thinly-disguised Ralph Gilles, "but I think we can all agree that we're viciously racist towards lanthanides." The car has been for sale in key Bangladeshi and Congolese markets since 1997, and is expected to become available in the EU within six months.