American Elephant
- Thread starter modelcitizen
- Start date
Stolengood
Banned
You just need to get Teddy Roosevelt on an elephant during the Battle of San Juan Hill or some such, and all of AH.com will be in the palm of your hand...(Rubs hands with glee)
YAY!
Thank you, thank you very much
"BOOOYS!!! Have you met my elephant... Bully? CHAAAARGE!!!"
Flocculencio
Donor
Getting into the spirit on the thing I'm picturing modern day police elephants in kevlar armour with all sorts of nonlethal weaponry mounted on them.
Presumably in high visibility PR roles. Someone mentioned patrols in Central Park. I'm yhinking about elephant patrols on the National Mall. Or state funerals with the National Elephant Guard caparisoned in black.
Presumably in high visibility PR roles. Someone mentioned patrols in Central Park. I'm yhinking about elephant patrols on the National Mall. Or state funerals with the National Elephant Guard caparisoned in black.
No self-respecting large urban police department would be without at least a half-dozen. I'm thinking that even for New York City ten (at most twelve) might be plenty. There would need to be some kind of open space to keep them without their morale plummeting, I'd think.
The reasoning behind having the regular elephant patrols in parks and such is that having the elephants do any regular in-the-city patrols could be somewhat disastrous. An elephant could travel at speeds above fifteen miles per hour but I'm not sure for how long at that pace; by the time cars are about, having an elephant take up an entire lane and then some would be colorful but not ideal.
All paramilitary-type funerals, such as police and firemen.
(I hope elephants are okay with bagpipes.)
Flocculencio
Donor
AFAIK elephants are fine with loud music. At my wedding we had an elephant, a huge tusker, and they were playing horns and banging drums around him and he was chilling out.
That makes them perfect for rock concerts.
(pause.)
That sounds like one hell of a wedding.
Did you ride the elephant as part of the ceremony?
Los Angeles Times
December 8, 1969
Gunman Trampled At Rock Concert
Elephant Responding To Pistol-Waver Literally Stomps Out Threat
A man reportedly brandishing a revolver at Saturday's outdoor rock concert at the Altamont Speedway was trampled to death when a mounted security officer responded.
"One of my guys was responding, too," said Sonny Barger, head of the Hell's Angels group who had provided additional informal security at the event. "But that elephant got there first, man. It was over, like, quick."
...
(My OTL info courtesy of http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altamont_Free_Concert )
December 8, 1969
Gunman Trampled At Rock Concert
Elephant Responding To Pistol-Waver Literally Stomps Out Threat
A man reportedly brandishing a revolver at Saturday's outdoor rock concert at the Altamont Speedway was trampled to death when a mounted security officer responded.
"One of my guys was responding, too," said Sonny Barger, head of the Hell's Angels group who had provided additional informal security at the event. "But that elephant got there first, man. It was over, like, quick."
...
(My OTL info courtesy of http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altamont_Free_Concert )
The Expensive Education of Manon and Thibault Meuse
New Orleans, Louisiana
Some time in the late 19th century at a rather la-dee-da function held at a hotel ballroom
The Meuses, tourists from Belgium visiting the charmingly crude byways of the North American frontier, found the "luxury" hotel in downtown New Orleans perfectly adequate. By combining a pair of rooms into a suite, they had acquired decent quarters for dressing and resting between activities. There was even some space for their servants.
Thibault Meuse, fresh from a recent fortune-building trip in the Congo, was businesslike in his dealings with the locals. He didn't converse more than necessary, disdaining the false charm of socializing with locals and especially with employees of the hotel and elsewhere. Indeed, if there was something he wanted to know, he would ask. It was how he did business.
Manon was fond of the levels of achievement of her husband, and enjoyed her trappings as a wealthy man's wife. Her clothing was always a fine blend of fashion and tradition, and her staff was very efficient in ensuring that it fit her perfectly. She looked forward to beholding the effect she would have on the evening's dinner gathering at the hotel's ballroom.
to be continued
New Orleans, Louisiana
Some time in the late 19th century at a rather la-dee-da function held at a hotel ballroom
The Meuses, tourists from Belgium visiting the charmingly crude byways of the North American frontier, found the "luxury" hotel in downtown New Orleans perfectly adequate. By combining a pair of rooms into a suite, they had acquired decent quarters for dressing and resting between activities. There was even some space for their servants.
Thibault Meuse, fresh from a recent fortune-building trip in the Congo, was businesslike in his dealings with the locals. He didn't converse more than necessary, disdaining the false charm of socializing with locals and especially with employees of the hotel and elsewhere. Indeed, if there was something he wanted to know, he would ask. It was how he did business.
Manon was fond of the levels of achievement of her husband, and enjoyed her trappings as a wealthy man's wife. Her clothing was always a fine blend of fashion and tradition, and her staff was very efficient in ensuring that it fit her perfectly. She looked forward to beholding the effect she would have on the evening's dinner gathering at the hotel's ballroom.
to be continued
Thibault Meuse was fresh from serving the Belgian Emperor Leopold II in making the white man's mark in the heart of Africa, ensuring that the crudely rendered straw the emperor had ordered rendered for extracting valuable resources from the land and its people continued to function. Meuse had a small collection of hands and feet and even a couple heads being tanned for him awaiting his return. Such items were byproducts of what could be called in our timeline the "productivity promotion" plan.
Meuse didn't consider himself a murderer, though, from an objective standpoint, he actually was, as well as someone that ordered and sanctioned murders, massacres, killings, torture, exploitation, abuse, enslavement, impovershment, rendering apart of families and communities, raper of women, destroyer of children, and grinder of men. He was functioning in the name of Belgian royalty and satisfied with that and then some. It was, after all, making him and his family even wealthier than they had been before this endeavor had started.
Growing up, young Thibault had eagerly read as many accounts as he could acquire of life on plantations in the American south and in the Caribbean and South America. As a youth, Thibault knew that his destination was as someone who would have the upper hand, and this was something he looked forward to making the most of. What could be more exciting to him than these non-fictional actual reportings of real men mastering the work of men subjugated to them by force and ingenuity? Thibault relished the details, absorbing how every time slaves died or were crippled, more would be headed across the Atlantic, packed cheek and jowl on constantly sailing ships!
Thibault didn't know or care that the United States had halted the legal importation of additional persons from Africa after 1808. Had Thibault been the master of an American plantation, he no doubt would have found ways of replacing "stock" lost to labor or administration or personal indulgences.
Now, Thibault Meuse was one of Belgium's new colonial imperial masters, not even having to rely on some ship captain for replacement labor. Fruit from the tree, workers from the land around and wealth from the rubber harvested everywhere. He was happily busy there, and hardly had time to even sneer at the occasional non-Belgian white man who walked about in shock at the efficiency and purpose underway in the name of Emperor Leopold. Meuse knew they had seen nothing like it, not on this scale, not at this level of focus, not with this ravenous drive.
To Meuse's consternation, his regaling to his southern hosts of his achievements and doings in the Congo did not yield the awe and praise he had expected without any doubt. Some appeared to listen blank-faced. Some showed expressions of discomfort or unease. Some even leaned forward to "correct" Thibault Meuse, to gently prompt him with the information that "since the Taylor Declaration, such things are simply not done, or, for that matter, even discussed." When that happened the couple times that it did, Meuse tilted his nose up and took his leave from the particular group of listeners he had been entertaining. There were always more Americans he could show off to, he knew.
On this occasion, as he readied himself for the evening's offerings, he was given support by three of his normal servants and two persons seconded from the hotel staff. They didn't always know what they were doing, and, even worse, the Americans assumed they could just speak to you as if having something to say permitted them to do so. Strange country.
His wife, in the adjoining room, had two of their normal servants and only one person seconded from the hotel staff. Thibault felt that he as a man needed more support in dressing for an evening than women did.
Notably, just as he was finishing off his evening's clothing, with two persons each finishing off with polishing a shoe, the hotel person assigned to assist his wife now impertinently burst through the door, with a panicked and noisy manner, clowning about to get his attention!
"Mister Meuse, sir," the hotel attendant called out. "I must speak with you. Please."
Thibault ignored him and, seeing that everything he wore was now ready, he started striding towards the door, retinue taking their places behind him.
"Mister Meuse! This is important, sir, this cannot wait!"
Frightful, almost. Anyone with manners in this country were truly exotic and rare, he assumed.
Now the upstart actually dared to step in front of Meuse.
Without slowing or moving his eyes from straight ahead, Meuse lifted his riding crop --he seldom went outdoors without it, it lent a nice sense of order to his disposition and came in handy frequently on business-- and swung it at the servant.
To Meuse's disappointment, the servant managed to dodge out of the way --really, does no one here know their place?-- and went back behind him and his retinue.
Thankfully, though the swing did not make contact, it did shut the boy up, Meuse thought.
Meuse heard his wife and her retinue exit their room some yards behind and continued striding to the top of the stairs that led to the reception area.
At the bottom of the stairs, hosts of the function politely greeted the Meuses and made immediate introductions to several military officers, at least one of whom seemed quite elderly. Meuse noticed with a glance that these were cavalrymen, or, rather, what passed for such in this part of the world. Meuse snorted at the thought of a "cavalryman" atop a tottering beast with pretense at military purpose. Rumor that some European countries were considering adopting similar animals for their cavalry dismayed him at best.
With his left hand, Thibault Meuse took from a proferred tray a glass of substandard beverage and took a sip. He kept his right hand free for the upcoming handshakes and gesturing. The niceties must be observed, he thought.
The men wearing the uniforms that vaguely aped their European superiors gathered towards the Meuses, indicating at least a polite readiness to greet and meet. As usual, they started to lavish their version of formal greeting on The Lady, and the old man even bowed while grasping her hand.
At least he didn't try to kiss it, Meuse thought. He looked away briefly, trying to see if there was any sign of pretense to design on the walls or ceiling of the room they were in.
"I say," the old man called out in a tone that almost but not quite fit in with what passed for graceful manners down here. Meuse looked back to his wife and those making their manners with her.
"I say," the old man repeated, indicating with his hand the homely sentimental brooch that Manon had inherited from her great-grandmother and insisted on wearing to formal and semi-formal occasions despite Thibault's comments regarding its dowdy, old-fashioned look.
The old man looked now at Thibault, continuing his question, "Is that..."
The old man paused. It was as if he was looking for a word, perhaps something like a euphemism for what he wanted to say. Thibault regarded him without visible judgement, aiming to remain polite for the sake of custom.
"Is that... ivory?" the old officer asked.
The other men in uniform didn't gasp out loud, for they were far too disciplined to do such a thing. These were the cream of the crop, America's Elephant Cavalry Officers, men who rode into the thick of battle, astride magnificent creatures gifted to them by G-d and before whom ordinary men had no sane option except to cower and yield and switftly at that.
Their posture, already the model of military propriety, straightened up further. Their eyes, otherwise registering the calm thoughtful alertness that was their trademark outside of battle, widened ever so slightly.
Ivory?
Ivory worn, as a bagatelle?
But was it real ivory? Surely this was ersatz, an item which only had the visible aspect of the substance which used to be barbarically harvested from the noble creature that bore them in their generous service...
A middle-aged woman, dressed in a hostess's finery, came through the group of officers and walked up to Manon Meuse. Her face registered no emotion, just matter-of-fact interest in assessing. She reached out to touch Manon's brooch, and caressed it lightly with two fingers.
The woman's facial features were set more seriously now, her lips a flat firm line. She looked to the older officer and nodded, yes.
"Oh my," the older officer gasped. He was a moment composing himself, everyone could see. His colleagues stood near, ready to render support as needed even though that was unlikely to be the case.
The older officer looked at Thibault Meuse directly. Without wavering or even blinking, in a gentle voice, the old cavalryman inquired, "Sir. May I ask, were you aware that your wife was wearing an item of carved ivory--" he pronounced it as it were something almost too scandalous to utter, an obscenity-- "on her person?"
Thibault frowned and shrugged. He looked back at the old man with growing anger in his eyes. This was either impudence or a practical joke or a manifestation of senility. Either way, Thibault Meuse's interest in the matter had already come to an end. He wanted another drink, perhaps an "hor d'ouvre" from one of the trays being carried about.
With a touch of frost and reserve in his voice, Thibault addressed the men in uniform, "Gentlemen, good evening," and started to make his way to elsewhere in the venue.
One of the officers smoothly stepped in front of Thibault and gently gestured that the Belgian should perhaps please wait before leaving. After all, the general (retired, with a long and honorable record of service) had asked him a most serious question, and, this man who perhaps styled himself as a gentleman had slighted the general most shamelessly. Perhaps the man would be smart enough to apologize immediately for the slight and beg forgiveness. Within a moment, though, it was obvious that this was not to be. The civilized exchange of dialogue was now an utterly lost cause, so, events would follow their determined course.
Thibault whirled around to face the old man again.
Unexpectedly, the old man delivered a swift and surprisingly firm backhand to the padded cheek of Thibault Meuse's face. The old man then gripped Thibault's coat labels and stepped in close, noses barely inches from each other.
The old general spoke in his customary genteel manner, albeit with a touch more firmness than usual:
"Sir. I demand satisfaction. You may choose the time and locale, and, you may choose the weapon. Since you are not familiar with our fair city, I can recommend Jackson Square. The time and choice of weapon I leave to you."
The general did not relinquish his grip. Thibault realized the general actually wanted a response.
"Weapons?" Thibault asked, spluttering. A fleck of saliva landed on the general's face.
The general tightened his grip.
"I can provide a selection of the traditional weapons for addressing matters of honor," he said. "Pistols, of course. Swords. Sabre or otherwise, I have a reasonable inventory of swords. Bare knuckles. Quarterstaff--"
"Quarterstaff?" Thibault exclaimed in surprise.
What the devil did this old madman mean? Did he actually intend for them to duel, as if on a field of honor? Quarterstaff??
The general grinned.
The quarterstaff had come into wide usage among American Elephant Cavalrymen. The long hardwood pole was excellent for warding off those close by who attempted to seize control of a mount, especially for doing so without causing the beast undue harm or cause for concern.
In the south especially, cavalry officers made it a point to practice regularly with the item, enjoying the workout and agility given by sparring frequently with colleagues.
"Now then," the old man said. "The last matter is time. Traditionally, one meets at the grounds at dawn. I will provide quarterstaffs for your selection tomorrow. Have no doubt whatsoever that I will provide the finest in my possession for this purpose."
Now, the general let go of Meuse's lapels.
"Good day sir," the general said, and then walked away with his colleagues.
Meuse didn't consider himself a murderer, though, from an objective standpoint, he actually was, as well as someone that ordered and sanctioned murders, massacres, killings, torture, exploitation, abuse, enslavement, impovershment, rendering apart of families and communities, raper of women, destroyer of children, and grinder of men. He was functioning in the name of Belgian royalty and satisfied with that and then some. It was, after all, making him and his family even wealthier than they had been before this endeavor had started.
Growing up, young Thibault had eagerly read as many accounts as he could acquire of life on plantations in the American south and in the Caribbean and South America. As a youth, Thibault knew that his destination was as someone who would have the upper hand, and this was something he looked forward to making the most of. What could be more exciting to him than these non-fictional actual reportings of real men mastering the work of men subjugated to them by force and ingenuity? Thibault relished the details, absorbing how every time slaves died or were crippled, more would be headed across the Atlantic, packed cheek and jowl on constantly sailing ships!
Thibault didn't know or care that the United States had halted the legal importation of additional persons from Africa after 1808. Had Thibault been the master of an American plantation, he no doubt would have found ways of replacing "stock" lost to labor or administration or personal indulgences.
Now, Thibault Meuse was one of Belgium's new colonial imperial masters, not even having to rely on some ship captain for replacement labor. Fruit from the tree, workers from the land around and wealth from the rubber harvested everywhere. He was happily busy there, and hardly had time to even sneer at the occasional non-Belgian white man who walked about in shock at the efficiency and purpose underway in the name of Emperor Leopold. Meuse knew they had seen nothing like it, not on this scale, not at this level of focus, not with this ravenous drive.
To Meuse's consternation, his regaling to his southern hosts of his achievements and doings in the Congo did not yield the awe and praise he had expected without any doubt. Some appeared to listen blank-faced. Some showed expressions of discomfort or unease. Some even leaned forward to "correct" Thibault Meuse, to gently prompt him with the information that "since the Taylor Declaration, such things are simply not done, or, for that matter, even discussed." When that happened the couple times that it did, Meuse tilted his nose up and took his leave from the particular group of listeners he had been entertaining. There were always more Americans he could show off to, he knew.
On this occasion, as he readied himself for the evening's offerings, he was given support by three of his normal servants and two persons seconded from the hotel staff. They didn't always know what they were doing, and, even worse, the Americans assumed they could just speak to you as if having something to say permitted them to do so. Strange country.
His wife, in the adjoining room, had two of their normal servants and only one person seconded from the hotel staff. Thibault felt that he as a man needed more support in dressing for an evening than women did.
Notably, just as he was finishing off his evening's clothing, with two persons each finishing off with polishing a shoe, the hotel person assigned to assist his wife now impertinently burst through the door, with a panicked and noisy manner, clowning about to get his attention!
"Mister Meuse, sir," the hotel attendant called out. "I must speak with you. Please."
Thibault ignored him and, seeing that everything he wore was now ready, he started striding towards the door, retinue taking their places behind him.
"Mister Meuse! This is important, sir, this cannot wait!"
Frightful, almost. Anyone with manners in this country were truly exotic and rare, he assumed.
Now the upstart actually dared to step in front of Meuse.
Without slowing or moving his eyes from straight ahead, Meuse lifted his riding crop --he seldom went outdoors without it, it lent a nice sense of order to his disposition and came in handy frequently on business-- and swung it at the servant.
To Meuse's disappointment, the servant managed to dodge out of the way --really, does no one here know their place?-- and went back behind him and his retinue.
Thankfully, though the swing did not make contact, it did shut the boy up, Meuse thought.
Meuse heard his wife and her retinue exit their room some yards behind and continued striding to the top of the stairs that led to the reception area.
At the bottom of the stairs, hosts of the function politely greeted the Meuses and made immediate introductions to several military officers, at least one of whom seemed quite elderly. Meuse noticed with a glance that these were cavalrymen, or, rather, what passed for such in this part of the world. Meuse snorted at the thought of a "cavalryman" atop a tottering beast with pretense at military purpose. Rumor that some European countries were considering adopting similar animals for their cavalry dismayed him at best.
With his left hand, Thibault Meuse took from a proferred tray a glass of substandard beverage and took a sip. He kept his right hand free for the upcoming handshakes and gesturing. The niceties must be observed, he thought.
The men wearing the uniforms that vaguely aped their European superiors gathered towards the Meuses, indicating at least a polite readiness to greet and meet. As usual, they started to lavish their version of formal greeting on The Lady, and the old man even bowed while grasping her hand.
At least he didn't try to kiss it, Meuse thought. He looked away briefly, trying to see if there was any sign of pretense to design on the walls or ceiling of the room they were in.
"I say," the old man called out in a tone that almost but not quite fit in with what passed for graceful manners down here. Meuse looked back to his wife and those making their manners with her.
"I say," the old man repeated, indicating with his hand the homely sentimental brooch that Manon had inherited from her great-grandmother and insisted on wearing to formal and semi-formal occasions despite Thibault's comments regarding its dowdy, old-fashioned look.
The old man looked now at Thibault, continuing his question, "Is that..."
The old man paused. It was as if he was looking for a word, perhaps something like a euphemism for what he wanted to say. Thibault regarded him without visible judgement, aiming to remain polite for the sake of custom.
"Is that... ivory?" the old officer asked.
The other men in uniform didn't gasp out loud, for they were far too disciplined to do such a thing. These were the cream of the crop, America's Elephant Cavalry Officers, men who rode into the thick of battle, astride magnificent creatures gifted to them by G-d and before whom ordinary men had no sane option except to cower and yield and switftly at that.
Their posture, already the model of military propriety, straightened up further. Their eyes, otherwise registering the calm thoughtful alertness that was their trademark outside of battle, widened ever so slightly.
Ivory?
Ivory worn, as a bagatelle?
But was it real ivory? Surely this was ersatz, an item which only had the visible aspect of the substance which used to be barbarically harvested from the noble creature that bore them in their generous service...
A middle-aged woman, dressed in a hostess's finery, came through the group of officers and walked up to Manon Meuse. Her face registered no emotion, just matter-of-fact interest in assessing. She reached out to touch Manon's brooch, and caressed it lightly with two fingers.
The woman's facial features were set more seriously now, her lips a flat firm line. She looked to the older officer and nodded, yes.
"Oh my," the older officer gasped. He was a moment composing himself, everyone could see. His colleagues stood near, ready to render support as needed even though that was unlikely to be the case.
The older officer looked at Thibault Meuse directly. Without wavering or even blinking, in a gentle voice, the old cavalryman inquired, "Sir. May I ask, were you aware that your wife was wearing an item of carved ivory--" he pronounced it as it were something almost too scandalous to utter, an obscenity-- "on her person?"
Thibault frowned and shrugged. He looked back at the old man with growing anger in his eyes. This was either impudence or a practical joke or a manifestation of senility. Either way, Thibault Meuse's interest in the matter had already come to an end. He wanted another drink, perhaps an "hor d'ouvre" from one of the trays being carried about.
With a touch of frost and reserve in his voice, Thibault addressed the men in uniform, "Gentlemen, good evening," and started to make his way to elsewhere in the venue.
One of the officers smoothly stepped in front of Thibault and gently gestured that the Belgian should perhaps please wait before leaving. After all, the general (retired, with a long and honorable record of service) had asked him a most serious question, and, this man who perhaps styled himself as a gentleman had slighted the general most shamelessly. Perhaps the man would be smart enough to apologize immediately for the slight and beg forgiveness. Within a moment, though, it was obvious that this was not to be. The civilized exchange of dialogue was now an utterly lost cause, so, events would follow their determined course.
Thibault whirled around to face the old man again.
Unexpectedly, the old man delivered a swift and surprisingly firm backhand to the padded cheek of Thibault Meuse's face. The old man then gripped Thibault's coat labels and stepped in close, noses barely inches from each other.
The old general spoke in his customary genteel manner, albeit with a touch more firmness than usual:
"Sir. I demand satisfaction. You may choose the time and locale, and, you may choose the weapon. Since you are not familiar with our fair city, I can recommend Jackson Square. The time and choice of weapon I leave to you."
The general did not relinquish his grip. Thibault realized the general actually wanted a response.
"Weapons?" Thibault asked, spluttering. A fleck of saliva landed on the general's face.
The general tightened his grip.
"I can provide a selection of the traditional weapons for addressing matters of honor," he said. "Pistols, of course. Swords. Sabre or otherwise, I have a reasonable inventory of swords. Bare knuckles. Quarterstaff--"
"Quarterstaff?" Thibault exclaimed in surprise.
What the devil did this old madman mean? Did he actually intend for them to duel, as if on a field of honor? Quarterstaff??
The general grinned.
The quarterstaff had come into wide usage among American Elephant Cavalrymen. The long hardwood pole was excellent for warding off those close by who attempted to seize control of a mount, especially for doing so without causing the beast undue harm or cause for concern.
In the south especially, cavalry officers made it a point to practice regularly with the item, enjoying the workout and agility given by sparring frequently with colleagues.
"Now then," the old man said. "The last matter is time. Traditionally, one meets at the grounds at dawn. I will provide quarterstaffs for your selection tomorrow. Have no doubt whatsoever that I will provide the finest in my possession for this purpose."
Now, the general let go of Meuse's lapels.
"Good day sir," the general said, and then walked away with his colleagues.
Flocculencio
Donor
An elephantine aside- today I'm going to a temple which serves as a sanctuary for temple elephants. There'll be around 70 elephants there so I shall hopefully bring back some pocs.
That. Is. Awesome.
Edit: If you can somehow arrange a picture of yourself in say a navy blue officer's uniform holding a drum-fed Thompson sub-machine gun while seated on the shoulders of one of the larger of the elephants, well, so much the better.
Stolengood
Banned
I have to ask, albeit very belatedly... what made you keep Washington alive 'til 1812?
Washington had the constitution and sheer strength of an ox.
And yet he died at the age of sixty-eight.
Why?
Because:
What if the young guy had just insisted and WHACK! punctured the former president's throat, and then George would have reared up with a great gasp and everyone would have taken a giant step back trembling in terror and then relief. Dr. Dick would be an American hero...
What's another decade or two?