"What Madness Is This?" Volume I: The Union Forever
- Thread starter Napoleon53
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Oh no. Oh dear God. I'm not hiding, you're hiding. Also, do Chucker-Fucker and his wife have a better relationship than Classic? I don't expect their marriage to be healthy, but her keeping the comic book for the rest of her life indicates some kind of real love, as opposed to Classic where she was a closeted lesbian who hated his guts.
"Gawd Dammit Bobby, the Damnyankees won't stop comin in to see Charlotte. Well, I guess if you can't beat em, screw em!"
*sells crappy trinkets as historical artifacts to tourists in Cokie*
I'm extremely eager to see how the LoN is formed and whatnot.
My eyes are burning just thinking about this "Super-Pinnacle Future" nonsense. How garish.
Those Yankee bastards had better keep their hands off my pulled pork. I swear, us Cokie boys will kill over that! Also, the true plot twist that's needed here is that the Cokies gave the Yankees the hamburger as part of a secret plot to make them too fat to fight off invasion.
HOWDY AMERICA! IT'S YOUR FAVORITE CHEF AND KEYBECK FRY CONNOISSEUR, GUY FUCHS! HE'S THE PINNACLE MAN OF THE KITCHEN AND THE STRONG MAN OF FLAVORTOWN! YEEEEOW!
You can have everything,
Everything, every man a king,
You can have everything at
New Antioch's finest grocery
Pride of the Deep South!
It beats the rest, there's no contest!
Shop at the best, shop at
New Antioch's finest grocery!
"GREETIN'S AMERICA, THIS IS COLONEL HUEY LONGGGG, THE DOWN-HOME GROCERY PRO-MEETHEUS, INVITIN' YOU TO THE GRAND OPENIN' OF STORE NUMBER 899 AT CURLY JUNCTION, TEXAS, ON JOO-LY 4TH AT 8 AM. AND ALWAYS REMEMBER, COMRADE-PATRIOTS, AT KINGFISH SUPERMARKET, EVERY MAN IS A KING, Y'ALL!"
Every man a king at New Antioch's finest grocery! KINGFISH SUPERMARKETS! YEAH!
Fun fact from real life: I worked at Walmart from 2013-18, and in the breakroom was a sign with a quote from Huey Long. My little nerd club in the breakroom lost our minds over the irony.
I can't help but imagine there's actually somewhere in the RU called Flavortown and it's a despotic hellhole
They could stole a page of Holy Nippon about sumos....
HOWDY AMERICA! IT'S YOUR FAVORITE CHEF AND KEYBECK FRY CONNOISSEUR, GUY FUCHS! HE'S THE PINNACLE MAN OF THE KITCHEN AND THE STRONG MAN OF FLAVORTOWN! YEEEEOW!
Any relation to Fred Fuchs?
True, but in keeping with the theme of decay I'd like for them to get to the low from somewhere high-- for both of them to at least try to make things work early on, before Oswald takes power (if they are already married then). And maybe they could collaborate closely on some kind of challenge to give "making it work" some depth, like taking down Marcus/the people trying to prop him up, if the poor lad really is that incapable of independent action.
Plot Twist: She keeps the comic book out of spite which infuriates Chuck to no end.
Insane Plot Twist: Her keeping the comic book somehow causes Chuck to either launch the nukes, be overthrown by Nixon and co. or both.
Oh boy, imagine what TTL's versions of modern computer games are gonna be like.
I mean, at this point Fortnite could almost be considered a historical reenactment game.
Civilization would play largely similar except you will only be allowed to play as pinnacle civilizations like America, Germany, Israel, Japan and maybe some African societies and ancient empires who are regarded as pinnacle despite being not (Rome or Greece for instance).
Also there will be specific options that will make the player civ carry out genocide
Non-pinaccle bois would be the "barbarians".
Also, I imagine villagers in Minecraft would be portrayed quite differently.
Depicting America losing may be controversial-- any Civ analogue would probably be set in an made-up alien world.
I think historically themed games/fiction in general would generally suffer from a societal unwillingness to see history unfolding in any way other than the one it did-- there cannot be a world in which America does not accept Burr and achieve the Destiny drawn up by Heaven-- consequently, critiques of America or depictions of Inferior-like nations doing well may have to be veiled in fantasy or scifi.
First edition Steele has a bug where when
More insane plot twist: Nixon is her secret lover and after eliminating Oswald , they will marry each other
Even more insane plot twist: Nixon is the secret lover of both Oswald and Wyetta
THE NIGHTMARE DELIVERY SERVICE
THE NIGHTMARE DELIVERY SERVICE
The rumble of the truck and the ever-present crunch of the gravel under its tires was seemingly the only sound for miles that night as I, Amos Goodman, drove my delivery of rather strange cargo to the New Antioch address my boss had given me. The boxes, small and brown and about a foot in length, width, and height, were completely bereft of marking. Being a delivery driver for years, I sometimes had the chance of hauling rather strange items, and so gave the mystery little thought. I merely wanted to get this route done and go back to my little girl, Mary. Since her mother died of fever two years ago, it has been absolute hell leaving home for work. I make decent money and I'm one of the best drivers in the state, but leaving my little darling daughter with sitters for sometimes a week at a time was a surefire way to level me to the deepest recesses of depression. I put the wheel of the truck between my knees and grabbed the canteen from the passenger seat. I know it's irresponsible, but I've been driving since I could walk and it was a straight road in the middle of a swampland. Nothing but me and the mosquitoes and alligators.
As I took a sip of water from the canteen, I thought about home, as humble as it was, and about telling my little girl a bedtime story. She was becoming just old enough to really appreciate a good yarn, and sometimes my adventures on the road, traveling the country as I did, thrilled her more than a storybook ever could. There was the one time when a mountain lion stood between my truck and the roadside restroom I found myself trapped in. And Mary always loved the one about me fending off an escaped convict who was trying to break into my cab. But most days excitement was few and far between. I flipped the canteen's lid closed and tossed it back onto the passenger seat, put my hands back on the wheel, and gazed out at the surrounding countryside. In the far distance, an ancient barn stood on a hill, dim lanterns illuminating it like a carved pumpkin, its loose boards jutting like jagged teeth of some horrible monster. At least, that was the beginning of a story I wanted to tell Mary. It was just another barn in the south, one of innumerable thousands in the same condition. Nothing to see there. I drove on.
About ten minutes later, I could see a dim light on the horizon, obscured by the low-hanging branches of the mesquite trees. As I grew nearer, it became more visible. It was a roadblock of some four trucks, barely squeezing onto the narrow country lane. I slowly came to a halt, wary of bandits, and my Ford Workhorse squealed a little as its aging brakes kicked in. I thought it must be some sort of military police roadblock, searching for some wanted criminals or the like. When the shotgun-wielding figures moved away from the obscuring light of their headlights, my stomach dropped. It was the Office of Racial and Religious Affairs. Each man wore a light sandy-blue wool uniform, a pinch-crown hat, and every single one sported a breathing or gas mask of some sort.
A large man who appeared to be in charge stepped toward my driver's side window, motioning for me to roll it down with a calm gesture of his leather-gloved hand. "What is the matter, sir? Has there been some sort of disease outbreak?" I asked, putting up a show of confidence that wasn't very convincing in the slightest. I didn't think I did anything to piss them off, but you would sound pretty nervous too if you were staring down a government agent with a gas mask on and the only eye contact you are making is the reflection of your own in his lenses.
The man appeared to have close-cropped sandy blonde hair, high and tight, hidden under the brimmed hat and mask. The ORRA logo shone on the front of his hat in the moonlight. He heaved his well-worn but reliable-looking shotgun against his hip and asked in a monotone voice, "What are you haulin' here, citizen?"
I shrugged and answered truthfully, "I don't rightly know, sir."
I could sense him frowning from inside his mask. He reached for my door handle and said, once again without emotion of any sort, "Son, I'm gonna need to ask you to step out of the truck."
I complied instantly. Growing up in this country, I knew full well to instantly follow orders of law enforcement. "Alright, but could you please tell me what's going on? Am I being arrested?"
As he watched me descend from the cab, he tilted his head and said, "You got a reason to be arrested? Please step over to the barrel and hold your position while my men search the truck."
I nervously watched about five men immediately go into action. Two took to the cab, one on each side, while another man heaved two others into the back of the truck after they knocked the rusting lock off. It didn't take long for them to rip the strange brown boxes open. I could hear their surprise all the way over by the blockade barrel I sat upon, held at gunpoint by the remaining man.
"We got a hot one, sir!" one of the men shouted from inside the truck. "I think this is what we have been looking for!"
The officer looked over at me, the moonlight shining in his mask lenses. "Well, well, aren't we an interesting delivery boy? What do you know about your cargo?"
Growing more and more anxious by the second I shook my head in disbelief and said, once more truthfully, "I haven't the slightest, really, sir. I picked up a delivery manifest and the cargo from a rather... odd fellow... in Lewis City. It just said to deliver the boxes to a gentleman in New Antioch. Look, the boxes were taped and tied up so they'd know if someone busted into one to get an eyeful of the contents, so I wouldn't know even if I wanted to. I do so many deliveries I barely ask questions."
"Well maybe you should, sometime, pardner," his bayou accent audible as he chuckled.
I grimaced as the men quickly tossed the boxes down to the gravel, packing paper flying everywhere. What ever was inside them must have been quite resilient, as I doubt the ORRA ruffians would have dared abuse precious cargo if there was any chance of breakage. I grew more and more worried that I was involved in something incredibly illegal. Perhaps stolen jewelry, taken by gangsters in some horrible hold-up? Or maybe it was contraband papers, speaking against the government, God forbid. I didn't know, but my wild imagination was vividly conjuring up the worst possible scenarios of what would be inside those five plain brown boxes.
One of the men, a thin fellow, pulled something out of one of the boxes and inspected it. "Commander! We have them! Praise Jehovah."
The commander waved the underling over with another gesture of his gloved hand. In a moment he was holding a small statue of carving of some sort, made out of a greenish, almost phosphorescent stone of a like which I have never seen before or since. It appeared to depict a squamous figure of immensely horrifying features, almost too terrible to describe, blasphemous to God and Man, sitting atop a seat or throne of some sorts. It's face was ghastly and singularly disgusting in its nature, with a mass of tentacles along it face. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it was not my typical cargo. It was not typical anything!
As I sat there, still atop the barrel, I extended my arms in a desperate attempt to make it clear I was not involved in any way with the sickening totemic objects in the back of my Workhorse. "Look, I really am just a delivery driver. I get paid by whoever wants to send an item to whoever they want. I don't know what thing is and I don't want anything to do with it."
Not half a second later, I felt the cold steel of the butt of the commander's shotgun against my face, sending me crashing backward into the swampy muck of a roadside ditch. I imagine the Commander thought I was quite unconscious, but a stint in the local fisticuffs league back home ensured my ability to withstand hefty blows to the cranium. It hurt like hellfire, but I laid completely motionless and still in the runoff ditch, desperate to overhear what was going on.
"So it's all true, Commander?" one officer asked, his Southern accent muffled through his mask.
I heard the Commander reply solemnly, "Yes." He paused for a moment before the sound of him placing the statue in a leather satchel hit my ears. "The Supreme Chief will be delighted. The Black Rites can be performed. We must hurry now. Grab the other totems and put them in my car. We have to bring these immediately to the Supreme Chief. Let's move!"
I laid there in the ditch for several moments, desperately hoping they'd leave me be. But it was not to be. As I heard the car doors open and engines turn over, I also heard the slow, plodding steps of the Commander's boots in the Southern mud. He racked a shell into the chamber as he stood over me before leveling it to my face. I stared at those moonbeams dancing in his mask lenses as the cold barrel graced the tip of my nose. One terrifying last sight before getting my brains blown out for reasons I knew not. I thought of my little Mary, alone in the world. I muttered a prayer.
Click.
His gun misfired. In a flash I was upon him, ripping the shotgun from his hand and beating his face with the butt of it as he struggled to grasp for his sidearm. In the seconds-long scuffle, the satchel no doubt containing the totem fell into the mire. With a ghastly crack, the left lens of his mask exploded, and blood and viscera exploded out of the hole with one more solid blow to the back of his head. The other men were now aware of the shocking scene unfolding in the ditch and I felt the hot sting of a pistol bullet graze my right shoulder. I ducked, grabbed the satchel, and headed into the woods at a frantic pace, bullets whizzing past in every direction. Almost hopeless, I threw myself into a ravine filled with brambles and thorns. As I desperately rolled and tumbled my way through the prickly foliage, I heard the curses and lamentations of the men behind me, struggling to see where I was going and desperately searching for any way in which to cut me off or capture me.
An hour later, after a short jump in a creek to throw them off the trail, I saw a rather quaint looking cabin nestled in a grove of weeping willows, no lights on. Hoping it was abandoned or unoccupied, I stormed in, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of a thick layer of dust completely saturating the interior in a heavy shroud. I slunk to the floor, still clutching that infernal satchel which held the most diabolical and sinister item which I had ever seen. I slowly took it from the bag and placed it at my mud-caked feet. It seemed to glow of its own accord, unlike anything I had ever seen before. It's hollow, almost hypnotic gaze seemed to speak to me of unimaginable eons of unutterable antiquity. I swear it told me things, things which no mortal man was ever meant to hear. I swear it talks to me even now. It needs the other four totems. It needs to complete the Black Rites. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. Shurn i'lry nox'n rely'g. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. Mary. I must go hom-I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. E'de wo rely'g. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. I must find them. Mar-I must find them. I must find them.
The Black Rites must be performed.
This story was first printed in Histoires Bizarres Bensuelles (Bizarre Tales Monthly) by the noted Europan author Joseph Goebbels, on June 2, 1936. This was one of the first stories of his Eldritch Saga to be set in America, and it was the first to see the appearance of the swamp-dwelling, tentacle-bearded ancient alien deity, Shurn, worshipped by ORRA and it's Supreme Chief, a never seen but often talked-about stand-in for Patton. It was meant to both entertain and mock Yankee superstition, while at the same time showcasing Americans as devil-worshiping sorcerers. A vocal critic of the American government and fascism in general, Goebbel's most famous quote is often thought to be:
"A lie told once remains a lie, but a lie told a thousand times becomes truth for Americans."
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That sums up the twisted worldview the average American has and the Twilight Zone world they live in.