"What Madness Is This?" Vol. II: The Pinnacle Future
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
What Worf says.
As an example, a popular East German joke:
‘Why do Stasi agents travel in groups of three?’
‘They need one who can read, one who can write, and one to keep an eye on the two intellectuals’.
Hmm. Speaking of the situation, how are the Illuminists and Europans doing? Last I checked, they were either fighting or at the brink of war.
I believe it was the supercatholics and the bonapartists fighting with the Illuminatists in the background.
Hey guys I'm making an atlas map for the League of Nations and I could not find a flag for West Germania. So these are two drafts I have. I took to Nordreich flag and removed the royal symbol and added either the symbol for ground (I think it had a fascist look to it) due to perhaps of reunifying German lands or the Wolfsangel because Wolfgang Kapp founded the nation. These are just suggestions but feedback is appreciated.
And if there is a flag for W. Germania please show me
And if there is a flag for W. Germania please show me
I like that ground symbol way more, it really does look kinda fascist while having a nerdy flair to it.
The nerds can accordingly construe it as like "the electrical ground is what moors the circuit and allows objective measurement of voltage at a point in the circuit, West Germany is similarly meant to moor the German nation and ensure everything is in its place".
The guys that don't like that interpretation can go with something like "It's Irminsul" but neopaganism is kinda the Illuminist schtick.
EDIT: Also kinda looks like a ship, there's a "ship of state" metaphor in there somewhere.
The nerds can accordingly construe it as like "the electrical ground is what moors the circuit and allows objective measurement of voltage at a point in the circuit, West Germany is similarly meant to moor the German nation and ensure everything is in its place".
The guys that don't like that interpretation can go with something like "It's Irminsul" but neopaganism is kinda the Illuminist schtick.
EDIT: Also kinda looks like a ship, there's a "ship of state" metaphor in there somewhere.
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Tilt the wolfsangle a little and you could basically port the Grand Budapest Hotel into this TL.
I think the RU absolutely running circles around everyone else really sells how the universe is conspiring against the human race TTL. I mean the idea of a fascist system where the whole "factions constantly competing under the leader will make the nation stronger" thing actually works is a horrifying thing to imagine. In lighter news, I'll give you bush league:
*Pinnacle (Anchor) Man Ron Burgoyne prepares for his nightly national broadcast.*
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Those were all recent despotisms, rather than religiously entrenched systems that met nothing but success.
That system just slammed into a brick wall made of its own incompetence.
God's wounds stop talking about this. A level of dissatisfaction paves the way for Oswald and it'll end as Madness Expanse, just enjoy the ride
Heh. There's a store chain where the whole gimmick is that everything is in the same location no matter what store you walk into, does that count?
True, but by traitors within, however, by precedent, the people will believe they will persevere (at first, anyway).
Also prepare for more P U R G E S.
What I mean by the establishment of the RU means it has had generations to brainwash and make its mark, about 40-50 years of MDP rule, and about 80 years since Lincoln, compared to 25 years of the WWII-USSR or the 12 years of the Reich OTL.
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Working on the final edition of the first chapter, guys! Sorry I'm way behind on comments and PMs! My car is up and running, and I had a good day. So now I can unwind and pound out the story.
And by "good day," I scored these:
(for just 5 silver eagles)
(significantly more than 5 silver eagles and is my tax time treat, lol)
The autograph is likely going on my wall above my computer desk so Iron Dick Lionheart Nixon graces my creative writing space and can watch me pump out Madness. lol My statue of Custer is also gazing upon me for atmosphere. And plan on seeing that coin as the basis of a NUSA coin in the future via photoshop.
First one! But with the black circle blend into the black bars, rather than the thin white line.
Now to write!
And by "good day," I scored these:
(for just 5 silver eagles)
(significantly more than 5 silver eagles and is my tax time treat, lol)
The autograph is likely going on my wall above my computer desk so Iron Dick Lionheart Nixon graces my creative writing space and can watch me pump out Madness. lol My statue of Custer is also gazing upon me for atmosphere. And plan on seeing that coin as the basis of a NUSA coin in the future via photoshop.
First one! But with the black circle blend into the black bars, rather than the thin white line.
Now to write!
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PRELUDE: I
PRELUDE: I
"All hail, cats and kittens. The date is July 20, 1974, the time is 3:33 in the afternoon, and you're listening to ZRAD Radio. I'm your host Dan the Man, playin' you rockin' hits around the clock. Next up on my little playlist is 'Will It Go Round in Circles,' a debut song from a little Sandusky band called 'Ohio Waters.' Peace out, Pinnies!"
"I got a story, ain't got no morals!" Orson Roland sang along with the lyrics behind the wheel of his black 1965 Rollarite Custeria. "And the bad guy wins every once in a while!" He rhythmically drummed his hands against his black, leather-wrapped steering wheel as he hurtled down the Destiny Road on a bright and sunny afternoon. He had good reason to be singing, as he had just been assigned a major project at college that was surely going to be his big break. For the last three years, the twenty-six year-old had been studying at Kissimmee Media Arts University, the largest and most distinguished film school in the entirety of the Republican Union. For a country which occupied the entirety of the Western Hemisphere, that was a big deal.
Located just outside the motion-picture boomtown of Kissimmee, Florida, KMAU drew the richest and most elite students into its ranks, and Orson was no exception. The seventh son of Whickham Roland III, a back-office papermonger for the Banking Clan, Orson had to fight and claw for his busy father's approval and attention from a young age. He had excelled in his photography major at Lewisiana State University of New Antioch, proving to Whickham that his son's fascination with cameras was no mere phase or whimsy. When Orson got accepted into KMAU, it was the greatest day of his life... at least so far. When Orson's new project was finished and seen by the entire American Media Clan at the 20th Annual Pinnacle Film Festival in New York City, he was sure that that day would, in fact be, the greatest day of his life. His big break! If his project turned out to be as great as he planned, then he was going to be helming the next Zap Zephyr film before you could blink an eye.
As he sang along with the Ohio Waters song on the car radio, he looked over to his left, out the rolled-down window, at the passing countryside. Aside from the occasional farmhouse, he was in the heart of swampland country. It was hard to believe that hillbillies and alligators could be found just thirty miles outside of America's cultural epicenter. Kissimmee wasn't just the center of the New United States' film industry, but also the world's. As the dominant power on the global stage and the founding member-state of the League of Nations, all things flowed from two cities: Philadelphia, the nation's capital, and Kissimmee, the heart of the Media Clan and the film and propaganda industry. Oh, sure, there was New Antioch and Shicagwa and Metropolis and the like, but the earlier two were truly special, no doubt blessed by God himself to lead the New Jerusalem into the light of a Pinnacle Future, preordained in the stars by Manifest Destiny. Just thinking about working in such a place sent a shiver down his spine, despite the muggy air currently making him sweat through his plaid blazer.
But the truth was that, no matter how sure he was that his project would turn heads in the industry, Orson wasn't entirely sure what his project was even going to be about. He knew it would be a documentary, but the subject was very much up in the air. One of his rivals at KMAU, Henry John Roberts, a 27 year-old man with the pimple-ridden face and body of a 14 year-old Custer Youth Brigadier, was shooting a documentary on the career of Chuck Oswald, beloved President of the nation and Aetheling of the ruling Manifest Destiny Party. Of course Roberts had beat him to the punch. If any of the film critics valued their careers and/or health, they would applaud and heap laurels upon any Oswald biography. There was nothing that forbade students from creating a film on the same subject, but if there was one thing Orson Roland was not, it was a copycat, especially a copycat of that rat-fink Roberts. No, he would create a documentary which would trump his foe's Oswald one. He just had to think of what that would be.
And so he found himself, cruising out in the country, enjoying some tunes, trying to relax and come up with an idea for his soon-to-be masterpiece. As a flock of fowl flew overhead and the warm wind whistled by, he almost forgot that he would soon run out of gas. He had left town on a whim without paying attention to the little gauge above his radio. He quickly pulled over to the side of the road, opened the wood-panel glovebox, and pulled out a map of this stretch of the Destiny Road. After unfurling it across his lap and giving it a quick glance, he realized there should be a Golden Goblin Full Service Station straight ahead in about five miles. He sighed contentedly and smiled before tucking the map back into the compartment and snapping the lid closed. That was the greatest thing about the Destiny Road: if you needed something, it was probably just around the curve. He turned the key, listened to eight cylinders hammer back to life, and he was off. Blasting some more music as he cruised along, he barely noticed a portly dodo bird crossing the blacktop. He slammed on the brakes just in time to spare its little life as it frantically scurried away into the woods. Those damn things had been everywhere ever since Hurricane Pendleton in '58 hit the Kissimmee Zoo. A lot of farmers had kept the invasive species ever since. The animals could reach 50 pounds, and had no natural predators aside from alligators and humans.
Just a couple minutes later, the familiar and welcoming glow of a neon Golden Goblin gas station appeared on the horizon. Running on fumes, he pulled the Custeria up to the first pump and honked his horn for an attendant. The station seemed old and timeworn, likely an original piece of Destiny Road history from back in the Steele days. The black gas pump had rust showing through its flaking paint, and the gold trim was mostly nothing but a dirty brown at this point. He sighed and worried he would have to get out and pump the gas himself if someone didn't show up soon. He tried to look into the tinted windows of the station itself, but the way sun's rays were hitting it, making it a fruitless endeavor. He honked again, his patience rapidly fading as much as the paint of the side of the building. He honked again, this time laying on the horn with all he had. He was in no rush to be anywhere, but it was the point of it. He was a Pinnacle Man worthy of Pinnacle service, a service which Golden Goblin had built its legacy upon. Finally, he heard a voice.
"Yeah, yeah, keep ya shirt on, boss!" came the gruff and obviously-annoyed voice of a man in a black-and-gold oil-stained jumpsuit as he exited the door of the station. The little bell on the door let out a ding as it shut behind him. The man was on the thin side, older, with wavy brown hair and a three-day beard. He was wiping his blackened hands on a red bandana as he walked over to Orson's car. "The Martyr isn't gon' come down from on high to pump ya gas the more ya honk, ya know?" As the attendant reached his window, Orson could make out a round nametag reading "Jack" on the man's chest, but the uniform was so worn and faded it might have been original to the building and older than the man himself.
"Look, man," Orson protested, "how rude can you get, dude. I pulled up and wanted service, the Pinnacle Man that I am, and got diddly-squat. I have been to many, many Golden Goblins in my day and this is simply unacceptable and appalling." He wagged a finger at the man like he was scolding a small child.
"Jack" leaned in close, getting grease and sweat from his hands and forearms on the Custeria's paint as he did so. "Look, pal, I got a hearse in the service shop right now with a blown radiator, and 'Aunt Nelly' is needed real urgent-like in New Antioch by Tuesday and this heat ain't no good for her, if ya catch my drift. It's just me and Jerry in there today so we're doin' our best." Standing up straight and stuffing his rag into his back pocket, he raised his voice to sound like a commercial announcer and asked in a sickly-sweet tone, "Now, how may I be of assistance, 'sir?' Golden Goblin is happy to assist."
"Damn, is this how you treat all your customers?" Orson said spitefully in retort, leaning back in his seat.
The man stared directly into Orson's eyes and replied, "Nah, just long-haired Pinnies like you."
Orson shot him the most hateful glare imaginable. His hair was over his ears but not even touching his shoulders and this man was calling him a Pinnie. The term wasn't necessarily derogative, depending on context, but it sure was at this moment. The last generation had taken to calling the children who grew up in the Oswald era "Pinnies." Oswald called his reign the "Pinnacle Future," and the hard-partying, long-haired young people who lived fast and died hard were seen as worthless by the older folk, no matter how much they insisted about being the most Pinnacle of any generation yet. Orson had done some coke back at New Antioch and had been to some parties, but he was hardly the rebellious hellraiser most Pinnies were portrayed to be. He finally replied, "Will you fucking pump my gas, you Steelist relic?"
Now it was time for Jack to be upset. His eyes widened and his parched lips curled up into a scowl. "I fought in Brazil for Joe Steele while you were still swimmin' in your pa's nutsack, boy. 13th ORRA. I saw Yankee boys die by the thousands. Pump your own fuckin' gas, you son-of-an-Infee." Jack took his rag out again, threw it through Orson's rolled-down window, and stormed off, muttering obscenities.
Orson sighed. This was how it was all over America. So many old timers who remembered the reign of Steele, when it was seemingly illegal to do anything enjoyable, silently resented the new ways of the Chuck-man. The "Steelies" even called themselves the "Silent Majority." Oswald had brought about the Reforms of '55, resulting in the Second Baby Boom and the birth of the Pinnacle Future. Although a lot of the older crowds still worshiped the memory of their old mustachioed, nuke-lobbing Commander-in-Chief who had conquered the hemisphere, the younger people flocked to the handsome, debonair Oswald. Chuck was gray on the sides now and appeared in public less, but he was still guiding the country into the light of a brighter future.
Swinging open the door of his Custeria, Orson stepped out of the vehicle and pulled out his wallet with indignant, if not melodramatic, force. He put a few bucks into the pump and grabbed the nozzle before lodging into his gas tank. "Thank God for Chuck Oswald or we wouldn't even have color televisors, for crying out loud. As he stood there waiting for his tank to fill, he looked around the decrepit fueling area. A dry, cracked rubber squeegee sat in an equally dry, yellowed, mildewed bucket afixed to the wall with a single rusty bolt. Next to that, a sign bore the instructions, "ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING IN THE FUEL BAY." He chuckled quietly and pulled a Morton's Finest out of his chest pocket and lit up right there before shooting the service station a spiteful glance and a middle finger. Next to the sign hung several posters, most of them so sun-bleached it was hard to tell the original messages. One appeared to be a depiction of Uncle Sam, his sleeve rolled up and a gas pump nozzle in his hand. "CONSERVE FUEL, KEEP OUR BOYS GOING!" it appeared to read. It was probably at least 15 years old. "Damn, this place is so run down. And right next to Kissimmee, too. Oughta bulldoze this shitshow."
That was when he noticed the newest poster, tacked on over layers of yellowed paper. By the looks of it, its ink was still fresh. A portrait of a smiling, fatherly-looking older man with large aviator eyeglasses looked at the viewer, with the caption, "THE PROPHET GRAHAM IS COMING, CHILDREN. AUGUST 10, SECOND KISSIMMEE AMERICAN FUNDAMENTALIST CHRISTIAN CHURCH, 329 AARON BURR AVENUE." It was the other most-recognized face in America, the Second Prophet of Manifest Destiny, Reverend-Colonel of the American Fundamentalist Christian Church, Billy Graham. He gazed into the printed face of the great man, an idea slowly seeping into his mind.
THUNK. The gas pump shut off at a full tank.
"My God," murmured Orson, a light bulb going off in his head. "That's it! That's who I'll choose in my documentary! I'll tell the story of the Prophet, and I'll get my info straight from his mouth. The only thing that could give that runt Roberts' dry Oswald suck-up piece a run for its money!" He threw the cigarette on the ground and jumped back into his car with new-found excitement and turned the key once more. He zipped out of the parking lot and back onto the Destiny Road, heading back to Kissimmee. He was beyond pleased with himself as he could only imagine the faces of every critic in New York if he opened out his film with a one-on-one interview with the Prophet Graham. In just a few days, the Prophet would be in town, and when he came to towns like Kissimmee, he usually stayed for a week, giving Orson plenty of time to try and procure an interview. Graham was a man of the people and loved interviews and if Orson wrote to him ahead of time he was sure he could get at least a few minutes of footage. Orson might have only been a mere student, but his project was going to be exhibited at the film festival. Surely, the Prophet would agree. "Thanks for being an asshole, 'Jack'," he said to himself as he rounded a bend. "You just gave me a brilliant idea. The Lord doth work in mysterious ways."
The next few days saw a frenzy of activity in Orson's studio apartment overlooking a the back half of a Kingfish Supermarket on the outskirts of Kissimmee. He made sure he had plenty of batteries for his cameras and checked the quality of all his recording tapes. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he wasn't going to have it dashed by a glitch or faulty equipment. Satisfied everything was in good working order, Orson now simply waited for a response from Graham. He had already written a fervently-respectful letter to the Office of the Reverend-Colonel, asking for a five minute interview, even shorter if need be. He was sure his courtesy and respect would win out, but his nerves were jittery all the same. On August 12, a reply came inside of a crimson-colored envelope bearing the Cross-and-Star, the symbol of the American Fundamentalist Christian Church, pressed upon it in black wax. The color and symbol made it obvious to all that it was an official document from the Church. There was no postage stamp on the front, as the crimson parcels were exempted by law. With shaking hands he used a letter-opener shaped like a cavalry saber to carefully break the seal to save the envelope as a keepsake and pulled out a single white sheet of paper.
"To Comrade-Patriot Orson Roland, Brother in Christ,
The Office of the Reverend-Colonel must unfortunately deny your request for an interview with the Prophet, due to time constraints. We hope you will understand.
All hail,
Office of the Reverend-Colonel
VIA VERITAS VITA"
The Office of the Reverend-Colonel must unfortunately deny your request for an interview with the Prophet, due to time constraints. We hope you will understand.
All hail,
Office of the Reverend-Colonel
VIA VERITAS VITA"
Orson was devastated. There went his project, up in a flames. He sat dejectedly staring at the letter over a lukewarm cup of coffee at his tiny kitchen table, face propped up against his hand. There was no way he could have a chance at beating his rival's Oswald documentary unless he pulled a miracle out of his hat. There was no celebrity noteworthy enough to dethrone Roberts' fluff-piece on the President. Dejected, Orson stared at his kitchen wall. The avocado green wallpaper had several paintings of the Prophets Burr and Graham nailed up. One showed a scene of Graham in Metropolis, feeding the hungry during the Miracle of '37, the Apostle Andrew by his side. Like a bolt of lightning, another moment of inspiration hit him. The Apostle Andrew! The Prophet's former closest friend and apprentice had been retired for some time after a lengthy career in mission work and televangelism, and now lived near New Antioch somewhere, the last Orson had heard. Andrew had been there from the very beginning with the Prophet, from their descent from the Waxahachie Bible Institute to Metropolis, to the Prophet's time in the Sinkhole, to their meteoric rise as the New Wave of American Fundamentalism. Andrew knew everything and had seen everything. If he could sit down with the elderly retiree and convince him to say a few words about his time with the Prophet and other American notables, surely that could make for a supremely interesting documentary film. Orson made a few calls to find out the current location of the Apostle Andrew, only to wind up frustrated. It was as if the Apostle didn't want to be found. One way or another, though, he would figure out the old man's location.
At last, on August 15, the day of Graham's arrival in Kissimmee, Orson got a lucky break. He finally found a clipping in the local newspaper archive which showed a record of a large estate that the Apostle Andrew had purchased in 1965, just northeast of New Antioch in a small village called McClellan Point. The article even had a picture of the residence taken during its auction. It was noteworthy for being the former home of supermarket magnate Huey Long before the Apostle bought the place. This gave him a likely current address, as he couldn't imagine a retired man of Andrew's notoriety moving from such a beautiful, opulent plantation-style manor anytime recently without it making news. In fact, if anything, Andrew seemed to want to stay out of the news altogether since the mid-1960s or so. It was rather odd, but as such a near-Biblical and instantly-recognizable figure, maybe he just wanted some privacy, which was quite understandable.
And so it was that our unwitting and hapless future hero marked the location of the Apostle's estate on his map, threw his recording equipment in the back of his Custeria, and set off for McClellan's Point. Rather than trying to reach Andrew by phone or by mail, Orson decided he would simply show up and knock on the door. If he was already there, there was a very decent chance he would get his interview and his footage. He turned up his radio and headed straight west, toward what would become one of the most fateful meetings of the 20th century....
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Wow! Great start, Napo! (I waited to read it until it was finished, and it was worth the wait!)
I just have one question....
I just have one question....
...So did the gas station blow up? I kinda half-expected it to...
The station attendant preferred that old fossil of Steele to the great Oswald. Clearly he deserved to explode