"What Madness Is This?" Volume II: Prophecies in the Dark
- Thread starter Napoleon53
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But Cackalacky mousewine doesn't make me scream "dear lord, why?!"
It makes me shout, "My God YES!"
This is why I think (and frankly kind of hope) that this redux timeline ends in nuclear destruction and fire like the original TL did. It's just such an insane and cursed world it's bound to fall apart in the later 20th or early 21st century in some fashion. Maybe by the time I finish catching up with the redux it'll have already happened!
Or it ends in a climate change fiasco that leads to the same result. (Especially because the WMIT world tends to exaggerate America's weaknesses: one of them is not taking climate change seriously)
*Komm Susser Tod starts playing...
CONCERT OF THE SUBLIME: PART II OF II
CONCERT OF THE SUBLIME
PART II OF II
Australian Kangas somewhere during Operation Manifest Climax, circa late 1930s-early 1940s
PART II OF II
Australian Kangas somewhere during Operation Manifest Climax, circa late 1930s-early 1940s
Chuck Oswald remembered the whirlygigs landing at the Australian base camp. He remembered the months he spent with Morgan and the other Kangas like shadows in the darkest corners of his recollection. A past repressed yet consummately remembered in ravishing detail--depending on his mood. For years, he had sought the approval of a father figure, having been subject to all manners of torture and isolation by his own dear old pop. It would be in Captain Stanley Morgan that he would find this approval. Chuck and his men went from mere survivors and terrorist bandits to trained and lethal killing machines without equal. The Flying Circus could truthfully be called one of the world's very first special forces units, and Captain Morgan was a tactical genius, there was no denying it, but he was also a ruthless, bloodthirsty pragmatist who unabashedly cared for himself and only for himself. Despite his apparent love for Chuck, as it very much seemed after months of fighting side-by-side, Morgan was just happy to have power over people, over his men, over the surrounding areas, and over the indigenous South American tribals in the area that he regarded as little more than de-facto slaves.
Indeed, it was only a few weeks into their new adventure that Oswald realized the extent of Morgan's operation. The natives truly thought of Morgan as a god on earth, something which he encouraged to the fullest degree. They would fight for him, against the local police and military, through sheer fear and devotion to Morgan, who they called the Flying Serpent. Like a modern Cortez among the Aztecs, they believed he had the supreme power of life and death and they knew that if he turned his guns upon them, they would be utterly destroyed. When one village refused to bend the knee, Morgan explained to Oswald, he would drop firebombs from above and his snipers would pick off those who tried to run away from their burning homes. "Real Old Testament shit, yeah?" Morgan had said. "Don't leave a single one alive, says Jehovah. Not one. And so we rained down death upon them. And we showed those blighters what they get for crossin' the Flying Serpent."
Morgan's men, his group of ragtag war criminals, were the dregs of Australian society. Most of them were career criminals fighting for a pardon, fighting for a sliver of South American land when this would all be over, of simply fighting out of love for fighting. But as time had gone on, they found themselves fighting for Morgan. He had an almost trance-like sway over them. If Morgan asked them to go on a suicide mission, they would. But he never did. He needed his men to maintain power over the natives. To keep earning a name for himself in this wasteland of dreadfulness, he needed every able body he could get. And although he promised to return Oswald and his men to enemy lines right after their rescue--and many times after--still they remained in the heart of darkness, fighting a lightning war in strokes of black and red and splattered with the blood of entire villages.
It would be Lazarus Hubbard that finally began questioning the narrative. One morning, as the first rays of dawn's early light began to seep through their treehouse base camp's thatched roof, Hubbard asked Morgan, "No disrespect intended, sir, as we are clearly in the midst of a chaotic conflict, but may we look into returning to our lines soon? I understand you are doing all you can with what we have, but if my calculations are correct, we are only 75 miles from Union lines. We could make it by nightfall if we started now."
"And get shot down by Neutie A-A? Not likely, mate," Morgan replied, salsa from a mystery Colombian ration staining his brown handlebar mustache and dripping down his dimpled chin. "We'll get ya back home, mate, on God, but the situation is a little... ongoin'... right now. You know, mate?"
"Surely we could buzz around them. These ships of yours are so highly mobile," Hubbard shot back before taking a sip of a dreadful instant coffee ration. He had been fighting the Panamanian mudslides on and off this entire time since the wreck of the Cape Cod.
"Too risky. Our mission here is more important. We're fightin' the good fight, takin' what we need and givin' nothin' back, mate. We'll leave when I say, alrighty-roo? And not one second before. Understood?"
Hubbard turned red with rage. "With all due respect, sir," he said, raising a finger, "Oswald is the ranking officer of my service here, and I say that we ask him if we need to risk a return over enemy territory."
Oswald lit a stale cigarette with a rusty lighter, took a drag, and said, "Stand down, Hubbard. That's an order. Captain Morgan is in control here. If he says we can't make it, I doubt we could. We'll leave when he says."
This only further served to enrage Hubbard, who paced over to Chuck, nose almost touching, and said, "Chuck. We need. To leave. We have been through so much. Our boys deserve to go home. We have been stranded out here for over a year. We did our part. We'll be Jev-damn heroes back home. And the longer we wait, the more of these little murder expeditions we go on, the bigger the chance is of these whirlygigs breaking down or being shot down, and then we'll have a 70-mile hike through jungle infested with Jev only knows what and how many Infee savages who want to paint themselves in our fluids, Chuck. I want. To go. Home."
Chuck slowly exhaled the cigarette smoke into Hubbard's face. "Laz," he said casually, "Stand down. That's an order."
Morgan wiped his chin on his sleeve and tossed the ration can out the window of the treehouse. "You heard him, Hubbard. We'll leave when I say. Out here, we play by my rules."
Hubbard fumed and stormed out of the hut, down the ladder, and out onto their small landing area, a void in the midst of deep jungle brush. With a smile, Morgan told Chuck, "Y'know, kid, I promise to take you home. I mean it. We will. But one day at a time, son. One day at a time."
"I know about that ORRA column," Chuck said nonchalantly as he flicked the ash from his cheap Colombian smoke and wrinkled his nose at how damp it was. He hadn't had a good Morton since the wreck, and it was one of the few things he missed about home a great deal.
The Kanga's face turned from his typical wry grin to a frown. "The whatnwhat, mate?"
"The ORRA column. Five days ago, when we were hunting game. Expeditionary force, but plenty in number. 9th ORRA. 'Spartan Souls,' their emblem says. Tough fuckers. Coulda got us outta here in a jiffy. I saw them. And I know you did too. Only about a mile away as the crow flies. We could have gotten out of here." Chuck's eyes locked with Morgan's, completely emotionless except for just a hint of smugness. "We've been retreating further and further into the jungle because you know how close we are to Union lines."
"That's... that's... I don't know what you are talkin' about, mate. On bloody God. Haven't a bloody wicket what you're on about. If... If you saw that shit, why didn't you say somethin'?" Morgan asked, his voice hesitant, much more hesitant than usual.
"Exactly why you tell the men out here you are on a secret mission from the Australian government. I know about Bakers Landing, Morgan. I'm an informed, well-read man. I know you killed those people back home. But it's all good. I don't care. I have taken the lives of many people, as well. Some innocent. Some not. But such is life."
"We are on a top secret mission to infiltrate enemy lines and eliminate valuable targets, son. Excuse you for questionin' my honor, you Yankee bastard."
"Bakers Landing. It was what, two years ago? The ringleader of Morgan's Flying Circus air show kills five before butchering them and feeding them to his pigs. The Australian government sent you out here to die because you are a mad dog. You will never return home. You can never return home. You're a fucking psychopath and your men are rapists and madmen to boot. You didn't volunteer for shit. You got voluntold to go to South America or be executed. Your secret mission is to butcher and maim indefinitely until supplies run out or your 'gigs eventually fail." Oswald threw the cigarette into a nearby rusty Brazilian helmet the group used as a collective ashtray. "We're out here on a death wish, aren't we, Captain? And you know what the funny thing is? I'm fine with that. For the first time in my entire life, I feel free. I feel totally, completely, ravishingly free. And I feel like I am learning at the feet of a master. The way you manipulate the people around you is breathtaking. You manipulated even me. If I was normal, I'd be offended, outraged, even violent. But I am not normal. I would prefer to be here than home. Home, with its suffocating political gatherings and parties and my father's elderly friends who sit around and discuss oil derricks and pump technology until they go to bed at 8 pm, unable to get their ancient peckers to work long enough to make love to their 20-something year-old brides. Home, with an arranged marriage to the President's daughter, a President who is a maniacal tightwad who thumps his religion into every single citizen. No, I like it better here, Morgan. I expect to live this life as long as I can."
Morgan stood in shocked silence for a moment before finally replying. "It wasn't this place or execution, Oswald. It was worse."
Oswald lifted an eyebrow casually. "Pray tell, Captain."
"It wasn't execution I faced. They wanted to institutionalize me, Chuckie. They wanted to take away my freedom. I'd sooner die. But they deemed me insane, mate. And I know what you mean about freedom. I have never been more free in my life than out here. These bodgers around here worship me as a literal god, yeah? I fuckin' love this place. And yeah, I saw the bloody ORRA column. Truth is, I didn't want to lose you, Chuck. You are a great soldier. Big-boulder Pinnie-ace, you are, yeah?" Morgan pulled up a chair, put his foot on the seat, and continued. "I'm proud of you. For a rich man's son, you know how to live life on the edge, like a snail on a razor blade."
"Thank you," Oswald replied simply. It honestly meant the world to him. To find someone who was proud of him for his genuine character was a shockingly fresh feeling.
"You ever read Egyptian religion? Like, the old timey dogheaded shit, yeah?" Morgan asked, twirling the end of his handlebar mustache.
"I was more of a Roman and Greek man myself," Oswald said. "I know the Bonapartes used some stone or other to translate that Egyptian stuff. Don't know how reliable their translations are. Why?"
"I am going to tell you some shit that'll make you feel like I'm an even bigger nutcase than I sure you think I am already, alrighty-rooty, mate? It's my personal religious creed, you could say, you could, alright? I will tell you the secret of being free. Doesn't matter where you are, doesn't matter if you are in the jungle here or back home. There is no god, Chuck, aside from yourself. At the end of the day, mate, there is one person who matters in your life. You. I killed those people back home because I fuckin' hated them and they deserved it. I am glad I did it. I'd do it again, mate, yeah? It was a fuckin' gasser. And I'm not tellin' you some Loomie bullshit, either when I say you are a god, and I ain't worshipin' no Worm either. Everyone else is a fuckin', what's the word... a 'supportin' character' in your play or movie or book that is your life. You matter. To yourself. Ain't no one out there who matters more in your story than you. And same applies to me and mine. Everyone is a fuckin' supportin' actor. I'm the main character, Chuckie. I'll never be a supportin' character. These people fuckin' worship me. I'm the main character in their story. And I can feel that power. Even if they lived as I do before I arrived, before I came into their lives, they know who is in charge now. I can feel that energy. I don't believe in god, Chuckie, but there's a spark of the divine when an entire bloomin' village bows to ya."
"Why tell me that? Doesn't that mean I'm just a supporting role in your grand story or whatever?" Chuck asked, his face about the same as if someone had just disagreed about a favorite sports team, not as if a man had just admitted with relish to what psychoanalysts back in B.A.U.B. would call a god complex.
Morgan took a long pause. Then he said, "Yeah, Chuckie. I like you, I like you a lot. But if you tried to leave, you're no good to me anymore. I accept one thing, Chuckie Oswald, and that thing is total and complete loyalty. I am the god of my universe. And I make the rules. I mentioned Egyptian religion for a reason. The Pharaohs believed that they were gods on earth, and their subjects would pray to them. When they died, they would take out as many servants and what-have-ya and seal them in their tombs with 'em. Bobs-your-uncle, they had an army of slaves in the afterlife. Riding chariots across the sky and shit. I pray to myself. And one day, I'm gonna die. And all the bastards I take with me will be my cosmic slaves, my shamblers among the stars. Now, that might not be true, but it's a pretty picture, mate. It gives me somethin' to look forward to after this existence is over."
"What if I killed you, right here and now, with my sidearm? Who would be the main character, then?" the young American asked coldly, drawing his pistol in the blink of an eye and leveling it at Morgan. "What if I struck you down in this instant, like the madman you are? Dust in the wind. Ashes to ashes."
"Then it was a good run," Morgan said simply. "And my men and my idolators have orders to kill whoever dares to harm me. Even in death, I win. I live on the edge of chaos every damn day, yeah? I could be snuffed out at any time. But I will never go quietly into the abyss. Not without taking a hundred bastards with me. My creed is I will do as I will, until the day I die. If you ever get outta here, mate, never forget that. Do as you will. Doesn't mean others can't be happy, doesn't mean you have to be mayhem all the time, but do what you will when you want to do it, and no man or god will ever hold power over you. Make peace with every situation, and you can never lose. Reject 'reality.' Become the fantastic."
"If I killed you, wouldn't you be my slave in this afterlife delusion of yours?" Chuck inquired, slowly lowering his pistol. He had no intentions of killing the Australian. Or did he? his head felt so strange these days. So confused, even though he tried to push certain thoughts away in his palace of the mind.
"I guarantee you, Chuckie boy, I have killed many, many more people than you. And you don't exactly have your own jungle cult, now, do you? No, Chuckie. I win. Through belief in myself, in the power of me, I fear nothin'. Do you understand what it's like to live without fear, mate? It's fuckin' boosin-boosin, on God."
"You're telling me so much," Oswald said, "Doesn't that mean you care for me? Why would you share these tips and tricks of yours if you only care for yourself?"
"That's a good question, kid," the Kanga said, scratching his chin and swatting away a mosquito. "Mighty fine question. To tell you the truth, I just felt the urge. Maybe I sense a spark of divinity in you, somewhere in there, son. You're an odd chap, Chuckie. When I look into your Pinnacle peepers, I sense somethin' powerful. My men feel it, too. There's somethin' inside you, deep down, that's special. I don't know what it is, but you're the most interestin' bloke I ever met. Maybe I am just excited to meet a gent of the same qualities I see in myself. Maybe I like competition, because it gives me a reason to keep up this life-long pecker-measurin' contest. Anyway, if you ever do leave this shithole--this beautiful, libertine shithole--always remember that you are the star of your own show. No one else is going to live your life for you. No one else can be you. Everyone, even in Aussie-land, knows the names Custer and Steele. No one remembers Hamilton Fish. Fuck Fish. Custer is a pharaoh, and Fish isn't fit to polish his sarcophagus. One of those men lived for self and died on top, and the other lived and died in destitution and depression. One thousand years from now, coinage will have Custer on it. No one will even remember Hamilton Fish existed."
"So I should live as, well... selfishly... as possible?" Oswald asked, once again with the calm and ease of discussing rounders at a bar in Boston. "Sounds like a good way to get everybody to hate me and wind up in an early grave."
"Hate you? No, mate. You don't have to be a cock-wallet to everyone, not all the time. Why be kind? To get what you want. More flies with honey, but never be afraid to uncork the vinegar. The more people that like you, just as much as fear you, the more powerful you become until you become a speeding bullet that can't be stopped."
"So why are you kind to me?"
"To get what I want. Which is you and your fightin' men to keep my operation afloat."
"What madness is this, Morgan?" Oswald chuckled blackly. "What even is life? What is this world? It's a rat-race. A bunch of rats scurrying for the biggest slice of carrion while they stab and shoot each other all the way up the corpse-pile."
The Australian paused to look at his watch. It was almost time to conduct a raid on a village about ten miles eastward. Then he looked up and answered, "You Americans should know what this madness is. It's survival of the fittest, Chuckie, and I'm the fittest rat on this corpse-pile. Try to keep up."
***
Chuck looked down at Emmanuel. He gazed deeply into the eyes of his infant son, just as Morgan had gazed into his those years ago. He longed to see that spark, to feel like there was someone else with that touch of divinity. He smiled. Such a beautiful baby boy. A marvel of creation. Not a creation of God, but of his own. It was his Pinnacle seed that filled the womb of the woman. He named him Emmanuel after the Union Army's belt buckle motto, meaning 'God With Us' in old Hebrew. Emmanuel was also another name for Jesus Christ. He smiled broadly. His boy was a mockery of God, a creation of his own, one that the Second Prophet told him was the Christ Child Reborn. That self-important talkiebox cultist thought Emmanuel Oswald was the Christ Child. Emmanuel was just another tool for Chuck, a lock on power, and a consummation of his place as Steele's heir.
Chuck knew it wasn't normal to think as he did. It was madness, in fact. Did he love his son? Perhaps. Perhaps he desired to give him the life and upbringing he had wished for. Perhaps he desired to be a father, a true father, to the young "Christ Child." Perhaps. But in the end, he was just one more rung up the ladder of success and world domination. Because though mad he was, Chuck Oswald loved life, and as he daydreamed, stating at his newborn son, he envisioned a neon future, an Oswaldian century, where he would be recognized as the deity he was, the deity he himself worshiped. A Pinnacle Future of the Infee Irish-born Chosen One, leading Jev's children astray in the most cosmic of possible jokes, a mockery of God if ever there was one out in the cold, unfeeling stars. It was all rather amusing, he thought and smiled. He looked over to the right-hand wall of his study. On a featureless plaster mannequin head sat an Australian bush hat, a hole through the back of the crown. He let out a little laugh.
Just another step up the corpse-pile.
Hope you guys enjoy the unfolding mania of Chuck's super-ego. Also!
We are past 500k reads!
*Confetti*
Adding 1.0, The Union Forever, and Prophecies in the Dark, we should be at about 2.5-3 million clicks. Pretty rad. Thank you all for sticking out this crazy grindhouse of an AH. We're really getting to the heart of the timeline. The entire story so far was written to get to Chuck Oswald.
We are past 500k reads!
*Confetti*
Adding 1.0, The Union Forever, and Prophecies in the Dark, we should be at about 2.5-3 million clicks. Pretty rad. Thank you all for sticking out this crazy grindhouse of an AH. We're really getting to the heart of the timeline. The entire story so far was written to get to Chuck Oswald.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Talk about a match made in hell! Morgan sounds as insane as Oswald, if not more. He would fit perfectly in the Union society.
Imagine Morgan infecting Chuck with some of his Australian slang and Chuck accidentally introducing those words and phrases into widespread American use because people like to imitate the Aethling’s speech and mannerisms.
Imagine being so batshit crazy that even a country founded by former criminals think you're a bit too much. Is Morgan inspired by anyone or in particular? I The Kangas are definitely an interesting bunch and opens up questions about what kinda criminals and savage mercs are fighting in the jungle.
Maybe the Kangas are the Australian version of the Redemption Legions.