This looks like Oswald is trapped in one of those "interior of a building hellscape" dimensions from Silent Hill, and he's dragging through it as his sins and madness manifest into the otherworld.
"What Madness Is This?" Volume III: The Pinnacle Future
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
"I won three purple hearts"Why does Oswald look like John Kerry
-Charles Oswald (1952)
That is the inner manifestation of his soul. What called in universe his pandemonium.
Was that a Clint Eastwood reference or a Cal Kestis reference?
It gained independence a few years ago, more or less, but it's still pretty close to Napoleon.
Think of it like a dominion/part of a sort of Europan commonwealth.
Dunno if Hendrick is making up his mind about what piece playing next or if he has just farted and froze when the smell caught him.
Ryan Harvey Hendrick plays his famous violin
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Chuck rolling up to my house after I said Zap Zephyr was just “ok”.
Ryan Harvey Hendrick plays his famous violin
Oh shit. I'm just wondering about Twin Peaks in the WMiTverse.
OPERATION RED LADY
Will touch up tomorrow/today and am attempting to make some illustrations for this chapter rn. My sincere apologies for keeping everyone waiting forever. Life has been... not fun. lol. But life is good when Chuck is experiencing sexual fever dreams of a lady in red with long blonde hair who is not his wife, and she's riding a nuke....
The situation in the War Room as President Oswald entered was absolute pandemonium (pun unintended). The young dictator was clad in his favorite white Navy-style tunic, with a button-up collar, black necktie, and a chest full of ribbons. On his left arm was the freshly-starched striped armband of the Manifest Destiny Party, with the traditional blue eagle insignia swapped out for a golden version to symbolize his rank. His thick hair was like a brown helmet, the overhead lights reflecting off a layer of hairspray applied by his personal stylist (and frequent adulterous liaison) Toots, whose real name escaped him most days. His blue eyes were somewhat reddened by a bender the previous night, but he was able to go without his favorite tortoise-shell sunglasses for once. He had chased an entire bottle of Keybeck Whiskey and followed it up with innumerable shots of whatever else he had on hand and in immediate reach. The sunglasses were clipped to a slot on his breast pocket, and he almost grabbed them to shield his eyes from all the lights. But his medications banished his symptoms, or at least hid them by making him so high he forgot the hangover to begin with. Chuck Oswald felt good. Everyone else was in an uproar and a half.
Supreme Marshal Brigham John Barnes, the first African-American to hold the title of highest ranking Army officer in the entirety of the branch, stomped up to him in a pair of knee-high cordovan riding boots and a dark olive uniform, his right hand immediately extending in a salute. "My Atheling! Always a pleasure, sir, though I wish our situation was less exciting." Barnes' dead left eye, covered white in a corneal ulcer, gazed vacantly over his wide but stately nose and thin mustache, whilst the other eye shot everywhere and at everything all at once. Barnes was a more nervous man than Oswald would prefer, but the man took in information at record-pace and never stopped learning.
Oswald extended his arm casually in a return salute before clasping his hands behind his back. "Supreme Commander, greetings. I trust that, however, er, ah, exciting this may be, you have things under control? What is the latest situational report from our spies in Europe?"
Barnes motioned for Oswald to follow him to the huge table in the middle of the room, where staff officers stood busily pushing markers to and fro on the charts of Eastern and Central Europe. Red phones were pulled all about, their cords looking like a sort of Infee I-talian spaghetti. The handsets slamming on and off the receivers seemingly every second as more information came in. Barnes reached into a shiny brown leather pouch snapped to his belt and withdrew what seemed to be a pen, but quickly extended with a snap to form a pointer stick. Gesturing it over West Germania, he told his imperious master, "The Loomies have driven fast and hard. They aren't gonna let up until all of Europe east of the Bonapartes is flying the Minervan banner from every church steeple. As of 0400 hours this morning, the East Germanian People's Army and elements of the Polish People's Army, especially their Mechanized Hussars, have overrun whatever resistance was left in Berlin. The Free State has fallen. That is as expected, of course. Those bastards were so infiltrated they were practically already a Loomie puppet state before this shitshow even kicked off. Now, we have known since last week that Bohemia's sovereignty had been violated by the New Holy Roman Empire, and the government has been hauled off to Jev-only-knows where. That Papal prick Peter in Rome announced it was a preventative measure to ensure Bohemia does not fall to the Illuminists. However, as of our latest updates, this has had exactly opposite the effect they were looking for... and now Bohemians are blowing bridges and putting up bitter resistance to the incoming Crusaders. This situation is more fluid than you can believe, and our latest updates say that the Illuminists have used this as a justification to launch a counter-invasion from East Germania and Poland into Bohemia to 'install a just and fair people's council to decide if Bohemia will join the Illuminist movement and sit in the Areopagus.'"
"Horseshit," barked Oswald bluntly. "Those people in Boho will be singin' Illuminati hymns by nightfall at the point of a gun."
"A gun faces them in the back, a gun faces them in the front. The Bohemians are going to be spitroasted," Barnes said in agreement. "But the War Room is concerned, Mr. President, that this is going so badly for the Romans that it actually is unacceptable for American foreign policy, as well."
Oswald crossed his arms over his chest and shifted on his feet. "How you mean, Barnes?"
"Well, I have had my boys running reports and tabulators all night and day for a week and all signs say that the New Holies are a paper tiger. They were able to bully the Balkans into line, but the Illuminists have much more modern equipment and much larger numbers. Within two months, we fear the New Holy Roman Empire will collapse, plunging Europe behind the Enlightened Curtain. We need to consider all options to prevent this from happening. We need those Papist fuckers to hold the damn line and not let our greatest enemy turn them into an asset."
Oswald thought the matter over. While America hated Papists with more passion than could be reasonably understood, the only thing worse than a Papist was a goddamn godless Illuminist bastard. It made Oswald grin at the idea of somehow helping the Holies. Strange bedfellows, indeed. "You're not suggesting we go to war to help the NHRE, are ya, Barnes?"
"No," Barnes replied quickly and with a nervous, almost manic smile. He knew what he was suggesting would have been incomprehensible to any American leader up to now. "What I am saying is that we should see if we can't... well, if we can't 'accidentally misplace' some supplies in the Mediterranean. These Papists might call themselves 'New,' but their tactics and equipment are designed by old codgers in some decrepit old castle somewhere where generations of older codgers designed tactics and equipment with the same mindset since time immemorial. Not to mention constant 'useful input' by crusty paedophilic cardinals and counts. They are the only Great Power that doesn't own nuclear weaponry. To be honest, they don't stand a chance. But I think, with a little help from mercenaries and some supplies, they can rally and hold the line until a truce is the best resort for all involved. We knew since the anthrax touched the Mainland that we were going to lose West Germania in time. But we can't let the greatest thorn in the side of Maximov and Bonaparte be snipped off just yet."
Oswald sighed and gave a drinking motion to a nearby orderly, who immediately snapped his heels and rushed off to fetch a cup of water from a nearby fountain. The American tyrant leaned forward onto the table and stared at the map of Europe. "We have spent so much damn fucking money on our own little adventures, can we really afford to supply our fuckin' enemy? How much do we send? And more importantly, how long do we send them free shit? Do we just waltz over their and say, 'Golly gee, oh Holy Imperial Ballsack, here are fifty artillery pieces. Consider it a present from a country who has killed fifty million of you soulless animals'? I feel like it would be hard as hell to cover this up or do this properly under the table."
"Mercenaries, sir. Mercenaries can make almost anything happen, 'under the table.'"
"Like launch a coup in Metropolis?" Oswald choked back a laugh.
"Thankfully, we won't be letting that happen anytime soon. No, I have a stack of plans already drawn up for a certain Black Orchestra group to take captured Neutie armaments from the Scrapyards in New Zion, load them onto boats, and take them to Malta. If you recall, we have a... friend... in Malta."
"Barnes, you magnificent bastard!" Oswald proclaimed, smiling and clapping once, twice, thrice. "That is genius, my man. You think our little Maltese Rabbi is down for this?"
The "Maltese Rabbi" was a reference to Cardinal Apollo Kerras, an Italian of Greek extraction, and a devout but closeted Jew. While much of the European Jewish community had condemned America and the many, many Jews who helped build it, many others quietly saw America as a useful tool to give the middle finger to Catholic Europe. If Catholic Europe fell into chaos, that would open up the Holy Land for a possible return to Zion. Infiltrators like Cardinal Kerras were doing their best to destabilize things from within. The man was a favorite of Pope Peter II and essentially the dictator of Malta, possessing the title of Grand Master of the Knights of the island. Kerras was known as the kind of man who could acquire contraband from anywhere in the world, launder it through Malta, and thus allow New Holy Roman officials and officers to enjoy the finest American and Europan drugs, music, and pornography, all the while compiling blackmail folders so numerous he practically needed to institute the library decimal system to keep the dirty little secrets organized. Whether or not Kerras actually "liked" America, or America "liked" him, was of little importance. The fact was that their relationship was incredibly mutually beneficial.
"Kerras has never let us down, sir," Barnes answered him simply. "We already have half the Holy Roman Army officer corps hooked on marchin' powder and Sweet Victory. It wouldn't be difficult for Kerras to... say, 'acquire surplus weaponry' and send it in to assist the Crusader boys. What would they do? Launch an investigation on where their own Cardinal is acquiring useful and functional supplies that could help them win the damn war? I can't imagine a scenario where they do anything but jump for joy at the sight of the first dinged-up Brazilian landship smeared in rust retardant rollin' onto the dock. He's trusted enough and they are desperate enough that we could make this work, sir."
"What if..." Oswald began, but trailed off, raising a white gloved hand to his chin in contemplation. He was clearly debating on whether or not to speak his mind, and if Oswald was holding back, you could know the idea was absolutely insane and terrifying. "I... well, I had an idea. Or, rather, I had the idea come to me during the physical act of love."
"... Sir?"
"Sometimes, when my Pinnacle seed in loosed in the landing zone and I have enjoyed the fruits of the spirit, I experience a sort of waking-vision, Barnes. A climax that exhausts me to the point that I experience a sort of... waking dream. I have them frequently of the same woman, in a scarlet sequin number. Really '36-24-36' type of deal. She has long blonde hair, y'see, er, ah, beautiful Teutonic broad. And she sits atop a bomb, Barnes. An atom bomb. And she isn't side-straddlin' that shit, no, sir. She's got it between her legs and she's riding it like a bucking Redemption bronco. And she tells me, 'Come and see.' Now, I'm still dick-deep in my woman, er, ah, but my brain is like, 'Ah, Sure.. I'm already halfway there. Might as well see, too.'" The staff officers around Oswald and Barnes loosed a flurry of nervous laughter before the President continued. "And every time, Barnes, every damn time I see this vixen she shows me an army of Illuminists getting laid to waste by mushroom clouds. Peacemaker clouds, Barnes. Now, I would enjoy, nay relish, the sight of American nukes destroying some Owl-worshiping fuckers as much as the next Yankee boy, but I fear that, with their nuclear capability, that is a rather ethereal pipe-dream for now, unless you want to start your morning tomorrow seeing your skeleton through your skin. But this whole weapons-smuggling idea has given me a fresh take on it. What if they are American nukes... but they are being used by the damn Papists."
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stood slack-jawed. A room that had been a flurry of manic action and discussion all around now became like a tomb.
Barnes coughed awkwardly, his eyes bulging from their sockets. If his skin wasn't so dark, he would have been sheet-white. "Sir... With all due respect, sir, are you... are you saying that we should give some of our nuclear weapons to the fucking Pope?"
Oswald seemed completely unphased by the stunned reactions. "With all due respect, indeed, Barnes, I am. I am not talking something that could wipe out Rio for the fifth time, I am talking smaller. Like, say, a... 'pal' or two...."
The American despot was referring to the MK-III Daniel Boone Portable Atomic Longrifle (frequently known as a PAL), which consisted of a sort of launcher that was a cross between a fieldpiece and a bazooka, and which fired small atomic warheads intended for anti-personnel use in a fairly close-quarters battlefield situation. Many had been used in New Zion in the ongoing Operation Enduring Climax, but they were typically used instead to simply blast cave systems or purposely deprive the enemy guerrillas of useful resources or food. None had ever been used against a conventional army. The PAL was usually transported in the back of a truck. The instructions were simple enough for any artilleryman worth his salt. Following the launch of the warhead, the final instruction was to "book it like your Pinnacle ass depends on it," as the training officers would remark on the test flats in Miskatonic.
Barnes contemplated the concept for a few moments and replied, "Sir... that might just be brilliant."
Oswald curtsied slightly and flourished both hands like a showman. "I'll be here all day, Barnes. Actually, cut that, I won't. I am getting a terrible back-ache and you know what that means."
"Yessir, of course. Do you want to actually give them the PALs, sir?" the Supreme Commander inquired. "Just awaiting confirmation."
"Spur of the moment never hurt us none," Oswald chuckled. "After all, once we stood in here and you got me to approve the creation of Petroliana in one meeting. I go with my gut, Barnes, it was how I survived the jungle back in the day. My gut hasn't failed me yet, and I feel these visions of this scarlet broad riding a rocket must mean something. I'm no Prophet, but it could be a push and a shove from the Angel Njarl to tell me what needs done. Get the papers on my desk by noon. I want those PALs on the way to Malta within 48 hours. Those fuckin' Roman kiddie-diddlers need all the help they can get."
"The Lord... works in mysterious ways," the Supreme Chief of the Army replied.
"As do I, Barnes. As do I."
Supreme Marshal Brigham John Barnes, the first African-American to hold the title of highest ranking Army officer in the entirety of the branch, stomped up to him in a pair of knee-high cordovan riding boots and a dark olive uniform, his right hand immediately extending in a salute. "My Atheling! Always a pleasure, sir, though I wish our situation was less exciting." Barnes' dead left eye, covered white in a corneal ulcer, gazed vacantly over his wide but stately nose and thin mustache, whilst the other eye shot everywhere and at everything all at once. Barnes was a more nervous man than Oswald would prefer, but the man took in information at record-pace and never stopped learning.
Oswald extended his arm casually in a return salute before clasping his hands behind his back. "Supreme Commander, greetings. I trust that, however, er, ah, exciting this may be, you have things under control? What is the latest situational report from our spies in Europe?"
Barnes motioned for Oswald to follow him to the huge table in the middle of the room, where staff officers stood busily pushing markers to and fro on the charts of Eastern and Central Europe. Red phones were pulled all about, their cords looking like a sort of Infee I-talian spaghetti. The handsets slamming on and off the receivers seemingly every second as more information came in. Barnes reached into a shiny brown leather pouch snapped to his belt and withdrew what seemed to be a pen, but quickly extended with a snap to form a pointer stick. Gesturing it over West Germania, he told his imperious master, "The Loomies have driven fast and hard. They aren't gonna let up until all of Europe east of the Bonapartes is flying the Minervan banner from every church steeple. As of 0400 hours this morning, the East Germanian People's Army and elements of the Polish People's Army, especially their Mechanized Hussars, have overrun whatever resistance was left in Berlin. The Free State has fallen. That is as expected, of course. Those bastards were so infiltrated they were practically already a Loomie puppet state before this shitshow even kicked off. Now, we have known since last week that Bohemia's sovereignty had been violated by the New Holy Roman Empire, and the government has been hauled off to Jev-only-knows where. That Papal prick Peter in Rome announced it was a preventative measure to ensure Bohemia does not fall to the Illuminists. However, as of our latest updates, this has had exactly opposite the effect they were looking for... and now Bohemians are blowing bridges and putting up bitter resistance to the incoming Crusaders. This situation is more fluid than you can believe, and our latest updates say that the Illuminists have used this as a justification to launch a counter-invasion from East Germania and Poland into Bohemia to 'install a just and fair people's council to decide if Bohemia will join the Illuminist movement and sit in the Areopagus.'"
"Horseshit," barked Oswald bluntly. "Those people in Boho will be singin' Illuminati hymns by nightfall at the point of a gun."
"A gun faces them in the back, a gun faces them in the front. The Bohemians are going to be spitroasted," Barnes said in agreement. "But the War Room is concerned, Mr. President, that this is going so badly for the Romans that it actually is unacceptable for American foreign policy, as well."
Oswald crossed his arms over his chest and shifted on his feet. "How you mean, Barnes?"
"Well, I have had my boys running reports and tabulators all night and day for a week and all signs say that the New Holies are a paper tiger. They were able to bully the Balkans into line, but the Illuminists have much more modern equipment and much larger numbers. Within two months, we fear the New Holy Roman Empire will collapse, plunging Europe behind the Enlightened Curtain. We need to consider all options to prevent this from happening. We need those Papist fuckers to hold the damn line and not let our greatest enemy turn them into an asset."
Oswald thought the matter over. While America hated Papists with more passion than could be reasonably understood, the only thing worse than a Papist was a goddamn godless Illuminist bastard. It made Oswald grin at the idea of somehow helping the Holies. Strange bedfellows, indeed. "You're not suggesting we go to war to help the NHRE, are ya, Barnes?"
"No," Barnes replied quickly and with a nervous, almost manic smile. He knew what he was suggesting would have been incomprehensible to any American leader up to now. "What I am saying is that we should see if we can't... well, if we can't 'accidentally misplace' some supplies in the Mediterranean. These Papists might call themselves 'New,' but their tactics and equipment are designed by old codgers in some decrepit old castle somewhere where generations of older codgers designed tactics and equipment with the same mindset since time immemorial. Not to mention constant 'useful input' by crusty paedophilic cardinals and counts. They are the only Great Power that doesn't own nuclear weaponry. To be honest, they don't stand a chance. But I think, with a little help from mercenaries and some supplies, they can rally and hold the line until a truce is the best resort for all involved. We knew since the anthrax touched the Mainland that we were going to lose West Germania in time. But we can't let the greatest thorn in the side of Maximov and Bonaparte be snipped off just yet."
Oswald sighed and gave a drinking motion to a nearby orderly, who immediately snapped his heels and rushed off to fetch a cup of water from a nearby fountain. The American tyrant leaned forward onto the table and stared at the map of Europe. "We have spent so much damn fucking money on our own little adventures, can we really afford to supply our fuckin' enemy? How much do we send? And more importantly, how long do we send them free shit? Do we just waltz over their and say, 'Golly gee, oh Holy Imperial Ballsack, here are fifty artillery pieces. Consider it a present from a country who has killed fifty million of you soulless animals'? I feel like it would be hard as hell to cover this up or do this properly under the table."
"Mercenaries, sir. Mercenaries can make almost anything happen, 'under the table.'"
"Like launch a coup in Metropolis?" Oswald choked back a laugh.
"Thankfully, we won't be letting that happen anytime soon. No, I have a stack of plans already drawn up for a certain Black Orchestra group to take captured Neutie armaments from the Scrapyards in New Zion, load them onto boats, and take them to Malta. If you recall, we have a... friend... in Malta."
"Barnes, you magnificent bastard!" Oswald proclaimed, smiling and clapping once, twice, thrice. "That is genius, my man. You think our little Maltese Rabbi is down for this?"
The "Maltese Rabbi" was a reference to Cardinal Apollo Kerras, an Italian of Greek extraction, and a devout but closeted Jew. While much of the European Jewish community had condemned America and the many, many Jews who helped build it, many others quietly saw America as a useful tool to give the middle finger to Catholic Europe. If Catholic Europe fell into chaos, that would open up the Holy Land for a possible return to Zion. Infiltrators like Cardinal Kerras were doing their best to destabilize things from within. The man was a favorite of Pope Peter II and essentially the dictator of Malta, possessing the title of Grand Master of the Knights of the island. Kerras was known as the kind of man who could acquire contraband from anywhere in the world, launder it through Malta, and thus allow New Holy Roman officials and officers to enjoy the finest American and Europan drugs, music, and pornography, all the while compiling blackmail folders so numerous he practically needed to institute the library decimal system to keep the dirty little secrets organized. Whether or not Kerras actually "liked" America, or America "liked" him, was of little importance. The fact was that their relationship was incredibly mutually beneficial.
"Kerras has never let us down, sir," Barnes answered him simply. "We already have half the Holy Roman Army officer corps hooked on marchin' powder and Sweet Victory. It wouldn't be difficult for Kerras to... say, 'acquire surplus weaponry' and send it in to assist the Crusader boys. What would they do? Launch an investigation on where their own Cardinal is acquiring useful and functional supplies that could help them win the damn war? I can't imagine a scenario where they do anything but jump for joy at the sight of the first dinged-up Brazilian landship smeared in rust retardant rollin' onto the dock. He's trusted enough and they are desperate enough that we could make this work, sir."
"What if..." Oswald began, but trailed off, raising a white gloved hand to his chin in contemplation. He was clearly debating on whether or not to speak his mind, and if Oswald was holding back, you could know the idea was absolutely insane and terrifying. "I... well, I had an idea. Or, rather, I had the idea come to me during the physical act of love."
"... Sir?"
"Sometimes, when my Pinnacle seed in loosed in the landing zone and I have enjoyed the fruits of the spirit, I experience a sort of waking-vision, Barnes. A climax that exhausts me to the point that I experience a sort of... waking dream. I have them frequently of the same woman, in a scarlet sequin number. Really '36-24-36' type of deal. She has long blonde hair, y'see, er, ah, beautiful Teutonic broad. And she sits atop a bomb, Barnes. An atom bomb. And she isn't side-straddlin' that shit, no, sir. She's got it between her legs and she's riding it like a bucking Redemption bronco. And she tells me, 'Come and see.' Now, I'm still dick-deep in my woman, er, ah, but my brain is like, 'Ah, Sure.. I'm already halfway there. Might as well see, too.'" The staff officers around Oswald and Barnes loosed a flurry of nervous laughter before the President continued. "And every time, Barnes, every damn time I see this vixen she shows me an army of Illuminists getting laid to waste by mushroom clouds. Peacemaker clouds, Barnes. Now, I would enjoy, nay relish, the sight of American nukes destroying some Owl-worshiping fuckers as much as the next Yankee boy, but I fear that, with their nuclear capability, that is a rather ethereal pipe-dream for now, unless you want to start your morning tomorrow seeing your skeleton through your skin. But this whole weapons-smuggling idea has given me a fresh take on it. What if they are American nukes... but they are being used by the damn Papists."
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stood slack-jawed. A room that had been a flurry of manic action and discussion all around now became like a tomb.
Barnes coughed awkwardly, his eyes bulging from their sockets. If his skin wasn't so dark, he would have been sheet-white. "Sir... With all due respect, sir, are you... are you saying that we should give some of our nuclear weapons to the fucking Pope?"
Oswald seemed completely unphased by the stunned reactions. "With all due respect, indeed, Barnes, I am. I am not talking something that could wipe out Rio for the fifth time, I am talking smaller. Like, say, a... 'pal' or two...."
The American despot was referring to the MK-III Daniel Boone Portable Atomic Longrifle (frequently known as a PAL), which consisted of a sort of launcher that was a cross between a fieldpiece and a bazooka, and which fired small atomic warheads intended for anti-personnel use in a fairly close-quarters battlefield situation. Many had been used in New Zion in the ongoing Operation Enduring Climax, but they were typically used instead to simply blast cave systems or purposely deprive the enemy guerrillas of useful resources or food. None had ever been used against a conventional army. The PAL was usually transported in the back of a truck. The instructions were simple enough for any artilleryman worth his salt. Following the launch of the warhead, the final instruction was to "book it like your Pinnacle ass depends on it," as the training officers would remark on the test flats in Miskatonic.
Barnes contemplated the concept for a few moments and replied, "Sir... that might just be brilliant."
Oswald curtsied slightly and flourished both hands like a showman. "I'll be here all day, Barnes. Actually, cut that, I won't. I am getting a terrible back-ache and you know what that means."
"Yessir, of course. Do you want to actually give them the PALs, sir?" the Supreme Commander inquired. "Just awaiting confirmation."
"Spur of the moment never hurt us none," Oswald chuckled. "After all, once we stood in here and you got me to approve the creation of Petroliana in one meeting. I go with my gut, Barnes, it was how I survived the jungle back in the day. My gut hasn't failed me yet, and I feel these visions of this scarlet broad riding a rocket must mean something. I'm no Prophet, but it could be a push and a shove from the Angel Njarl to tell me what needs done. Get the papers on my desk by noon. I want those PALs on the way to Malta within 48 hours. Those fuckin' Roman kiddie-diddlers need all the help they can get."
"The Lord... works in mysterious ways," the Supreme Chief of the Army replied.
"As do I, Barnes. As do I."
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