there's a great story of how st. mark ended up in san marco square...apparently his remains were packed amongst lots of pork products so he could surrepticiously be delivered out of muslim territories.
that's the running joke - it's only ten minutes to get there but two hours to get back!
did you hit the lace and glass islands as well? i have a wild photo from a water point looking out towards the island where the bury everyone. i should dig that up and get it into some photoshoppers hands.
Walfus the boiler-stoker scuttles into the galley and begins to festoon his hair with various discarded lobster parts, sashaying about, looking at his reflection in the bottom of a shiny pot. He dodges the heels of black bread pitched at him by the Chef. By the time the Chef reaches for the cleaver Walfus has piled about 4 kilos of lobster parts onto his head. Not willing to test the Chef's accuracy with knives he scuttles back out and heads back toward the engine room.
engine rooms - whether we care to admit it or not - have only one central point in all regards. to wit, the scene in das boot effected by the thin mechanic whose youthful beard belies his proximity to the grave. sidenote: turning sub-titles on and off is pure happenstance and has no meaningful impact on the centrality of the perpetual engine room moment.
his nerves shot, he breaks down in the face of man's double-fisted lust for war and machines of war. our defining, central moment, however, is when he later resurfaces - when he regains his faculties to do what man's last recourse is when confronting his (the species) own self-destructive quality - he uses his will to survive. back-dropped by engine room of course.
hence, we can only interpret Walfus as derivative of this central moment - despite his adornment and ability to momentarily dodge the grave Walfus reminds us of self-destruction and it's imbedded twin: self-preservation.
saddened by the recent revelation of his derivative status, walfus stumbles - rather than scuttles - about the engine room.
alarm sounds.
intercom: iceberg dead ahead. effect avoidance procedures.
having trained for such emergency, walfus engages the master panel. the instruments speak of calm, if not manageable, seas. the thorny lobster crown upon his head - once so fashionable - ominously pulls tighter to his scalp.
intercom: this is your walfus speaking. turbines are at peak, tanks are slurried and secondary generators at stand-by. inspecting torpedo hold.
pause.
panel: walfus inspects armaments. to one side a number of torpedoes are in view. from hangers a gleaming white missile rests. above walfus a thinkbubble: a tomahawk cruise missile! christ, this isn't THAT kind of cruise ship!
panel: close-up of walfus. the elevated temperatures have triggered a mixture of sweat and lobster stew to stream down walfus. a coagulation upon his brow forms a bindi.
as they get closer the captain is startled to see she knows that approaching iceburg. it's golden brown with rust, and somehow it's grown to be quite honestly bigger than any ship she's ever seen, but damned if beneath it all isn't the tin ticking tarred and feathered heart of that old Monitor!
Walfus, to hell with the Tomahawks. I'm thinking we need something just a little larger.
The little box in the chef's back pocket squaks suddenly as he angrily picks himself up and brushes off the bowl of cilantro that covered him when the blast hit. "Idiots were supposed to contact me before the attack," he fumes. "Now I'm going to be smelling like an herb garden for days."
Realizing that Captain Beria's incompetence has put him behind schedule, Kafreema ignores the walkie talkie and sprints to the engine room, fingering the stolen tomahawk cruise missile detonator that is stowed in his jacket as he goes.
alternating pits and pats mark walfus' first few steps deeper to the ship's depths. the bilge hold defies direct approach and walfus pauses to find the will/strength/sense to overcome the hold's putrid line of defense. in scrawled hand, walfus reads "it only gets worse". the scope of the challenge defined, walfus removes a kerchief and with no modesty, urinates it to saturation and places it over his nose and mouth...a WW I trench tactic to limit the effects of mustard gas exposure.
Kafreema makes it to the engine room without being noticed, but pauses before entering. Being able to see that half-wit Walfus' face when he realizes they've been double crossed (if he even has the brain power to realize it) would have been enough to convince him to take part in Beria's plot. Getting paid the absurd amount of money he was about to get for plunging a knife into the simpleton's heart is just icing.
Kafreema takes a deep breath and enters the engine room to find it....empty. "Leaving the engine room during an attack?" he thinks, "I didn't realize he was a coward as well as a moron."
the kerchief hooked from either side of his thorny crown, the veiled walfus tucks and approximates a rounded form. direct action beats all legislation - the words ending every mutex transmission - tumbled with walfus as he careened from step to side to railing to the bilge hold's platform.
surprised by his own intact bearing, walfus adjusts his veil and crown - standing erect before the hold's control panel.
After failing to reach either Walfus or Kafreema on the tubes to assist her, the Captain curses and wades out onto the foredeck to ready the Knothole Cannon. She manages to pry the doors open allright, but try as she may, and no matter what assorted foul languauge she uses, she can't get the damn crank to move. Rusted shut. No wonder really, we aint used it since '68.
Then the doorbell rings.
Captain cinches up her bathrobe, tucks the old Navy Colt in tothe back of the belt and shuffles off to the door, slippers tracking saltwater down the hall.
Opens the door to find a perky young blonde with blinding white teeth on the porch.
"Hi!" "we're with Owl City Ocean Eyes! Here to clean your carpets and then tell you about the words of Our Leader!"
"Hmmmm..." says Captain "Any background in tactical nuclears?"
Nervously... "um... wellll..." shifting to and fro on the balls of her feet.
"Well, never mind, I'm sure we can find something for you to do, c'mon in."
"And my friends?" gesturing to 6 or 8 other Bright Young Things hanging around the dilapidated white van sitting at the curb.
The Captain starts and turns a wee bit purple but then swallows her toungue and says "sure, sure, come one, come all. We'll start you in the bilge, I think there may be a carpet in there somehwere. Leastways there's somethin' fuzzy. And give me that Lemon Pledge... might just loosen up this crank. And if you see that damn Walfus tell him to get his ass up here and help me with this gun. Collision is imminent!!!"
As the Bright Young Things troop in the door, a black and yellow butterfly sneaks in on a sun-pinked shoulder, flutters off down the hall and sets about his own nefarious designs...
As the sun rises into the crack of dawn, like cheap underwear, the vessel slowly steams into the harbor. Located in the northeastern United States, the port was located on the outskirts of a little town called Download.
There was a certain peacefulness at this hour, before the day's activity began in earnest. But the peacefulness was belied by the unholy terror that stalked the town by night and day. This terror was the worst kind, it had turned neighbor against neighbor as they eyed each other suspiciously wondering if they were gazing upon the source of the evil that had seized upon the defenseless little village raping and pillaging wantonly, without regard for station or decency. This malevolence had stalked the villagers for such a time that it had become familiar. They had given it's faceless evil a name, the Download Mangler...
The stalker had crippled the town; no one was willing to venture beyond the veneer of safety their homes swaddled into their dismal lives. You could smell the fear, or was that the rotting fish that had gone unattended for weeks.
In the center of the hamlet a lone musician sat in a deserted tavern. His instruments long since lost to the plague of stagnation that had beset the local economy. All was lost except the last remaining case of beer. Too valuable to be consumed, the liquid had been strategically drained from each bottle so each could be arranged in the fashion of vibraphone, or in this case a marimba, the broken legs of a chair the mallets. He pelted out a lonely melody but in his head he could still hear the full arrangements. Ahhh, music, the only thing to soothe the savage beast...
Suddenly, the unemployed minstrel stood up ramrod straight. "That's it" he cried. Suddenly, as if movement and thought were one and the same, he darted toward a stack of dusty old boxes stored beneath the counter. Destroying his improvised instrument in the process, stale liquid ran this way and that. And there it was, precisely where he had hidden it years earlier. The repo man thought he had taken everything, including his dignity. But in a symbolic gesture of defiance, one small token of his former self remained. But if he was going to do this he would need some help. There was only one living mortal in the universe who could pull this off, his sworn nemesis 68stationwagon...
after dropping the Bright Young Things off at the old submarine house, 68stationwagon pulled the old white van away from the curb and headed back to the project. the front suspension was so beat that every time they hit even the smallest bump the van would bob its front end up and down for a couple thousand meters down the road, somehow giving the impression of an old man nodding off to sleep...
katrina reached over and cranked up the radio a bit, then took off her cowboy hat and let the wind blow some of the dust out of her hair.
the cougar in the back looked at them and growled his disapproval. turned about and went back to sleep.
and they all went bouncing on back to the hospital.
But after all these years how would he be able to locate ole 68. Thinking back with regret, he remembered the last time he rescued his old pal. Finding him heavily drugged and dazed in the criminally insane ward of the now vacant mental hospital. Slumped over a bowl of half eaten gruel with an unbroken line of drool trailing off into his meal, he was clearly a broken man. I called his name once, twice, thrice. No answer. I walked over and touched his arm, instantaneously he sprung to life sputtering obscenities. Something about free crack but I didn't get any. You got any crack gimme some crack he begged me repeatedly until he went limp into a sobbing mass of wretchedness. I had to get him out of there, and to think this is how he repaid me...
And it is one I missed, as I didn't join until a few months later.... I admit I did laugh at a few comments, but also noticed names not around any longer
edit - just checked to see when I did join, it was actually Nov 2010, so a while after this thread. What I did notice though is that amc2 has been overtaken by Brighternow for most comments - surely we are going to get some more artwork from amc now??
Comments
venice rawks!!!
did you hit the lace and glass islands as well? i have a wild photo from a water point looking out towards the island where the bury everyone. i should dig that up and get it into some photoshoppers hands.
this is now 12 years ago - pre-digital cameras.
his nerves shot, he breaks down in the face of man's double-fisted lust for war and machines of war. our defining, central moment, however, is when he later resurfaces - when he regains his faculties to do what man's last recourse is when confronting his (the species) own self-destructive quality - he uses his will to survive. back-dropped by engine room of course.
hence, we can only interpret Walfus as derivative of this central moment - despite his adornment and ability to momentarily dodge the grave Walfus reminds us of self-destruction and it's imbedded twin: self-preservation.
alarm sounds.
intercom: iceberg dead ahead. effect avoidance procedures.
having trained for such emergency, walfus engages the master panel. the instruments speak of calm, if not manageable, seas. the thorny lobster crown upon his head - once so fashionable - ominously pulls tighter to his scalp.
the fate of the ship rests in my hands...
And bring me some of that ice for my Gin.
Edit: That's the difference between a Commander and a Narrator. No need for Teh Drama when you have high explosives handy.
that iceberg isn't white or blue... it's brown.
and it's not standing still... in fact it's approaching.
the torpedoes cause a tremendous crash and a wall of water obscures the behemoth for a moment.
but it's still there and ... accelerating.
judging by the speed there's no way i'll outrun it in this old tub of chitlins says the captain's voice from somewhere inside a cloud of smoke.
into the engine tube she screams more steam walfus, more steam, more steam, more steam
if they want to play, we'll play. full steam ahead. engage the battering ram. damn the torpedoes.
es gab eine alte Frau, die in einem Boot lebte
panel: main deck, intercom foreground -
intercom: this is your walfus speaking. turbines are at peak, tanks are slurried and secondary generators at stand-by. inspecting torpedo hold.
pause.
panel: walfus inspects armaments. to one side a number of torpedoes are in view. from hangers a gleaming white missile rests. above walfus a thinkbubble: a tomahawk cruise missile! christ, this isn't THAT kind of cruise ship!
panel: close-up of walfus. the elevated temperatures have triggered a mixture of sweat and lobster stew to stream down walfus. a coagulation upon his brow forms a bindi.
That's how Mutex rolls! There's some interesting stuff stowed with the cargo, as well.
Walfus, to hell with the Tomahawks. I'm thinking we need something just a little larger.
Realizing that Captain Beria's incompetence has put him behind schedule, Kafreema ignores the walkie talkie and sprints to the engine room, fingering the stolen tomahawk cruise missile detonator that is stowed in his jacket as he goes.
Kafreema takes a deep breath and enters the engine room to find it....empty. "Leaving the engine room during an attack?" he thinks, "I didn't realize he was a coward as well as a moron."
surprised by his own intact bearing, walfus adjusts his veil and crown - standing erect before the hold's control panel.
Then the doorbell rings.
Captain cinches up her bathrobe, tucks the old Navy Colt in tothe back of the belt and shuffles off to the door, slippers tracking saltwater down the hall.
Opens the door to find a perky young blonde with blinding white teeth on the porch.
"Hi!"
"Hmmmm..." says Captain "Any background in tactical nuclears?"
Nervously... "um... wellll..." shifting to and fro on the balls of her feet.
"Well, never mind, I'm sure we can find something for you to do, c'mon in."
"And my friends?" gesturing to 6 or 8 other Bright Young Things hanging around the dilapidated white van sitting at the curb.
The Captain starts and turns a wee bit purple but then swallows her toungue and says "sure, sure, come one, come all. We'll start you in the bilge, I think there may be a carpet in there somehwere. Leastways there's somethin' fuzzy. And give me that Lemon Pledge... might just loosen up this crank. And if you see that damn Walfus tell him to get his ass up here and help me with this gun. Collision is imminent!!!"
As the Bright Young Things troop in the door, a black and yellow butterfly sneaks in on a sun-pinked shoulder, flutters off down the hall and sets about his own nefarious designs...
There was a certain peacefulness at this hour, before the day's activity began in earnest. But the peacefulness was belied by the unholy terror that stalked the town by night and day. This terror was the worst kind, it had turned neighbor against neighbor as they eyed each other suspiciously wondering if they were gazing upon the source of the evil that had seized upon the defenseless little village raping and pillaging wantonly, without regard for station or decency. This malevolence had stalked the villagers for such a time that it had become familiar. They had given it's faceless evil a name, the Download Mangler...
In the center of the hamlet a lone musician sat in a deserted tavern. His instruments long since lost to the plague of stagnation that had beset the local economy. All was lost except the last remaining case of beer. Too valuable to be consumed, the liquid had been strategically drained from each bottle so each could be arranged in the fashion of vibraphone, or in this case a marimba, the broken legs of a chair the mallets. He pelted out a lonely melody but in his head he could still hear the full arrangements. Ahhh, music, the only thing to soothe the savage beast...
katrina reached over and cranked up the radio a bit, then took off her cowboy hat and let the wind blow some of the dust out of her hair.
the cougar in the back looked at them and growled his disapproval. turned about and went back to sleep.
and they all went bouncing on back to the hospital.
This, apparently, was my first eMusers thread, cracked opened four years ago.
edit - just checked to see when I did join, it was actually Nov 2010, so a while after this thread. What I did notice though is that amc2 has been overtaken by Brighternow for most comments - surely we are going to get some more artwork from amc now??
Frogkopf? Is that you?
Craig