The Heroes Are Back.   And They're Dumber Than Ever.

Get To Know: Grebok

Monday, October 12th, 2009

Friendmonger[dot]com!1. What is your name?

Grebok, what’s yours?

2. What is your favorite color?

So you’re just going to bowl right past my questions? I see how you are, quiz.

3. What is your favorite time of the year?

I’m not sure why I should have to answer your questions if you’re just going to ignore mine. But Spring. I like Spring. Birds, flowers, babies and crap. But not baby crap.

4. What is your favorite animal?

The ridge-backed Bruntlak.

5. What is your favorite sport to watch?

Bruntlak-ball.

6. What is your favorite smell?

I’m starting to really like the smell of oil… because it’s manly.

7. Do you like your handwriting?

Did my calligraphy teacher send you? Tell her you never saw me.

8. First thing you wash in the shower?

I don’t understand the question.

9. Do you plan outfits?

They used to be planned for me, but not anymore. Now I just wear whatever. Freedom. I wear freedom.

10. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?

Yes. A hundred times yes. Chuckles isn’t going to see this, is he?

11. What’s the closest thing to you that’s red?

The crusted blood under Chuckles’ nose over there.

12. What’s the last dream you remember having?

I… there was this bird, such a pretty bird, in a cage. A cage made of iron—that was also my college dorm, if that makes sense? My—the bird’s roommates were a hermit crab and a toaster oven. And all these nobles in fancy dress kept walking past the cage and asking where the toaster oven’s parents were. The bird kept singing and trying to get their attention but they only wanted to talk to the toaster oven. Then the hermit crab wasn’t there and we all just sort of understood he had died of a heroin overdose over winter break. Then my alarm went off. Why? What do you think that means?

13. What are you craving right now?

Ham. Do you have any?

14. Do you like your hair?

So that’s a no on the ham?

15. Is there anything sparkly in the room you’re in?

Oh man, you have no idea. It’s like a swarm of pixie strippers lost a fight with a turbine around here. Black Jesus keeps glittering me.

16. How many planets have you visited?

Who knows? Hundreds? Maybe over a thousand.

17. Do you use chapstick?

No… but R.T. does….

18. Can you use chopsticks?

Chop sticks, tines, gulfor forks, zagari eat-prods, Geminese finger hooks, and I know six kinds of Orrk’kin live-food wrassling.

19. Do you own a gun?

Several. And no you can’t see them.

20. Do you have any tattoos?

Yeah. It was a clan initiation thing.

21. Do looks matter?

Is this question for real? How would we see without them?

22. Do you like sushi?

It sure beats Orrk’kin live-food wrassling.

23. What was the most recent thing you bought?

It’s… it’s a flower made out of microfilaments and metal. I got it out of a vending machine. Do you think that’s stupid? It’s probably stupid.

24. Have you ever crawled through a window?

Why crawl when you can jump through swinging?

25. Are you emotional?

Yes. What of it? I mean, no. No! Wait… maybe. Now I’m sad.

26. How are you feeling RIGHT now?

Confused.

27. What is your best friend(s) doing tomorrow?

Probably punch some stuff and be a dick about it. It’s what he does best.

28. Did you meet anybody new today?

Yeah, sure, lots of people. That pirate kid and his family, some bluebirds, a goblin, a washing machine… oh, and that fucking robot dick that sent us here.

29. Last time you cried?

I wasn’t crying! Something got in my eye!

30. Do you hate or dislike more than 3 people?

Hate is a strong word. And yes.

31. The last person you held hands with?

I don’t know… my mom? When I was, like, five?

32. Ever been in love?

Nothing. What? Shut up.

33. Do you like yourself?

I dunno. Never thought about it. Now I’m thinking about it. Thanks for that. Dick quiz.

34. Do you like your life right now?

I hate your life right now. Stupid quiz with your stupid existential dread.

1. What is your name? Grebok, what’s yours?

2. What is your favorite color? So you’re just going to bowl right past my questions? I see how you are quiz.

3. What is your favorite time of the year? I’m not sure why I should have to answer your questions if you’re just going to ignore mine. But Spring. I like Spring. Birds, flowers, babies and crap.

4. What is your favorite animal? The ridge-backed Bruntlak.

5. What is your favorite sport to watch? Bruntlak ball.

6. What is your favorite smell? I’m starting to really like the smell of oil… because it’s manly.

7. Do you like your handwriting? Did my calligraphy teacher send you? Tell her you never saw me.

8. First thing you wash in the shower? I don’t understand the question.

9. Do you plan outfits? They used to be planned for me, but not anymore. Now I just wear whatever. Freedom. I wear freedom.

10. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again? Yes. A hundred times yes. Chuckles isn’t going to see this is he?

11. What’s the closest thing to you that’s red? Chuckles’ nose over there.

12. What’s the last dream you remember having? I… there was this bird, such a pretty bird, in a cage. A cage made of iron—that was also my college dorm, if that makes sense? My—the bird’s roommates were a hermit crab and a toaster oven. And all these nobles in fancy dress kept walking past the cage and asking where the toaster oven’s parents were. The bird kept singing and trying to get their attention but they only wanted to talk to the toaster oven. Then the hermit crab wasn’t there and we all just sort of understood he had died of a heroin overdose over winter break. Then my alarm went off. Why? What do you think that means?

13. What are you craving right now? Ham. Do you have any?

14. Do you like your hair? So that’s a no on the ham?

15. Is there anything sparkly in the room you’re in? Oh man, you have no idea. It’s like a swarm of pixie strippers lost a fight with a turbine around here.

16. How many planets have you visited? Who knows? Hundreds? Maybe over a thousand.

17. Do you use chapstick? No… but R.T. does….

18. Can you use chop sticks? Chop sticks, tines, gulfor forks, zagari eat-prods, Geminese finger hooks, and six kinds of Orrk’kin live food wrassling.

19. Do you own a gun? Several. And no you can’t see it.

20. Do you have any tattoos? Yeah. It was a Clan initiation thing.

21. Do looks matter? Is this question for real? How would I be able to see?

22. Do you like sushi? It sure beats Orrk’kin live food wrassling.

23. What was the most recent thing you bought? It’s… it’s a flower made out of microfilaments and metal. I got it out of a vending machine. Do you think that’s stupid? It’s probably stupid.

24. Have you ever crawled through a window? Why crawl when you can jump through swinging?

25. Are you emotional? Yeah! No. No! Wait… maybe. Now I’m sad.

26. How are you feeling RIGHT now? Confused.

27. What is your best friend(s) doing tomorrow? Probably punch some stuff and be a dick about it. It’s what he does best.

28. Did you meet anybody new today? Yeah, sure, lots of people. That pirate kid and his family, some bluebirds, a goblin, a washing machine… that fucking robot dick that sent us here.

29. Last time you cried? I wasn’t crying! Something got in my eye!

30. Do you hate or dislike more than 3 people? Hate is a strong word. But yes.

31. The last person you held hands with? I don’t know… my mom? When I was, like, five?

32. Ever been in love? Nothing. What? Shut up.

33. Do you like yourself? I dunno. Never thought about it. Now I’m thinking about it. Thanks for that. Dick quiz.

34. Do you like your life right now? I hate your life right now. Stupid quiz with your stupid existential dread.

12.10.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

R.T. Stars In ‘In the Pound’

Monday, October 5th, 2009

The mid-sized Astromobile rested on the astrocrete of the impound.

She was understandably embarrassed. Normally she would revert to human form and walk out the front door or blast a hole in the wall and escape. Unfortunately, the ion-charged electromagnetic “boot” they attached to her chassis prevented her shape-changing as well as any weapons functions she might bring to bear on the situation.

It would all work out, she assured herself. She’d radioed the team awhile ago. They could come and rescue her for once. It was only fair.

In the meantime… she was bored. Most of her higher functions were seized by the boot.

A short range scan around the impound hangar revealed several other mid and light class spacecraft. The only exception was a luxury liner that dominated the starboard side of the enclosed space; probably picked up related to piracy or smuggling.

She opened up her sub-space communications, might as well get to know her neighbors. “So. What are you in for?”

It took several barks, before she got a response from a reasonably competent A.I. (aside from the rote pingbacks most crafts kept as a cursory distress answer/response).

“Nunya’ business,” a dour scow retorted and closed channel.

“Excessive parking violations resulting in seizure until such time as outstanding accounts have been closed,” transmitted a mid-sized personal transport.

“Abandoned,” responded a Corvette. Judging by the hull corrosion it had been awhile.

“Communication is not recommended with vehicles costing less than the G.N.P of a small nation,” insisted an executive model Starlite, snootily.

Good crowd, R.T. thought sarcastically. To be fair, she wasn’t sure what she expected.

“And you?” the Corvette asked.

“Oh. Well. I was doing a standard drop off for my heroes and they sort of, accidentally set off an E.M.P. burst. When I woke up…. Well, here I am.”

“Does not compute.” She had exceeded the mid-sized personal transport’s vocabulary apparently. “Take Kids To Pool Protocol: Remember your towel, Bobby.”

“You were abandoned too, then?” the Corvette again.

“No, it was just—”

“They are never coming back,” it concluded as mopily as its A.I. could.

“They’re coming. I radioed them. They’re on their way now,” she assured the corroded craft.

“My owner is also coming,” the executive Starlite chirped.

The scow reopened his channel, “Maybe when he’s out of da hoosegow on dose drug charges.” It immediately closed channel again.

“You said heroes, right?” the Corvette inquired.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. They’re heroes—I mean, so am I—but they’re—”

“Never coming back,” it repeated.

“They’re coming back,” R.T. was losing her patience.

“I once belonged to a nice family. They ran a small shipping business. They were nice. They always came back,” the Corvette explained. “Then I was hijacked by a handful of heroes. Appropriated, they called it. To assist in some derring-do on the planet Gonad.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t see—”

“That’s how I ended up here,” it continued with an electronic sigh. “They’re never coming back.”

“Initiate Family Pick-Up Protocol Delta: Soccer, Band, Karate. Repeat: Soccer, Band, Karate,” the personal transport continued babbling, trying to relate.

“R.T.! R.T.! Where are you!?” Lord Chuckles blasted onto her radio.

Oh thank the Gods. She wished for a tongue to stick out at the Corvette. “Hey, Chuckles. I’m in Hangar E, Row 14A. Minimum security so you should—”

“What are you on about? We’re in trouble. We need extraction!” Chuckles barked. Laser noises pew pew pewed in the background. “Now would be good!”

R.T. sighed out a breath of exhaust.

“Told you.” The Eeyore of spaceships didn’t help.

05.10.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

Mr. Grebok Goes to Court

Monday, September 28th, 2009

The collar itched. So did the shirt. Also the pants. Come to think on it, his socks were overstarched. Why was he even wearing a cape?

Turning 18 kind of sucked, Grebok decided.

His mentor, Crye Coal was always quick to correct him on what an honor it was to receive the Seven Keys and take on the station of his mother, and blah, blah, blah.

Grebok had been to space. He’d tasted the ionized sting of ozone. He’d seen the Nine Moons of Krelos. He’d gazed into the face of infinity. Nothing the King Excelon the XIV Grand Ballroom had to offer could compare, albeit the chandelier was quite impressive.

He had to stand here stiffly, while dignitaries the world over queued up to curtsy, bow and headbutt as was their custom. Customs he had been forced to memorize: Ventoozlari nobles shake hands, Mar’Porian ship Captains salute, Aelvis Ladies have the middle finger on their left hand kissed, Orrkin War-Chieftains headbutt, you have to do a shot with Duevern foremen. He repeated this litany over and over in his head between begrudging his station in life.

Meanwhile, his sister, Sera, flitted through the crowd with all the grace and poise of their mother. Seamlessly knocking one back with Fredo Deepcrag before laying the gentlest kiss on Lady Lilliandrial’s Ring of Station. They should just give her the Seven Keys along with Fellowplane Keep.

Grebok fell closer to his father’s side of the tree. The not-so-bright, free-wheeling side of the family—the side that wasn’t invited to parties like this. Grebok wished he wasn’t invited to parties like this. Ever since he’d gotten back from his first foray with the Space Navy it was all he could think about.

Space was lawless. Space was free. Space didn’t care who you headbutted or kissed. Space was all like, Do What Thou Wilt Will Be Totally Awesome. Space high-fived Grebok and told him how cool he looked in his favorite jacket. Space didn’t make him wash his hair or pull it back into a pony-tail.

The line began to move, advancing on Grebok’s position. Grebok straightened and rushed to remember his instructions.

Ventoozlari nobles salute, Mar’Porian ship Captain’s do shots, then you kissed somebody, and maybe punched the highest born Aelve?

Lady Lilliandrial approached and extended her hand with a smile.

•••

Grebok didn’t see what all the to-do was about.

When Lady Lilliandrial woke up, she insisted it was the best party she’d been to in all her seasons. Clan Chief G’reaux still hadn’t stopped laughing. Boss Fredo made everybody do shots… several shots… they lost count after 20. In many ways it was among the better-regarded coronations anyone could remember.

What was the problem?

Crye insisted it was only a cursory stay in the brig. Regardless of how well the High Lady took the punch, several minor Aelvis officials threatened to call the whole thing an international incident, apparently. Politics.

Grebok looked out the tiny window in a drunken haze. He would be released in the morning and the Seven Keys would officially transfer to his possession.

The stars twinkled in the sky, inviting him.

Someday.

Someday he would see them all.

28.09.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

Bio: Routine-Class Teuton-Drive Psyche-Infused Astromobile 10001

Monday, September 21st, 2009

Other Aliases: R.T., R.T.P., Rootin’ Tootin’ Psychomobile, Ship, Rhododendron Tonsil Probe

Planet of Origin: Interdimensional Wormhole #606

Known Relatives: Chief Brilliant-With-Tools (Lead Design/Foreman), Bastard Sun (Original Concept/Bankroll)

•••

Her first memory was of pudgy, little fingers putting her insides together.

Her first sense of self-awareness was that her rear supplementary fuse case itched a little.

Her first sense of exo-awareness was recognizing her creator’s face.

Routine-Class Teuton-Drive Psyche-Infused Astromobile—or R.T.P. 10001 for short—was fully and officially on-line for only one hour before she met her maker. Literally. He was a giant flaming ball with a face that wore a look of perpetual constipation.

She was detached from her chassis at the time so she had no chance to curtsy or show her open weapon ports, which only added to the surreality of the exchange.

Her mission was explicitly stated. The meaning of her life was made clear: she was built to be a hero among heroes who were themselves heroes among heroes.

Shadowstories, he called them. These heroes patrolled the borders between stories, keeping them in their proper place. As such it required an alarming dimness (seriously, none of them were what you’d call bright), hence it was something of a high turnover position.

She was constructed to add continuity.

She could go anywhere, keep up with any hero, and was awarded facility in all measures of heroism. She was granted intelligence, adaptability, a full complement of weaponry, and a dash of shape-changing for good measure. Her body was composed of metallic plasmas forged in the heart of suns, her processors ran on BioRam only available in the far-flung future, and her DNA was a cherry-picked soup of genius-level heroes from across the Storyverse.

She was the first recorded were-spaceship, serving as interstellar/internarrative transport and companion to his newest batch of Shadowstories.

Since her invention, R.T.P. 10001—or R.T. for shorter—has proved an epic success in every way but one. While designed to keep up in skill, and strength with any hero born, prophesied, or forged, the intelligence she was allowed left her with lingering questions about the craft.

Questions unbecoming of a hero.

She considered actions before taking them. She scrutinized. She avoided obvious traps adding needless man-hours to otherwise simple smash-and-grab heroing.

Her inaugural batch of Shadowstories are all still alive, so she’s certainly doing the job, but on occasion she has struggled with her unique condition. Was she machine? Was she man—er, woman? Was she hero? Which was the real her and in which world did she belong?

Most AIs totally bored her with their servile prattling and constant excusing themselves when she asked why they let themselves be ordered around. Most lifeforms found her creepy, including sometimes her own peers. And while the team accepted her capability, they often counted her as odd-man out. On a team with Gunther P.Washington. That hurts.

Still, she lived and learned (which is more than we can say for those other a-holes). She hoped someday to find her place in the Storyverse.

As a Shadowstory.

21.09.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

Sparky Saves

Monday, September 14th, 2009

Psalm 21:43

Gunther shrieked like a woman.

The toaster-sized Master Computer deeted and booped her orders; her insectile machine drones carried Gunther up to one of many octagonal chambers lining the walls.

The drones forced him into the locker-sized geometric inlet, cramming him unceremoniously into the hole. He kicked wildly, successfully annoying his trio of captors. The nearest extended a scissor-like mandible and pinched one of Gunther’s nipples extracting a satisfying squeal.

Drone #3450-0 looked aside at his offending partner.

Drone #5892-8 shrugged unapologetically back.

Master Computer beeped in sick amusement as her drones began to seal the tiny chamber. She would drown the flesh creature in bio-stasis fluid and let her next generation feed off his extractable calcium before flushing the leftovers into the fetid flesh-pile beneath her hive.

The drones excreted fist sized beads of sticky blue gel and began at the edges, smearing a thin but impenetrable film across Gunther’s burgeoning prison. Gunther whimpered as his life inevitably began its inevitable replay. As they sealed him inside, he noted that this was actually more comfortable than his last cubicle at SimTek (a subsidiary bought and dissolved by HappyCo.).

As the hole neared a close, Gunther again thought of his mother, and again was sure she’d be cross with him.

Outside the bluish film he heard Master Computer curse in a flurry of white noise and boops.

His relief came, when he saw the elongated silhouette of his furry champion outside of his azure cell. The drones backed away with their pincers raised. The weasel grabbed Drone #5892-8 and cracked it repeatedly against the still-hardening blue shell until it shattered enough for Gunther to see his whiskery friend.

“Sparky!” Gunther exclaimed. “Jumpin’ cats it’s good to see you!”

Sparky frowned. “I really hate you, you know?”

•••

Psalm 10:36

Gunther shrieked like a teenage girl.

He was dressed like one too. He wore an off-the-shoulder, Empire-waist affair with an asymmetrical over-skirt that would wear better at Promenade than its current use: trussed to a wooden stake as townspeople piled wood beneath Gunther’s feet.

The patriarch of Button Town, a stern-faced gentleman with a chin carved from granite held his torch at ready. The reflection of fire shimmered off his hematite eyes. No mercy could be found therein.

Thick gobs of mascara ran down Gunther’s cheeks as the last of the wood was placed.

The Oread citizens of Button Town gathered behind their patriarch.

“Puh-puh-please,” Gunther stammered at the assembly of rock-people in their frontier wear. They were, appropriately, stone-faced.

“Oon chairges uf high-withcity, how d’ye plea?” Patrus Stonewall Grumpus Archibald Temperance Oshkoshstrander III accented his question with a wave of the torch.

It took Gunther several seconds to realize a response was expected of him. “Whuh-what?” he stammered.

“Gilty, ‘en?” Patrus Stonewall Grumpus Archiwhatsit etc., etc. nodded.

“What? No? I just—” Gunther’s pleas were unheard as the crowd clamored and gathered more torches to light from the central flame of their leader. The geek in the dress struggled vainly against his bonds as his life began its biweekly loop within his head.

He thought of his mother and how cross she would be.

Gunther resumed his adolescent peals of horror.

It wasn’t until Patrus Grumpypants—or whatever his name was—collapsed under the weight of a cartoonishly overlarge hammer that Gunther stopped his call.

On the non-business end of the steel maul was Sparky, heaving mighty breaths with a look of cold murder in his eyes; several bald spots were all over his body from the mine cave-in.

“Sparky! Oh thank Christmas it’s you!”

“You don’t have the legs for an Empire-waist,” Sparky opined as he leapt to snip Gunther free of his bonds with his incisors.

•••

Psalm 2:15

Gunther shrieked like a six-month old baby girl.

The lizard-like goblin clawed up his leg.

Two of his lizard buddies were holding down said legs. Two more held him down at the shoulders, their bantam claws drawing pinpricks of blood that spotted his oxford shirt.

Gunther’s life flashed before his eyes. Like the flickering of a fluorescent light, a staccato parade of images portrayed a lifetime of samey cubicles.

He was just getting to the paper-clip sorting position that would land him in the unemployment lines of Squar when the metal cl-clinking of his belt brought his attention rudely back to the present. He watched as the clumsy, claw-like hands fumbled with his belt. The greenish-brown, ridged head of his assailant looked up at him with a hiss. Rows of needle teeth bisected a spherical, awful head.

Gunther thought of his mother as he resigned to his fate; he shut his eyes and wet himself.

She would be so cross.

Suddenly, a different scream cut through the darkness behind his closed eyes; a scream that ended with a wet thunk.

He risked a peek and saw his would-be rapist pinned to the floor by a pool cue through its head. Two furry paws reached under the billiards table where he lay and twisted two lizard heads like twist off caps.

The two shoulder-holders hissed and ran out into the jaundiced light of the bar. The musteline head of his new friend, Sparky, appeared from over the top of the table.

“Sparky! Bless you my dear, good friend!”

“Gunther? Oh, I didn’t see you there.”

14.09.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

Bio: Lord of the Lemmings

Monday, September 7th, 2009

Other Aliases: Lemming Man, Lemming Lord, Lord Lemmingwurth the 3rd of Tinselvania, The Arvicolinurgist, The Rodentomancer, The Weirdo, Lawrence of the Labia

Planet of Origin: Unknown

Known Relatives: Unknown (he may have an Uncle Danny but that cannot be corroborated)

•••

The enigma known as the Lord of the Lemmings was… an enigma.

Nothing was known about him, not who he was or from where he came.  Was he a man or a coalition of rodents that formed a shambling collective pretending to be a man?

All anyone knew about the guy came from his own lips—which presumed he even had lips—and was often implausible, far-reaching and downright contradictory. Realistically, the only verifiable factoid was that he sure knew a lot of lemmings, and they seemed content to do his bidding.

He produced an endless supply of the fat-bodied sonsofbitches from his flowing cloak which appeared to be stitched out of the very stuff of blackness. How he did it, where the lemmings came from (or went to), where they got their training, or whether he was wearing anything under that robe was anybody’s guess.

Was he born with the ability to commune with this very specific type of rodent, or was it a power bestowed upon him by the cloak? Was he bit by a radioactive lemming? Or maybe his mom slept with a were-lemming or something. Did they have those? Probably somewhere, right? Did he choose to lord over lemmings, were they all that was left (like the last pick in gym class), or did they choose him? Was there really such as thing as the Great Big Lemming? And was he really becoming a god?

All good questions.

Oh… you wanted answers?

Shit if I know, dude.

Have you tried talking to this guy? He’s really off-putting.

All right, fine, this is a Bio, so I should probably try and give you something for your trouble.

Umm….

All right, okay, don’t rush me. Hold on.

He’s the only member of the Shadowstories who wasn’t invited—well, technically neither was Gunther, but he at least had the free sundae coupon. The Lord of the Lemmings crashed the recruitment process, claiming it was his “destiny” to be a Shadowstory. That it was a step on his path to eventual godhood. I guess being the lord of a much maligned off-shoot of the vole family isn’t his long-term goal.

The Bastard Sun was about to kick him out, when Lord Chuckles stopped him and invited the freak to stay (mostly to piss off the Bastard Sun). Due to his own ruling that the Shadowstories could deputize as needed, the Sun was forced to comply.

Chuckles had thought better of it a few times, but the guy was really handy. He pulled all kinds of shit out of that cloak of his. Well, all kinds of lemming shit, but you’d be surprised how often that’s what you need.

So, he’s hung around this long, occasionally mumbling cryptic shit about his impending godhood, or what the Great Big Lemming has to say about this or that. Real loony garbage that they try not to pay attention to.

Well, there it is. That’s what we know about the guy. He’s a fucking puzzle who’s proven he’s got what it takes to be a hero, when he’s not acting all bird-eating, pants-shitting crazytown.

What?

Oh!

As a Shadowstory.

07.09.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

Bio: Skarpo, the Wily Bear Magician

Monday, September 7th, 2009

Aliases: Skarpy, Skrapo, Scrappy, Skarpulon of Skarponia, The Juggler, That Bear What Pulls Stuff From His Bunghole

Planet of Origin: Calliope, the Circus World

Known Relatives: Kolichinka (Mama); Gregori a.k.a. Koko (Papa); Maximoff a.k.a. Herr Ünterbritchen (Grandpapa on Papa’s side); Svirina (Grandmama on Papa’s side); Sergei a.k.a. Jojo das Wunderbär (Granpapa on Mama’s side); Ilse (Grandmama on Mama’s side); Annavar a.k.a. Üttermintz (Eldest Brother); Elga (Eldest Sister); Peytr a.k.a Bungo (2nd Brother); Inja (2nd Sister); Gitta (Younger Sister); Jergen a.k.a. Gammy (Uncle on Father’s side); Adolfh a.k.a. Shameface (Uncle on Mother’s side); Ülrika (Aunt on Mother’s side); Svengina (Aunt on Mother’s side); Mustacheβen a.k.a. Magnificus (Great Uncle); Rütt a.k.a. Das Poof (Great Uncle); Itzhik a.k.a. Jibimini the Toehanded (1st Cousin); Uther a.k.a. Luftwiesel (1st Cousin); Ingrit (2nd Cousin); Gritchin (2nd Cousin); Thiago a.k.a. Fünterbar (3rd Cousin); Kristiff (2nd Cousin Once Removed); etc., etc., anon (shut up, there’s, like, tons of these fucking bears in those foothills)

•••

Skarpo was born an Ethnic Clown in the foothills of the Silliass Mountains on the Circus World of Calliope. Subjected to a very orthodox upbringing, it sent shockwaves through the family when Skarpo chose not to wear the pancake makeup and red nose of his clan. He didn’t want to caper and dance while they hosed blood from the rings.

No, his great love was magic. A love engendered by watching the travelling magicians that played in the town square.

His Papa and he had a tremendous argument which resulted in Skarpo leaving on one squeaking wheel. Whether he was kicked out or ran away was lost in the heat of the argument; it only mattered that he had broken his Papa’s heart.

Skarpo traveled and took odd jobs while looking for a master to apprentice with. Few were interested; they took one look at his unicycle, his tutu, his juggling prowess and wrote him off. Clowns were all well and good for buying time for the real performers to set up, but most were content to ignore them in their trailer ghettoes.

Shamed by his family and rejected by his desired profession, Skarpo questioned his place in an uncaring universe.

Until he met the legendary—if declining—magician: Zazzibrazz the Friggin’ Amazing.

Zazzibrazz was not prone to the prejudice of his peers and took a chance on Skarpo. The elder magician was impressed with how quickly the bear picked up the “Skill.” Skarpo quickly mastered the Hand-Over Technique, Edelbraun’s Trick Finger, Chase the Queen, VonHund’s Syzygy, Uberlapin’s Mirrored Doorframe, and hundreds more. Within a few short months, Zazzibrazz all-but ran out of things to teach.  Clearly, the bear was gifted with the real stuff. True magic. He took Skarpo to his homestead in Wunderheim, the Mountains of Magic.

It was here that Skarpo mastered the one technique even Zazzibrazz could never reconcile: the Endless Bowels of Truvendel (or the Bottomless Bottom Technique). It had fallen so far into legend that no living magician considered it to even be possible. The technique allowed Skarpo to produce any object known to man or beast, from out of his bowels. Nothing was beyond the elasticity of Skarpo’s magic anus: literally nothing existed he couldn’t pull out of his ass. This was best exemplified by the time he pulled—fully intact—the Castle Bronzenstein from forth his nethers.

What stood as Skarpo’s greatest triumph quickly became his undoing.

Soon Skarpo was the name on the top of the bill and Zazzibrazz found resentment to be his only bedfellow. Jealousy bore its way into his master’s heart and those of the other magicians.

Skarpo woke up one day to find a small mob outside his door.

He was accused of stealing cattle, revealing trade secrets, making choice things disappear and reappear within the Magic Mayor’s daughter, and a host of other slanderous slurs. The magicians threatened to bring their arcane lore to bear against him (no pun intended… until now).

He was surrounded and once again heartbroken in rejection.

Knowing that no place was left for him in this world, Skarpo reached his paw up his ursine loaf-cutter and conjured the One Way Door of Btlomy. He only hoped to be taken somewhere he could finally belong as he shut the magical portal behind him.

He woke up in a dimension between dimensions taken up largely by a living, grinning sun.

As fate would have it, the Bastard Sun had just decided to look for an assistant. Like, seriously, just a second ago. A magical, ostracized bear that can pull whatever he wants out of his butthole wasn’t necessarily on the list of hiring musts, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

Now Skarpo serves as Bear Friday to the Sun, including liaising between him and his Shadowstories. While Skarpo has plenty to complain about, he and the sun have struck up an enduring friendship.

Finally he has a friend and confidant.

Finally he has somewhere he belongs.

07.09.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

Open Memo to All HappyCo. Employees

Monday, August 31st, 2009

RE: Company Policies Moving Forward

From: HappyCo. High Command

To: [AllHappyCo.]

•••

Good evening Mr. and Mrs. HappyCo. and all the ships in space!

1) We here at the Happiest Levels of HappyCo. have noticed some disappointing trends lately.

Trends such as excessive congregation in the breakrooms, unchecked giddiness, lateness of timesheets based on dubious solar calendars, and ironic comic strip clippings sullying cube-space in a morale-destroying display of barbarism.

We would like to point all employees to the HappyCo. Employee Handbook of Dreams and Eternal Sunshine. These infractions are clearly outlined on pages 14-15; 27, 34, 36; 86-87; and 113-127, respectively. Please find yourself in compliance with these policies as soon as possible or face the never-ending abyss of an unpaid leave of absence.

2) Moving away from that nasty bit of business, we’d like to trend to sunnier topics, such as recognizing the efforts of our exemplars.

Exemplars include such individuals as Peter “Happy Cakes” Harrison, who is celebrating his fifth year of excellence in the field of assisting the Assistant to the Assistant Vice President in charge of assisting Vice Presidents.

Other efforts worthy of recognition are ten year veterans: Arnold “Big Smiles” Vespewicz, Bulva “Peals of Laughter” Cyntheria, and X’glerk “Sack of Kittens” Vz3pft. Twenty years veterans: Recyclo-Boy 273 and Oliver “Doughnut Holes” Closov.

Last but not least, celebrating 2,065 years of beatific service to the company: Tyrannosaurus “Fluffy Clouds, Puppy Dogs, and Gumdrops” Pete.

Please come down to your respective cafeterias for one free cupcake as reward for your happy years of happy service.

3) *FROWN ALERT RED*

Our final order of business is a particularly dour item. We need to address the star-mammoth in the room.

The Infi-Net.

We have noticed a marked decrease in productivity and an increase in the above behavior since this new little gewgaw has been introduced by our glad-handing “competition,” GoogolSoft. We understand that their first and hopefully only attempt to step into our long-since cornered arena of information technology has a certain shine to it. The way one might expect a piece of trash might catch the light with a bit of polish. We also acknowledge that some of their videos featuring cats in various states of raucous unemploy are humorous in their own right.

However, we rush to assure you all that this flash in the pan venture will quickly go the way of the indigenous species of Happytron. Also, that usage of the Infi-Net while on company time is in violation of Employee code subsections 4.15a, 5.14b, as well as 600.39a through 989.98z as found in the newly promulgated HappyCo. Employee Handbook of Dreams and Eternal Sunshine which will be delivered to your desk, cubicle, workspace or barracks shortly.

We appreciate in advance your attention on this matter, and assure you violators will be taken to Attitude Readjustment Camp for rehabilitation and/or incineration, appropriately.

Thank you and have a HappyCo. Day!

Happily yours,

Cindy “Footy Pajamas” Mendelsenjensenfrensen

Vice Assistant to the Assistant President of Employee Affairs

Happy Resources, a subdivision of HappyBiz, a division of HappyCo., a branch of HappyCo.

Visit our website: Happydreamscancometrue dot com on the Infi-Net!

31.08.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

Welcome to the Infi-Net

Sunday, August 23rd, 2009

Thank you for choosing the Infi-Net.

Now you’re ready to take a  metaphorical step into the future (as brought to you by the geniuses at GoogolSoft).

The Infi-Net isn’t like your daddy’s internets. The Infi-Net has ten times the pornography and humorous cat videos of that old thing. Masturbation and chuckling at casual animal abuse not your thing? No problem, Gus, we’ve got something for everyone.

Why not start a YourSpace or Friendmonger account? Reconnect with the people you lost contact with through willful negligence; or become friends with their friends until you’re blindly accepting thousands of requests per day. Compete with relative strangers to build an empire of mild acquaintance and rub it in to anyone who will listen. Just look at this testimonial from Mindy Parker, from Accountech.

“I’m making so many friends now. I mean, we’ve never met, and I think at least one of them is a middle-aged man pretending to be a teenage girl, but it sure beats putting forth the effort of talking to strangers for reals.”

Atta’ girl, Mindy.

If pretending to be friends with people you barely know sounds okay, but you’d rather do so on the backdrop of a sprawling fantasy world, why not try Age of World of Groghammer Online? Just ask Roger here, 80th Level Worgish Cleric of Kaitain, the Dark God of Darkness.

“I used to have to go outside to go outside! Now I experience it on a monitor, as Kaitain intended.”

Roger knows what’s up. You too can pick from any of 26 fantasy races that are better than your own. Escape the chill grip of reality and create an idealized version of yourself who never gets picked on or told how fat and useless he is. Right, Roger?

“Just don’t bring any n00b bullshit to my house. I will totally pwn you with my Spear of Icing +10 versus n00bs. You want to know how to check your inventory? Suck spear, that’s how! Jerk!”

We’ll let you get back to it, son.

That all sounds fine for the youngsters and emotionally retarded. But what about you? The up and coming professional? Would you believe the Infi-Net can help streamline your business life as well? No? Why don’t we ask Pimpy over there how the Infi-Net helps him at work?

“The Infi-Net makes everything easier. I used to have to ask Zeb’n, my cube-mate, if he could hand me an extra toner. Now, I just iMail him and wait for him to read it. It sure beats this misshapen, old analog tongue of mine. That thing is starting to atrophy in my mouth as I type this.”

Pimpy knows the future is forward. And even he is behind the curve.

Lots of people don’t go to work, or school, or the gym, or anywhere anymore. Why bother when it can come to you? Let’s check in with Archlady Barium of Rotoscar XVII. She stopped going outdoors about six months back.  How’s it going Archlady?

“Time was, I’d have to physically go to Hap*Mart to get everything I need. Now I just get on iBay and order everything with my pointer finger. Groceries, office supplies, scented dildos, cream for my bedsores, anything! Clickety-click. And with 50% less corporate meddling, guaranteed. Suck it, HappyCo.!”

Barium’s not the only one who’s discovered the joy of sitting at home, treating her rampant sores with salve ordered from the Infi-Net. Look who else is making the Infi-Net do all the work: General Eulford Z. Shazzlefut.

“I think back to last week, when I had to go to Tijuanapolis to watch a horse fucking a pig fucking a lady. It was like the Dark Ages. But not anymore, I just go on Pornfinder and wallow in a renaissance of smut. Matter of fact, I entered a contest, and next week, I get to be the lady!”

Whoa General, TMI. amirite?

Oh that? That’s the new language, which will replace your local lexicon any week now. It involves a lot of needless abbreviations, deliberate misspellings, and ironic grammar. It’s just the thing to feel better than your elders, or those outside your self-imposed circle. Sign up for GoogolText and before long you’ll be forgetting the most basic vocabulary of your native language.

Sitting in your own filth, not having to bother with the rest of your race sounds attractive enough, but what about entertainment, you ask? Brother, does the Infi-Net have you covered there. Let’s spot over to the popular blog warrens of LiveDiary, or WeBlog and talk to Joe Q. Everyblogger. Like LazorWulf here.

“It was taking forever for the next Space Knights movie to come out. So I just wrote my own. And it’s way better than anything those guys would’ve done anyways. Mine is full of stuff they don’t have the balls to do. Like, Rock Straylaser totally doubleteams Traya Moonlighter with Spram—the Yuffinese spice pirate—before they totally make out with each other.”

Excellent, LazorWulf. Way to take the narrative power for yourself—

“And they totally cut Re-Tar-Dar’s balls off, and stuff them in Dark Father’s mouth apparatus. Like, in the first five minutes even. And there’s a new character, LazorWulf, and he all gets sloppy seconds on Traya while Rock and Spram man do-it.”

Heh heh, okay LazorWulf, I think we get the point.

“If I ever get around to writing the ending, it’ll be boss. Well, here, I’ll just tell you: Spram and Rock are totally going to need LazorWulf to pull them out of the trouble they get into at a Burmese cathouse. He pulls them up into the Bicentennial Talon—their ship, which he totally won in a game of Nutsak—with his giant rod, while Traya and her mom all lick on his balls.”

Yeah, okay, cool, just—

“It’s a modern Rapunzel.”

You get the point. The world is your cyber-oyster, here on the Infi-Net!

Please iMail us at GoogolSoft if we can do anything to facilitate your spending endless hours right where you are.

Thank you, and have an Infi-Net day.

23.08.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

Bio: Gunther P. Washington

Sunday, August 16th, 2009

ShadowstoriesOther Aliases: Gunther, the Tow-Head, the Geek, the Mistake

Planet of Origin: Roofius Maximus

Known Relative: Gertrude Meredith Washington nee Andrews (mother), Gustavus Reginald Washington IV (father, deceased)

•••

Gunther P. Washington was always such a nice boy. He loved his mother and did what he was told.

He grew, as all kids do, with big dreams. But on his 12th birthday, shortly after his father died, he marched off into the fluorescent, cubicle jungle, where those dreams were slowly strangled.

Rather than admit to soul-crushing defeat as so many of his peers had, Gunther bought into this new system with an exuberance that was almost supernatural. It was as if he were born to perform menial tasks and data entry. He lived to file multiple forms to request office supplies or attach cover sheets designed to track and monitor work flow. Don’t even get him started on spreadsheets.

This sunshine-y attitude and can-do spirit had an unfortunate side effect. Gunther’s chirruping good will and blithe denial made him completely unbearable to those who had the dignity to have their souls crushed in peace. To spend any amount of time with him was to want to murder him in the head with a three-hole punch.

Some unseen quality about Gunther just begged to have his eyes stapled shut, or his body pushed down stairs, or his face burned with scalding coffee. Dark whispers promised passers-by it would make them feel better if they would only but ball up their fist and strike his doughy, pale head. It was like a martial art, only in reverse.

This made Gunther very difficult to employ for long periods of time. No matter how pristine his attendance or efficient his output, one just couldn’t have him sharing a cubicle with anyone but the spare printer. Even then, you felt like the printer was only one more showtune away from going sickhouse on the guy.

Thus was the revolving door of Gunther’s existence. The more life pushed him down, however, the more he seemed to push right back up. So it was with a smile in his heart that he stood in the unemployment lines of Squar.

He was behind a particularly ominous-looking mountain of a gentleman holding a morning star and wearing bespiked armor when Gunther’s luck seemed to change for the better. A single slip of paper descended from the ceiling and landed in front of him as the line moved forward. Curiosity rewarded the cat, he reminded himself as he picked it up.

“Redeemable for One Free Sundae, courtesy of the Cosmic Paisley Wormhole McHappy’s,” it told him.

Happy day!

It was a reward from the universe for being such a good boy.

He had exactly one more day on his bus card. His mother might be cross with him, but how could he deny the serendipity of his good fortune?

As the coupon’s intended target, Gunthar P. Warmachine, moved up to the tiny reinforced window, Gunther was already gone, paper in hand.

Little did he know, destiny had other plans for him.

As a Shadowstory.

16.08.2009 Bonus Content No Comments

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