Camel Eaters
25-11-2005, 02:25
The words were as stinging nettles to the flesh. The whole of the world had just become something less than what it should've been. The remarks that had instigated this were of abysmal depth and give to malice. The forethought that came before this was surprisingly cheery. Councils where well known for their sadistic nature. They had long been remembered throughout the Imperium as the one thing that kept a man from his dreams in a proper manner. A manner that reflected a love of the law and order and a general abhorrence of violence and adventuring tendencies. The same proper manner that kept men from becoming heroes within their own life time and did not in fact.......settle the west.
Our specimen is young, roughish, rogueish, and of the general understanding to be of Hazara descent. He was covered in vile blue paint and was in fact at this moment naked. I shall leave those of you who enjoy the thought of well toned and muscular young men who are naked to reminesce here and move on. The Council on the other hand was entirely overly clothed and sat in small cramped Victorian chairs. They each carried an old rifle or other symbol of the conqueror: Bible, musket, rifle, Koran, monetary unit of one's choosing. All of these and more were represented. The young Hazara had been identified as an element of complete and utter rebellion. An element that while shamed within the ranks of clan serving boy, that rank which he had so previously held, was well thought of among the more adventurous kin. So in return for thirty some odd cannons and a few of the weaker willed serving boys this Hazara had been transferred to Dunkirk High Society. Yes, wouldn't it be strange a sight to see? An obviously Asian boy with shaved head and grimace that only revealed sharpened teeth and blackened tongue. This same boy sitting at the feet of a council of men several dozen times his age, all of perfectly white complexion and stunted teeth and eyes that were well known to tear a man's soul......
His new name would not be a proper name at all. He wasn't quite sure if he'd been damned or saved or even really taken into consideration. All he really knew was that his new name was English. It did not roll from the tongue with the same wild abandonless tenacity that his old Mongol named once did. It did not in fact have any panache. It only had mystery and mysticism to sustain it's viability as a fear-invoking instrument. Dustman sounded more like a suitable replacement for a janitor than an explorer and Conquistador.
His was a simple enough task. Explore Texas to its length. Gain her trust and befriend her people. Let Dunkirk know what he has learned. In fact, he was to properly conquer a land that not event he whole width and breadth of the army had been able to suppress. A land that had been so long removed from the shining beacon of government and civility that it had rotted away into a massive cancerous cesspool. An easy enough task to conquer and subdue. But to win? To truly win this place Jubai Dustman would have to become a god..........
Hehe. Simple enough.
He'd awoken somewhere that looked suspiciously like a hotel. Only hotels had running water and hygiene. Staggering out of the thing that passed for a bed he found himself on a creaking wooden floor. The parts that didn't creak simply squelched. Oh yeah......that's much better. Trade old and rotting and dry as hell for old and rotting and wetter than a Generian whore on payday. He was careful to move slowly enough down the grandiesque impostors that passed for stairs and railing. Men passed out in a slovenly drunken heap lay on the floor. Women ruled the place he could tell. The founding mothers where popular he saw......
The bar was white and sterile and smelled strongly of bleach and lighter fluid. He ordered a drink..........something with rats tonsils and pure vodka mixed with Pwange pure.
"The name's Dustman. Jubai Dustman." The fat old frumpy bitch behind the bar quickly snapped.
"Hun, does it look like I give a fuck? Nobody cares what your piddly-ass name is in here. Now pay and get the fuck out." Embarrassed Jubai quickly chugged sip of the vile brew, spit it out, threw up, and ran into the streets of El Doortown...........
A most promising start for our young hero isn't it?
He slipped away into the blaring sun-drenched night, he remembered from the HQ that pollution was so bad here that all of the chemicals in the air over this part of Texas captured light from the moon and magnified it.
He ran out of the poorest town that he'd ever seen and came to the edge of an ever poorer desert. An edge which no man would willingly cross unless he had God, rations, and guns on his side. Jubai had God and two six-shooters. It might have to be enough. He took a step forward........
And right onto the crotch of an old Generian cowboy. The man was completely naked with skin so dirt encrusted he blended into the desert. His screams of agony didn't though. Jubai had very affirmitavely put his foot down as well. Incredibly fast, incredibly fast, with incredible results. Jubai's eyes opened ever wider as the man below him finally sprouted limbs as a cactus sprouts flowers, that is too say.........in rather unexpected places.
One of the limbs was reaching for a sawed-off shotgun at least three feet away. Somehow it made it. Jubai wasn't sure what to do so he jumped on the man's crotch. Directly onto the man's crotch. Bringing his one-hundred and thirty pounds down on some muddy cojones. An even louder scream this time. Followed by what seemed to be eight limbs echoing forth from the dirt and into Jubai's stomach. He doubled over and backed away as the cowboy struggled to his feet and tried to double over but failed horribly.
They rushed each other and Jubai was on his back. The cowboy's shotgun swinging into his face. Jubai's leg went up quickly and kicked the cowboy right in the asshole. The cowboy went down and Jubai got up and cocked the pistol in his left hand. The cowboy looked up and coughed out some words in an overly Generian accent.
"You owe me a drink."
Our specimen is young, roughish, rogueish, and of the general understanding to be of Hazara descent. He was covered in vile blue paint and was in fact at this moment naked. I shall leave those of you who enjoy the thought of well toned and muscular young men who are naked to reminesce here and move on. The Council on the other hand was entirely overly clothed and sat in small cramped Victorian chairs. They each carried an old rifle or other symbol of the conqueror: Bible, musket, rifle, Koran, monetary unit of one's choosing. All of these and more were represented. The young Hazara had been identified as an element of complete and utter rebellion. An element that while shamed within the ranks of clan serving boy, that rank which he had so previously held, was well thought of among the more adventurous kin. So in return for thirty some odd cannons and a few of the weaker willed serving boys this Hazara had been transferred to Dunkirk High Society. Yes, wouldn't it be strange a sight to see? An obviously Asian boy with shaved head and grimace that only revealed sharpened teeth and blackened tongue. This same boy sitting at the feet of a council of men several dozen times his age, all of perfectly white complexion and stunted teeth and eyes that were well known to tear a man's soul......
His new name would not be a proper name at all. He wasn't quite sure if he'd been damned or saved or even really taken into consideration. All he really knew was that his new name was English. It did not roll from the tongue with the same wild abandonless tenacity that his old Mongol named once did. It did not in fact have any panache. It only had mystery and mysticism to sustain it's viability as a fear-invoking instrument. Dustman sounded more like a suitable replacement for a janitor than an explorer and Conquistador.
His was a simple enough task. Explore Texas to its length. Gain her trust and befriend her people. Let Dunkirk know what he has learned. In fact, he was to properly conquer a land that not event he whole width and breadth of the army had been able to suppress. A land that had been so long removed from the shining beacon of government and civility that it had rotted away into a massive cancerous cesspool. An easy enough task to conquer and subdue. But to win? To truly win this place Jubai Dustman would have to become a god..........
Hehe. Simple enough.
He'd awoken somewhere that looked suspiciously like a hotel. Only hotels had running water and hygiene. Staggering out of the thing that passed for a bed he found himself on a creaking wooden floor. The parts that didn't creak simply squelched. Oh yeah......that's much better. Trade old and rotting and dry as hell for old and rotting and wetter than a Generian whore on payday. He was careful to move slowly enough down the grandiesque impostors that passed for stairs and railing. Men passed out in a slovenly drunken heap lay on the floor. Women ruled the place he could tell. The founding mothers where popular he saw......
The bar was white and sterile and smelled strongly of bleach and lighter fluid. He ordered a drink..........something with rats tonsils and pure vodka mixed with Pwange pure.
"The name's Dustman. Jubai Dustman." The fat old frumpy bitch behind the bar quickly snapped.
"Hun, does it look like I give a fuck? Nobody cares what your piddly-ass name is in here. Now pay and get the fuck out." Embarrassed Jubai quickly chugged sip of the vile brew, spit it out, threw up, and ran into the streets of El Doortown...........
A most promising start for our young hero isn't it?
He slipped away into the blaring sun-drenched night, he remembered from the HQ that pollution was so bad here that all of the chemicals in the air over this part of Texas captured light from the moon and magnified it.
He ran out of the poorest town that he'd ever seen and came to the edge of an ever poorer desert. An edge which no man would willingly cross unless he had God, rations, and guns on his side. Jubai had God and two six-shooters. It might have to be enough. He took a step forward........
And right onto the crotch of an old Generian cowboy. The man was completely naked with skin so dirt encrusted he blended into the desert. His screams of agony didn't though. Jubai had very affirmitavely put his foot down as well. Incredibly fast, incredibly fast, with incredible results. Jubai's eyes opened ever wider as the man below him finally sprouted limbs as a cactus sprouts flowers, that is too say.........in rather unexpected places.
One of the limbs was reaching for a sawed-off shotgun at least three feet away. Somehow it made it. Jubai wasn't sure what to do so he jumped on the man's crotch. Directly onto the man's crotch. Bringing his one-hundred and thirty pounds down on some muddy cojones. An even louder scream this time. Followed by what seemed to be eight limbs echoing forth from the dirt and into Jubai's stomach. He doubled over and backed away as the cowboy struggled to his feet and tried to double over but failed horribly.
They rushed each other and Jubai was on his back. The cowboy's shotgun swinging into his face. Jubai's leg went up quickly and kicked the cowboy right in the asshole. The cowboy went down and Jubai got up and cocked the pistol in his left hand. The cowboy looked up and coughed out some words in an overly Generian accent.
"You owe me a drink."