NationStates Jolt Archive

Official Communication from Drunken Warrior Poets Transient HQ:

The sudden victory in The Keys over the village of Butterfly Shell Green, now renamed Keatstown, was a smashing success!

Our defeated foes, the Shell Collectors, were driven from our newly-retaken land. The captured survivors claimed to not even know that the territory was disputed.

The previous mayor, Irving Conchbottom gave these last words: "Please, I don't understand... we've never even heard of you... what did you call yourselves?... Drunken Warrior Whats?... Warrior Poets? Why is the territory disputed? There's room enough on this island for everyone... (voice disintigrates into gurgling noises)"

Yes, we have begun vanquishing our foes! I laugh at Conchbottom's snivelling attempt to convince us that the Evil Shell Collectors have no knowledge of our people's struggles. Now, we begin to take our homeland back! And yes, I shall have the last laugh as I drink a sweet honey-mead from Conchbottom's skull at our victory feast tonight!

Any nations that support the cause of warrior poetry, please show your solidarity by either slaughtering any Shell Collectors within your borders, or by composing poetry about fishing. Donations of booze are accepted.

First Wordsmith,
Bloodletter Exemplar,
Imbiber of Three Oaken Casks
Gen. Josephim Querion McBullboch

Official Response from the Commonwealth of Baitintackle to the Recent Unpleasantness in the Disputed Territories:

The good people of the Commonwealth of Baitintackle, as the Founders of the Keys, witnessed years ago the Shell Collectors' quiet but hostile takeover of the Disputed Territories. Being a neutral and gun-free nation, we did not feel the need to get involved, but would rather let individual nations deal with their own border disputes.

Now that the Drunken Warrior Poets have arisen and reclaimed, albeit violently, for which we censure them, the Disputed Territories, Baitintackle welcomes them back to the region, recognizing their right of return. We encourage a cessation of violence at the soonest possible moment as it has grave effects on the fishing.

Warrior Poets: You are here now. You have won. Turn in your arms now and live in peace.

Yours,

Captain Reginald Worthingsworth Longbottom, IV, Esq.
Supervisor of the Commonwealth of Baitintackle
Founder of the Keys

Gen. J. Q. McBullboch lifted his head off a bundle of what appeared to be a coil of rope. His army of Drunken Warrior Poets had been celebrating the battle of Butterfly Shell Green/Keatstown for the past four days and nights.

Keatstown was painted many joyous colors, and full of alien activities: over the past few nights it had turned into an outdoor exhibition space for poetry, marred occaisionally by duels over the effectiveness of certain rhyming schemes, thematic imagery, the intrinsic value of "slam" poetry, distilling techniques of malt, and the issues of putting ice in a whisky versus cool water.

Gen. McBullboch had been awaked by his aide de camp. He had a dispatch from the Commonwealth of Baitintackle. The General read it through a hung-over fog. "Compose a dispatch to Baitintackle.

"Captain Longbottom,

We thank you for you concern, and are glad to return to the Keys. In your honor, we will be commisioning a 1000 stanza poem about the graciousness of your Commonwealth to be written by 7 of our most revered Wordsmiths. The Captain of Head-Cleavers will personally be responsible for providing the blood of our foes to be used as ink.

We would also like to commision a cask of fine single malt to be distilled in your name. It will be delivered to your boat/residence in approximately 15 years.

While we appreciate and share your concern for the fishing in these great waters, we MUST push on with our conflict. While Keatstown is again ours, the Evil Shell Collectors still hold the so-called towns of Still Water Inlet, Quiet Heron Creek, and their decadent capitol, Barnacle Bay. We will take these towns, and punish their "peace-loving-hobbyist" residents.

Rest assured, we love fishing as much as you. We will take care to disturb no fish or fishermen, nor tourist boats or booze-cruises. In fact, we will commision a cycle of sonnets to the Tarpon, to be chanted en masse by the prisoners that we take from Barnacle Bay on their march to our enforced poetry camps.

Thank you, and Godbless."

On a cool, sunny, breezy tropical morning, Keatstown was a-bustle. The army of Drunken Warrior Poets was preparing to mobilize. The next town up the coast, Still Water Inlet, must be liberated.

Left behind in Keatstown as a garrison was:

25 Berserker-Bloodletters
200 Head-Cleavers
200 Verse-Scribers
400 Wordsmiths

The army marching out with Gen. J. Q. McBullboch was:

200 Berserker-Bloodletters
800 Head-Cleavers
1000 Verse-Scribers
1500 Wordsmiths.

In both cases, Berserker-Bloodletters are armed with two-handed swords, ex-Soviet assualt rifles, three bottles of Holy Fury Whisky, and plate mail.

Head-Cleavers are armed with Giant Battle Axes, ex-Soviet assualt rifles, and 2 bottles of Cabernet.

Verse-Scribers carry reams of paper and ink.

Wordsmiths walk, observe, and think.

Before leaving Keatstown, Gen. McBullboch declared it to be the ad hoc capitol of the Territories of DWP until the liberation of Barnacle Bay. A small diplomatic sector was established, and channels were opened to nations around the world. Wilhelm von Straten was declared Ambassador to the World. The United Nations received an application for membership and gave approval.

The army, with its long supply convoy of various alcohols, rolled out of Keatstown, kicking up dust and grit. It was a half-days drive to Still Water Inlet. By nightfall, they would be destroyed.

Colderon never laughed, atleast not out loud. but as he read the news on what was goin on. He couldn't help himself. As he continued to read. The Idea of invading them crossed his mind. But those had to be controled. For it he did invade and win. How would he get to read about such funny things....

The army rolled to a halt before the blown bridge. The inlet wasn't deep, nor was the current strong. Gen. McBullboch rubbed his fingers, sticky with spilt honey-mead, over the smooth skull-top of the ex-mayor Conchbottom. It was a motion done without thought, but he had been doing it increasingly over the days move. The skull-top was already beginning to show a slight patina of buffed shine.

The General called for his aide de camp to bring him another honey-mead. It was poured for him into Conchbottom's skull, and he sipped it thoughtfully. If he had encountered this blown bridge a few days ago, he would have taken a near-holy retribution on the town of Still Water Inlet for their insolence. This afternoon, though, two things weighed on his mind: Firstly, he had already shown his prowess in both battle and poetic justice in Butterfly Shell Green. Perhaps the time was for diplomacy. Also, he was hitting a "low" in his manic depressive cycle. The thought of fighting again was tiring.

He stood and looked across the inlet through his field glasses. A small line of trenches had been dug in preparation of his arrival, and it was quickly being lined with all of the Shell Collectors Home Guard and Militia that could be mustered on this short of a notice. Behind the trenches, older men, women, and children were being herded to field by a young looking officer. These civilians held whatever weaponry they could scrounge: frying pans, fishing poles, fileting knives, and the like.

The General called his aide over. "Send this message:

"People of Still Water,

The Drunken Warrior Poets will be taking this village, which is rightfully ours. You have fifteen minutes to disarm."

He signalled for his men to uncork their bottles. They toasted once to their homeland, once to their fallen comrades, and once to their enemies. Then each man drank their botte in a single draught. Some of the younger warriors fell down or vomitted, the older men slapped them on the back and laughed. After fifteen minutes had passed, they began to wade the inlet singing this old fisherman's chanty:

Ohhhhhhh, We
Drink and Fight and Screw and Dance
and Drink and Dance and Drink and Drink
and Dance and Drink and Drink and Drink

Hoy! Pull! In That Fish!

Grab that net and Drink some more
and Drink and Grab and Pull and Drink
and Drink and Drink and Drink and Drink

Hoy! Land! In That Fish!

(repeat)

(sounds of pitched, drunken battle)

The Drunken Warrior Poets filled the trench, covered in their enemies blood. Gen. McBullboch roused himself out a drunken berserk rage. He had no clue how many of his men had survived, or even whether or not they were winning.

He took a gamble.

"Hold! Hold in the trench!" he screamed.

He slumped down on the ground. Some of the blood seemed to be his. He pulled himself to the trench's edge, appearing to the scared civilians on the other side as a bloody demon. He screamed in rage, blood flying from between his chipped teeth.

"You men, You women, You children, hold your weapons! If you swear to the Warrior Poets, your lives will be spared! Join our nation!"