Herr D's CFLs

[Herr D]

I’m . . . frustrated. Whenever I sit still for five whole minutes reading, I pass out. My schedule is still horrible, and it’s taken its toll on me. I might get to a third attempt to get through the Flash update thing in another ten days or so, but the first two attempts didn’t work out. The inherited computer seems to be working, and I’ve rescued some 30% of my files and family photos despite other ‘difficulties.’

Glad to see you guys are continuing.

Herr D

[Herr D]

I’m back? Flash trashed and Hairy gone, but Shelob helped me after considerable ‘consideration.’
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Dr. Eclipse, when asked how she travels, how she emits such powerful light or causes absences of it, or why she disappears every day at one minute and twenty-nine and a half seconds to 4pm GMT to reappear the instant BEFORE within 7 km due east–she always says the same thing. “Calibration.” When asked about where she comes from, why she left there, how she came to fight crime, why her head appears to be a translucent gem, or ANY question about her purple-titanium sword, she always says: “Choice limited.” When asked why she is so mysterious and terse, she always says, “Four syllables.” When asked how her team calls her, she says, “Telepathy.”

The others say they think she’s lying about that.

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[Herr D]

Eowyn Dametas of Argus 5 was born to the [gasp-gasp-wheeze] clan. That basically translates into “Your last breath.” His species was unknown, just another enslaved race far from its original home, when it renamed itself as it suddenly slaughtered Argus 5’s natives, three of the owned species, and all twenty-five mercenary forces serving the planet’s needs.
Birthed, therefore, by genocide, their leaders set out searching for their homeworld, certain of a soon and triumphant return. That was over five thousand years ago. No one has heard from them.
His species [smack-SMACK, simultaneous with ululant whistle] (translates to “We win!”) is excellent at speaking any language, as they have unusually flexible innards and tentacles, suitable for making almost any sound. They are excellent porters, supply clerks, organizers, and gofers, as they have surprising strength, speed, and agility, and don’t have to use their eyes to find anything they store in their packs. Their tentacles are much like those of Terran octopi, though tougher and more capable. He doesn’t need backpack straps, as one tentacle is always IN the pack.
Dametas joined up as a weapons expert to get back to his roots. At least, his murderous ones. He earns a piecework rate for each weapon stored, maintained, and delivered or loaned out when needed. He is salaried for unusual or fragile weapons or ammo and paid bonuses for difficult or particularly spectacular or demoralizing kills. The day-to-day killing he does for free. He is paid in room and board, weapons and weapon parts, current astronomical data, and credits toward his eventual emigration.
Shown here leaving the site of a burning troop transport during an unrecorded battle, Dametas explained that he lived through the ambush because he was the only species aboard who does not completely go unconscious during sleep. He killed the enemy and stole their data, keeping a copy of this picture for sentimental reasons. It comes up on his screensaver once in a while.

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[Herr D]

Sorry I’ve been so scarce. IRL wants to eliminate any fun time I can have.
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Titus was transported here by way of Pandora. Some people have come to the opinion he came from a gas giant storm. Constantly raging, he has the general shape of a stocky, plated quadruped. He has the porous innards of an aquatic sponge, and is apparently titanium-based instead of carbon-based. The bad guys aren’t saying how they get him from point to point, and all anyone really knows is that they move him around from where they want him wreaking havoc to inside volcanoes, monsoons, hurricanes, tornadoes, polar blizzards, etc. He DOES seem happiest inside an F3 tornado. It relaxes him to not have to fight so hard as an F4 or deal with excessive temperature differences, and the other storms just don’t seem to buffet him enough. Aging out of this aggressive stage is supposedly going to happen in only sixty more years.

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[Herr D]

Only the size of a Pomeranian, but capable of killing villages full of people each. No one knows how they learned to forge metal . . .

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[Herr D]

She just showed up and saved a derailing el-train in St. Louis, picked up some falling people in New York, and lit up the right road for a lost caravan in New Mexico. It took six minutes. When approached and questioned, the interview went as follows:

The Tracker[TT]: I don’t know. I can’t see it.
Reporter George Miller[R]: Sorry? What’s your name?
TT: From the Up-Back.
R: The outback? You’re not from New Mexico?
TT: The Tracker.
R: Where is that? And where do you pull those — things. . . from?
TT: Small town; sorry, I’m all jumbled up again–gotta go!

Later it was surmised she doesn’t seem to be able to answer questions in order. Her geometrically insane pathways are sure to point out people being rescued and insurance premiums going up. Her interviews are never more than about forty seconds. Her whereabouts are unknown. Her fans are confused.

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[Herr D]

I’ve missed this so much–and I have no time for it. !@#$%^&

[Herr D]

Dr. Henry Victor Clerval VIII was nagged so badly by his wife, that he complained to his fellow cryobiologists. “She wants me to clear my ancestor’s friend’s name! She expects me to prove that ‘VF’ wasn’t a mad scientist OR a deadbeat dad, that nothing that looked so hideous could have started life being good. Even if I had his formula AND could stitch together a body AND could get it NOT to die of infection and rejection—what would it prove?”
Dr. Stoker waved him down. “If my experiments in anti-rejection work, it might help. I have the head of a man whose immune system supposedly could purify blood diseases from infected blood—ANY type!”
Dr. Lupins coughed, “I’ve an unclaimed arm with an unusually high healing factor. Perfect for fighting infections—I’d be happy to see what you could do with it.”
Dr. Whemple stood up, “You’ve no IDEA how lucky this IS! Right across the street from us, here, at the Usher House Cryolabs facility, my museum collections are coming off exhibit. Dr. Moreau here, was just saying we’ve no one to take charge of the exhibits no one WANTS anymore! We have seventeen partial mummies and their canopic jars, to choose from! Perfectly preserved BEFORE cryobiology was even invented! And with your familial connection (as your wife WAS distantly related to ‘VF,’) you COULD, if you wished, take charge of the entire Frankenstein laboratory, as it was shipped here intact. It’s on the third floor of the Usher House Of History! We could have everything here by nightfall! What do you say, Dr. Moreau?”
Dr. Moreau beamed, “No man is an island, Dr. Clerval! It’s good that you brought this problem to your friends! I am an administrator over the museum floors, as well as having privileges here. Five learned heads are better than one, if I might slightly improve upon an old saying!”
Five learned men with no common sense ARE WORSE THAN JUST ONE.

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[ams]

WHOA!  Cool concept.  Would you mind if I share with group on Facebook?

[Herr D]

ams! Sorry for long absence. Was even more busy–and Hairy gifted me his blog to maintain. With my computer destroyed, I usually only get to read from work, where I’m not allowed to reply, and Shelob won’t help me with anything but the blog . . . eeekhh.

Anyway, helping my littlest squidling with an old-fashioned library during a summer camp for STEM, biology, I had a moment to look back for old times.

Finding this complimentary request, I can only say, “Please do, and just tell them credit for the idea is all I want.” Hairy Deewon is now Googleable to find the blog, and fanfiction.net has the work I’ve had time for, “Vengeance For Sale Or Trade” being the latest.

And thank you!

[Author]

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