In 1988, the Folio Junior collection for kids published "The Lord of the Rings" divided into six parts. Each of the traditional three volume was itself split into two.
And they are really funny. Christian Broutin had an interesting... perception of Middle-Earth.
I don't have high quality pictures of the first one (The Fellowship of the Ring, part 1) but you can see that it shows Gandalf escaping Isengard thanks to the eagle... With at the bottom what can be as much Gollum as the Watcher in the Water or some goblin. It is... hard to tell. "The Fellowship of the Ring part 2" meanwhile made the interesting choice to focus on the often-forgotten crebain.
Two Towers is divided between, on one side what I think is a depiction of Isengard but with the guy from the poster of Bakshi's Wizards that strolled in (plus random creepy eyes underneath) ; and on the other the cutest Shelob you'll ever see.
Finally you have The Return of the King, and while part 2 is a fairly traditional fall of Barad-dûr scene, the part 1 is the best of them all... The Witch-King riding a giant fearthless chicken.
TIL in 1915, San Diego hired a “rain maker” who used a secret mix of chemicals to “attract rain” for $10,000, payable if he filled their reservoir. It rained for most of January, destroying bridges, dams, and causing 20 deaths.
His name was Charles Hatfield and I’m not saying that you shouldn’t make a deal with him, but I am saying that you should be very clear about the terms and conditions
I think we need to fully appreciate the fact that the reason he “looks like the Devil” is that many depictions of the Devil in American popular media are specifically caricatures of this guy. Like, imagine being a con man and fucking up your hustle so badly that for more than a century afterwards people start drawing the Devil to look like you.
The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin. They both looked down at the crumpled shape of the Overlord, His Unholy Majesty, in his obsidian armor.
His final spasms had been mesmerizingly acrobatic. The fall down the steps leading up to his iron throne had pretzelled his body quite impressively, both arms folded behind his back and one leg bent at a jaunty angle.
The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.
"Shit," said the goblin.
"Shit," said the orc.
"We're likely to get blamed for this," the goblin said. She walked over to the head of the glittering mangled heap and started pulling the helmet off.
"It's not our fault," the orc said. "It's hard to help someone choking when they wear two-hundred pounds of spiked armor at all times."
"Yeah, well," the goblin grunted. The helmet came free, and the bald head of the Overlord bounced on the stone with a hollow, coconut noise. "You know how it is in this bloody country - thieves get their heads cut off so they can't think about thieving, and all that." She fished in the Overlord's mouth with a finger and pulled out the obstructing olive on the end of her claw.
She popped it into her mouth and chewed. "What do you reckon they do for a regicide?" she said.
"We should run," the orc said. She had started bouncing her leg. "I hear that there's some places in the Alliance where they just kill you and let you stay dead. That's got to be nicer than what'll happen if we stay here."
The goblin started to nod - and then her gaze fell on the helmet.
It looked like a pineapple designed by a deranged blacksmith. It was all thorns and spikes and hard edges, as though the maker had been very determined to not let pigeons roost on it. The only bits that weren't solid iron were eyeholes. Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face.
She held up the helmet and squinted from it to the orc. One of the thorns had been bent badly in the fall.
Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face...
"Right," she muttered. "Right. Could work - or."
The orc had a sudden vision of the immediate future. "No," she said.
"I mean you're about his height-"
"No."
"It would just be for a-"
"Absolutely not."
"Just hear me out," the goblin said. "Outside of this room are two-thousand men and orcs and goblins who are absolutely gonzo about this man, and there's a whole country of them outside of the castle, and at any moment someone's going to walk in that door and see one dead tit in black armor and two unbelievably dead idiots next to him.
"Or." She tossed the helmet up like a basketball to the orc, who fumbled and tried to find somewhere to hold it that wasn't a knife's edge. "We chuck him out the window now, walk out the door in the armor, and ditch the armor as soon as nobody sees us."
The orc had started bouncing her leg again. "They'll know something's up the second I walk out of the room."
"No worries," said the goblin. "Leave that to me."
---
It had been a very strange year for the Empire.
Change had rolled across the land as slow and inevitable as a glacier. Roads and bridges carved the gray, blasted wildlands, and a number of social reforms had made the country a place where you could be miserable, yes, but miserable in comfort and safety, and that was an improvement.
Barely anyone got boiled alive in molten metal, and even if the disgusted sun never rose to light the Empire, at least you had a roof over your head to protect yourself from the acid rain.
"Your empire flourishes, Your Unholy Majesty," the magician said over her wine glass. She looked down from the tower's balcony over the gleaming stone battlements. Some work had been done to line the castle and surrounding city with sizzling, crackling alchemical lights at night. The whole thing glowed like something dangerously radioactive.
The suit of armor waved a languid, glittering gauntlet over to the goblin, who bowed.
"His Abominable Gloriousness Thanks You," the goblin recited. "The Prosperity Of His Empire Can Only Be Achieved Through The Prosperity Of His People."
"If I may be so bold, I am quite pleased that you had chosen to take my counsel under consideration," said the magician. "We have accomplished many things together."
Another wave. Another bow. "The Overlord, May His Presence Swallow The Sun And Stars, Thanks You As Well."
"It was quite gratifying to see you change your mind, after so many centuries of denial." The wine was swirled. "Tell me, what was it that finally gave you cause to listen to me?"
There was the slightest hesitation. The goblin's eyes flicked to the armor, then to the magician. She puffed out her chest. "Do you question the wisdom of His Austere Lugubriousness?" she asked.
The magician looked at the goblin. She looked at the armor. She tipped her head back and drank the wine too quickly.
She looked back at the armor. "I know you're the orc, you moron," she said.
The room went deathly still. An alchemical light fizzled.
The orc pulled off the helmet, sending long, untied hair down tangling, and said: "How could you possibly-"
"Because you're both idiots!" the magician said. The goblin jumped. The orc jumped with a noise like a dropped stove. "What kind of a plan was this?! If it wasn't for me, you would have been turned into fertilizer months ago."
She closed her eyes. She took a long, dramatic breath. She set the wine glass down on the balcony rail.
"How did the Overlord die?" she asked when she seemed like she had gotten a hold over herself.
"Choked on an olive," said the goblin.
"Threw his body out the window," said the orc.
"You don't have to mention the window," said the goblin.
"Right," said the orc. "Sorry."
The magician looked out over the city, hand curled thoughtfully under her nose. "Who knows about this?"
"Just us. And, uh. You. Apparently."
"And why did you accept my counsel?"
The orc blinked. "Sorry?"
"Why did you accept my counsel?" the magician repeated.
"Well," the orc said. "Well - you seemed like you had good ideas-"
"Great ideas!" the goblin said with an edge of desperation. "Don't know why the old bastard didn't listen to you!"
"Right - right," said the orc. "And when we figured we were stuck doing this - well, it just made sense, really."
The magician seemed to absorb this. She nodded. "All right," she said, striding between the two and grabbing the crystal decanter.
"Um," said the orc. "Sorry. What happens now?"
"What happens is that you two will continue to serve as Overlord," said the magician. "You will continue to take my counsel. We will continue to reform this bloody country, and gods willing, we will turn it into the crown jewel of the world by next Midwinter."
The orc looked at the goblin. The goblin looked at the orc.
"Really?" the goblin asked.
"Oh yes," said the magician. "I've worked hard to be counsel to the Overlord, and I have no reason to stop now. And besides-"
She looked the orc up and down with a deliberate slowness, poring over every microscopic detail, eyes tracing over every jagged line, and grinned like a panther.
"You look much better in the armor than he ever did," she said. Dark robes swirled like a becleavaged thundercloud, and she strode out through the high iron doors, decanter in hand.
The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.
It is tempting for new recruits to the Time Corps to jump back into their own lives. Everyone has mistakes they wish they could fix. Everyone has awkward moments they would like to undo.
Who would not want to have another go around with all the benefits of growth and the compassion of distance.
Officially, it is against the regs. We all know recruits do it, though. In the grand scheme of things, it is one of the less harmful ways to screw with causality.
Here’s the thing, though: it doesn’t work. Oh sure, you can hop back a few years and give your old traumas and embarrassments a redo. But it won’t erase the first time. That loop in the timeline will always be there, a little pustule of pain growing out of the side of history.
More than that: it won’t give you what you want. You know the distance that makes it possible to do it again and do it better? The compassion you have learned, with hindsight and therapy, to show to the past? It will stop you from fully connecting to the moment.
The nerve isn’t exposed any more, except in your memories. The music made by your neurons and hormones? That band isn’t playing live anymore.
But because we know they’ll try it… Because we don’t want them to harm themselves too badly in the trying…
…we teach all the new recruits this prayer to the Gods of Time:
“For whoever needs to hear it: for better or for worse, the person you are now will never be back there.
“You will never have to be back, first-hand, in that situation. It is done. It is written. It is no longer a live, wild thing. Only its ghost remains (though ghosts, of course, are still dangerous).
“In the same way, you will never be able to face that situation again, with the skills and knowledge you have now. You’ll never be able to do it better. It is not a wild, live thing that can be tamed.
“The people who lived in that place are gone now. They became strangers. You have outlived them. Whatever you may gain by digging them up, you will still come away with dirt under your nails.
“The you that lived in that place is gone too. They do not need you to puppet their skeleton and demonstrate how much better you think you are. Their revenant lives inside you, now. They just need you to hold their hand.
“The good things will always be good.
“The bad things will always be bad.
“All that’s left is to try and remember which is which.
“For worse or for better, you will never again be back there.
“The only place you can do better is here.
“The only version of you that you can help is the one who will live tomorrow.”
Cursed to be stuck inside this ancient amulet for years but you know I was kind of getting used to it. The solitude had eaten away just enough of my sanity that I'm pretty sure it only would've been a few more days before I started hallucinating some really neat shit.
But then. THEN. This fuckass twink descendant of my mortal enemies picks up my amulet. Takes right out of the sacred chamber. I guess it was finally a ruin now? Worse timing possible, too late to stop me going insane and right before the insanity could pay off.
So some clueless idiot is actually wearing me for the first time in centuries. I'm gonna wreck this dude's shit, I don't care if he is weirdly nice and kind of pretty in the face department. The second I accumulate enough power I'm breaking out of here and making him regret being born.
Okay so I did accumulate enough energy that I might have been able to break out, maybe, but also probably not quite just yet. Which is why I had to use it to stop that dragon from killing Captain Fuckwit.
Like I had to do it. If the dragon kills him how am I supposed to be the one to do it? I didn't rot in that sealed chamber for centuries just so that the last living descendant of my most hated enemies could get offed by something that wasn't me. There's no poetic justice in that and also I am NOT owing any dragons any favors.
I've been thinking about how I'm going to kill this guy. I mean there's not a lot else to do, I'm still stuck in the amulet so mostly I'm limited to being spooky in his dreams until I suck up some more power. But it's going to happen. I'm out of the sealed chamber now there's so many opportunities and also I'm patient. I've learned to be extremely patient. Would be weird if I hadn't.
Anyway I'm not going to kill him right away. Where's the satisfaction in that? He's the last descendant of my enemies (pretty sure) so of course I gotta drag it out. This is the only revenge I might ever get. I'll have to capture him. Keep him sealed away for a long time, see how he likes it. But like. In a nicer placed than that fucking chamber because unlike some long dead assholes, I have standards. Plus I'm also going to spending a lot of my time there too, menacing him and shit, so it better be nice for me.
I'm thinking summer house on an otherwise uninhabited island. I keep him there where there are no dragons or ogres or demon kings to interrupt, and I tell him all about the shitty things his ancestors did, to like. Demoralize him. So that he knows that even though I'm a scary evil creature that's going to be his ending, he doesn't get as much moral high ground as he'd probably like. I make him eat meals with me just to draw out the tension, and then I give him nightmares, making him twist and writhe in his sweat-soaked sheets while his heart hammers against his ribs and he wonders if this will finally be the night I finish him.
Listen. Giving him command of the remnants of my dark army is just practical right now. I don't have the energy to communicate extensively with them myself, and they'll keep him alive long enough for me to take my elaborate revenge without me constantly having to intervene and sacrifice my own energy to do it. And anyway I have ceremonies to plan, it's going to be amazing, I'm going to round up every last remnant from the old days so that they can witness my final triumph when I claim his life and soul forever.
Also, he used them to humiliate that other fuckass descendant guy. Even I can begrudgingly admit it was pretty well done. Corrupting influence gain! I'm kind of surprised his allies haven't all abandoned him for using dark and sinister forces to save their lives, though, but I guess it's fine if they don't. Sure why not. We can be cool with raising cursed armies in this day and age apparently. Yeah that thing I was sealed away for for centuries is just not a big deal now. Cool cool cool.
You know what, I'm going to make his friends come to the ceremony too. So they can also witness my triumph and his utter defeat and subjugation at my hands.
Maybe I'll even let them visit him in his woeful imprisonment afterwards as well. Just to really hammer the point home. They're not the worst company, at least. Not as annoying as heroes used to be. We can have them over for dinner while I lord my victory above their helplessness. Real power move to just let them come and see the guy that they are nevertheless unable to free from my dark clutches.
I guess I better make sure they also don't all die either, if that's the case. It's a good thing I'm patient. So many fucking setbacks!
Those guys were supposed to be dead for centuries! And they're still ruining my life! Fucking. That fuckass other descendant managed to summon them and of course THEY are still not cool with me or my dark forces, although I'm going to be real, they weren't looking too noble and above-aboard themselves when they turned up. That was some hypocritical undead revenant bullshit.
Of course I ended up fighting them. They attacked first! Again! They were even trying to kill their own descendant! And those heinous bitches called me the monster. I've never tried to kill my own descendants. Probably because I don't have any but still. At least try and take over his body first or something!
Well actually they did try it, I think? But that hero of theirs had worn my amulet for so long that he was too corrupted for it to work. Ha!
Small victories.
I'm going to need to hang onto those.
Because now I'm sealed back in the fucking Chamber Eternal again.
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKING---!!!!
Okay.
Alright.
I'm not going to lie this isn't looking good. I'm not in the amulet anymore but the seals on the chamber are strong, made with the souls of those fuckdamn ancient heroes. All my power is left with their descendant on the outside now. My plans are thwarted. I'm going to languish in this minimalist hell of a chamber until those ancient souls run out of juice, and currently they're forming a dome of spiritual energy so flush with power that the ghosts on the moon can probably see it.
It... it's going to be... I mean. It'll be fine. Back to getting to the good part of going insane, right?
I think I may never be sad ever again.
There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university.
It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby.
This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing.
"This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?"
"No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.
"Would you like to?"
"Sure!"
So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away.
I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges.
I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice.
I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late.
I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life:
"Are you Orpheus?"
I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home.
This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.
In the late 1970s a glowing orb appeared in the sky. Every day at about 5:00 Greenwich standard time, the orb would go somewhere new, shoot out something similar to a laser, and kill one person. Every day, always at the same time, always exactly one person.
The person killed by the orb seemed completely random, with almost fifty years of studying it we've been able to find no rhythm or reason to who it kills. It kills the old, the young, the rich, the poor, the urban, the rural, anyone. Every human on earth seems to have an equal chance of being killed by the orb. It's a headline the few times someone of note is killed by the orb: Britain famously lost a Parliament member to the orb, Brazil to this day remains the only country where a head of state was killed by the orb while in office, there was a short lived sitcom in the 1990s called Freinds that ended halfway through its first season due to the orb killing one of the main actors on set. However, these are outliers, on any given day the person who dies via orb is very likely to be someone you never heard of. There are billions of people on earth, and only one is killed by the orb every day. In almost fifty years only a little over 18000 have died because of the orb, which is nothing in the face of the sheer amount of humans that exist.
When the orb first appeared people were horrified. Both the US and USSR thought it was a weapon from the other side. Almost every religion made some claim of it being proof of their beliefs, oftentimes claiming it was divine punishment. Atheists claimed it was proof no loving God could exist. People were so very apocalyptic and horrified by it, they thought of it as part of the end times, because when it was new that's really how it looked.
However, it's been long enough so that's changed. Most people have lived their entire lives in a world where the orb exists. The orb isn't that scary a concept. People know their odds of being killed by it are low and that it's not going to end the world or anything. The orb has become normal, and we've accepted that the orb is just something that kills people the same way cancer, or heart attacks, or natrual disasters, or car crashes kill people. In the nineteen eighties there were efforts to find a way to stop the orb, but it's since proven to be extremely difficult, and it's as distant and nebulous as finding a cure for cancer. When a community is struck by the orb you'll see that community in mourning, but it's not a global thing anymore.
So people grow up learning about the orb, as part of science, like anything else. A lot of gen z remembers learning about the orb from Magic School Bus. It's just something normal. There are a few people with an orb hyperfixation, and a few cults that give the orb importance but it's not most people's concern. The orb is how we first confirmed that interdimensional objects existed and are possible. A lot of people theorize dimensional studies wouldn't exist without it, meaning without the orb we might not have thermitizers or grand drives, we might not even have a moon base without the orb. Some have even rather tastelessly claimed that the orb has saved more lives at this point that its taken with all the knowledge it's given us.
Which is why I regret to inform you, that just last week, without warning, the orb killed two people in one day. And for the past seven days it's been killing two people instead of just one. Nobody knows why.
i can't stop thinking about this. this kind of shit is not like milsim plane nerds with their own super-expensive desktop cockpit recreations. that kind of hardware makes sense to exist.
this does not. they're playing world of tanks which is like the "call of duty" of tank games (casual, players only slightly bad-smelling). it also doesn't have support for tank peripherals. no game does. no trainers do afaik. which means that (assuming this isn't just a video editing) all of that shit they are fucking with translates into mouse/keyboard inputs that the game understands. that's weird/hard and perplexing, uh, and considering that "tank peripherals" aren't a thing that exist i can only guess they built them theirselves
which is fucking hilarious because why are they so good. why does the fucking cannon breech have a little dry ice smoke effect when the breech opens like they just shot a shell. what. manual turret traverse crank?? did they build a fucking ready rack!! they're even using the correct phraseology which means one of these mofos read a PDF file
I referred to something as a "real Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra moment" in conversation with someone who has never seen TNG, and let me tell you, that was a real Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra moment
I asked a taxi driver in Bucharest to take the quickest route to the airport. 10 minutes later we're doing 120kph the wrong way done the street car tracks when another taxi tried to pass us and dude just floors it. Never spoke a word, smoked 9 cigarettes over the 30 minute ride, never took off his sunglasses and blasting opera all the way. I look at it as paying 15€ plús tip to lose all fear of death.
second hand story but one I know is true, but my dad worked as a taxi driver in Monteray in the 90s. Now, it’s important to note that there’s a racing event in town, so lots of people are coming through. My dad just so happens to get a group of people in town for the race in his car.
Because taxi’s are not like uber and you are basically expected to make conversation, my dad asks if these guys are in town for the races. They say yeah, so my dad asks “are you participating or are you watching?”
“Participating”
“Well then, I don’t like you”
They ask why, and my dad explains that they’re doing what he’s always wanted to do. Well, this small guy right behind my dad makes the mistake of saying “Well, show us what you got.”
My 25 year old father, takes this as a challenge. Now, his driving is still scary to this day, so imagine how it was when he was 25. He fucking floors it down the highway, and there is an exit they need to take to get to the bar the guys are going. This exit has hedges on the drivers side, so my dad slows down to 60, takes this turn on 2 wheels. All the guy behind him see’s is these bushes coming at him, so he does the rational thing and he screams like a little girl.
When they arrive at the bar, everyone piles out, and then one guy stops, turns around and motions for my dad to roll down the window. He tosses a $5 at my dad and says “I’ve never heard anybody make Christian scream like that.”
My dad had Christian Fittipaldi and his pit crew in his car, and made him scream like a little bitch. It’s my all time favorite story.
