Wapsi Square Forum

Opus the Poet wrote:So what am I supposed to do with 20 liters of Methyl Mercaptan?

Do as one of the aero-rocketry experimenters did, some decades ago... try using it as rocket fuel. Red fuming nitric acid would probably make a suitable oxidizer.

(Reportedly, the test-firing range down south of hear stunk for years)

Pablo's main worry is that he's going to go over his data limits downloading stuff via his smartphone - which he can use as a router.

DinkyInky wrote:*Glides in from the shadows and sets a low black table, inlaid with mother of pearl cranes on the floor, and scatters various styles of handmade cushions around it.

Places a crock of steamed rice, various meats, veggies and sheets of roasted seasoned seaweed that are on a tray, and a small crock of oikimchi on the table, along with ceramic rice bowls and chopsticks(along with conventional utensils for those unfamiliar with usage).

Steaming barley tea in a ceramic teapot, along with teapots of ting tung oolong and Darjeeling and small teacups are set in the center on a small black turntable.

Finally, embroidered napkins in simple black and gold rings are artfully piled at either end.

Vanishes once again into the comfort of the shadows.*

"Whoa! Did'ja see that?!? I coulda sworn I caught a glimpse of a shadow, but it just could be cosmic rays. And the table's back with food, again! I think I'm done with protons, quarks, gluons, press-ons, mercaptans, and other forms of cosmic debris for a while. Let's eat!" sez Jon.

Glytch took one look at the table piled with mysterious foods and began to crave a nice, big, high-quality steak.
He almost resisted and was about to get up and see if anything on the table smelled appetizing when his stomach growled.
To Glytch, the message was clear. One big ribeye, cooked medium. One large restaraunt-style baked potato with butter, shredded cheddar, and finely diced bacon. And one liter of ice-cold vanilla coke.
Sufficiently persuaded, he went to the control panel, opened a search query, and began typing at a manic pace.
A few passerby glanced at him and muttered "what's that youngster up to now?"
When he finished, Glytch submitted the query and was presented with an extremely long list of results. "Hmm. Better be a bit more specific." He cracked his knuckles and resumed typing, narrowing the result list by entering universal constants and laws of physics he would find by searching on his phone. Finally, after enduring several more quite obnoxious complaints from his hungry gut, Glytch poked the screen triumphantly and rushed to the portal just in time to catch a discarded carry-out meal from the end of a shift at a high-end steakhouse that matched his desires perfectly. Smiling, he opened the box slowly and breathed in the aroma of perfectly cooked beef.
Then a large bottle of vanilla coke bonked into the side of his head.
Rubbing the point of impact, Glytch bent and picked up the bottle. The UPC had been scraped off during shipping, so the store it had come from must have simply discarded it.
Their loss. Glytch shrugged, brought his meal back to his tent, sat in front of the screen door, and dug in.

DinkyInky wrote:*Glides in from the shadows and sets a low black table, inlaid with mother of pearl cranes on the floor, and scatters various styles of handmade cushions around it.

Places a crock of steamed rice, various meats, veggies and sheets of roasted seasoned seaweed that are on a tray, and a small crock of oikimchi on the table, along with ceramic rice bowls and chopsticks(along with conventional utensils for those unfamiliar with usage).

Steaming barley tea in a ceramic teapot, along with teapots of ting tung oolong and Darjeeling and small teacups are set in the center on a small black turntable.

Finally, embroidered napkins in simple black and gold rings are artfully piled at either end.

Vanishes once again into the comfort of the shadows.*

There is a metallic scraping beyond the door leading to the Necessary Offices and the Bathhouse of the August Moon. A large metal disk starts to push the door open. As it rolls forward it wedges for a moment, then with a crunch the door frame is displaced, followed by the clatter and crash of falling plaster and masonry as the entire disk enters and rolls to a halt by the low black table. Those on the table side see only the worked surface of a gong. The few on the other side watch a white-faced, black haired woman in a kimono the colour of ashes in the new moon, step out from walking the gong along by its broad turned edge. She has suspension ropes from the rim gathered in one hand, a large gong hammer slung across one way across her back, a device of chains, handles and hooks crossing the other shoulder.
    Laying the padded hammer within the gong, she slings the ropes up and over the hall’s low roof beams, tightens one around securing cleats mounted on the wall, leaving the other loosely set. Rebuffing with the upraised palm of a black-gloved hand offers of assistance from the curious onlookers, she sets to raising the gong. Unhooking the ratchet winch from around her body she secures it on another cleat and hitches the lthe looser rope to it then cranks the handle enough to raise the gong a few inches from the ground before hard-locking the ratchet. As she moves about her work the hall’s underlying smell of dry dusty un-use with its recent additions of barracks musks and multicultural cooking is mingled by her scent of kyara and citrus flowers.
    Collecting the hammer she moves around the hanging gong to its front, where it faces the new table, gently pushing a small crowd of Orientalists aside from their examination of the complex symbols painted around the gong’s face with her polite bows, an unnerving smile of her red lips revealing pointed, black, teeth, and firm pressure from the hammer’s shaft. Sufficient space cleared, she addresses the gong, preparing for the first strike by loosening the kimono and throwing it back from her muscular shoulders. It seems she is not wearing gloves after all. Beyond the extent of the white paint on her face and neck the skin of her shoulders and upper torso is sable-black as the palms of her hands.
    She raises the hammer two handed. Slowly she strikes four blows, each a different style, each a different sound, and in the reverberations of each bows in the cardinal directions of the elements: earth, water, fire and wind. The fifth blow does not contact the gong, but its sound is plain to those with the second hearing, as she bows, without motion, to the Void.
    Once the unheard sound dies completely she kneels at the table and, with respectful ceremony, pours and drinks five sips of oolong tea. With each sip she transforms: kimono colouring, skin paling, breasts shrinking, face shifting until Louis arises and bows directly to DinkyInk’s shadows.
    “Exquisite tea. The perfect restorative. My compliments.”

Turning to Greg, “My, my. What a powerful transformation that was, Sergeant. Respect.” Louis winks, and whispers, “I gather your subconscious really needed me to be a Louise for some reason, though I really cannot imagine why. I kept ending up as demonic women with each counter I tried! However when it comes down to it in the end, a good cup of tea cures all ills…

Louis looks at his pale hand, turning it palm up and back several times. “I wonder if black might suit me?”

Curiouser and curiouser. Ok, I admit defeat. Whatever is happening here has got to have something go to do with magic.
Glytch stared at the scene unfolding before him, completely dumbstruck, with his jaw hanging loose, halfway through the act of chewing a chunk of ribeye.
It took him a good three minutes to recover and remember he had food in his mouth. He hurriedly swallowed and returned to eating. I'm just gonna keep eating and let my poor brain process that on the subconscious level for a while.

A strange buzzing noise builds as the floor suddenly begins to buckle in a meandering curve away from one of the walls. The buckling stops and a mound of concrete and soil begins to grow from the floor. Out of the mound pops a long-eared grey and white rabbit with large teeth. The rabbit brushes a few stray pieces of dirt from a shoulder, pulls a carrot from the burrow, and begins to chew noisily as he scans a roadmap that cascades to the floor from his other hand. "Hmm," he muses, "I knew I should'a taken a lef' toin at Albakoykee!" Looking up and around the room, he notices the variety of people staring at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed. "Eh, what's up, docs?" he questions. Before waiting for a reply, he finishes the carrot, tosses the green tassel over his shoulder, leaps gracefully into the air and dives back into the hole. The buzzing noise begins again as the floor starts buckling on a line leading away from the direction it first appeared. A muffled "thud" is heard as the buckling stops at a column, followed by some floating stars that mysteriously rise from the broken earth. After a moment, the buckling resumes a little off to one side, not quite as straight as it first started, and then disappears under the wall. The buzzing noise fades, and listening closely one can almost hear a faint, merry tune playing in the background.

Happy Birthday, Bugs Bunny!

If I start to see a dweebish Englishman, a guy with two heads, and a depressed android - I'm going to have to go order a Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster.

Oh, and a funny story: I actually took a wrong turn in Albuquerque.

GlytchMeister wrote: One big ribeye, cooked medium. One large restaraunt-style baked potato with butter, shredded cheddar, and finely diced bacon. And one liter of ice-cold vanilla coke.

You forgot a dollop of sour cream, sauteed mushrooms, buttered broccoli and dinner roll. This was just delivered to my door, along with 32oz of unsweet tea.

jwhouk wrote:If I start to see a dweebish Englishman, a guy with two heads, and a depressed android - I'm going to have to go order a Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster.

Oh, and a funny story: I actually took a wrong turn in Albuquerque.

*From the shadows, a smoking goblet of dark glass is handed to you. *

{{Recipe and warnings below:

Krolewska Vodka run through a brita pitcher a few times(filters alcohol further, and...science!), then a dash of Angostura bitters
Splash of clam juice
Bombay Sapphire gin and Creme de Violette
Dry ice
Sparkling Tonic water with a shot of Patron silver tequila, and the dregs of a Goldschlager bottle
Rumple Minze with a dash of either Black Absinthe or Ouzo
Green Kalamata Olives, pitted.

If you don't know how to make a foggy drink(one that bubbles and smokes), do NOT use the hidden ingredient. I learned that trick from a professional, and done wrong is a health risk...hence my listing what I used, and not how to assemble this. Sorry, not sorry.}}

louisxiv wrote:

DilyV wrote:What will really blow your mind is that the Apollo spacecraft (Command Module and Lunar Excursion Module combined) went clear to the moon, landed on it and returned with a computer that only averaged like 64 kilobytes of data between them. In 1969-70 a comparable computer to do the same things as your cell phone can do would fill a building.

Programmable calculators at best, both of them: if it doesn’t read/write punch cards or paper tape it isn’t really a computer…

And a stack of code as tall (if not taller) than the gal who wrote it out by hand.

louisxiv wrote:

DinkyInky wrote:*Glides in from the shadows and sets a low black table, inlaid with mother of pearl cranes on the floor, and scatters various styles of handmade cushions around it.

Places a crock of steamed rice, various meats, veggies and sheets of roasted seasoned seaweed that are on a tray, and a small crock of oikimchi on the table, along with ceramic rice bowls and chopsticks(along with conventional utensils for those unfamiliar with usage).

Steaming barley tea in a ceramic teapot, along with teapots of ting tung oolong and Darjeeling and small teacups are set in the center on a small black turntable.

Finally, embroidered napkins in simple black and gold rings are artfully piled at either end.

Vanishes once again into the comfort of the shadows.*

There is a metallic scraping beyond the door leading to the Necessary Offices and the Bathhouse of the August Moon. A large metal disk starts to push the door open. As it rolls forward it wedges for a moment, then with a crunch the door frame is displaced, followed by the clatter and crash of falling plaster and masonry as the entire disk enters and rolls to a halt by the low black table. Those on the table side see only the worked surface of a gong. The few on the other side watch a white-faced, black haired woman in a kimono the colour of ashes in the new moon, step out from walking the gong along by its broad turned edge. She has suspension ropes from the rim gathered in one hand, a large gong hammer slung across one way across her back, a device of chains, handles and hooks crossing the other shoulder.
    Laying the padded hammer within the gong, she slings the ropes up and over the hall’s low roof beams, tightens one around securing cleats mounted on the wall, leaving the other loosely set. Rebuffing with the upraised palm of a black-gloved hand offers of assistance from the curious onlookers, she sets to raising the gong. Unhooking the ratchet winch from around her body she secures it on another cleat and hitches the lthe looser rope to it then cranks the handle enough to raise the gong a few inches from the ground before hard-locking the ratchet. As she moves about her work the hall’s underlying smell of dry dusty un-use with its recent additions of barracks musks and multicultural cooking is mingled by her scent of kyara and citrus flowers.
    Collecting the hammer she moves around the hanging gong to its front, where it faces the new table, gently pushing a small crowd of Orientalists aside from their examination of the complex symbols painted around the gong’s face with her polite bows, an unnerving smile of her red lips revealing pointed, black, teeth, and firm pressure from the hammer’s shaft. Sufficient space cleared, she addresses the gong, preparing for the first strike by loosening the kimono and throwing it back from her muscular shoulders. It seems she is not wearing gloves after all. Beyond the extent of the white paint on her face and neck the skin of her shoulders and upper torso is sable-black as the palms of her hands.
    She raises the hammer two handed. Slowly she strikes four blows, each a different style, each a different sound, and in the reverberations of each bows in the cardinal directions of the elements: earth, water, fire and wind. The fifth blow does not contact the gong, but its sound is plain to those with the second hearing, as she bows, without motion, to the Void.
    Once the unheard sound dies completely she kneels at the table and, with respectful ceremony, pours and drinks five sips of oolong tea. With each sip she transforms: kimono colouring, skin paling, breasts shrinking, face shifting until Louis arises and bows directly to DinkyInk’s shadows.
    “Exquisite tea. The perfect restorative. My compliments.”

Turning to Greg, “My, my. What a powerful transformation that was, Sergeant. Respect.” Louis winks, and whispers, “I gather your subconscious really needed me to be a Louise for some reason, though I really cannot imagine why. I kept ending up as demonic women with each counter I tried! However when it comes down to it in the end, a good cup of tea cures all ills…

Louis looks at his pale hand, turning it palm up and back several times. “I wonder if black might suit me?”

Completly stunned by what he had just witnessed, Greg sat slack-jawed for quite some time before finally observing,
"If you can figure out how to do that to someone else in a reliable fashion, you could make a killing in California..."

TL;DR post - can haz wapai back nao plz, yes?

jwhouk wrote:Pablo's main worry is that he's going to go over his data limits downloading stuff via his smartphone - which he can use as a router.

I hope that that is not his concern, as it is doubtful to happen unless he has a craptastic data plan. The last regular strip "She Rocks" clocks in at a whopping 172KB. So a full month of uploading strips to the site would take a total of around 3MB of data. That's miniscule, considering most data plans are expressed in terms of gigabytes these days.

Dave wrote:You've earned your place in heaven, DinkyInky! (Not that you hadn't already, of course... this just ups your credit a bit and will buy you an extra flagon of halo polish or something like that).

Of course she has! DinkyInky is the best! *nods and looks for a nice cup of tea to fill the void left by the now empty pitcher of precious*

nom*nom*nom... Smoky Shadow Food. Mmmmmm

GlytchMeister wrote:Curiouser and curiouser. Ok, I admit defeat. Whatever is happening here has got to have something go to do with magic.
Glytch stared at the scene unfolding before him, completely dumbstruck, with his jaw hanging loose, halfway through the act of chewing a chunk of ribeye.
It took him a good three minutes to recover and remember he had food in his mouth. He hurriedly swallowed and returned to eating. I'm just gonna keep eating and let my poor brain process that on the subconscious level for a while.

The instance of Louis reclining by Glytch looks up at him, an amused smile on the bright red lips.
    “Do you think that what we see, what we do, has anything to do with the laws of physics, in this place? Do you think that is air you are breathing? Hm.” He draws a set of pince-nez mirrorshades from an inner pocket, fixes them on his nose and looking round finally notices the gong and the other Louis.
    “Oh. How tiresome. We may blinovitch at any moment, so I suppose one of us will have to do the decent thing.”
    Louis picks up the cane he’d put down while illuminating his stories with gestures that had both amused and scandalised Glytch. With a start Glytch realises that the hand had been resting on his knee for some minutes since, and where Louis’s attention had been this last while…

Sauntering across the hall to the tea table, shades-Louis taps tea-sipping Louis on the shoulder with his cane. Louis-the-tea rolls up to his feet from his cross-legged seat, bringing his own cane into the En Garde in one smooth sweep as he does so, his other hand low and behind. Louis Glytch’s-friend steps back, drops his cane into a Rest and eyes his doppleganger’s stance critically.
     “You have been studying your Bonnetti again, mon Vieux?  Well, remember what happened to Bonnetti — killed by an English drunk.”
     “Ah. XV, I presume?”
     XV acknowledges with a inclination of his head and salute of his cane.
    “Scissors, paper, stone?” He asks hopefully.
    “No, I think not. As XIV, I chose to exercise my priority. Mon Jeune.”
    “Ah well, it was worth try.
    “Glytch!” He calls across the room, “I am desolated that we could not continue our fascinating little chat. It was going so well, I thought. Farewell! It has been a pleasure! But it could have been so much more…”

XV blows a kiss to the boy, causing Glytch’s knuckles to whiten on his pipe, then turns away to sketch two concentric circles in the air with his cane, pantomimes climbing astride the inner one and pedals away down one of the many cracks in what passes for local reality.

Huh???

(Both Glytch-the-character's and Glytch-the-author's reaction)

Dear GOD we need new comics.

jwhouk wrote:Dear GOD we need new comics.

Hey, I'm doin' the best I can with my fanfic!
But I agree. The withdrawal symptoms are getting worse.