Jeff Mach's Blog, page 43

The Little Death Star That Could Explode

Once, there was a small Death Star.

Perhaps it wasn’t small compared to a Tie Fighter, or even a Star Destroyer. But those things don’t (noticeably) have their own gravity. The Death Star was big enough to have a noticeable effect on the tides of any planets nearby, assuming it was near planets which had tides, which it was not. So it felt very, very small, and fairly unimportant compared to even a medium-sized planet.

Sure, it could destroy planets, but being able to blow something apart doesn’t always improve your self-worth. Does it really help you to blast others to pieces, when you, yourself, will never become a fraction of what they are?

(It would help me. But this story isn’t about me.)

Every day, Mr. Darth would assure the Death Star that it was going to become the ultimate power in the Galaxy, and that it had nothing to fear.

But once in a while, when the Death Star had been bad, Mr. Darth would tell it about Jedi, a cult of illogical but tightly-knit fools whose belief system was an inconsistent hodgepodge of misunderstood bits of Eastern philosophy, and who were deeply infected by the serious neurosis caused by lifelong sexual frustration, as well as a permanent need to fight of Freud’s “Return of the Repressed”, as they constantly attempted to evade acting like human beings, without really substituting anything substantive in their place.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Darth said. “There are no such thing as Jedi.

And so the little Death Star grew and grew and got bigger and became fully operational.

Until one day, Mr. Darth came to the Death Star and actually brought a Jedi on board.

It was terrifying, of course. And Mr. Darth’s treachery was so great, in this regard, that the Death Star didn’t know if it would ever trust him again.

So it waited until it had an excuse and one of the horrible Jedi had done something which, while frankly insignificant, was believed to be of great import, for no discernable reason.

Then the Death Star blew itself up, taking Mr. Darth and the terrifying Jedi with it. And thus, though it was destroyed, it had revenge on all of its enemies, and its ghost was forever contented.

The end.

 

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The Little Death Start That Could Explode

Once, there was a small Death Star.

Perhaps it wasn’t small compared to a Tie Fighter, or even a Star Destroyer. But those things don’t (noticeably) have their own gravity. The Death Star was big enough to have a noticeable effect on the tides of any planets nearby, assuming it was near planets which had tides, which it was not. So it felt very, very small, and fairly unimportant compared to even a medium-sized planet.

Sure, it could destroy planets, but being able to blow something apart doesn’t always improve your self-worth. Does it really help you to blast others to pieces, when you, yourself, will never become a fraction of what they are?

(It would help me. But this story isn’t about me.)

Every day, Mr. Darth would assure the Death Star that it was going to become the ultimate power in the Galaxy, and that it had nothing to fear.

But once in a while, when the Death Star had been bad, Mr. Darth would tell it about Jedi, a cult of illogical but tightly-knit fools whose belief system was an inconsistent hodgepodge of misunderstood bits of Eastern philosophy, and who were deeply infected by the serious neurosis caused by lifelong sexual frustration, as well as a permanent need to fight of Freud’s “Return of the Repressed”, as they constantly attempted to evade acting like human beings, without really substituting anything substantive in their place.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Darth said. “There are no such thing as Jedi.

And so the little Death Star grew and grew and got bigger and became fully operational.

Until one day, Mr. Darth came to the Death Star and actually brought a Jedi on board.

It was terrifying, of course. And Mr. Darth’s treachery was so great, in this regard, that the Death Star didn’t know if it would ever trust him again.

So it waited until it had an excuse and one of the horrible Jedi had done something which, while frankly insignificant, was believed to be of great import, for no discernable reason.

Then the Death Star blew itself up, taking Mr. Darth and the terrifying Jedi with it. And thus, though it was destroyed, it had revenge on all of its enemies, and its ghost was forever contented.

The end.

 

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The Witch-Hunter’s Regret

In strange and ugly parts of my mind, not even dark corners but pieces which are, boldly, without excuse, lethal—cracked floorboards ready to crunch and send you tumbling into unlit and inescapable basements; piles of shattered glass swept into a vague pile and simply left there; places frequented by the hungry things that come out when the Sun goes down to see what they can fit in their poisoned jaws—I don’t want forgiveness.

I fantasize what a real Witch-Hunter, one as wise as we were supposed to be, as brave as the stories tell, a warrior both deeply human and deeply beyond the constraints of the flawed human body and mind…I fantasize what she would have done.

She would have seen sooner that she worshipped false Gods; she would have recognized her instruments of Justice as being, instead, primarily tools of undeserved murder. She would have seen through everything on her own.

She would never have needed to be called a Witch before realizing how broken our profession, our self-deception, our long con, really is.

She would have known. She would have understood. She would have seen. She would have repented of her own volition, and not because, one day, the mob turned on her, and she realized, at that moment, that neither she, nor the Mob, had any claim to Righteousness.

She would have done different. She would have done better. She would have done Right.

And she would have done it soon.

She would have done it before mobs swept back and forth over the land.

She would have done it before the Witch-hunter’s rough methods, held in check by some semblance of logic and reason, were utterly destroyed by the belief that swept every head: “Witches can be anywhere, and they would do anything, and we can and must live in fear and anger, so that we can destroy them wherever, whenever we catch even a hint of something that might be a Witch”.

Someone better would have known that.

Someone better would have done that.

Someone else.

But I? I was proud. I was sure I was doing right. I woke up every morning prepared to make the World a better place. I didn’t listen to critics, or to friends. I knew I ws Right, and if we were Wrong, we’d work it out, we’d talk it through.

I was a battering ram, knocking down the gates of logic and reason, so that those who came after me—a purer breed, perhaps—would never know what those things were like. They would regard every edifice of knowledge as a prison, and every discussion as treachery.

They will burn the World.

And I helped.

Gods forgive me, I helped.

Even if witches were real, they could never curse me as I curse myself.

And even if the ghosts of every single on I destroyed could haunt me, nothing haunts me so much as the blank fury in the eyes of those I once called my friends.

A Witch-Hunter dies as easily as any other human; oh, perhaps we can fight a little more and a little harder, but we are very mortal.

It’s not just me against a mob; it’s me against a mob of my own making.

When I said “Gods forgive me,” I didn’t mean it. I don’t deserve forgiveness; I will never forgive myself.

I probably can’t stop what I helped stop. But maybe I can slow it down. And hopefully, though I’ll go down fighting, I’ll die to it.

That much Justice, I can yet enact.

I think.

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post The Witch-Hunter’s Regret appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

The Making Machine

Tonight’s little bit of doggerel is dedicated to the Mad Scientists of the world:



Famous Mad Scientists:

Xirdal Zephyrin, Dr. Moreau, Nikola Tesla, the second clone of Nikola Tesla, the fourth clone of Nikola Tesla, Dr. Julius No from Dr. No, Dr. Yes, Professor Maybe, Dr. Strangelove, Dr. Despayr, Cosmo and Nation McKinley, Dr. Emilio Lizardo, Robert Anton Wilson, Augustus Philo,Dr. Bunsen Honeydew,Jha’Dur,Professor Caractacus Potts, Agatha Heterodyne, Flipping Hades Terwilliger

Some Mad Scientist Traits:

Rule-bending. Rule-breaking. Rule-shattering. Obsession. Focus. Cunning. Genius. sometime impracticality. Curiosity. More curiosity. Possible deathwish.

Have you seen it? The making machine?

Bunches of dials, levers of every size,

vast arrays of switches and knobs,

buttons, wheels, touch-sensitive sensors…

Breathe here, raise a mountain! Trip over that,

and spit lycanthropy into being!

They hardly ever let us drive,

those robots who tend it.

What does this button do?

Hey! Quit pushin’,

y’oversized ambulatory blender,

I ain’t gonna–oops!

Hey!

It was an accident!

Who needed dinosaurs anyway?

(It’s all a front.

Late at night,

while the robots cybersnog

in virtual free-fall,

we framboozle the alarms,

and have at the innards of the Thing.)

We gremlin deep,

drip hen’s teeth into the data ports,

input filk and crack cocaine,

and perform a mushroom deal.

“Light up!”” we tell that undefended brain,

and slight-of-hand it a Zen cigarette.

Does it work?

The robots haven’t noticed a thing, yet.

But they will.

But they will.

 

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post The Making Machine appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

Chosen For Madness

(This is a standalone piece of my book, “I HATE Your Prophecy“.)

The Dark Lord had reason to believe the World had gone mad.

It might be that she was wrong. She was potentially very wrong. She could be the worst possible kind of wrong, and also the most plausible kind of wrong: she’s gone mad, and the World’s just off-kilter to her. This is a simpler solution, but it doesn’t fit Occam’s Razor because it doesn’t match the available facts.

Because it wasn’t just Alice who was in pain. It wasn’t just Alice who seemed out of step with everything else; it’s everything she could see or had heard about. Granted, you can only trust Bards about as far as you can throw them—

And, as a tip: toss a bottle of whiskey out a window, and Bards will throw themselves in an effort to catch it, which means that you can trust a Bard a good hundred feet or so. The Dark Lord has attempted this experiment with successively higher windows and found three important facts:

No, Bards don’t care how high the window is.
No, somehow, this never kills them. And they always land in the moat, and the Moat Monsters won’t even touch them.
Alice needs more Whiskey.

—but they were far too inventive, as liars, to all be telling similar lies on purpose. The thing that most realistically accounted for their reports of nigh-infinite delirium wracking the Realms would be . . . nigh-infinite delirium.

Likewise, scrying glasses and magic mirrors, even in skilled hands, don’t always show you everything. But it would be hard to mistake what was happening for anything other than widespread craziness. Especially since every Sorceress who works with shadow is always on the lookout for one telltale sign: witch-burnings.

And those were happening a-plenty. And that was disturbing as hell to someone who was (a) a Witch, and (b) very, very aware that even if every single spellcaster in the World was caught and put to the torch, there’d still only be a tenth as many Witches as there were burnings.

Alice would have loved to believe she’d gone insane and everyone else was all right. But the evidence pointed in rather the opposite direction. And this was bad, because not even Necromancers necessarily want everyone to suffer; monsters have friends, too, you know. Besides, one can be a perfectly horrid individual (if one chooses) without necessarily wanting to see the World wracked with universal pain and mental anguish. (Although, the inverse is not generally true: one who wishes to see a Pear of Anguish wrap around the World and apply pressure is almost certainly a horrid individual—regardless, in general, of one’s professed motives. The ends can justify the means; but no one has an accurate count of how often they do.)

On a selfish level, though, this looked like a big ball of ruination for even the misanthropic. It was especially bad because Madness is contagious. And even if you want to remain wholly aloof from the World, the World will, given enough time, bring lunacy straight to your door.

In sufficient quantities, Madness is kind. Madness is loving. Madness overflows; its cup runneth over, its pitcher runneth over, its ocean runneth over, crashing in vast Cyclopean waves on the shores of the mind, offering to engulf you and everything around you.

Sometimes, Madness is a divine gift. Sometimes, it’s an odd tuning of the workings of one’s mental passages.

Sometimes, Madness resembles nothing so much as a pathogen, carried through the air by the scent of fear, carried through the primate instinct to learn through imitation, carried sometimes by those who want to spread its gifts—moving from person to person and group to group, airborne, thought-borne, memetic, addictive.

If you don’t fight it, it tends to claim you. If you do fight it, it will most likely claim you anyway.

The Dark Lord had cells full of those whose spirits she’d just broken. Most of them would likely go insane. Perhaps they were already insane; she still pities them to this day . Nevermind that one can’t exactly doubt their intentions, nevermind that they had to travel extraordinary distances, overcome unbelievable obstacles, and kill dozens or even hundreds of thinking beings to get a shot at killing her. It’s still ugly.

But they’d set their minds to a place where the only possible result was her death, and when that didn’t happen . . .

She used to just kill them. In a number of ways, for a number of reasons.

And now, she doesn’t. Not always. Not quite. Because . . .

. . . she might need them. Some of them. One or two of them, at least.

Dark Lords can be fiercely independent, which Alice is. But anyone who knows anything about Madness, divine or otherwise, knows that it’s hard to save yourself from it without help.

Let alone try to stem the damn tide.

One good thing about all this: There comes a point where cognitive dissonance will drown out almost anything else. And that’s what happened to these poor, unfortunate, all-too-often idiotic Supposedly Chosen assassins. They’re in a mental state which is ready for that rare thing in Humans: actual, real change away from the comforting dogma of their long-held beliefs.

Bringing up the logical question: Change to what?

“All bad is good, all good is bad; stop doing what they say and do what I say” is a simple message. It’s just unhelpful in this kind of circumstance. Mindless sycophants, while they make a pleasant chorus, are simply no damn help at all in your quest to keep your own sanity.

So she needs them to show that they have something inside which can survive (or possibly come into being during) the acquisition of a life-changing mental wound.

They can be suicidal. They can be furious. They can be confused. That’s understandable.

But they have to be willing to say, “I have tried to do a thing, and found it false, and now, I need to try something else.”

If she simply asked them for what she wanted (which was a challenge in its own right, since Alice, solitary by nature, didn’t . . . quite . . . know, herself) it seemed likely that they’d either say nothing at all, or lie. To her, or to themselves, or both.

So she set just the single test, one unspoken challenge to determine if they lived or died. The Dark Lord wanted a single thing from her captives:

She needed them to try to escape.

They needed to do something tangible, regardless of method, that showed they were willing to try to figure out a new life. Some kind of new life. Whatever it might be. She needed them to do something unquestionably stupid, unquestionably difficult, and unquestionably necessary, to reveal whether they have the proper temperament to survive. They had to find some way to alter their own damn destinies, and that meant doing something about the very unsubtle thing which (semi-literally) barred their exits from confinement. Yes, it was clearly nearly impossible. Yes, there’s a certain benefit to being alive and fed, even if you’ve been captured by The Wickedest Thing Which Ever Existed. Perhaps there should be multiple keys to their survival, more than just the one that Alice thought was important. Perhaps that would be kind.

On the other hand, perhaps they should be strangled in their sleep by trained killers; that would be far more wise than any other options, and somewhat less unkind than what they’d planned for Alice. (A quick death in your sleep, versus watching some snot-nosed kid and her friends a lot of sentients and damage your house before attempting to remove your head with some kind of cursed weapon? No contest, unless one is an adrenaline junkie who also badly wants an excuse to redecorate and doesn’t mind sharp howling weaponry being slashed in one’s general direction with the intent of converting one from a being who thinks in the third person too often, into a corpse which doesn’t think at all. No, Alice had little mercy for those who railed against their (mistrustworthy) fates in monologues directed at, presumably, the furniture; for those who attempted to command the guards to move this inappropriate barrier aside at once for the True Chosen One; and, least of all, for those who stared fixedly and determinedly at the door, waiting for it to shatter into a million pieces because things weren’t supposed to happen like this.

Alice patiently sent them stories, had them fed, had their prison chambers cleaned once in a while, and gave them what she felt was enough time. Usually, they had until Alice’s patience ran out, which, not coincidentally, often happened right after someone had tried to kill her. Some she gave more time than others.

As for the ones who didn’t make it, what did Alice do with them? It’s best we not delve into it. Perhaps they were sacrificed on dark altars; perhaps they were sold to hungry Trolls.

And perhaps, just perhaps, Alice simply let them go; packed them lunches and warm clothing, pointed towards the nearest village, and said, “Walk.”

Because after someone’s worldview has been splintered into irreplaceable shards, letting them live is not a mercy.

Most of the time, they ended up wandering, perhaps by instinct, into certain parts of the Woods, and going to live with Goblins. Goblins hide; that’s most of what they do. And they seldom tell untruths; because really, when a Goblin speaks, who listens?

And thus are Changelings made.

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

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Denying The Cat: A Tongue Recipe

(From “How To Cook Forty Humans”, our upcoming Villainpunk cookbook.)

Tongue is an ordinary part of many cultural diets. It’s said that the ancient Romans enjoyed lark’s tongues in aspic, although these are also people who spoke Latin for fun, so I’m not sure we have the same standards for what makes a good time.

We’ve all heard the phrase “Has the cat got your tongue?” This is a holdover from ancient times, when cats were not properly placated and frequently went around at night, stealing the tongues of the humans who had foolishly denied them their due. Our recipe is called “Denying The Cat”, because this time, it’s not the cat who gets the delicious, delicious prize…

Now, we would NEVER suggest that you go and steal tongues from humans and cook and eat them. Certainly not. You can get a nice beef tongue at, say, a Kosher butcher. That’s certainly what I do. Yes, indeed. Absolutely. Count on it. I certainly do not keep track of those who attempt to cast malign sorceries in my direction, and remove the organ with which they enact their unwise spellspeaking. Do I look like the sort of individual who disposes of adversaries in a culinary fashion?

….but I digress.

 

thy tongue,

thy tongue which offended,

tear it out,

tear it out,

 

and as once it lashed the air

to do me harm,

 

it now becomes a part of me;

I end your words, Sorcerer,

and I swallow your power,

and I add some apricots,

because apricots are nummy.

 

And so!

 

 

Ingredients

10 ounces can apricots

1/2 cup vinegar

1/2 cup sugar

1/4 tsp basil

1 Tbsp mustard powder

1/2 cup raisins

1 tablespoon of flour

cold water

Instructions

Boil tongue or “brisket”—yeah, totally, “brisket”—bring to boil twice and throw out the water, in addition to any remaining self-respect you may have.

 

(All right. You know my secret. As the saying goes, one of the major philosophical desires of certain creatures is to live as high as possible on the food chain by eating everything below. But we’ll just…pretend. Because the supply of excellent meat is scarce, and we don’t need the competition, so we’ll just pretend we hate all this.)

 

Boil a third time until cooked (about 2 hours), skin and let cool. Cut into thin slices. Place 1 tin apricots syrup and all, in saucepan. Add 1/2 cup vinegar, 1/2 cup sugar, basil, mustard powder, 1/2 cup raisins. Bring to boil. Taste for sweetness preference. Thicken by mixing 1 tablespoon of flour in cold water (see that there are no lumps). Add this slowly to the boiling sauce, stirring all the time, for the required thickness. Pour the sauce over sliced tongue or brisket which has been layered in a flat casserole dish. Bake in oven for about 20 minutes at 350 F Great for a main meal with Vegetables or rice or potatoes, or cold as a sandwich.

And don’t let the cat have ANY.

_________

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post Denying The Cat: A Tongue Recipe appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

Absolutely Not A Recipe For Cooking The Ribs Of Sentient Bipedal Earthlings

This recipe will serve….it will serve, let’s just put it that way.

 

Ribs. A big rack of them. Acquired at, you know, the supermarket. Pork or beef, you know? Definitely that.
Peppercorns.
A Hammer
Brown Sugar
Cardamom
Elephant Garlic Cloves
Angel’s Envy Whiskey
Coarse sea salt.

 

Directions

 

Pour the whiskey into a large glass. Not a shot glass. Think a jelly glass. You might throw some ice in there, but it’ll really just get in the way of the whiskey molecules. Take a good long drink. Consider your life choices for a moment. Then sigh regretfully and address the meat.

 

Place the meat on a large tray. You should probably line the tray with foil, as that will make cleanup easier. Then again, at this point, what’s one more regrettable course of action?

 

Peel the garlic and tear off several cloves. Place them on a stainless steel surface, one capable of withstanding the blows of a hammer, say. Possibly an anvil.

 

Pour the peppercorns over the garlic.

 

Hit them both with a hammer. Hit them and hit them until they’re crushed, like the hopes and dreams you, yourself, might have once held within you. Hit them until the pain goes away. Have another drink. Have two.

 

I’m honestly not sure why other people don’t use this method, but you will now have some very exposed bits of peppery-garlicky mush. You’ll eventually have to do a bit of extra work removing the peppercorns after you cook (we’ll get to that)—but that’s easy compared to, say, hiding a body.

 

No reason I made that comparison, though. It was totally random.

Gather the cloven-peppercorns and put them into a bowl. A pestle would be even better, if you have one. Grind in the sea-salt. Lots of it. Add the sugar and a few drops of whiskey.

Now massage the whole mixture thoroughly into the meat. The salt’s really going to tenderize those ribs, the pepper will add a little fire, and garlic is essential to all meat dishes, of course. The sugar adds that hint of sweetness which is like the flicker of conscience, poignant, but rapidly extinguished.

I use gloves for this process, because otherwise, you get meat all over your fingers, and all the perfumes of Arabia will not cleanse your hands. Just sayin’.

Since you are using pork, and not, say, some kind of biped with a more internalized rib cage and floating ribs and such, you will not need a power saw to crack into the chest region.

Wrap the whole thing in foil and put it in the refrigerator for three days. Lay low. Hope nobody knocks on your door.

If no-one has come around inquiring about any missing bodies (and why would they?)—remove the meat from the fridge, and let it adjust to room temperature for an hour.

Heat the oven to 175 (oh, by the Dark Gods, I hope you have a big enough oven!) – and, using both hands, and possibly the hand of an accomplice, slide the meat in.

Some people would suggest that you stick a meat thermometer in once in a while, but we’re not damned cynics. Just cook it until some of the pinkness of innocence is displaced by the edible darker brown of food which humans, some humans anyway, consider edible.

Hack the ribs off the bone with an axe (because why not, at this point)—and serve to whatever degenerates have gathered around, sniffing after your sins.

Don’t forget to invite me.

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post Absolutely Not A Recipe For Cooking The Ribs Of Sentient Bipedal Earthlings appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

On Fighting Dragons

I have the greatest respect for those who write the tales of Dragons and Knights. What greater heroism could exist than that of a lone warrior, a little monkey, horse and armor all combined weighing less than a single length of the Dragon’s tail, going forth to do battle against something so ridiculously deadly that the Dragonic idea of relaxing is collecting more gold than anyone’s ever seen, and taking long naps on it. And yet..!

…in response to grave danger (the Dragon has demanded a Princess, of which the kingdom has somewhere between zero and ten or twelve)—the Knight rides forth.

Compare them: one, a simian, possessing a long stick which is somewhat sharp at one end, and a second stick, made entirely of barely-Iron-Age metal, against an ancient Lizard, ten or a hundred times the age of the man before it. To whom, exactly, does this seem a good idea?

The Dragon’s own armor is centuries of exoskeleton, growing harder and yet more supple every year. Its teeth are longer than the Knight is tall and sharper than the tongue of a courtier skewering a rival. And its breath! A hundred infernos, pushed out through a body that’s like a bellows, if one imagined a fell blacksmith three hundred feet tall, with a need for flames which could engulf a mountain range and still have both puissance and accuracy to snuff out the town lying in the valley.

How would a knight even approach such a beast? Charging, on horseback? Seems like cruelty to horses, and besides, “domesticated” is one thing, “Willing to run straight into the jaws of a landwalking Megalodon” is another. But fine. Let’s say that happens. Charge in on horseback? Horse and rider get fried.

Charge in on foot? Footsoldier gets fried.

Charge in with a small army? Small army gets fried.

Charge in with a large army? Dragon flies away.

Kill it in its sleep? Dragons can tell when even a single coin drops within their lairs; they can certainly hear YOU coming; they’ve got VERY good hearing; how do you think they’ve lived this long?

Oh, it’s not impossible that one might evade every physical, magical, and logistical challenge.

It just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing which happens often enough that it ought to make its way onto quite so many tapestries.

So if it rarely, if ever, happens, where do all these stories of victorious Knights come from?

Everyone, of course.

Dragons, certainly. They have plenty of gold, as well as the always-helpful threat of disembowelment, not that Bards need any more incentive than the first part.

And from Knights. Once they’ve hung up their swords and are in no danger of being called upon to use them again, they seem to have sudden remembrance of defeating a lot of giant lizards.

And then there are people like me.

Because Dragons throw a great barbecue, and I’ve developed a taste for my neighbors. Trust me. You’re all so much more pleasant when properly prepared.

So! Knights defeat dragons. All the time. Hell, you don’t even have to be a knight. Just get a sword, or something that looks like a sword. I hear they’re totally not invulnerable to bullets. It’s probably super easy.

Go ahead. Give it a shot. Let me know when, so I can, you know, make plans to celebrate your glorious victory. Oh! And I recommend dousing yourself in a protective oil. Olive oil should do, infused with garlic and shallots.

That’s very lucky, I’m told.

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post On Fighting Dragons appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.

Cutpurse’s Purses

Cutpurse’s Purses

(From the “Total Decadence” section of “The Villainpunk Cookbook”, coming out in 2021)

“’Oliver Twist’ is the depressing tale of a young man who cannot cut the mustard as a pickpocket, and must instead resort to that most deplorable of occupations, respectability.”

~Captain Heck, Pirate King

These portly little pastry pouches are filled with edible gold. What more could a thief ask for, aside from, obviously, everything else you own, and a few choice items which you don’t acquire, but which you might consider picking up, just as a sort of generous favor to the kind person who is lending excitement to your life by relieving you of your worldly goods in a dashing manner?

It should be noted that, at a certain time, everyone carried purses. Not only were they considered fashionable, but they included long, useful handles which could, in a pinch, be used as garrotes.

Allegedly.

Enjoy these as a dessert, as a party favor or, if you’re like us, simply eat them all and tell no-one at all what you have done.  After all, there is no honor among thieves…and precious little sharing of dessert, either.

 

Yield: Many servings, but you should just save it for yourself.

Skill Level: 1

 

-Use your favorite method of making sure your food doesn’t stick to the cooking implement. We’re fond of nonstick cooking spray, but this may be because some of us grew up in the 80s and it reminds us of hairspray.

3-6 bananas, peeled and thinly sliced. You can also use plantains. In fact, bananas might actually BE plaintains for all we know.

½ cup maple syrup – unless you’re using REAL maple syrup. You know, not the artificial extract which is slathered on pancakes in containers the size of milk-jugs, but the actual hard-won blood of trees, which is so concentratedly sweet and powerful that only you, yourself, should decide exactly how much to put into this dessert before it potentially melts your tongue off.

1 package premade and/or frozen puff pastry (2 sheets), thawed

Sugar sugar sugar sugar sugar sugar

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon cardamom

Crushed sweet basil (to taste; note that it will add a slightly crunchy texture

3 tablespoons whole milk

 

Directions:

Set vast bonfire and levitate your tray into the center of it. Failing that, position rack in center of oven and preheat to 400°F. Line a heavy large cookie sheet with foil, unless you’re the kind of person who really enjoys peeling bits of pastry out of cookie sheets. Spray foil with nonstick spray, or, again, don’t; I mean, WE’RE not the ones who have to clean up after you..

In a giant bowl combine bananas, sugar, and syrup; again, bear in mind that really good maple syrup will basically beat up other flavors and steal their lunch money, so use it with caution if you want to retain the banana flavor. Mash bananas slightly with a fork or, if you’re so inclined, a large cudgel. The latter is ineffective, but way more fun.

On a clean surface (if you don’t have one in your kitchen, try breaking into someone else’s kitchen and using theirs)—lay flat 1 sheet of puff pastry. Cut pastry in half, lengthwise, unless you want a weird shape. Using a rolling pin, roll out each pastry sheet into a 15 by 5-inch rectangle; do not attempt to roll the pastry into a Summoning Pentagram, because (a) this is very difficult, and (b) Bread Golems are more dangerous than we generally believe.

Cut each rectangle crosswise into thirds, forming 6 squares total. Evenly distribute 1/2 of the banana mixture onto center of each square, unless you like one square better than the others, in which case, give it all the tasty banana mixture while the other squares just sort of look at it enviously.  

You’ll want to seal the purses up, so that they conceal the delights within. Although you could always leave them slightly open, like cannoli, teasing your audience with the deliciousness inside. This latter is especially effective if you plan on eating all of it yourself, in front of other people, especially if they’re hungry. It won’t make you popular at parties, but you’re a villain, so who cares?

Or, for a more conventional approach, fold corners of pastry into center and pinch ends together, twisting to close seal; it is not necessary to inscribe an Elder Sign at this time, though it is good manners. Repeat with remaining sheet of puff pastry and banana mixture; or, hey, don’t; as long as you’ve bought the cookbook, we don’t really care what you do. I mean, we’ve got  your money.

Arrange pastries on a stainless-steel laboratory table, or, if you don’t have one to spare, some other surface. In a small bowl, combine sweets and spices. Brush pastries with milk; if you really have a desire to torment the tongue, use sweetened condensed milk.

Sprinkle cinnamon sugar over pastries and, just for the hell of it, sprinkles, because why not? Bake for 15 minutes or until golden; alternately, back for 1,487 minutes until they explode. Serve warm.

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

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Present Arms

Krampus and Kringle, two peas in a pod

One spares the child, one spoils the rod

One some kind of demon or God,

the other unclassifiable.

The hand of Mercy; the path of pain.

Which reinforcement will the subject retain?

What’s ought a pup learn again and again?

What makes this experiment viable?

One’s magic is strange, without question,

Knowing what you desire ‘fore you ask the question,

The other would be a subject for arrestion

If he weren’t a sort of a cryptid.

You might seem them as Yin” and “Yang”

But they’d see themselves as “Thank!” and “Bang!”

Krampus offers this harangue

(Listen to the imp with the whip, kid) –

“Not all whose actions deserve afrightedness

Do so because of angry shortsightedness

Recent thinking’s full of blightedness:

It’s not Hell alone that’s convincing”.

And up speaks Kringle, no, here, mirthful:

“Madmen? Why, we’ve got an entire Earthful

And it’s why hope is painfully dearthful –

Brainwashing, brainwashing, brainrinsing.”

The Hell law claimed that Hell’s worst places

Were reserved for those who were loudest about its embraces;

You’ll find the strongest brimstone traces

‘Mongst those who most greatly fear burning.

And in secular terms, we laugh at afterlife

Leaving you free, completely, to craft your life

Alone, isolated, in an ocean, one raft’s your life;

Small, soon punctured, and unturning.

So Krampus and Kringle have brought us, this season

Not dualism, nihilism, pessimism, or maddened unreason

But a simple joined hope (that bitterest treason):

Stop fearing, and get on with doing.

Fear not that Krampus’s sack will soon tie you

Fear not Kringle will all of your wishes deny you

Turn to the maddening crowd, and shout, “I defy you!”

Turn aside from all of your pointless ruing.

Both Kringle and Krampus? This much will they tell.

Don’t be a prisoner of Heaven or Hell

or even of Nothing (for that’s a trap as well)

None of these things will lighten your soul.

Kringle might bring toys. But know this in your bone:

You’re better off making some toys of your own.

And if you’ve a warrior’s heart, Krampus leaves you alone

In short: Be hard to control.

Our moral? Here’s a small one, ‘fore I drop the mic –

As the holidays approach like an asteroid strike

Tighten your armor. Firmly plant your pike.

Be what you are. Not what you think they would like.

~Jeff Mach

The preceding essay was brought to you by Dark Lords For Azathoth, and may not necessarily reflect the views of the being who wrote, edited, posted, and marketed this document.

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities and create things. Every year, I put on Evil Expo, the Greatest Place in the World to be a Villain. I also write a lot of fantasy and science fiction. You can get most of my books right here. Go ahead, order “I HATE Your Prophecy“ It may make you into a bad person, but I can live with that.

The post Present Arms appeared first on Worlds of Villainy.