Folks,

I was hoping for a comment from Stickman however it seems he has found something more exciting or perhaps more entertaining than visiting here today. I am at a total loss to figure out what that could possibly be on the big island of Hawaii. Perhaps he is a bit peckish and there is a flower show....? ;\)

Speaking of hunger, while I was groping about on my hands and knees down there in the Stygian darkness of our HWH archives today, fighting off a quartet of bats, it crossed my crowded mind that we really must find some other way to keep those crocks, bats and rats satiated. I don't know about Dux and C51 but I am getting a tad anemic myself. Plus, all those tedious bites do tend to itch like hell.

Dux once had a great idea that at least worked on paper. Unfortunately, turning the toothy critters loose on the base blood bank got us into big, big trouble, so that didn't work. Shutting Olga down there for a full week only wiped out the crocks and about 50 of the bats and rats. We thought she'd have an unfair advantage unless in the dark so we took away her matches. Too bad, she just slept more and her incessant snoring and breaking wind all night long just made all the survivors more surly.

Once was the time that so many strangers visited here that all we had to do was to offer free self-guided tours of the subterranean archives to keep the Transylvanian neck nippers and beaver-sized rats satisfied. Now, for some reason, no one seems interested in going down there even after we so generously included a boxed lunch. Things got so bad at one point that several starving bats gnawed their way out through a ventilation shaft and petitioned the ASPCA on the grounds of cruelty to animals. SNAFU almost did a spot of time for that one. The only thing that saved his ass was the fact that the investigators sent down into the archives to gather evidence were never heard from again.

There were only 12 men in that unfortunate group of investigators so, all too soon, the loud grumbling and gnashing of fangs beneath our feet began again. In total desperation in an attempt to placate the man-sized vampire bats, we had to start showing Bela Lugosi movies every Friday night...and provide the hot, blood-dipped popcorn. Unfortunately, although it satisfied the bats, this angered the beaver-sized rats, who bitterly complained of favoritism. So, to untwist their filthy nickers, we had to alternate the popcorn every other week with smelly garbage from our HWH mess. This calmed relations for a time but the critters are getting restless once more.

I'd take our powerful HWH mascot, the Alsatian bit*h (sorry, but the dumb screening software here apparently cannot discriminate between the name of a female dog and what most folks would call Olga) named Eva, down there with me for protection but ever since that unfortunate incident with the small rat that bit off three full inches of her tail, she has been far too shy to follow me anywhere in the dark. In my opinion, those nasty, voracious creatures are worse than ever. They are always hungry. I'm thinking we should give Olga another chance Dux. This time we'll give her a bear trap, some wooden stakes and a sturdy mallet..... Quite right, armed with all that she could probably single-handedly win the war.

Speaking of always being hungry, I'm sure that, like me, everyone is always hungry for another story from Dux, so here is one.


BRICKDUST AT DAWN
By: Old Dux
HWH (continued)
Pg.43
07-04-2003


"You bloody stupid half-soaked cretin! Enough could never be enough could it? Not satisfied with everything we had going, you had to poison the golden goose...eh?...eh? My own fault though; what else could I expect from a low bred country bumpkin? Cutting corners on technical projects in order to line our own pockets....nothing new in that, but to use Stalin's personal packing case material for the Prangski Klagmaster prototype....what the hell could you have been thinking about man?"

"All right, all right" The firing squad officer, Major Nevamiski intervened. "Stop quarreling like a couple of tarts and and face up to it like men".
He proffered the 'last request'; a silver tray bearing two glasses and a bottle of Romanov Starchgutt.

Colonel Badanov and Captain Ripovski took a full glass apiece and raised them in salute toward the pale dawn sun. "To our dear mothers and Mother Russia" they cried, downing the fiery liquid in one, and wincing as it cauterized their innards.

Badanov again held up the empty glass against the sun to admire the beauty of the glasscutter's workmanship. The brilliance of the spectrum effect as the light shone through the exquisitely cut decorations of cherubs, swags of flowers and garlands, reminded him of life itself.... a life which was soon to be snuffed out....by official order.

Both he and Ripovski were to be the 'fall guys' for the failure of the Prangmaster project and also Stalin's humiliation which followed it. But it was now a final humiliation for Badanov because the glasses, tray and Starchgutt had belonged to him only a few hours ago before the hastily convened Court Martial.

The glasses were placed back on the tray which was then withdrawn as Nevamiski prepared to give the order. The unfortunate pair would never know that it was Olga's personal blunder which had led them to this impasse.

Behind him, the sullen squad shuffled uneasily and some swayed unsteadily. As was normal practice for this duty, they too had received a generous ration of vodka which was intended to soften the keen edge of conscience. This unenviable task, taking the life of a comrade was one which they could not relish....even if the condemned men were representative of the officer corps.

Now the prisoners were in position, the squad brought into line and now ready to raise their M44 rifles....

"Wait! No! Wait!" shouted Ripovski hoarsely. "Look! Over there!" He pointed with trembling hand to a tree behind some tamarisk bushes. Nevamiski turned to him sharply.

"What's this? A trick? You expect me to fall for that one! What are you going to do - jump over the wall and make a break for it?" He laughed dryly and turned to the squad expecting them to join in the grim levity. They just stared back, their faces a flat deathly white.

"No, look! That bird! Can't you see it? I'm sure it's a rarity! Please Major...lend me your binoculars".

Badanov looked down at his boots and shook his head in disbelief.
"Here we are, on the point of death, and all you can think about is a lousy fleabitten Starling!" he choked."It isn't a Starling, you perfumed ponce - it's a rarity...I just know it is!" "Don't you talk to me like that! Remember - I'm still your superior officer, you mincing little rent-boy. Why, if I were back..."
Nevamiski cut in impatiently.

"Here! Take the pissin' binoculars and let's get this over with. But don't drop them or it will be the worse for you!" he threatened.
"Oh, really?" smirked Ripamovski, amused by the irony of the remark. That too went over the heads of the squad who were beginning to turn green.

With shaking hands he took the bins and focused on the tree less than forty yards away...

"My God! I was right! It's a Golden Winged Warbler!! A first for the Crimea! Do you all realize what this means?". His voice had risen to an hysterical scream.
"I've not the faintest idea", replied Nevamiski wearily. By now, Badanov just wanted to die...

"It means that my life list is now 500!!! Do you understand that you bunch of vacuous clods?!", Ripamov informed them through foaming blue lips.

Over on the tree, the warbler was joined by the happily reunited family of Siberian Variegated Rock Throstles, the young of which were joyfully shuffling along the branches as their parents attended them with a continuous supply of insects.

Suddenly, the group, warbler and all, rose skyward, startled by the rattle of musketry. Above the pink flush of tamarisk rose a red-brown cloud of brick dust which wafted up and over the wall and into the orchard beyond.

Just two miles away at Litlappnin Troop Entraining Depot and station, the ripping sound of breaking wind heralded the arrival of Olga.


Originally Registered January,2001 Member Number 3044

"Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed" - Edmond Gwenn, "The Trouble With Harry"

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