Recount Your Adventures

[Anders]

Greetings,
I have petitioned the administrators to allow the "Boasting" thread to be divided once more, and they have graciously consented.  This thread is intended for the recounting of your fictional adventures, based on a prompt from the previous post.  Please help keep this thread oriented toward creative, cooperative, light-hearted storytelling.

Without further ado, we shall pick up where we left off on this page: http://brassgoggles.co.uk/forum/index.php/topic,7892.225.html

But, none of this resolves that thing about why you always count to seventeen when you see an Aardvark!

Aardvarks...
(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17)

Ah, yes, the wretched creatures!  Well, maybe I shouldn't be so hard on them.  After all, it was the horrible Doctor Von Brotundbutter who originally dreamed up this mad experiment.  You don't remember?  Well, then I shall recount it as best I can.

It was in the fall of '96 when I received a letter with several pre-paid ship and train tickets and a mysterious invitation to Schloss Unheimliche in the post.  At the time I thought nothing of the name, being not accustomed to working in that region at the time.  The letter stated that the Doctor had heard of my exploits in the previous year in connection with the Pope, the vampires, and that dashing young Librarian from Rome and wished to consult me on certain details of my exploits, which he was including in a compilation of similar stories in the hopes of creating an authoritative work on that field of study.

It was just turning to November, I believe, when I arrived at the castle.  Dark and foreboding it was, but I chalked it up to the poor local economy and lack of funds for repair.  Doctor Von Brotundbutter greeted me and had a servant (with a pronounced hunch back) carry my bags up to my room.  We retired to the Doctor's sitting-room and talked of business, and of the weather.  Von Brotundbutter mentioned that a storm seemed to be coming up that he predicted would close the narrow road to his castle for several days or more.  I was dubious, but he put off my questions by promising to show me his observatory later.  (As it turns out, there really was a blizzard rising which closed the road for two days.  I learned this after the fact, and remarked to several acquaintances that despite being thoroughly evil, Von Brotundbutter was truly an expert meteorologist.  Considering his experiments, he had to be!)

Von Brotundbutter poured us some drinks and we continued talking before the fireplace.  Suddenly I felt my fingers go numb; then the sensation spread up my arms and from my toes up my legs.  I tried to ask the Doctor what was going on, but I found my tongue intractable.  Then I passed out.

When I awoke I was strapped to a table.  Looking around, I found myself in a stone dungeon which had been retrofitted with all manner of mysterious electrical and scientific equipment.  Another table a few feet away contained a rather panicked-looking aardvark...
(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17)
with similar electronic equipment nearby.  The Doctor walked up to me with a dreadful smile on his face.  I asked what was going on, and what was the meaning of this, and all such questions one is obliged to ask when strapped down to a mad doctor's table.

He answered that he was going to "electronically" transfer my brain into that of an aardvark...
(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17)
and that of an aardvark...
(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17)
into mine!  I declared him mad on the spot and tried to break free, but no amount of struggling could free me from my bonds.  I thought for sure that this was the end of my adventuring career.  And what a way to meet my end!  I had thought for sure I would manage to go out in a flash of brilliance, such as an airship explosion or the time-portal briefly created by that famed adventurer Zebulon Smythe.  No, instead I was to live out the rest of my days as an...  Well, you know.

The Doctor cackled madly and threw the switch!  I closed my eyes tightly against the electrical sparks flying off of the equipment.  Somewhere I heard a pitiful, high-pitched scream.  I can only assume it was the hunch-backed lab assistant.  It certainly wasn't me.  I assure you.

When I opened my eyes, I expected to be looking out from the body of... a certain creature.  Instead, I was still my normal self.  I looked over at the... other subject just to be sure, and there it was.  However, I felt a strange compulsion to begin counting quickly.  I counted to seventeen and finally relaxed.  I looked away and back, and counted to seventeen again.  All the Doctor had managed to do to me was install a strange idiosyncrasy in my mind.  The Doctor sighed at his apparent failure and instructed the hunchback to loose me.  Von Brotenbutter apologized, and I told him to think nothing of it since there is certainly a dearth of... such creatures in adventuring and it would not prove any especial inconvenience.  I was offered a carriage ride back to town, which I politely accepted.

The hunchback and I were nearly out the door when we heard screams coming from the lab.  We turned to see that the Doctor had released the... animal, and it was attacking him.  The experiment was not a total failure, we saw, since my martial arts skills (acquired on previous expeditions to the Orient) had been transferred to the... animal.  Von Brotundbutter was horribly mutilated, and once finished with him the creature came for us!  We made good our escape by closing the heavy wooden door, which even those sharp claws would take time to get through.  Later I would wonder whether this strange compulsion was random, or whether the transfer of some of my knowledge to the... animal was related.

I came out of the experience with a little more wariness for strange invitations to mysterious castles, and my friend the hunchback apparently took another job with a family in the next province... Frahnkenshteen, I believe was the name.  That's why I always count to seventeen when I see an aardvark...
(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17)

Oh, blast!

I must get my mind off of... certain wildlife.  Do tell of the time you assisted Charles Babbage in that tumultuous adventure involving the clock tower at the Palace of Westminster!

[Anders]

(Aww, I was enjoying this thread so much!  I request its separation from the other boasting thread and suddenly nobody's interested?  Let's hear about your adventures!  If my prompt isn't inspiring anyone, how about the time you dealt with the angry natives using nothing but a teacup, a pocketwatch, and your wits?)

[elShoggotho]

Ah, the Babbage case! It was during the time when Charles Babbage finally went to build his Analytical Engine. He ran out of gears when his suppliers, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern, purveyors of the finest sprockets in the Empire, met their sudden and untimely demise at the hands of a band of train pirates, so he procured my services. He desperately needed gears to build the final part of his magnificent engine. We searched and searched, but there was no one who dared to oppose Blackbeard Blessed and his merry band of railroad buccaneers. We had to resort to mundane methods and started to rob clock towers. In the end, there was not a single tower clock in London that retained its movement, but Babbage's Analytical Engine was finally running!

Which brings me to a related adventure of yours. I heard that you secured the family reunion of Ada Lovelace and King Ghiorghios I of Greece with just a thimble and an adjustable wrench. Would you care to relate that adventure?

[Sir Nikolas Vendigroth]

You don't ask for much sir, do you?

As it happens, I bumped into a continental-looking chap in Charing Cross station one day, quite literally in fact. After I'd managed to shoo him away, I carried on my journey, only to find a darling young girl up ahead, in a state of considerable distress. Naturally, I sat down to comfort her and listened to her story. Apparently her cousin Georgie was supposed to be in town, but he hadn't written to her, or sent a carrier pixie. I gave her a mint and a penny and set off to the day's next appointment: Plumbing at the Grecian Embassy.

I arrived to the normal riot of Bourzuki-fiddling, plate-smashing and play-writing that is the Grecian Embassy, although it was somewhat damper at the time. It turns out His Maj's bath had overflowed quite significantly due to a stuck tap. No, I don't know how it happened either. A quick clout with the wrench and it was fixed, althoug I didn't propose to help mop up. It wouldn't have taken them long anyway, it was all made of marble. greece is, you know.

His Maj, being a decent chap asked me to have a celebratory drink with him. However, being a bit of a lightweight, he couldn't hold his strong waters.

Now...I took a glass of ouzo from the waiter, but His Maj had a glass thimble. Sure enough, we drained them and threw them down, as seems to be the custom. Remember that we were still ankle-deep in water at this time - My heavier glass smashed, but his lightweight thimble was buffered by the water, and merely sank. Needless to say, he had to pick it up, re-fill it and try again.

Soon enough, he was tiddled. By which I mean he called me his besh' frendd, and bemoaned the fact that his carrier pixies had dissolved under the leak, so that he couldn't contact his freind, M. Lovelace.

Putting 2 and 2 together, I dragged His Maj, still sopping wet and sopping drunk to the station to meet M. Lovelace.

And that's how I ended up in Charing Cross station, with the wet-through, inebriated king of Greece, officer, and not a word of a lie.

Now...I'm sure you could easily outdo me by telling us about that dreadful affair with the stuffed gorilla and the bushel of tomatoes in Paris. You know, the day before you fled to the jungle.

[Captain Shipton Bellinger]

Now...I'm sure you could easily outdo me by telling us about that dreadful affair with the stuffed gorilla and the bushel of tomatoes in Paris. You know, the day before you fled to the jungle.

Good Lord, sir! I had thought you sworn to secrecy over what was essentially a misunderstanding between two gentlemen of discretion. If further word of this escapes I may have to flee once more!

[cyberjacques]

I'm so disappointed that I didn't notice this thread back in December!  Its predecessor was my favorite thread ever, and this new one seems to be dwindling again.  So let's try to put a spark back in it, shall we?  And Mr. Bellinger, you must finish your post with a new challenge, preferably after answering the previous one in more than one sentence.  Therefore, if I may be so bold...

I must thank you for bringing this up AFTER the statute of limitations has expired, otherwise I might find myself in a considerable amount of trouble.  You see, while transporting a number of special request goods into Paris, my communications officer received word on the wireless that the French port authorities were seizing and destroying all foreign produce due to a sudden outbreak of Atlantean gill-worms.  Nasty little buggers, if they infect something without gills, they go for other mucous membranes...  Anyway, my first mate advised me that the bushel of Spanish heirloom tomatoes we were carrying had been special ordered by a very wealthy gentleman whose considerably ugly bad side it is best to avoid.  Which is why I will refrain from mentioning his name.  He had been waiting for the shipment for going on three weeks, and had paid a hefty sum for it.

My first mate and I briefly discussed our options and decided that smuggling the tomatoes into port was our only means of avoiding thick-necked goons with clubs being dispatched to our vessel.  The only other "hollow" items we were transporting happened to be several large floor vases and a stuffed silverback gorilla, mounted in a threatening posture.  Since the vases would have been very easy to search, it was decided to pack the ape full of produce.  We opened up the hairy chap and removed the stuffing, and carefully filled him with the tomatoes.  Since the tomatoes were both heavier than the stuffing and provided much less support, we had to lay the gorilla on its back, and wheel it out of the cargo bay.  All was going well as the customs agents inspected the cargo, until one of the seams in the gorilla started to give way under the weight.  My crewman noticed it and was about to throw a tarp over it, when the thread suddenly gave way, and the tomatoes poured out, tumbling across the dock.

While we were being handcuffed and led to the portmaster's office, I explained how we had received the produce warning only minutes away from our destination.  The portmaster didn't seem to care, so I told him who the tomatoes were for.  He turned a peculiar pale color, and stammered something about how he could see to it that the tomatoes made their way to the buyer, but that we would have to flee the country and not return for two years, or risk hefty fines and some jail time.  So we left as quickly as we could, and spent most of the next two years conducting some very lucrative shipping in South America.

Speaking of jungles and fruits, how did you manage to nearly destroy an entire pirate fort with 500 bottles of pineapple liquor?

[Lothar Erfinder]

     Well, we had been shipping various fruit liquors out of Brazil to America, when we were beset upon by pirates. They captured our airship with relative ease, since some of the crew had been partaking heavily of our cargo the night before, and towed us to their fort. We were imprisoned for two weeks in their stockades before we were able to escape.

     Making my way towards where our vessel was moored, I spied the 500 or so bottles of pineapple liquor lying in a heap outside the main building. It seems the pirates had drunk our entire cargo in two weeks, leaving only the pineapple beverages, which they found unpalatable.

     Knowing that this particular liquor was rather flammable, myself and the crew, who had had two weeks in the stockades to sober up, quickly used what was left of our tattered shirts and a stolen flintlock pistol to make 500 odd Molotov cocktails, which burned down the pirates' fort quite nicely, seeing as how the fools had made it of wood.


    Do tell us of the occasion on which you won a duel using only a feather duster.

[Dr cornelius quack]

Well yes, to all appearances it does look like a feather duster, doesn't it.
That's what's so sneaky about the various devices produced at 'The Department of Dangerous Do-Dads' here at the Ministry of Deniable Activities, they always look perfectly innocuous. It's widely rumored that 'D', the Head of the section is in fact one and the same person as 'Mrs. Beeton' (of the 'Book of Household Management' fame). The fact that no one has ever seen them together in the same room does lend some weight to this theory and we all know that 'D' is a master of disguise.

It is therefore no surprise to learn that the character of 'Travelling Janitorial Supplies Salesman' is one of the most common forms of 'cover' to be adopted by the agents of the Ministry when on field assignment.

Thus it was that I was in Stoke Poges attending a demonstration of the new line of 'sink plungers' (the code word for self contained grenade launchers) when I received a telegram informing me that a pair of infamous double agents (known only as 'Kim' and 'Aggie') had infiltrated the organisation with the intention of 'Cleaning the house'. This is, for those of you unfamiliar with the world of espionage, a euphemistic term for killing 99% of all known agents dead.
My orders were to discover the identities of these two enemies of democracy and to neutralise the threat that they posed.

Intelligence on the appearence of this pair was very limited, consisting of a photograph from the yearbook of the graduating female 'class of '74' from the Gratislavian Peoples Glorious Tractor Driving Acadamy and some grainy press cuttings of that countries Ladies Olympic Shot Putting Team. From these sources, I concluded that my targets were both men.

This did not make my task of identification any easier, as most of the women present at the exhibition looked like men. I think it's something to do with their chosen profession. However, the simple expedient of standing by the entrance and holding the door open for every female who approached narrowed down the field considerably.  As I held the door for a pair of 'ladies', I was greeted with the rejoinder of 'Vatch it!! Palsky!!' and punched in the face. My search was at an end.
Realising their cover was blown, these two formidable foes drew their weapons. A Dysonovitch semi-automatic carpet beater and a vicious looking Kalashnikov toilet brush. I needn't tell you that these are short range weapons of the sort preferred by the professional assassin, being both noiseless and leaving no visible exit wounds. Evidently my opponents thought to dispose of me quietly so as not to cause general alarm.  They smiled knowingly as I reached for my duster, they obviously thought that it was the old 'Standard issue' Mk.II and would be  no match for their much heavier arsenal. How surprised they were to see the individual 'feathers' ejected by the handle mounted  gas canister and speed unerringly for their unprotected Carotid Arteries. The Titanium darts did their work most effectively and the two killers fell dead into the revolving doors of the lobby..

It is useful to note that the new Mk III 'Duster' has its Titanium tipped darts coated with a culture containing the 1% of Microbes that even the best of household bleaches do not kill.

And now, howsabout regaling us with that tale of your old spiritual guru and his unusual use for marshmallows.

[cyberjacques]

My good Dr. Quack, you simply must join us in this delightful game more often, your adventure was highly amusing!  Anyway, back to business.

Ah yes, guru Pravin.  He was indeed a spiritual man for many years in India, but when he moved to England his expert wilderness survival skills and extensive knowledge of supernatural beasties landed him a job as the regional coordinator and local troop leader of The Royal Youth Expeditionary Corps.  I was a young lad at the time, eager to brave the wilds and such, so I joined.  Mr. Pravin taught us all sorts of fascinating things, all of which I still use in my explorations today.

The story about the marshmallows begins a few months later, as Mr. Pravin was telling us an amusing story around the campfire.  We had just finished supper, and Mr. Pravin had broken out a bag of the fluffy white treats for roasting, when a werewolf burst into the clearing, snarling and growling ferociously.  Mr. Pravin stood up and dropped the bag of marshmallows in order to reach for his sidearm, and the bag just happened to fall into the campfire.  Being of a slightly antiquated model, the sidearm took a moment to charge to full power, and in the mean time, the werewolf was closing the distance quickly.  Some of the older boys who had been issued small firearms of their own also drew their weapons and fired, but failed to hit their target.  Then, just as Mr. Pravin was preparing to fire, the wind changed direction and a large cloud of thick black marshmallow smoke billowed over the werewolf.  The beast reacted as if he had been teargassed, screeching to a halt and hacking like he had the biggest hairball in the world caught in his throat.  We all watched in fascination as the werewolf became so debilitated within mere seconds that all it could do was attempt to drag itself away, gasping desperately for air.  Even after the wind was no longer blowing the smoke directly over the foul creature, the effect lingered, and Mr. Pravin said he almost felt bad about putting a large smoking hole through its chest.

Upon our return to civilization, Mr. Pravin informed the Corps about the experience, describing in detail the astonishing effects that simple marshmallow smoke had on such a vicious creature.  They in turn relayed the story to the Royal Academy of Supernatural Studies, whose research into the matter was disappointing.  Testing the effect on captive werewolf specimens, they discovered that while it did have a significant effect, the quantity of marshmallow smoke necessary to inflict any useful damage on the beasts was exceedingly large, making weaponization of the technique highly impractical.  They did experiment with a marshmallow flamethrower of sorts, but the flaming molten marshmallow did more damage than the smoke.  Attempts have also been made to develop a marshmallow smoke grenade, with limited success.  However, to this day, any time I make a trip into the wilds, I bring a bag of marshmallows, just in case.

Speaking of such things, do tell us how you discovered the bizarre effect that maraschino cherries have on certain types of undead.

[elShoggotho]

You clearly mean the Russian adventure with Doctor Van Helsing. As you may know, the good Doctor rapidly developed alcoholism in his final days, spending his time severely inebriated with holy vodka, consecrated with Patriarch Grigori's secret method. It worked well enough to keep the vampires away. I was a young apprentice to the good Doctor back in the day, and had to make sure that he stayed safe from supernatural attacks beyond vampires. Rightfully so, for the vampires were a lot smarter than we thought. Their onslaught was led by a horde of flesh eating ghouls, keen on making us their main course, especially the heavily marinated Doctor Van Helsing. As we fended them off, using poor old Jenkins as a bait, we came across the bar. Jenkins had been an avid creator of cocktails, so it was fully stocked. In our desperation, we threw everything at them, keeping only Rasputin's vodka. The maraschino cherries were especially effective, sending the ghouls off to the lavatory with severe diarrhea at a mere touch. I finally fended them off with just my slingshot and a bowl of maraschino cherries. It was too late for Doctor Van Helsing though. He had finally succumbed to liver failure, putting him beyond Vampiric reach. Such a great man!

On a related note, what happened during your face-off with Count Orlok? I heard that you managed to escape his clutches with just a cravat and a letter opener!

[Tuefish]

AH! yes, I had quite forgotten that debacle.

Now as I recall it, it was the fourth of june, and a Wednesday.
I received a telegraph from the ignominious count, who was actually quite benign at that time,
inviting me to observe an experiment in electro-cognitive flora manipulation. I, being young,
accepted at once.

Upon my first view of the count's manor, which is situated on top of old greenhill, I was beset by
a few sturdy reservations. seeing as it was a hot day, I had taken off my dark scarlet cravat, and
secured it in my hidden shirt-pocket. this would prove to be an inspired decision. (as you shall see later).
In any case, a man of science such as myself must not flinch from discovery at the whim of, well, whims,
and so I strode up to the door. Upon my second ring, Count Orlok's manservant, Charles, I believe, opened
the heavy door and showed me to the study. He seemed quite nervous as he asked me if I should like
a bit of refreshment. Hot as the day was, I replied that I would take a brandy, at which point he
nearly jumped out of his skin, the poor chap. he went first to the cabinet in the study, and pronounced in
a wholly unsure tone, that this cabinet was unstocked with such, and that he would return with a brandy
from the kitchen. When he did not return for several minutes, my natural curiosity could no longer be held
in check, and I began to examine the objects upon the desk. everything was quite mundane, with the
exception of an excessively decorative letter-opener. As  I picked it up to scrutinize it further, the door
behind me opened, startling me. Now I am usually a man of sound nerve, but seeing the poor butler
in the state he was must have set me on edge, for when I jumped at the sound of the ungreased hinges,
the letter-opener snapped of in my hand!
Since it would not behoove me to make my introduction to the count with his broken property in hand,
I secreted it into that hidden pocket.

The count entered the room, greeting me warmly and handing me a snifter of cognac, which he said was
from his private reserve.
We talked about the weather, and about theories and such, although I should have been alarmed by
the count's extensive knowledge of parasitic flora and poisonous plants. As I took the first sip of the
brandy, I noticed that the count was watching me with eager anticipation, and was about to comment on this
when I began to feel a wave of nausea, quite uncharacteristic of quality cognacs.
As I fell to the floor, I felt the count rush to me, then checking my pulse, he lowered me to the floor.

When i awoke, I found myself laid out upon a table, and unable to move. Needless to say, I was
somewhat confused. But, summoning my willpower, was able to lift my right arm. Upon the examination
of my pockets, I found myself relieved of accouterments, save the cravat and the letter-opener inside my
hidden pocket.At this point I heard footsteps approaching so I laid perfectly still, and closed my eyes.
The footsteps belonged to the count and his assistant, and I soon heard their voices.
it would seem that they were having some small disagreement about the count's choice of victims.
I heard charles ask why they could not have abducted some poor street-urchin or beggar,
to which the count impatiently replied that the specimen absorbed the cognitive prowess of it's host
for sustenance, and that a common mind would not fertilize it to maturity. At this point I began
to contemplate the count's interpretation of the word 'Observe'. The count and his accomplice entered
the room and approached the table upon which I found myself presently. I felt the count check my pulse again,
then take my temperature, he then proclaimed that I would be awake soon, which would not do, and strode
off, to get more of that vile brew no doubt. I knew that I had to work quickly, and so, I arranged the letter-
opener, and the cravat upon my shirt, so as to look like I had been stabbed in the heart, then I let out an awful gargle.
I gathered my strength, and as soon as Charles entered the room, I heard a small scream and heard him dash out
to notify the count. I then slipped from the table and crouched beside the door. Moments later, Count Orlok
and Charles burst in, the former wielding some nefarious hand-gun, and the latter empty-handed.
I quickly threw one end of the cravat 'round the count's wrist, and caught it, ensnaring his hand. I tugged sharply,
and the gun went off, it's projectile ricocheting from a china dish upon the wall, and hit poor Charles
square in the chest. I then wrestled with the count who, despite being an amateur pugilist was somewhat out
of shape, no doubt due to his fondness for caramelized air-kraken. After a brief struggle, I came away holding the sidearm.
I then had time to properly observe Charles, who it seems was merely asleep, as the gun fired a paralyzing dart.
The count insisted that his dogs out on the grounds would never let me leave in less than seven pieces, to which I
suggested the use of this tranquilizing gun. He laughed raucously, and pointed out that the gun held only one
more dart, at which point I promptly shot him in the leg. He cursed me as he slipped to the ground, but I was
already set upon my next task, which was to wet the silk cravat with the count's liquor supply.
I then used said cravat to make good my escape via the telegraph cable, à la zipline.

Now you must tell the tale of the giant bat and the penny-whistle.

[theairman]

That Bat and the penny whistle you say? Ah, there is a fine tale to be told indeed good sir, and one I might tell myslef if no one has any objections.

You see, as that time, I was searching through the caves along the south coast of England, hoping to find an abadoned smugglers' plunder. I happened upon a cave that seemed a suitable location for this manner of artefact. I stepped inside cautiously, for I have known a great many trepid explorers fall back onto a rock as bats fly out of their cave home. However, as no bats came at me, I ventured further into the darkness ahead of me. It seemed eerily quiet, like the paranormal had evicted all living specimens and had settled for centuries. And then it was, I saw the chests. Only two chests, stout wooden constrctions. The lack of elaborate designs or monograms made it clear they were smugglers' property. I felt similar to Cortez as he found the Aztec gold!  This would make me a wealthy man, I laughed, a great elated laugh. I didn't stop for almost a whole minute, and when I did, I heard something. I saw a shape, blacker than the darkness, stirring on my peripherals. I turned, drawing my rapier- which I never fail to have at hand- and shouted, "Who goes there! Show yourself!" And it was as though this fiend understood me. The Giant Bat appeared.

It was an unearthly abomination. It was Satan's envoy to the physical existence of man. I felt as though I stood at the point where Hell meets Earth. My heart began to beat, like an African tribal drum. Having some experience of bats (as an amateur adventurer in my youth, I explored many a cavern) I always carried, next to my rapier, a penny whistle. This I had modified, so that it emitted such a high pitched noise, one could not hear it! However, the bats can hear such a sound. This sound is painful to them, at least to the standard species. And so I threw aside my rapier, and drew the penny whistle instead. I must have looked nigh on ridiculous, facing a bat the size of a small edifice with nothing more than a whistle. But I had some courage, and blew the whistle. I could not hear anything, but clearly the bat was able to detect this noise. Indeed, it seemed as though it shuddered as I blew. It then made a wail, a piercing wail, as only a Satanic fiend can make. It flew out of the cave, wailing like the sirens seamen speak of.

I heard some time later, as I enlisted the aid of the local village men in extracting the loot, that a great black shape had been seen. The lady who had spotted it, described it as a wraith like being, flailing in what she assumed was agony. She then saw it plummet downwards into the sea below.

But my tale is as nothing to the story of the late Dr Van Mendelsohnn who encased himself in his own machinery, attempting to harness the power of the machine! Do tell this tale, you tell it most eloquently!

[ninjakitties]

Ah, dear Dr Mendlesohnn. I well remember the day... raining it was, with a light easterly wind. I was strolling among the ill-kept gardens of his castle, dripping as I remember. I had been deposited outside by his butler, who did not entirely approve of my attire. Why can't ladies wear trousers, says I, but the butler merely looked over his extraordinary moustache and said that he might just maybe perhaps chance upon mentioning to the doctor that I wished to seek audience with him. I did not fancy my chances, but as this was the only method by which I could contact Mendlesohnn I decided to wait. Outside in the rain.
Well, as I smelt the peculiar roses of the castle gardens and paced in my sodden footwear I heard a most unearthly noise. It sounded somewhat like a banshee impaled upon a lampshade  (though that is another tale entirely), somewhat like an enormous orchestra tuning their instruments, and somewhat like a pumping engine under great strain. The screaming seemed to issue from the castle and naturally I assumed it was the great doctor's distress at the knowledge that I wanted to speak with him. I sometimes have such an effect upon people... I can only suppose that it is their joy at my presence. Anyhow, so I emptied my boots and wrung out my coat and proceeded to the entrance. The butler, upon hearing my frantic knocking, informed me that the doctor was "extremely busy." He shut the door in a final manner, and I heard several locks being set.
Armed as I was with one of the finest rayguns and a bag of powerful explosives (you just never know when you shall need such items) I could have merely destroyed the offending door. I, however, having endured three years of Lady Primrose's Exquisite School For Young Ladies, knew that such a course of action could be considered extremely bad etiquette, and would almost certainly make a bad impression. Armed with such knowledge, I decided the most polite course of action would be to scale the walls of the castle, remove the bars from one of the windows, break it, and seek the good doctor in his library.
Having proceeded upon this course of action I traced the screaming to its source. Imagine my surprise when, after picking the lock, I discovered the great doctor, inspiration to many, strapped into a machine of clockwork and steam!
The doctor did appear, on further inspection, to be extremely busy. As a matter of fact, whenever I tried to talk to him he only continued that hideous screaming. When I went to slap him about the face, which as you all know is a well know method of settling the nerves, I received a great electric shock down my arm. The doctor declined to answer my questions in a very rude manner, and I decided to disconnect the machine from its power source so that we could converse upon normal lines. After examining the machine for some time I found a large red button labeled "OFF" and pressed it. The doctor fell into a swoon and no amount of slapping about the face, wafting chemicals under his nose (I had neglected to protect my smelling salts from the rain, and they had formed a horrid, unusable paste), or making him drink lab-grade alcohol (there was no brandy on the premises) would wake him. After I had attempted every method of revival I was aware of, save strapping him to a bench and sticking a great bolt of lightning through his chest, I informed the butler. I was subsequently chased out of the castle by the man and his significantly more-powerful-than-mine raygun.

I still visit poor Dr Mendelsohnn once a year. He resides in a comfortable cottage by the seaside, attended by faithful folk in white coats, and tinkers with clockwork in his spare time. He still does not seem interested in talking to me.

I must say, though, that the story of how you saved Paris with naught but an apple and a tuning fork has yet to be mentioned!

[Crunchyfrog]

I must say, though, that the story of how you saved Paris with naught but an apple and a tuning fork has yet to be mentioned!

Well if you insist, although I do maintain it was something of a fluke, for I have never set foot in Paris in my life. Of course, I was much younger then, and employed as second fiddler in the resident chamber quartet Pot Pourri aboard Her Majesty's Airship Du Lally.

The passengers on that trip were a well heeled lot. They'd paid a premium to watch the annual firework display over the Seine from the unique vantage point of the sky. On this final night of the European aircruise they'd gorged themselves with gourmet delights and whirled around the dance floor to the tunes of our rousing waltzes.
 
 At last we musicians stopped for our well earned break as the Du Lally manoevered into position in preparation for the highlight of the evening. Being the most junior member of Pot Pourri I set to my allotted break-time task of retuning all the instruments, while munching on an apple I'd earlier liberated from the display on the Captain's table.
 
All too soon our rest was over. I stuffed my tuning fork and half eaten apple into my pocket  and picked up my violin. We struck our first chords as the pyrotechnic display began below us. We'd barely played two bars when disaster struck, in the form of a wayward sparkling rocket.
 
It careened through the glass side of our gondola and lodged itself in a chandelier. Though the balloon that held us aloft had been mercifully spared and we were still skyborne, a new danger loomed, for the impact had damaged a part of the ceiling. Moments later, chandelier and spark-spitting firework dropped from the ceiling and crashed through the dance floor to the engine room and the highly combustable aether compressor below.

A high pitched squeeeeeeeee and a flash of blue light told me all I needed to know. The rudimentary training I'd received as an airship employee afforded me sufficient knowledge that should anything damage compressor, there'd be no-one within a fifty mile radius left to recount the tale.
 
The signal to abandon ship was given. The gondola tipped as the collective weight of nearly all its occupants stampeded towards the stairs to the life-raft deck, and I, together with a rather indignant looking middle-aged lady slid across the sloping floor and straight through the hole to the engine room.
 
I bounced from piston to flywheel as I fell through the machinery that drove the rear propellor. As I picked myself up from the engine room floor I could hear my companion shouting for help - she hung suspended by the wires of her bustle from a broken beam.
 
Placing my faith in the strength of ladies' underwear, I ignored her pleas and crawled through the shattered glass to the twisted frame of the chandelier. There I could see the source of the light, one of the chandelier's arms had pierced a hole in the compressor's copper shell - and it was getting bigger.

There was nothing for it. I pulled the apple from my pocket, which had become impaled on the tuning fork, and mashed it into the hole. In an instant the fruit hardened, plugging the aether leak.

It was in this state that the Du Lally was limped to safety, and to this day the citizens of Paris will never know how close they came to extinction.



Now, enough of my trivial adventure. Pray tell us again of the night you thwarted the theft of the Crown Jewels armed with a stuffed turtle.

[Dr cornelius quack]

Well now. It's all thanks to Her Gracious Majesty's adherence to one of the finest old traditions of our Great Nation.
I refer, of course to the Ceremony of 'Turtle Upping.'
Once a year, a census of Turtles is held on the River Thames with the count being made by 'The Keeper of the Royal Lettuce.' and representatives of the two Livery Companies, The Combmakers and The Soupmen.
All turtles found are marked in the ritual manner of having their beaks clipped whilst being sat on by a retired sailor of the Royal Navy. (Hence the name of 'Shellbacks'.) (It also explains the widespread Pub name of 'The Terrapin with two Necks'.)

After the excitement of the days chase, it is customary  for the Monarch to decree that, as a special reward, one of the Royal Turtles may be eaten at the banquet held in the 'Guildhall'.

It must be noted that this is not generally the treat that it first sounds, as turtle recipes are a little thin on the ground, being mostly some form of Chowder or, occasionally, a Kebab.

However, on this occasion, we were told to expect something a little different as one of the countries more experimental chefs had been commissioned to produce the main course and that he had rediscovered an ancient dish which involved baking seven different species of turtle one inside the next.
There was considerable excitement at the prospect.

The cooking of this dish required quite some time to complete and the final stages were done in something of a rush so as to be on time for the dinner.

As I sat at the end of the great feasting table in that historic chamber just after the tureen containing the magnificent 'Chelonian Surprise' was revealed , I was startled to see some movement in the dish. Seems that, in the hurry to finish the preparations, no one had bothered to check that the final layer (An enormous 'Alligator Snapping Turtle' from Florida) was actually dead before they 'stuffed it'.

At this moment, a commotion at the center of the table caught everyones attention. A large, mean looking man in a flat cap, stripey pullover and mask was manacing Her Majesty with a Baseball Bat, saying 'Just hand over the sparklers, lady, and no one gets hurt!!'

I reacted at once. Climbing onto my chair, I leaped with great force upon the end of the table. This caused the other end to shoot upwards, catapulting the great bowl and its contents skywards. As the turtle described its graceful arc, it spotted a suitable target on which to enact its revenge for having had six of its cousins inserted in so abrupt a manner.
Needless to say, finding a large vicious reptile clamped about his nether regions rather put the thief off his stroke,and he was quickly subdued by members of the Household Cavalry and some of their horses.

Anyone would have done the same in my position.

Now, remind me how you eluded those Nepalese Monks who thought you were the re-incarnation of the'Yeti-God'.

[engineRmRaphi]

    Thank you, good gentlemen, for this invitation to converse with such as yourselves.  It is all too seldom that a working person has the opportunity to recount said adventures.  No matter how advanced an autodidact or how many splendid exploits in which one has participated. In addition, it is also quite seldom that I am in a position to speak openly of the esoteric realms and spiritual matters; so very few highly educated in this modern scientific world give credence to non-rational modes of understanding.
    It began, as these things often do, with something ordinary.  I am the engineer on the Tyrus, one of the many steam vessels plying the waters of Puget Sound in the state of Washington.  The skipper had brought us into the dock at Port Townsend to await a strongbox to be transported back to Seattle.  It was early November, and the storm clouds scudding along the Straits of Juan de Fuca seemed impatient to usher in the rainy season. Thus I had time to go ashore as we waited for the rough seas to calm.  
    I decided, instead of going into town, I would walk along the shore to look for a forked branch of native rhododendron wood.  I had been experimenting with the technique of water-witching and had found it could be applied to the discovery of valuable metals as well.  However, decent results appeared to depend on the species of wood utilized.
    As I neared a small hill, I saw a S'Klallam Indian woman examining branches of a suitable rhododendron.  I approached cautiously, meaning to indicate by my movement that I meant her no harm.  Totally unexpectedly, she threw open her arms, gesturing at me in the manner used by the natives to welcome visitors.  She greeted me in fine English, "I was waiting for you."  I of  course was mystified.  "When I observed you make contact with the spirit of the rhododendron, what you would call an elemental, I knew for certain," she said.  "Follow me."  Since curiousity has been a major trait since my childhood, I did so.
    As we walked up the hill another big surprise awaited me.  Literally a big surprise-- for there in all his glory, stood a Bigfoot, in the local language, a Sasquatch.  He looked sad; bedraggled in the rain.   But I sensed something deeper, a terrible longing, something he wanted in his very soul.  I queried the Indian as to what this was about.  She replied that it was not she, but rather I, who would be the person able to communicate with him.  When I asked him what he wanted, a strange language uttered from my lips.  I was speaking Sasquatch!
    He related a long and terrible tale about how white hunters had killed his mate.  And there were no more females within a hundred square miles, nor on relatively nearby Vancouver Island, BC.  "Thus," he said, "I wish for you to accompany me to Nepal, where a Yeti female awaits me."  "How are we to get there?" I wondered aloud.  The Indian woman replied "I will summon the Thunderbird, he, the eater of whales."  The heavy grey clouds parted-- and the huge monster, easily as fierce as any kraken, alit on the beach.
    The creature and I climbed onto the broad back, burrowing into the enormous feathers for warmth.  Across the Pacific we went, passing over Nippon and China, and thence to the Himalayas of Nepal.  The craggy, snow-covered landscape made it very difficult to discern where we were precisely.  Upon our arrival and landing, a group of Bon tradition shamanic monks bowed to us, and by their gestures, made it clear we were to follow.  Perhaps after a mile or so, we saw their temple.      
    Inside was the apparent bride-to be, her head and shoulder hair festooned with Himalayan rhododendron flowers, a small miracle in itself, given the season.  She was but slightly smaller than my own hairy colleague, and closer to a shade of white than he.  She turned, addressing me.  "Please stand behind us Old Ones," she said.  That is the term these creatures use about themselves.  Her accent was somewhat different from the speech of the Sasquatch, but still I  understood what she was saying.  The monks proceeded with their ceremony as I translated the responses of the hairy ones into pidgin Nepalese.  It was close enough to Tibetan, a language I had learned a bit of when studying their form of Buddhism.  
    After they were finished, the monks made it clear to me I was to stay.  Seems their once helpful Yeti friends were seldom encountered any more.  The haired beings feared the encroaching march of Empire.  Since I obviously understood Yeti, both they and the now married couple were convinced I was their reincarnated Yeti god.  Well, do I remember certain past lives, but honestly, nothing that grand.  The mood of the gathering grew as dark as the skies overhead.      
    I bolted from the scene, tearing along the path by which we had arrived.  The Thunderbird was long gone; I had no idea where I was, nor any way of safe passage back home.  Luck would have it, the Sasquatch took pity on me.  He begged his new bride to hold off the monks while he came to my aid.  Gathering me up, he slung me across his wide shoulders and continued to lope along, his giant stride getting us quickly to a mountain crest.  
    Then the most staggering of coincidences-- what appeared but an airship, the Du Lally II!  Seems there was at that very moment an air race, Around the World in Less Than 90 Days, I believe, in which the aforementioned ship was the lead vehicle.  The crew observed my predicament, and lowered their airship.  My Sasquatch friend launched me like a missile, and I landed safely right on the foredeck.  I do owe Captain Frog and company the cost of passage at least, and all due gratitude certainly.
    What was that I heard earlier about saving the Queen of Sweden with a cracked crab and a gilded birdcage?                    

      

[Miss Alva]

I'll let you know, I barely remember the incident, but my good friend Richard Goodman recalls that quite nicely. But he's told me so many times (I hate how he repeats things, especially of the daring variety), I think I can repeat most of it with a certain clarity, despite my being taken with a nasty cough and slightly hung over. The night before was something I can't recall for the life of be, but on with my tale!

It was about August, I believe, and Richard and I were traversing about the Nordic countryside upon our modified Viking longship, the Valkyrie (another tale entirely), conversing about the local lore and how we should go bear hunting while we were there. He was adverse to the very idea, seeing as we had gone fishing the day before and had raked in more of our bottom-feeding friends than we cared to have upon our ship, especially since our navigator was allergic to seafood. The thing about my dear Valkyrie is that she is a seafaring craft as well as an airship, and we can use her balloon nets to haul in fish, so we are never at a loss for food. But back to my original story, as were are floating about Stockholm, we heard a wisp of a story that the Queen of all people was being held prisoner in her own home by a band of rather dimwitted and hungry revolutionaries. Being the sort of person I was, I turned to Richard and without much approval of the crew, fled to the wheel house and directed our adventurous and bear related quest towards a new objective, partially due to the promise of some sort of national recognition from the Queen. Perhaps there would be pudding involved, because at that time, I had a grave and self-destructive obsession with chocolate pudding.

Now, entry into the palace was going to be difficult, guards everywhere, at least a dozen gunners on the roof. Well, that problem was easily solved as we looked to our over stock of freshly steamed crab. As a small ship and one without much weaponry, we only saw one thing that could be done. We aimed out deliciously cooked friends for their heads, and as I'll have you know, a cracked crab going at terminal velocity can do quite a number on the cranial cavity. After landing within the courtyard, we grabbed what we could (which happened to be a cricket bat, a few of our crustacean comrades, a wrench and one golden birdcage (which I had stolen from a Moroccan prince. It used to have a cockatoo named Edward inside of it, but we lost him over the French Riviera)), and stormed the residence of the Queen. Of course, some of the more permanent occupants, being royalty and all, were completely put off by mine and Richard's raggedy and rather odd appearances, but since no one else seemed to be on their way to help, they resigned themselves to the fact they were given an drunken Irish pilot and a portly American mechanic with a bowler to rescue all of Swedish government.

Once within the Queen's chambers though, we were faced with a problem I had not forseen as I planned while we ran. Though I was the one wielding the birdcage stuffed with cooked crab, Richard was at an advantage with his wrench and cricket bat as we encountered quite a few thugs holding the poor Queen hostage. They demanded social reform, but clearly we were in no position to offer such a thing. So we did the next best thing, and began the process of negotiating with our weapons. This is one of the parts I remembered on my own, soundly bashing someones face in with a dented birdcage, and it brings me much joy to know that. After quite a bit of fighting, the Queen's quarters was covered in crab bits and a few teeth, most of them belonging to the men we had just sent packing....or rather, we soundly kicked their arses. Needless to say, the Queen was not happy about her carpet being stained with blood and her down pillows smelling like a fishery, and had us removed. We didn't even receive medals! I'd never suffered such indignation in my life, but it's alright. At least we found a use for the crab and that cage that was sitting on my desk for the longest time.

Now, someone recount to me the incident in which a badger and a broken compass led to them to an Incan temple? I heard that floating around one of the pubs the other day...

[cyberjacques]

Now, someone recount to me the incident in which a badger and a broken compass led to them to an Incan temple? I heard that floating around one of the pubs the other day...

Ah yes, that was quite the adventure...

My crew and I had just completed a rather lucrative shipping contract for an absurdly wealthy land owner in Columbia (the man had a somewhat unhealthy addiction to fresh strawberries, and my ship's ability to carry nearly two hundred cubic meters of refrigerated cargo allowed us to deliver him a truly gargantuan quantity of fresh fruit), and as the journey had been long and the pay had been considerable, I decided to give the men an entire week of paid shore leave.

Perhaps four days later (I cannot be entirely sure, seeing as I spent most of that time inebriated), my first mate came to me with a battered map, explaining that he had won it in a dominoes game from a somewhat disheveled merchant.  In my less than sober state I failed to grasp the significance of his prize, until he indicated the writing along the edges.  Now I am hardly what one would consider an expert in such things, but having made a hobby of archaeology and dead languages, I finally recognized the crest of the last royal family of Tawantinsuyu.

After making quite a raucous in my enthusiasm, I joined my first mate outside and proceeded to gather what members of my crew were in the immediate vicinity and relatively sober, and we were off.  Once airborne, we quickly discovered that the map had been... encoded.  The landmarks were rather nonsensical, and the compass directions seemed to be taking us out to sea.  Our cook, being not only a wizard in the galley but also a distinguished professor of cryptolinguistics, eventually spotted the problem.  The glyphs on the map indicated that it had been drawn according to magnetic sub-south, which any adventurer worth his salt knows is a reference to the hollow-earth counterpart of absolute perfect-south, a designation that is completely meaningless otherwise.  We were about to put our quest on the shelf, seeing as how we were nowhere near either of the poles, and thus thousands of miles away from an entrance to hollow-earth, when my chief engineer suddenly got a strange gleam in his eye and ran below deck.

He emerged a minute later holding what appeared to be a stuffed badger.  Ignoring our sideways glances, he tore open the stitching on the preserved beast and hauled out a small chunk of black stone.  Borrowing a compass from our reluctant navigator, he proceeded to smash the device, removing the needle and jabbing the north end of it repeatedly against the stone, which he claimed was a sub-lodestone that his grandfather had kept as a souvenir from his own adventures in hollow-earth, many decades ago.  He insisted that this would let us know if the map led to a treasure in our world that had been deliberately hidden with "false" directions, or if it was actually hidden in hollow-earth itself.

Lo and behold, he was right!  After replacing the compass needle within its now thoroughly dented casing, it indicated a drastically different course.  After no more than twenty minutes journey, the landmarks on the map began to make sense.  We encountered what appeared to be a gigantic hill, covered with a thick layer of overgrowth, precisely where the map indicated the location of a huge structure.  Landing the ship proved to be a task all its own, as the surrounding jungle was thick and less than forgiving.  But land it we did, with the help of a few beam-cannon volleys to clear the way, and after much hacking and slashing with vibro-machetes and vorpal sabers, we found the entrance to a truly magnificent ancient temple.  The carvings on the outside indicated that forced entry would be less than wise, and after one of my more enthusiastic crewmen was nearly skewered by a trio of poisoned spears we proceeded to document the location and gather what few stray artifacts lay around the perimeter.  These alone turned out to be worth a small fortune, and the commission that the local government saw fit to award us for the find was rather tasty as well!

But such tales grow weary after a few tellings, please do recount to us the story of that rather nasty business involving your run in with a certain mad professor and his obsession with growing the "perfect" breed of sweet basil!

[Prof. Michael Masters]

Oh that, really it was nothing. You see one of the members of my faculty, Professor Gidian al Nerbotz, is a brilliant Bio-chemist but he also fancy's Himself a "Culinary Master". So in an attempt to improve his culinary creations ( and yes some of them are more creature than creation.. *shudder*) he decided that he would create what he called S.U.P.E.R. (scientifically upgraded plants electronically reproduced) spices. Surprisingly Most of these spices came out fairly normal, but poor Nerbotz couldn't get the basil quite right. It really became an obsession of his. He toiled day and night on it. The final result being a 50 foot tall sentient basil plant that tried to enslave the student population. Thankfully we have procedures for such little mishaps here at the University so the problem was quickly laid to rest. Though it did take a good week to convince the Professor that he should perhaps just leaf the Basil alone, after he was revived of course. Now if only I could convince him to give us advance notice before he provides "lunch" for his students. The Medical Facilities Really do need more notice.

Though surly everyone would like to hear about something more exciting than the day to day goings on of my university. What about that one time you had to fend off a whole chorus of clockwork Dancers that has malfunctioned?