ZlodeyVolk
The Lurker at the Keyboard
Do you know that physiological reaction which occurs in response to a perceived harmful event, attack, or threat to survival? That's where I am, right now.
This is the latest version (half-baked, this morning) of the intro to Effluent Society—which I bill as a snarky but playful, with any luck humorous, probably dystopian novel. I'm not looking for comments upon grammar or lexis; they are a part of the joke. All I really want to know, at this stage, is whether the passage is utterly repellant, merely dull, or an inducement to further reading …
ACCORDING TO THE BOFFINS, AN INFINITE NUMBER of universes may co-exist. Of course there are those who immediately misconstrue the concept of infinity to mean that everything is possible, and then go on to pester them with silly questions such as: ‘Is there a universe in which two plus two equals five?’ These individuals have missed the point entirely, insofar as the boffins are speaking of an infinite number of possible universes and, alas, not everything one can imagine is possible.
Consider integers. There is an infinite number of them; yet π can never be one among them, no matter how much one might wish things were otherwise, because it is impossible for π to be an integer—
Except among a very small and hopefully atypical subset of almost pathologically literal-minded Yeshuans, who mulishly insist their scriptures prove that π is exactly three. Fortunately the spiritual well-being of these non-representative believers is being safeguarded by pastors who regularly confiscate their flocks’ small change, because the ratio of the diameters and circumferences of about all the coins minted and circulated in the Federal Dominion of Tir Arallfyd invariably works out to 3.141592653589… et cetera, and said coins therefore are an abomination.
Anyway …
To the extent we may invest our trust in any claim that there is an infinite number of possible universes, let it be entered into the record that the universe in which this tale is set is the one in which Yr Ymerodraeth Brydeinig Fawr a Ffyniannus yet endures.
That’s ‘The Great and Prosperous British Empire’ to those among us who are not conversant in the official language of the political class.
Let the record reflect, too, that were I to present a map of said Great and Prosperous yada yada yada, I would call your attention to said empire’s southernmost dominion—namely, the continent-sized island called Tir Arallfyd. Which, to eliminate all possibility of mistake, should additionally be distinguished by the legend you are here, writ large upon it in vivid-reddish-orange majuscules.
About everybody knows that the world’s deadliest venomous animals all may be found in the Federal Dominion of Tir Arallfyd. For example, the enchanting strong-blue waters of the famed Coral Coast are home to the most venomous creature of all—Sicarius maris, an inconspicuous greyish-blue jellyfish which is popularly known as ‘[OBSCENE EXPLETIVE]! It’s like walking over flaming coals with a rusty three-inch nail grinding into my heel!’ Meanwhile, upon the sun-kissed beaches and reefs of New Albion and Cariad Harbours, you might stumble upon the less-imaginatively named brilliant-blue-ringed octopus (Malumpolypus ceruleae)—an eye-catching little cephalopod, the venomous properties of which were not fully appreciated until only quite recently.
Then again, you’re about as likely to encounter either of these beasties, in those places whither you and I are going, as you are to be savaged by a duckmole (Similis error). Which shy, aquatic, egg-laying mammal also is venomous, now I come to think upon it.
Anyway …
There also are plenty of terrestrial nasties to go around—exempli gratia, the infamous atrax (Atrax ingens), which is widely acknowledged the most dangerous spider in the world; as well as the notorious payanak (Notechis mortiferum), the venom of which snake is shamelessly flaunted as the most neurotoxic in the world.
Inter alia.
Yet even the ‘Spring-heeled Jack’ (Myrmecia maligna)—a vicious, inch-long, bluish-black ant with whopping-big brilliant-orange-yellow nippers and a bite that feels like one has just spilled battery acid onto a paper cut—receives more publicity than the lowly common nervous tick (Ixodes timens). Which seems quite unfair, given that I. timens’s bite contains enough neurotoxins to paralyse and kill large animals, as well as small to medium-sized children.
Under-represented or not, I. timens continues to puzzle the boffins, simply because they can find no really good reason for it to be quite so venomous as it is. Admittedly, I. timens is an arachnid, and therefore is distantly related to spiders and scorpions. Unlike spiders and scorpions, though, I. timens is not a predator—it is a parasite. And it never serves a parasite’s best interest, to kill its host outright.
Unless, of course, the parasite in question simply does not give a toss.
Delbeth Rowe, majority shareholder and Chief Executive Officer of ORB International plc and Chief Executive Officer of the Parliament of Syndics of the Commonwealth of New Gwent withal, might well be a case in point.
This is the latest version (half-baked, this morning) of the intro to Effluent Society—which I bill as a snarky but playful, with any luck humorous, probably dystopian novel. I'm not looking for comments upon grammar or lexis; they are a part of the joke. All I really want to know, at this stage, is whether the passage is utterly repellant, merely dull, or an inducement to further reading …
ACCORDING TO THE BOFFINS, AN INFINITE NUMBER of universes may co-exist. Of course there are those who immediately misconstrue the concept of infinity to mean that everything is possible, and then go on to pester them with silly questions such as: ‘Is there a universe in which two plus two equals five?’ These individuals have missed the point entirely, insofar as the boffins are speaking of an infinite number of possible universes and, alas, not everything one can imagine is possible.
Consider integers. There is an infinite number of them; yet π can never be one among them, no matter how much one might wish things were otherwise, because it is impossible for π to be an integer—
Except among a very small and hopefully atypical subset of almost pathologically literal-minded Yeshuans, who mulishly insist their scriptures prove that π is exactly three. Fortunately the spiritual well-being of these non-representative believers is being safeguarded by pastors who regularly confiscate their flocks’ small change, because the ratio of the diameters and circumferences of about all the coins minted and circulated in the Federal Dominion of Tir Arallfyd invariably works out to 3.141592653589… et cetera, and said coins therefore are an abomination.
Anyway …
To the extent we may invest our trust in any claim that there is an infinite number of possible universes, let it be entered into the record that the universe in which this tale is set is the one in which Yr Ymerodraeth Brydeinig Fawr a Ffyniannus yet endures.
That’s ‘The Great and Prosperous British Empire’ to those among us who are not conversant in the official language of the political class.
Let the record reflect, too, that were I to present a map of said Great and Prosperous yada yada yada, I would call your attention to said empire’s southernmost dominion—namely, the continent-sized island called Tir Arallfyd. Which, to eliminate all possibility of mistake, should additionally be distinguished by the legend you are here, writ large upon it in vivid-reddish-orange majuscules.
About everybody knows that the world’s deadliest venomous animals all may be found in the Federal Dominion of Tir Arallfyd. For example, the enchanting strong-blue waters of the famed Coral Coast are home to the most venomous creature of all—Sicarius maris, an inconspicuous greyish-blue jellyfish which is popularly known as ‘[OBSCENE EXPLETIVE]! It’s like walking over flaming coals with a rusty three-inch nail grinding into my heel!’ Meanwhile, upon the sun-kissed beaches and reefs of New Albion and Cariad Harbours, you might stumble upon the less-imaginatively named brilliant-blue-ringed octopus (Malumpolypus ceruleae)—an eye-catching little cephalopod, the venomous properties of which were not fully appreciated until only quite recently.
Then again, you’re about as likely to encounter either of these beasties, in those places whither you and I are going, as you are to be savaged by a duckmole (Similis error). Which shy, aquatic, egg-laying mammal also is venomous, now I come to think upon it.
Anyway …
There also are plenty of terrestrial nasties to go around—exempli gratia, the infamous atrax (Atrax ingens), which is widely acknowledged the most dangerous spider in the world; as well as the notorious payanak (Notechis mortiferum), the venom of which snake is shamelessly flaunted as the most neurotoxic in the world.
Inter alia.
Yet even the ‘Spring-heeled Jack’ (Myrmecia maligna)—a vicious, inch-long, bluish-black ant with whopping-big brilliant-orange-yellow nippers and a bite that feels like one has just spilled battery acid onto a paper cut—receives more publicity than the lowly common nervous tick (Ixodes timens). Which seems quite unfair, given that I. timens’s bite contains enough neurotoxins to paralyse and kill large animals, as well as small to medium-sized children.
Under-represented or not, I. timens continues to puzzle the boffins, simply because they can find no really good reason for it to be quite so venomous as it is. Admittedly, I. timens is an arachnid, and therefore is distantly related to spiders and scorpions. Unlike spiders and scorpions, though, I. timens is not a predator—it is a parasite. And it never serves a parasite’s best interest, to kill its host outright.
Unless, of course, the parasite in question simply does not give a toss.
Delbeth Rowe, majority shareholder and Chief Executive Officer of ORB International plc and Chief Executive Officer of the Parliament of Syndics of the Commonwealth of New Gwent withal, might well be a case in point.