Recon

Friday, November 30, 2012

Femslash Friday: Because No One Demanded It



Full Sized Image at the source

I'm trying to avoid stealing too much from one artist at a time as a nominal genuflection in the direction of artistic integrity.

This artist is one of the actually talented ones so check 'em out if you dig the femslash scene.  And I know you do, sick fucks.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Because, as Tam says...

...I hate to waste good shit at an away game.

From Kenny's thread on the subject: 

About 2 weeks ago I read someplace that your Git Kit (Bug Out Bag, Go Bag whatever the fuck you want to call it) shouldn't be completely full so that you won't have the appearance of being prepared in order to avoid attacks by those who really aren't prepared. Then I read it another place and then another and another.
My response, in comments:

This whole "Grey Man" approach pisses me off. 
Historically, refugees in a disaster are often targeted for theft, rape and mayhem, regardless of whether their pack is full or whether the pack is a civvie hiking pack or a military ruck.  It doesn't fucking matter; by the time you are bugging out, you are going to have to deal with some opportunistic savages.   
The best defense isn't packing light (WTF why not just use a smaller pack) or going "grey."  The best defense is never being seen.  If that fails, well, kill lots of godless cocksuckers as necessary.
On the whole, advising people to "pack light" or steering them towards civilian hiking packs and no long gun in the hopes of looking "unprepared" is eerily similar to "wear frumpy clothes so you don't get raped."

By being a refugee ("Bugging Out") you are by default in a category ripe for exploitation and no variation of your gear is going to make it otherwise.  Start practicing your stealth.  May I suggest you start here?

Saturday, November 24, 2012

How To Make A Monster (Excuse)



I promise I haven't fallen off the earth again.  I'm still in publish mode, with my very first submission having been sent and reviews starting to come in from my close friends circle on Codex.  Between that and trying to get my preps squared away further, I'm never able to update this blog.

Both Amanda and I have been working a grisly amount of overtime this season so money is good but time is short.

I did finally buy the glock but I haven't had time to shoot it yet.  I'll let you know a little more about how that kool aid tastes once I have a chance to get it out to the range.  On the whole, from dryfire and general fucking around, I can tell you two things so far: I'm spoiled by that nice short crisp single action 1911 trigger, and holding a glock feels exactly like the lego brick guns I built as a kid.  I think I'll come around simply for capacity's sake, but my anachronistic brain refuses to cooperate for now.

Tomorrow's post will be about Thanksgiving, Parenting, and Contact Drills for 4 Year Olds.  Stay tuned.

Take music, you fucking scum.  I really want to convert this angry atheist bitch to Scumfucktarianism  backstage at a concert, and somehow I think my cock and about ten grams of snow is involved.


"God made me a cannibal to fix problems like you."  Hard vore, anyone?

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

After Action Drill-What is yours?


Hi folks.  I'm still coming off the high of my very first carbine class.  It was a one day course and one of the things we didn't get to cover as much as I'd like is the after action drill.

The one I was taught is pretty simple and involves asking yourself a series of five questions associated with certain physical tasks.

1) Did I hit him?  (Low ready, examine target, make sure he has been hit.)
2) Did it work? (Make sure target is no longer a threat)
3) Does he have any friends? (Swivel head 180 degrees to look for further threats, turn around and look again)
4) How is my weapon? (Check ammo and condition of weapon)
5) How am I? (Do a self check for injury)

I think this covers it pretty well but I'd like to know what others are doing and how you are training these concepts.  With the short one day class we didn't get a chance to branch much off that tree WRT to after action drills and I'd like to explore contingencies.  How do you work that into training?  And how do you train the drill safely on the square range where things like spinning 360 degrees with a loaded weapon are a no-no?

I appreciate your input on the subject in advance.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

The Most Important Post You'll Read All Day

Another Codex Kalachnikova preview.  This one is called "The Gathering of the Juggalos."

What?  Did something else important happen recently?



Intermission: A Gathering of the Juggalos

Come.  Listen.

There are none who would dare approach this great circus tent, high in the folds of the Shattered Mountains bordering the great Grass Sea.  The Lords of the holdfasts, Stone and Apple and River lords, even Scum Lords, do not venture into this place, nor do their consorts, nor do their bastards or eunuchs.  Even the Angels do not venture here.  You alone must witness this, and understand the bearings it has on the tale to come.

There are those who say that the gods were blinded by the hellfire that was TEOTWAWKI, that the endless maelstrom of clouds obscure their vision and block out the prayers of the mortals below.  If that is true of any place in the vast wastelands of Efrafa, it is true here.  No prayers are heard here; that much is certain.

The air is still thick with poisons in some places, even now, hundreds of years after the great cataclysm.  The baked dirt holds no life; the waters are the same, save that they burn the flesh of any foolish enough to wade in their alkaline depths.  The landscape of the shattered mountains is absolute stillness on the eastern side, and great terrible storms that break constantly against the west side.  You can heard the crashing thunder as the churning brown clouds fling water, salt and the shattered ruins of an ancient civilization against the mountainside.  From time to time there is a great rumble in the earth, and if you were to watch for hundreds of years you could see the mountains spreading out as their very roots are pulled apart by incomprehensibly old forces you cannot perceive, let alone understand.

Perhaps they are demons, toiling in darkness far below the earth.  This is a place to believe in demons.

Come.  Look.

You have seen these before-multicolored wagons towed by scrub ponies and hawgs and people.  But surely you have never seen this many.  You watch them pass by for hours, a train of them, each bearing the mark of their tribes-green and purple Riddle Boxes, red and silver Great Milenkos, Jekell Brothers, Ringmasters, even the secretive Butterfly tribe, with rainbow banners hanging limp from their windows.  Surely you lose count after five hundred wagons go by, singing their simple war songs and shaking rusty hatchets at the uncaring sky.

At the tail end of the train, you join them-you must!  You smell their ragged, meat stinking breath-the journey across the grass sea is long, and you can see chewed legbones along the trail, both human and animal.  The Gypsy Jokas travel day and night, at a pace that is certain to be fatal for most.  A trail of torches winds up a tiny footpath in the mountains, vanishing into the Stygian darkness of the other side. 

The mountain is grueling, and the air grows cooler as you rise above the Grass Sea.  The trail slithers precariously along the mountainside, and far below you can see shattered wagons and bodies-human, and otherwise. By luck alone do you reach the summit, after a day and a half of climbing.  It is surely luck-there are no miracles in this place.  One final sign points you to your destination, a great tent as large as the largest holdfast, stitched together in a riot of conflicting colors and patterns that make your eyes ache.  It stands in sharp relief against the drab mountain, below the edge of a small bluff that blocks the wind and the constant barrage of detritus from the howling storm.  And here you see more wagons, more than you could ever count, all left haphazardly outside.  The single path through them is a churned track of ashes and mud by now, worn by countless feet and wheels and hooves.  From where you are, you can hear nothing inside, but there is a deep rattle that vibrates your teeth as you approach, and it grows stronger the closer you come to the big tent.

Inside is a riot of cacophony and lights of half a thousand colors.  One of the traditional war songs rings from a thousand throats and simultaneously from dozens of black boxes that thrum with some arcane power.  The crowd of juggalos and juggalettes around you shake like madmen in time with the music, shouting something about hunting chickens over and over in a frenzy.  Occasionally a scattergun or pistol goes off at random, sometimes wreaking carnage in the ranks.  At the very center of the circular tent stands a great black box.  Butterfly tribe juggalos, quieter and more clever than their companions, move purposefully around it carrying great wires and boxes and hoses.  In the flashing light, they move like ghosts, flickering and indistinct, seeming distant and unreal.

Perhaps responding to some tiny, unknown signal, the music suddenly stops, and the c hanting dies down with it, though it does not quite go away for a few minutes.  Then the lights stop as well, and darkness fills the great tent.  You have enough sense to wonder if this will be your grave, this strange carnival of horrors, but before you can flee you see the center box light up-and two men appear within its confines.

It is startling, but the crowd seems to expect it-chants of FAMILY FAMILY FAMILY fill the air around you, shaking the very walls of the tent.  They appear to be at least ten feet tall, and both have the same paitned faces as those that surround you, black and white with grinning white teeth. 

They shout WELCOME JUGGALOS, and though their accent is archaic and bizarre the gathered marauders respond immediately by screaming.  Juggalettes are flinging their shirts away, and juggalos are waving spears and scatterguns in the air.  The music starts again, but this time it is obvious that the two wizards are directing it-they point and chant and leap in a strange dance, spitting their venomous words into small black wands and causing them to echo from every thrumming felt covered box in the tent.  The lights resume their flashing, filling your world with chaos.  Between songs-for it is clear that they are singing from the box-they speak of family, togetherness, kinship and trust.  You are cogent enough to realize the irony.

As the wizards in the box continue their spell, you become aware that the response is programmed-that this has been done many times before.  Even the responses of the crowd are coming from the black boxes, magnified a hundred times and distorted to come from every direction.  And you realize than that this is a play, an act, and that each response from those around you has been carefully cultivated for generations, like the finest hemp fruits.

The thought chills your blood, but you cannot flee yet.  There is more for you to see.

The music fades slowly, leaving a whine in your ears and a vaguely guilty hardon at all the exposed juggalette tits.  The thinner wizard, the one called VIOLENT JAY sits down within the box and speaks into his magic wand.  He tells them Juggalos, listen up for a very special message from the Hatchet Man.  The Hatchet Man never steers you wrong.  And both wizards disappear in a blink from the box, replaced by a new face, one quite different from the others.

The lighting is different in the box now, and the wizard looks strange-he is spindly and pale, wearing only a blue gown of some unknown, flimsy material.  His face is painted with markings that match no known Gypsy Joka tribe, or perhaps resembles that of the Butterfly tribe but poorly rendered and distorted.  His hair is fine and pale, and his eyes are huge and weepy, thick with strange fluids.

He harangues the Jokas for awhile, in a strange, clumsy parody of the two wizards that appeared before him.  He tells them that the two immortal sorcerers, Violent Jay and Shaggy Too Dope, have given him instructions to arm them against the enemies of Shangri-Lah, who was even now gathering his dread forces in the Tex Arcane.  The Hatchet Man spoke of a redneck chicken bitch who would bring ruin on their civilization.  He spoke at length of doom and horror-and then he offered solutions.

A light comes on, focuses on a small knot of men dressed in black with armor and ayears, their faces painted with Butterfly tribe markings-but few juggalos are this well armed or healthy.  Around them are over a hundred massive green crates, each marked US ARMY in the ancient speech.  The Jokas are not na├»ve; they know what is in those crates, and in anticipation the crowd surges forward hungrily, but a sharp shout from the Hatchet Man stops them in an instant.  The Butterfly tribe juggalettes flit and fawn around the black clad newcomers, several draped over each arm, casting something in the air that glitters in the light.

You’ll get your chance, he says.  The Butterflies have the maps.  They have summoned warriors and weaopns from the sky using the ancient sorcery known as HALO, warriors who could show them how to use the artifacts in the crates.  Find this redneck chicken bitch and kill him.  Kill his family.  Burn his holdfast.

Then the music starts up again, the Hatchet Man vanishing and the two god-kings taking up their place as if nothing had happened.  Any further meaning is soon lost in the frenzy.

Your mind is reeling now.  You make for the back of the tent, shoulder aside Jokas who chant along with the war songs of old, stumble a few times on broken bodies.  You cannot comprehend what is happening, but you know you must seek escape from this place of madness and violence and magic.  Breathing hard, your breeches damp, your eyes dazzled, your ears ringing, you flee into the shattered wasteland-and count yourself lucky.

Away from the tent is peaceful only by comparison; the storm breaks thunderously around you.  A porcelain bowl shatters on a rock next to you.  Salt stings your eyes and traces burning lines in your skin.  The maelstrom above snarls its displeasure as you defy it, on into the western wastelands, death howling above and behind.  A great tangle of metal hurtles from above; you see its shape and your mouth gapes open in astonishment.  You’ll never know it was the back end of a school bus, flung into the maelstrom by TEOTWAWKI; you know it only as the wrath of the angry voodoo wizards in the box.  Salt dries up your saliva, and your death tumbles closer.

Come.  Taste.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

A Convenient Rebuttal to an Inane Argument


As a libertarian you get this shit all the time.  "ZOMG BUT WHO WILL BUILD THE ROADS?"

Combined with this story about non union workers being turned away from areas hit by the storm, and this story about the Occupy Sandy movement doing relief work pretty much puts that argument to bed.  How?

#1: Regulating the holy crap out of everything means well meaning relief efforts get stymied by red tape.
#2: People will genuinely do good for one another if left alone to do so.

You don't need a fucking government to build roads.  Everyone who has ever walked in the woods knows that even a fucking deer can build a road.  By subjecting anything, roads, power, any so called 'critical infastructure' to excessive government regulation, you just ensure the private contractors who are actually doing the physical work have to hire more lawyers of the Mandarin class to make sure their shit is up to code.  Since lawyers don't generally work for free, especially when compared to construction workers this raises the cost exponentially.  What you morons are doing is bailing out the new priest-king class.  (Incidentally, you are also doing this with your fancy Obamacare)

Boom, done.  You statist scum need to come up with a new fucking argument.