I really didn't do a ton of research. I figured that since regular, sexual breeding is just preprogrammed genetic material in a randomized interaction with other, preprogrammed genetic material, why not just skip the randomized part? I mean, if someone could rewrite things at a genetic level, all that would be needed would be raw materials and incubation, which is a two birds with one stone kinda thing.
Of course, the whole thing makes no sense on an evolutionary scale, is wildly inefficient, and likely biologically impossible, but it's Lovecraft, so who cares?
There is a DG Green Box Generator online somewhere but I've lost the link. It creates a bunch of crazy items of whatever type you tell it to. Then just tell characters to roll a D20 :-)
Eclipse Phase campaign starts Monday. I should have Bryson Springs revised in a couple of weeks because SCHOOL IS OUT! I'll post it as soon as it's done.
Until then, here's the full excerpt I wrote for "Altamira: End of the Line." Thanks again for all the praise, and I'm glad everyone survived the tornados. I love you guys!
BOX FIVE
Envelope: Return address of OUI magazine submissions department
Sent to Ethan Whitehead’s address in Georgia
Postmark of 11 March 1971
Handwritten note reading “Property of E. Whitehead Estate”
Rejection: Mr. Whitehead:
When we contracted your services regarding the Amazon article, we expected the keen and original voice found in “Man-Jesus with the Golden Arm” to be turned on an exciting topic that would interest our distinguished reading audience. We did NOT desire another piece of fiction (poorly-written at that), nor did we ask for it five months late. Attempting a Rolling Stone-esque tone is one thing, but this pornographic tripe is better suited to a Tijuana Bible than our gentleman’s magazine. As you may have guessed, we are declining to publish “Altamira: End of the Road” at this time. Furthermore, you may expect papers served to your home very soon; the magazine is seeking compensation for the travel expenses and cash advance you so unprofessionally squandered.
Please do not respond to this letter,
The OUI Staff
Napkin: A handwritten note on a napkin reads: “I’m sorry, but things were too strange. I’m trying to write it down, but after another night dreaming it over, the words never seem right. I’m trying. Here’s what I have so far. Gimme some more time, will you?” The note is signed “E.W.”
Altamira: End of the Line:
They sent me to the jungle to write a violent and cunty article about the Wild West come round the wheel of history again; this time landing itself and me in the Southern position at a frontier town called Altamira. Sounds good to me, I said. I’d momentarily grown tired of wrestling with the people in my head and it’s a good plan in such instances to put some new folk in there…filtering out the riff-raff with a nice memory-scrubbing liquor, of course. Or some fermented agave, depending on local customs…
Apparently the latest military coup wasn’t content with its 15 minutes of dictatorship and them crazy damn Brazilians fancied themselves capable of some man-sized, Romanesque public works. Seems the psycho bastards are cutting themselves a road through the green hell alongside the river. Got everyone in on it—government men watching of indigenous tribes and brown proles with bulldozers for 12 hour days of feverish bushwhacking.
They got themselves a goddamned circus in their wake, this nomad encampment called Altamira. As the road pushes through the humidity and jungle stink and poisonous swarms, the town follows behind, serving the workers with booze and drugs and prostitutes hitchhiking in the earth-moving spoonfuls of American-made CATS. I don’t know where the fellas get the energy for it, myself. Getting on the fucking plane to Belem would have killed my fat ass had I not been heavily fortified with a variety of chemicals.
Law has no meaning out in the muddy wilderness. Men are getting shot and left in the trail. They’re paving the road to Latin modernity with the bones of barroom shootouts and used rubbers, like any good civilization should. It’s the last of the wild places where a man’s leisure is as dangerous as his work, and OUI thought ol’ Ethan here was meant to take the snapshot for y’all.
And the plane is coming in over the Basin now, the muddy river cut into the green like a smile on a whore’s face. I’ve got to meet my guide, Dr. Pascado, and get a bead on the local wildness for a point of contrast. Then it’s off down the road to a town that’s never in the same place but always two-lanes wide where I hope to meet men intent on fucking and drinking their way into places humanity weren’t meant to tread…
(The prose ends for a number of pages. What follows is a series of disjointed notes on Whitehead’s preparation to head down river. He meets an American ex-patriot named Dr. Pascado, his hired guide and translator, and gets travel forms signed from a number of Brazilian officials. The pair visits a number of brothels and bars in Belem-proper before catching a boat downstream. On the boat, more alcohol is consumed and the group seems to continue the party once the trip takes them to the road itself. There are brief sketches and notes on their travel companions. Nothing of particular interest jumps out until the pair comes upon what is described as ancient ruins…)
Stone Idols dot the road like a roadside attractions. They even blasted some from the path in their eagerness. I can see why Friar Carjevel named it Amazon in 1542. Great granite women with clubs attacking this strapping young lad with such enormous equipment he doesn’t have the room for legs and has to walk on his hands; poor fellar pecker must have crossed the weight limit for pleasure and into pain. The ladies ain’t having no more, and the bastards so ugly I can’t says I blame them, loyalties be damned.
The ones they aint blasted are remarkably well preserved, except the fella. His face is all but gone. Gotta remember to call and get a museum down here before these savages bash their whole history to hell and gravel.
(The pages cease at this point. The story continues on a different style paper. The paper is crinkled and water-stained. The handwriting is erratic)
Have to write this down. I can’t make sense of it.
We saw the smoke of the town a full two days earlier than expected. The workers must have cut ahead by over ten miles, which might as well be on the Moon in the rainy season. Me and Pascado were worried that they’d gotten sick of the nomad act and put down roots, which was a short jump to laws and culture and no story for ol’ Whitey
Far fucking from it. We are no sooner in sight of the tents when these topless women are running at us with drinks in each hand, titties flopping out. All the men-folk are naked too. Whole place is an orgy and the sun hadn’t even gone down. Place is packed too. Makes me wonder now if anyone was left to actually cut the trees up ahead. Altamira was too damn horny to move.
Pascado and I dive in for the challenge, for journalism and the US of A and whatnot. Things get fuzzy but it’s about the best damn time I can remember having. Men and women trailing off into the woods to make love, music, booze, drugs, etc. A real love-in. I lost my partner in the crush as one senorita after another found my lap and we drank in the massive, sweaty tent they set up.
Then the gunfire.
Army men came from the direction of the work camp, firing in the air. They looked beat to shit. Some were hauling moaning men in improvised stretchers. They line us up naked and wasted in front of the tent like the fucking Gestapo, but even then it seems like some of it think its all part of the party.
I’m scared shitless already when their Sgt. or something comes out of the night. Hard bastard was more scratch than skin; he was bleeding from everywhere. With these dead eyes, he takes off his shirt and starts walking down the line. In front of each person, he cuts himself somewhere with this straight razor, looking in their eyes the entire time. About the fourth one down, he cuts his face. The girl in front of him, she gives out this moan, and then he’s dragging her by the hair.
The soldiers, they circle up around her in a C-shape, real careful to give us a view. The ones not doing that form a line and thumb back the hammers. I’m pissing myself staring down the barrel of a gun, begging in all the languages I know, when I see the girl on the ground. She’s still naked and STILL hot to trot, writhing around in the mud like a horny dog, feinting toward different men like she can’t decide which one she wants more.
Then el Jefe shouts something, and the guys start beating her to death with the rifle stocks. I see it all, but el Jefe, he see me…he’s staring straight at us. And then he’s pointing at folks in the line, and they open up with them goddamn guns each time The man left of me goes down, the couple to my right, scores more. Blood was pooling in the tracks left by the bulldozers.
All that’s left is me and maybe six others, though I’m too fucking scared to turn for a count. There’s this errie calm between the beat-up girl’s last breath and the sounds of jungle resuming. Then there’s the crack of a twig, and a sound like bats, only lots of them. Next thing I know they are shooting again, this time into the trees, screaming “AMANTE! AMANTE!
Some brute grabs me and runs us down the road, loads us into the back of a flatbed. The shooting continues even as we haul ass back in the direction we came from. I see El Jefe light the first of the corpses on fire just as we round the bend.
Pascado was already in the truck when we got loaded in. Face is cut to shit. He’s got no answers for me. What happened? What the hell happened?
Guess that ol’ boy Conrad was right about the jungle.
(The rest of the page is blank. The next is in the same erratic hand. Brownish stains dot the paper.)
Woke up this morning to find Pascado stabbing a soldier with…something. He held it in his teeth and went at the man like a fucking woodpecker. Brazilians almost wiped themselves out in crossfire trying to hit him on full-auto, despite the surf. I ended up cutting something off…out of him with a bayonet and tossing him overboard. Even in the deep water, the piranha made his blood froth.
The survivors threw their own dead to the fish. Didn’t even hesitate. It’s all quiet now, except for that thing I sliced off, still flopping around in an ammo box…
Why am I writing this? The words can’t cut it no more.”
Legal Pads:
(The hundreds of legal pads contain various dates spanning decades. It appears the author tried to rewrite his Amazonian adventure in novel form nearly a thousand times. Each manuscript is incomplete, but contains only minor variations from the other handwritten copies. None get as far as the scene with Pascado in the boat.)
Ammo Box:
(A dented ammunition box covered in Spanish writing is present. It has been bent by some great impact and the latch is broken. The inside of the container is thoroughly scratched.)
