Too Many Secrets

We've been obsessed with codes for the past few weeks. There's been talk of code-breakers, patterns, ciphers, keys, hidden messages, riddles, enigmas, cryptography, cryptology, crypto-zoology, sasquat-chology, wendigology, Wendy Os, Wendy O Williamses, William F Buckleyses, F Murray Abrahameses, Abraham and Isaaceseses. Check the archives - it's all in there, couched in terms too... cryptic to comprehend.

So this week, we're going to focus on one of the hard working cipher-grunts here at DemoWAR HQ. He sits in the basement all day and night, using a Drogen's decoder wheel to decode static-filled triple-scrambled microwave transmissions between two soldiers talking in Mandarin Chinese. I'm referring, of course, to Acting-Ensign Rollie Hatch, code-crackologist extraordinaire and mastermind of Beauty and the RoBeast, a compendium of logic so dense and layered that it makes Godel, Escher and Bach look like a street-preacher's pamphlet.

Hatch's application sits on my desk as we speak,the ink still drying on his barely-legible blue-book essay questions. Well, crayon, I guess you would call it.

The handwriting is abominable, but his prose is stunning.

His first submission is revelatory; a breath of fresh air in these times of cultural whitewash. And taking into account the long, hard hours that Hatch puts in, I'll overlook the fact that it was clearly completed with the help of company time and resources. (disclaimer: I am not planning to overlook this.)

Get_Out.mp3

And listen to the original here: FNM_Get_Out.MP3

Stand clear of the closing jaws.

Femme Fatale

Attention, recruits! It's time for a good, old-fashioned Bunk Check! I like to think we run a pretty tight ship here at DemoWAR HQ, so get your gear in order, clear out your foot lockers and iron your sock garters. We'll meet in the barracks at oh-ten-hundred. No, it means ten o'clock, lunkheads. How in the hell could it mean a "thousand o'clock"? You know what, skip the timetable. Let's just get this over with right now.

Private Grenier, you missed a button. And a trouser leg. Damn, man, that looks uncomfortable.

Shipley, are those army issue? Funny, I don't remember the dress code allowing cowboy boots covered in...what is that, barbecue sauce? Oh, they're your "bastin' boots," are they? Well, keep them outside if you're not gonna hose 'em off. (...and save me some dark meat.)

Johnson. At ease, boy... I said at ease, what's wrong with you? ...Oh, for the love of... Who duct-taped Johnson to his bunk? Well clearly he's unconscious, don't you think I can see that? Just... god, just get him down before lunch.

Pemberton, Pemberton, Pemberton... What? No, no, nothing wrong. I just like the sound of your name. It amuses me... kind of like the way you're trying to hide something behind your back by putting it in your mouth. That's charming. Hand it over.
Why, it's just a little radio. Nothing to be ashamed of - wait, what's this little button on the back do? *click*
I_Write_The_Book.mp3


Gods, I recognize that voice. Oh, it can't be.
DiMenna.




I thought she was dead. Pull up a chair, little ones. It's story time. You see, way back in DemoWAR Alpha, a lass by the name of Miss DiMenna had a pirate radio program she put together to entertain the troops. She thought that by giving them a little taste of home, the men would be happier, morale would be raised, and the war would be won. Well the unexpected side-effect of that smoky, come-hither voice was that our recruits were reduced to jelly-legged little schoolboys, huddling around their radios for hours at a time.

We lost the war. (Obviously. Just look at the late 70s.) Suspicions abounded, allegations were made and before too long, Miss DiMenna just ...disappeared. Except now it looks like she's up to her old tricks. This vixen - this... temptress of tawdry transistors is akin to the spawn of Tokyo Rose and the best parts of Mata Hari, and what you end up with is like some sort of science-fiction monster that I'll call...Matoharatokyosie.

I been eating your crops like a big old locust

We work hard to make sure you pathetic walking hormones get the cold shower you so desperately need. The saltpeter in your food, compulsory wind sprints at dawn, flat-front khakis—and yet despite all our efforts, some prurient thoughts still remain, and they weaken your resolve. No, not that kind of resolve, Shipley, and get your mind out of the gutter.

So I'll just... confiscate this little device. I should destroy it right now to teach you a lesson, to rub your noses it in like the dogs you are, but you'd enjoy that too much. No, I have just the place in my - my office. Yes, my office. Where I keep things like this—dangerous things—away from prying eyes. Ears. Away from prying ears.

Exoskeletons Never Did Nobody No Good

Dispatches from overseas have been in short supply this week, and I find out now that it's been due to a tussle on the deck of Admiral Boyle's aircraft carrier, the U.S.S. Scuttlebutt. Now, I'm reluctant to use the word "mutiny" in mixed company, so let's just say that a certain Admiral has a certain temper, and it was inflamed by a supposed infraction into his supposed territory, sparking a certain turf-war and eventually leaving him stranded in a dinghy off the coast of Cape Horn. I'll just leave it at that.

To keep his spirits up, Joe laid down this sweet little ditty to keep himself occupied until help arrived.
It's_Gonna_Be_All_Right.mp3

And give a listen to Ween's version here.

Boyle was dismayed to discover that the cause of his frustrations was nothing more than the trouble-making of the detestable scamp illustrated in this rarely seen image:

A bile-inducing "artist's rendition."

Known simply as The Mollusk, this ugly little bastard uses its over-developed cochlea to echo and mimic sonar waves. Then after strapping itself onto a ship hull, all barnacle-like, it messes with the transducers, or the capacitors, or something.

How's that for a last-minute wrap-up attributed to a previously unheard-of lifeform?

---

REVISIONIST UPDATE:
Joe has recorded a new version of his first song, You Can Close Your Eyes. Hop in the Delorean and motor back the first post to check it out.

"Acting-ensign Andreson, reporting for duty, sir!"

Let's see, Andreson...acting-ensign, first class... says here you were stranded behind enemy lines for the past three years, miraculously evading capture by shaving all your body hair, dressing conspicuously and standing creepily behind a dead tree (marsh locations a specialty.) That's a hell of a camouflage technique you got there. We appreciate your, well, your dedication to service and we're glad to have you back.
Let's give a listen to some of the intel you were able to obtain:

Download: Fitzgerald.mp3

Deep cover.

Damn fine work, Andreson! As a token of gratitude, we've scheduled a 21-gun salute to thank you, our new acting-ensign, for your first submission. Ready... aim... Not towards traffic, private! More sort-of...up, I guess. Jesus, don't they teach you anything in basic training? Aim... wait for the birds to pass... Johnson! Did you hear me say "fire"? Grenier, Shipley, grab Johnson. He's got that crazy look in his eye again. Pemberton, is that a flask? Medicine for your "nerves"?! Give me that!

If you troops think this sort of grab-ass is acceptable, let me be the first to tell you it is NOT! If we get kicked off this highway median for disorderly conduct, this will mark the last field trip for the rest of the year. Mark my words! Shoulder your weapons and haul ass back to camp.
Sorry you had to see that, Andreson. We'll kick these idiots into shape and maybe get you a proper salute next time.