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.

Uncharted Territory

One of the main objectives of the new ISP "information pipeline" is to establish contact with Fleet Admiral Joe Boyle, last seen adrift somewhere in the South Pacific, aiding a sea creature in need. The problem with our aim is this - Connecting with someone through the ISP is a tricky process, one requiring a great deal of skill, global positioning know-how, and a general knowledge of where the target person is. We're 0 for 3.

At this point, our intel on Boyle has been reduced to the message-in-a-bottle variety. Literally. Every three or four days we receive a missive scrunched up into a Chilean wine bottle, or some such thing, with a cryptic message that's been scrawled on a bar napkin, etched into wood chips, or in one case, watermarked on the sails of a tiny model ship. Here are a few examples to give you an idea what we're working with:

Swimming upon the Devil's lake. Right next to the Devil's ranch house. Nice horsies.

If planning to sit upon the setting sun, bring some water.

Lucky numbers are 13, 43, 64, 88, eleventy-seven.

The Devil's lake and the setting sun? Land of the setting sun? Boyle could be in the mountains of Tibet by now, a man of his resources. He could be in Tokyo. Dublin. Kenya. Hell, he could be hiding in the back row of this senate subcommittee.

He could be disguised as the clock.

To our not-so-credit.... to our uncredit, to be grammatically esuphegent, we're thwarted by the Admiral himself. He could be leading us along with these messages in bottles, in some messages-in-a-bottle-on-a-stick mind games. And the Gulf Stream could be a little more cooperative. Someone in Greenland is getting some other pieces of the puzzle, and God help us if they get their hands on a corner piece. We're going to need a bigger net... and see if you can't find the cover of the box while you're at it.

I can only assume the hobo's name is Steven.

One bottle we received contained this record, rolled into a perfect tube. The album, when extracted, popped open, blooming like a beautiful vinyl flower, completely intact and sounding like this:
The_Wind.mp3

Primary sources can be found here: CatStevens_The_Wind.mp3

We'll need every recruit's help with this one. Boyle is out there operating without any decent restraint, totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct. Or he could be, you know... drinking mojitos. Either way, we need more ammo - send your own munitions and submissions to wedontneednotape@gmail.com.

New Installment: Operation Leapfrog

Everyone knows that in times of war, communication is priority one. Well, in the wake of a recent incident involving our former accounting team and a few Cayman Island tax shelters, DemoWAR budgets have been reassessed.

Updated: DemoWAR HQ Budget Priorities:
1) Pursue, eliminate enemy personnel
...
16) BoyleHunt 2000 [Ongoing]
...
23) Start saving for super-cool Acoustic Bazooka

...I'll just flip towards the end of the report:

972-c) Radio Relay Maintenance

See what we're working with? As a result, we're stuck with what I like to call "heirloom" radios, devices of such vintage and antiquity that we live in constant fear that the mobile command unit will turn into a fireball on wheels. Just yesterday, in fact, a high-pitched whine coming from the radio room caught my attention. The volume increased to the point of eyeball warbling before ending with a loud pop and a muffled "Ah Christ!" (Thankfully, earlier that week I had the foresight to call on a friend who slathered everything in my office with a flame-retardant gel. "Good timing!" I thought, as the ensuing shower of sparks bounced off my retardant gel-encased face.)

Another consequence of this mesozoic machinery is that our communiques are oftentimes... garbled. Transmissions get through, but not the way they were intended. This week I bring you one such attempt. The following were transcribed by Acting-Ensign Andreson and myself. Admiral Boyle managed to worm his way in as well, and his input was delivered by carrier pigeon not five minutes ago.

The protocol:
Message must be relayed to a soldier with no previous knowledge of the original. Soldier then reinterprets and passes along to the next recipient.

The original message:
Venus.mp3 by Television

This particular message spread like a virus. That is to say, quickly and with much mutation. It moved from Andreson...



to Dowd...


to Boyle.

And you can collect all three in one handy zip file: Venus.zip
Unless federal belts are tightened to the point of moebius strips, this could very well be a recurring series. Keep your eyes and ears peeled. (More Emma than John.)

Technology: Discomfort Through Sound

Well it seems the boys in the lab have been busy cooking up some new forms of warfare.

...Finally! Honestly, how much longer do they expect us to deal in lead, anyway? It's antiquated. If I could look back in time, I would see a family of cavemen eating still-frozen dinners and waving their guns around; grunting angrily while their boring cave-aunt and cave-uncle show slides from their vacation outside the cave. Guns are old news, and it's time to move on.

Fortunately, I just found this sales brochure in the DemoWAR inbox:

Today's modern warrior is faced with more challenges than ever before. Picture this: You fight your way through jungles, deserts, and/or legions of infidels. You hurdle claymore mines and dodged enemy sniper fire. You wail a lonely wail while a brother* lay in your arms, gasping his last breath and longing to see his wife back home just one... last... time. (sniff)

After a long day on the field, do you want to find yourself face to face with the business end of a hardened bunker? Well no more! Now, with the aid of BowelCorp's new Acoustic Bazooka™, enemy personnel will bow down in fear and discomfort as you bombard them with swaths of friendly IBM radiation. [patent pending]

Cross-section of simulated encounter

"IBM" is a proprietary, non-lethal warfare technology capable of incapacitating multiple opponents at a time by causing dizziness, nausea and triggering lower GI functions. Affected enemies will be down for the count, or at least as long as it takes to find a clean uniform.

Our design team paid careful attention to the directional layout of the weapon, ensuring that no ill effects will be experienced by the user. As a precaution, however, ultra/infra-canceling earphones are affixed to the absorbent belt pack, guaranteeing the freedom you need to be active and independent.

Call today for pricing, or find an Acoustic Bazooka™ retailer near you!

*BowelCorp accepts no responsibility for brothers lost, mangled or otherwise misplaced in the line of duty.

To be honest, I stopped reading after "non-lethal." But this pamphlet raises a few questions. The easy questions are, "Just how hardened is this bunker, if there's a huge, jagged hole in its face? Couldn't we just toss a grenade in there and be done with it?"

The more challenging questions are along the lines of, "What gorram planet are we on, fighting Blue Target Blobs (BTBs) who are fueled by symbiotic human hosts?" And, "In the future, is one person in charge of color-coordinating uniforms and weapons, or is it more of a concerted effort?"

Alas, this gun is but a prototype, and my efforts to find a working version have been met with reactions ranging from "Chya?!" to "I see..." (eyes narrow, button is discreetly pressed, security guards arrive brusquely.) My faith in technology, progress, and the whole of mankind is temporarily shaken, and as I rest my head on my trusty ammo box, I flip a 30-06 cartridge across the back of my hand until sleep comes. My dreams are filled with the sound of rifles, mortars, and RPGs firing in 3/4 time.

Thanks to Wired for the original article, found here.

We Emerge Victorious!

Two months ago, staffers at DemoWar HQ undertook a huge... um, undertaking. Our goal was to unite all the countries of the world (read: all God-fearing, freedom-loving countries,) in peaceful harmony. Well it seems this ground was well-trod, and so we adjusted. You do what people do, which is fail. Then you reassess, place some blame, and you better damn well adapt or die. Darwinism. Get on board, or be left in that murky tank with the coelacanth.

As a result, our already irregular posting schedule slowed to a deathly halt. Our new, revised task seemed daunting. It was of such magnitude that the whole HQ was uprooted and forced to go underground - a subterranean side-quest, if you will, that took us on a trip to the coldest place on the planet.

Burbank, CA

From the frosty North, we commenced drilling our new International Subterranean Pipeline, and now that it has been completed, with minor hiccups, setbacks, and just a couple of flipper babies, we are back ONLINE. Now I'm sure you're wondering, "DemoWar, this seems like a lot of power for one entity to hold. What exactly are you using said pipeline for?"

Well, we just wanted to have it, okay? But since you ask, we could use it for anything. We could send medicine to people in aid... Beam NATO liaisons abroad at a moment's notice... Obtain DNA information for every citizen on the pla-
Listen. There are automated shuttle-cars, you see, and jetpack dispensaries. Fiber optics are involved, somehow. Rails have been greased, as have palms. The world is our oyster, though try to imagine an oyster being tunneled through by thousands of tiny, tiny ants.

And their ant-jetpacks.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves, here, and I've said too much. All you, the citizen—the loyal, law-abiding citizen—need to know is that this project has taken years off my life. So many years, in fact, that I find myself prone to bouts of buffoonery, chicanery and the general fuddruckery that comes with old age, leaving myself open to bad jokes and word plays like THIS:
Old_Man.mp3

Album art takes a backseat this week.

Get it? I feel OLD. The song has the word "Old" right in the title! And if anyone asks, no one here knows nothing about no severed underseas cables. Capice? Now who wants some hard candy? Peanut brittle? Sour balls?

Basement Bunker

Last week, our army's newest member, Acting-Ensign Hedrick, had some housework to attend to. Menial, banal housework during which absolutely nothing interesting happened. Sweep, sweep, sweep... dust, dust, dust... find a new door in the basement...find a new door in the...

Wait. Back up a step.

On his way downstairs, Hedrick slipped on a handful of marbles left there by Lil' Ensign Hedrick, knocking over a disused water-cooler and a stack of surfboards in the process. When he came to a few hours later, he looked up to see this old friend staring him in the face:

Not a Biohazard LP.

Behind all the dust and debris, this helpful signpost led Gary to a real, live fallout shelter from this country's best war, the Cold War. Well, he did what any good soldier would do and polished her up, checked the floor joices, and stocked the larders with plenty of canned rations and MREs. And after spending some time down there in the dark, he retrofitted it with the ultimate in recording hardware: A laptop microphone.

Here are the fruits of his labor:
Tired_Of_You.mp3

The (slightly) louder version is available here: Foo_Tired of You

The only downside - to plug in the laptop, something had to give. "Something," in this case, was a school of goldfish. Fortunately, no fish were harmed in the writing of this post.*

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*CORRECTION: TWO fish were harmed in the writing of this post.

Land Ho!

When last we left our fearless Admiral Boyle, he was stranded out at sea with nothing to help pass the time but his trusty guitar, a laptop, diesel generator for said laptop, seven cans of gas for said generator, a dog-eared issue of Club International* and a pringle-can wifi antenna that was spotty at best. He drifted about for a few days trying to find inspiration, some kind of muse or stimuli, a goddamn wireless signal so he could triangulate his location, something!

Now there are a lot of things in this great, big ocean of ours, and it turns out that most of them are water. You would think that this sea of endless blue would discourage, but Joe managed all right, and even found someone that he got along with:

Sweet tortoise-shell finish!

Olive was a sweet girl who found herself in a "family way" and needed some help. Knowing, as all good Navy officers do, that sea turtles of the family Cheloniidae will return to their place of birth in order to lay their eggs**, Admiral Boyle tethered his life-raft to Senorita Ridley's shell and hitched a ride. When they finally beached, Joe held her flipper and wiped her brow with a moist cloth while she dug in the sand to deposit her young ones.
Soon after, this happened:


Joe named them all Marvin.
Can you blame him? With that kind of inspiration, anyone's thoughts would quickly turn to love (and the making of.) Also, the salt-water dementia was starting to set in. It was all Joe could do to avoid stepping on the adorable little buggers as he ran to lay down this saucy little number:

Marvin, you are so close to being in a Tool video.

Download Joe Boyle's desert-island Let's_Get_It_On.mp3

And listen to the old, blurry one here: Gaye_Let's Get It On

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*No hyperlink for that one, dirtbag.
**It's right after Basic Training, in Not-So-Basic Training.