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<blockquote data-quote="Piratecat" data-source="post: 4221718" data-attributes="member: 2"><p><strong>Round One - Match Five</strong></p><p>Piratecat vs. Orchid Blossom</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center"><strong>How My Brother Stopped Listening to Rock and Roll </strong></p> <p style="text-align: center">(a transcript of a tape found in my parents’ attic, c. 1992.)</p><p></p><p></p><p><Click></p><p></p><p>I will move the tape recorder closer, so it hears me. We will want a good recording on the tape. What is that on your shirt? Heh. They spelled “Death” wrong. I am surprised that you did not take care to dress better. A boy whose grade depends on successfully interviewing me – or rather, on successfully interviewing a camp survivor before we all die on you and leave you telling the same dull stories back and forth over our graves – a boy like that should have taken care to make a good first impression. Ripped clothing makes you look like one of us. I am told that you are doing poorly in class. It is my hope that by the time we are done, you will have learned a little more about what it was like during World War 2. And what it is like to be an old man, eh?</p><p></p><p>Heh.</p><p></p><p>I can tell you don’t like that. Nursing homes make young people nervous. They smell the piss and the age and the smell of disinfectant, and they know it’s waiting for them at the end of their road. You smell it, don’t you? They give you adult diapers and occasionally they remember to change you. It’s no place for a sane person. But I don’t have that much longer. As I said, I’m old, but I have important things to tell first. When you’re old no one pays attention to you. It’s like being invisible. You’ll see. We’re going to talk, and we’ll be ignored until you bother to get up and leave. So let’s talk and pass the time. What do you want to know about?</p><p></p><p>Yes, I have killed people. What else?</p><p></p><p>The war. All right.</p><p></p><p>When they came to ask about this school assignment, I asked for one like you. Young and blond and strong, like one of the Aryans. No, sit back down. No need to look disgusted. I am not one of the homosexuals, any more than you are Jewish. And I am very old. Over ninety, now. The people here at the nursing home – even you, who sit across from me looking uncomfortable – the people here at the nursing home think I am a senile old man. A German immigrant to your country, a war refugee from Munich, a widower whose wife died in Dachau. Look, you can see my number from the camp, tattooed here on my arm. </p><p></p><p>It is a lie. I tattooed this number on myself after killing the man who had it first.</p><p></p><p>Do you want to hear my secrets? The ones I’ll never tell anyone other than you and this tape machine? Ah. Now I see I have you. You will not walk out on the story now. It will be a fine paper you will write. If I have to confess to anyone, why not you? So shut up. I will talk, and you will listen. And record.</p><p></p><p>In 1943 I was an archeologist for the Third Reich, but more than that. I was a member of Himmler’s Ahnenerbe. You may not have heard of us, but that is only because you are stupid. You have seen the Ahnenerbe. In your Indiana Jones movie. In your comics about Hellboys. In your horror stories. We were the archeologists who found actual miracles for the Führer, and who made sure he couldn’t lose. </p><p></p><p>Ah, you see? Now you look up at me. You’ve already decided that I am in my dotage. The senility has crept in on little scampering feet that you almost hear, but which you quickly forget because they have stolen away your memory. I have gotten very good at pretending to have dementia. “He has good days and bad days,” they say, “and on his bad days he thinks he is someone else.” It has taken concerted effort. But I’m still as sharp as I was the day that Dr. Steiger ordered me to Vienna to seize the Spear of Longinus from the House of Hapsburg. It was I who gave the grave cloth of Lazarus of Bethany to my Führer. And we uncovered the tomb of an archangel. I think that is what I will tell you about. But only if you hand me that little cup of water.</p><p></p><p>Thank you.</p><p></p><p>The Ahnenerbe was an archeological group dedicated to proving Aryan might. We also fed Hitler’s obsession with the occult. My mentor was a member of the Thule Society and a superb archeologist. Elsa Steiger was not the kind of Nazi scientist you would expect to see in an American movie. She was not tall and blonde, and she had no sex appeal to seduce American spies. I never received any indication that she liked women or men unless they could be of immediate and palpable use to her career. I admired her drive and instincts, however; she would shoot a man in cold blood if he betrayed her, and reward the loyal with wealth plundered from our archeological digs. I was very loyal. I became very wealthy.</p><p></p><p>England had invaded the country three years earlier, so in 1944 our team entered Iraq undercover and without much military support. Dr. Steiger was seeking something hidden in the mountains a certain distance from ancient Babylon. You’ve heard of Babylon, boy? There, in the cradle of civilization? Good. Our mission was to find this dig site and see if it hid anything that could be of use to the Third Reich. Dr. Steiger wouldn’t tell us what the site was supposed to contain. She referred to it as “The Tomb,” and she possibly thought it was just a fable. Still, the hunt for the Grail was dead in the water by then, and Berlin was a dangerous place for anyone not immersed in politics. This was safer and probably more productive.</p><p></p><p>You wouldn’t have known what to make of that world, boy; Nazi agents and British counter-agents, wearing tuxedos and dishdashas, playing an intricate cat and mouse game across a backdrop of sand and betrayal. Within three weeks Dr. Steiger had our expedition packed and we were leading mounts through impossibly narrow passes in the hill country. She paid off three separate local warlords, playing one against the other to make sure that we would remain unmolested. The one Brit we saw who managed to follow us was shot by our guide, and I’ve never felt as isolated as I did in those sun-washed wastes. We had brought a good two dozen people, including local women who were not to be touched by any of the men on pain of castration. Eight of the men fled a week into the march. I never learned why they ran. Superstitious, I imagine.</p><p></p><p>We ended the expedition beside a crumbling defile and a deserted stone pit. The hills slumped over us, eroded by the hot wind that whistled above our heads. In a fever one day, I thought it was talking to us. The rocks there were covered by some sort of scabrous mold. It was not a place meant for humans.</p><p></p><p>“Dig,” said Dr. Steiger. So we dug. And we slept. And we dug.</p><p></p><p>While we did, she consulted with the women and the remaining holy man she had brought with us. They moved us twice. They chanted words in Aramaic, donned strange pointed garments <a href="http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34071" target="_blank">and burned odd herbs</a>. The air filled with the odor, smoky and soft, and it was while smelling it that my pick punched through the stone into an empty space. Another three hours cleared a space large enough for us to squeeze. It was dark by now and the desert grows cold at night. We huddled in front of the opening. A guard gestured with a machine gun, and the women and priest were reluctantly moved into the cave. We tethered the horses, and the rest of the expedition followed. </p><p></p><p>I see your face. You want to know, eh? </p><p></p><p>It wasn’t a cave. In width it was more like a street. The passageway was wide and dry, full of dust and age and sorrow. The air was heavy. The walls... the walls were covered with runes, many of which I did not immediately recognize. I remember thinking that if I perhaps studied them I would understand exactly what it was that they said. I can feel what that was like even now. Can you imagine, boy, what it’s like to explore the edge of something truly momentous? To hunger for knowledge that could actually destroy you? Oppenheimer must have felt like this. Man can not truly touch the mind of the Creator, but standing there I thought I could, and I wanted nothing else in all the world. I must have paused there for minutes, with my lit lantern and my open mouth. I presume that no one else noticed that I was missing, because soon I was alone. Alone to trace my fingertips across those graven runes, and to pronounce them quietly underneath my breath.</p><p></p><p>The sound of gunfire broke my reverie. Screams, then gunfire, then more screams. I started and turned, ran down the ancient stones towards the tumult. Above my head the ceiling opened up into darkness, and I raised my lantern. My breath dropped away.</p><p></p><p>Before me was a carving of a crying angel. It was titanic, <a href="http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34072" target="_blank">a cyclopean masterpiece</a> carved by unknown hands into the most perfect rendition of sorrow I could imagine. From where I stood, I was not altogether sure that it wasn’t actually alive.</p><p></p><p>When I could, I moved forward into the darkness beneath it.</p><p></p><p>Doctor Steiger looked satisfied when I came across her, standing next to our guards. The air stunk of cordite and bright copper. The blood of the civilians looked black in the lantern light. It was splashed across a weathered gray bier. Someone long ago had built this place, and carved that angel, just to shelter the blood-spattered rock that lay in front of us.</p><p></p><p>The civilians, men and women both, had been pushed into a pit at our feet. The bodies lay tangled across one another. I had seen the same at places such as Dachau, but this was different. I looked at my mentor.</p><p></p><p>“Old Testament,” she said. I can remember the flatness and efficiency of her voice. “Blood sacrifices are traditional.”</p><p></p><p>I knew better than to ask her why. She knew enough to tell me anyways. “If I’m right, this stone was once an arch-angel. Jeremiel, if the scriptures are true, angel of prophecy and the one who guided souls from their bodies. According to the apocrypha, he was killed by Lucifer before the Fall. His body, alone of all the angels, plunged to Earth outside of Eden.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I think that’s it sitting in front of us.”</p><p></p><p>There was a noise from the pit, and the guards ratcheted back the bolts of their weapons. No need. None of the shot civilians were alive. But boy, for the life of me, they were <em>moving</em> – sliding downwards out of sight, and clinging to one another as they went. The corpses looked lost, lonely. The last thing we saw were the arms, <a href="http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34070" target="_blank">only the arms</a>, impossibly entwined with one another. Perhaps they meant to hold one another as they passed. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. But it terrified me.</p><p></p><p>“Quit blubbering,” Dr. Steiger snapped. “This...”</p><p></p><p>Then the vision occurred.</p><p></p><p>And this is what you’ll care about, boy. Jeremiel was an angel of prophecy. The blood sacrifice was apparently accepted. Our black and white world of dim lanterns and ruined rock <a href="http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34069" target="_blank">dissolved into a cacophony of screaming flame</a>. Blood and explosions, anger and pain all stabbed across my vision at once. I saw my beloved Führer and I heard screams. I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Third Reich would fall. I saw what would cause my death, and I saw what would prevent it. I glimpsed eternal life. The blood and flame danced before us – </p><p></p><p>When I awoke, I thought I was dying of thirst. Filth-encrusted. Hungry. It had been days. Several had died, and I was the first to regain consciousness. I managed to crawl to our supplies. When I could, I bound the others. I knew I’d need them.</p><p></p><p>I was in that place for months. I made do for food when our supplies ran out. Heh. No one else survived, but I learned many secrets from the Oracle and the carvings on the walls. Many secrets indeed.</p><p></p><p>I was emaciated when I finally left. It was easy enough to pass myself off as a concentration camp inmate once I returned to the Fatherland. I reported the mission a failure. I knew what would soon occur, so I wasted no time in picking a camp victim who looked like me. I had many contacts. It was easy to escape before Berlin fell.</p><p></p><p>And I came here.</p><p></p><p>Heh. You are as smart as I assumed. Of course you think this is all a lie, yes? I said the vision showed me eternal life. But here I sit, an old man in a piss-stained wheelchair. Talking to a young, Aryan boy. Why would I...</p><p></p><p>Oh, no you don’t. <em>Qerech l’kel myan bi’lihjh.</em></p><p></p><p>There we are, nice and still. I’ll be in your body in just a few moments. I learned that much in the Tomb. You’ll be in mine. I doubt you’ll enjoy it much. But I guarantee your family will think your taste in music and clothes has improved.</p><p></p><p>I’ve been waiting for this for so, so long.</p><p></p><p><Click.></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Piratecat, post: 4221718, member: 2"] [b]Round One - Match Five[/b] Piratecat vs. Orchid Blossom [CENTER][b]How My Brother Stopped Listening to Rock and Roll [/b] (a transcript of a tape found in my parents’ attic, c. 1992.)[/CENTER] <Click> I will move the tape recorder closer, so it hears me. We will want a good recording on the tape. What is that on your shirt? Heh. They spelled “Death” wrong. I am surprised that you did not take care to dress better. A boy whose grade depends on successfully interviewing me – or rather, on successfully interviewing a camp survivor before we all die on you and leave you telling the same dull stories back and forth over our graves – a boy like that should have taken care to make a good first impression. Ripped clothing makes you look like one of us. I am told that you are doing poorly in class. It is my hope that by the time we are done, you will have learned a little more about what it was like during World War 2. And what it is like to be an old man, eh? Heh. I can tell you don’t like that. Nursing homes make young people nervous. They smell the piss and the age and the smell of disinfectant, and they know it’s waiting for them at the end of their road. You smell it, don’t you? They give you adult diapers and occasionally they remember to change you. It’s no place for a sane person. But I don’t have that much longer. As I said, I’m old, but I have important things to tell first. When you’re old no one pays attention to you. It’s like being invisible. You’ll see. We’re going to talk, and we’ll be ignored until you bother to get up and leave. So let’s talk and pass the time. What do you want to know about? Yes, I have killed people. What else? The war. All right. When they came to ask about this school assignment, I asked for one like you. Young and blond and strong, like one of the Aryans. No, sit back down. No need to look disgusted. I am not one of the homosexuals, any more than you are Jewish. And I am very old. Over ninety, now. The people here at the nursing home – even you, who sit across from me looking uncomfortable – the people here at the nursing home think I am a senile old man. A German immigrant to your country, a war refugee from Munich, a widower whose wife died in Dachau. Look, you can see my number from the camp, tattooed here on my arm. It is a lie. I tattooed this number on myself after killing the man who had it first. Do you want to hear my secrets? The ones I’ll never tell anyone other than you and this tape machine? Ah. Now I see I have you. You will not walk out on the story now. It will be a fine paper you will write. If I have to confess to anyone, why not you? So shut up. I will talk, and you will listen. And record. In 1943 I was an archeologist for the Third Reich, but more than that. I was a member of Himmler’s Ahnenerbe. You may not have heard of us, but that is only because you are stupid. You have seen the Ahnenerbe. In your Indiana Jones movie. In your comics about Hellboys. In your horror stories. We were the archeologists who found actual miracles for the Führer, and who made sure he couldn’t lose. Ah, you see? Now you look up at me. You’ve already decided that I am in my dotage. The senility has crept in on little scampering feet that you almost hear, but which you quickly forget because they have stolen away your memory. I have gotten very good at pretending to have dementia. “He has good days and bad days,” they say, “and on his bad days he thinks he is someone else.” It has taken concerted effort. But I’m still as sharp as I was the day that Dr. Steiger ordered me to Vienna to seize the Spear of Longinus from the House of Hapsburg. It was I who gave the grave cloth of Lazarus of Bethany to my Führer. And we uncovered the tomb of an archangel. I think that is what I will tell you about. But only if you hand me that little cup of water. Thank you. The Ahnenerbe was an archeological group dedicated to proving Aryan might. We also fed Hitler’s obsession with the occult. My mentor was a member of the Thule Society and a superb archeologist. Elsa Steiger was not the kind of Nazi scientist you would expect to see in an American movie. She was not tall and blonde, and she had no sex appeal to seduce American spies. I never received any indication that she liked women or men unless they could be of immediate and palpable use to her career. I admired her drive and instincts, however; she would shoot a man in cold blood if he betrayed her, and reward the loyal with wealth plundered from our archeological digs. I was very loyal. I became very wealthy. England had invaded the country three years earlier, so in 1944 our team entered Iraq undercover and without much military support. Dr. Steiger was seeking something hidden in the mountains a certain distance from ancient Babylon. You’ve heard of Babylon, boy? There, in the cradle of civilization? Good. Our mission was to find this dig site and see if it hid anything that could be of use to the Third Reich. Dr. Steiger wouldn’t tell us what the site was supposed to contain. She referred to it as “The Tomb,” and she possibly thought it was just a fable. Still, the hunt for the Grail was dead in the water by then, and Berlin was a dangerous place for anyone not immersed in politics. This was safer and probably more productive. You wouldn’t have known what to make of that world, boy; Nazi agents and British counter-agents, wearing tuxedos and dishdashas, playing an intricate cat and mouse game across a backdrop of sand and betrayal. Within three weeks Dr. Steiger had our expedition packed and we were leading mounts through impossibly narrow passes in the hill country. She paid off three separate local warlords, playing one against the other to make sure that we would remain unmolested. The one Brit we saw who managed to follow us was shot by our guide, and I’ve never felt as isolated as I did in those sun-washed wastes. We had brought a good two dozen people, including local women who were not to be touched by any of the men on pain of castration. Eight of the men fled a week into the march. I never learned why they ran. Superstitious, I imagine. We ended the expedition beside a crumbling defile and a deserted stone pit. The hills slumped over us, eroded by the hot wind that whistled above our heads. In a fever one day, I thought it was talking to us. The rocks there were covered by some sort of scabrous mold. It was not a place meant for humans. “Dig,” said Dr. Steiger. So we dug. And we slept. And we dug. While we did, she consulted with the women and the remaining holy man she had brought with us. They moved us twice. They chanted words in Aramaic, donned strange pointed garments [url= http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34071]and burned odd herbs[/url]. The air filled with the odor, smoky and soft, and it was while smelling it that my pick punched through the stone into an empty space. Another three hours cleared a space large enough for us to squeeze. It was dark by now and the desert grows cold at night. We huddled in front of the opening. A guard gestured with a machine gun, and the women and priest were reluctantly moved into the cave. We tethered the horses, and the rest of the expedition followed. I see your face. You want to know, eh? It wasn’t a cave. In width it was more like a street. The passageway was wide and dry, full of dust and age and sorrow. The air was heavy. The walls... the walls were covered with runes, many of which I did not immediately recognize. I remember thinking that if I perhaps studied them I would understand exactly what it was that they said. I can feel what that was like even now. Can you imagine, boy, what it’s like to explore the edge of something truly momentous? To hunger for knowledge that could actually destroy you? Oppenheimer must have felt like this. Man can not truly touch the mind of the Creator, but standing there I thought I could, and I wanted nothing else in all the world. I must have paused there for minutes, with my lit lantern and my open mouth. I presume that no one else noticed that I was missing, because soon I was alone. Alone to trace my fingertips across those graven runes, and to pronounce them quietly underneath my breath. The sound of gunfire broke my reverie. Screams, then gunfire, then more screams. I started and turned, ran down the ancient stones towards the tumult. Above my head the ceiling opened up into darkness, and I raised my lantern. My breath dropped away. Before me was a carving of a crying angel. It was titanic, [url=http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34072]a cyclopean masterpiece[/url] carved by unknown hands into the most perfect rendition of sorrow I could imagine. From where I stood, I was not altogether sure that it wasn’t actually alive. When I could, I moved forward into the darkness beneath it. Doctor Steiger looked satisfied when I came across her, standing next to our guards. The air stunk of cordite and bright copper. The blood of the civilians looked black in the lantern light. It was splashed across a weathered gray bier. Someone long ago had built this place, and carved that angel, just to shelter the blood-spattered rock that lay in front of us. The civilians, men and women both, had been pushed into a pit at our feet. The bodies lay tangled across one another. I had seen the same at places such as Dachau, but this was different. I looked at my mentor. “Old Testament,” she said. I can remember the flatness and efficiency of her voice. “Blood sacrifices are traditional.” I knew better than to ask her why. She knew enough to tell me anyways. “If I’m right, this stone was once an arch-angel. Jeremiel, if the scriptures are true, angel of prophecy and the one who guided souls from their bodies. According to the apocrypha, he was killed by Lucifer before the Fall. His body, alone of all the angels, plunged to Earth outside of Eden.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I think that’s it sitting in front of us.” There was a noise from the pit, and the guards ratcheted back the bolts of their weapons. No need. None of the shot civilians were alive. But boy, for the life of me, they were [i]moving[/i] – sliding downwards out of sight, and clinging to one another as they went. The corpses looked lost, lonely. The last thing we saw were the arms, [url=http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34070]only the arms[/url], impossibly entwined with one another. Perhaps they meant to hold one another as they passed. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. But it terrified me. “Quit blubbering,” Dr. Steiger snapped. “This...” Then the vision occurred. And this is what you’ll care about, boy. Jeremiel was an angel of prophecy. The blood sacrifice was apparently accepted. Our black and white world of dim lanterns and ruined rock [url=http://www.enworld.org/attachment.php?attachmentid=34069]dissolved into a cacophony of screaming flame[/url]. Blood and explosions, anger and pain all stabbed across my vision at once. I saw my beloved Führer and I heard screams. I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Third Reich would fall. I saw what would cause my death, and I saw what would prevent it. I glimpsed eternal life. The blood and flame danced before us – When I awoke, I thought I was dying of thirst. Filth-encrusted. Hungry. It had been days. Several had died, and I was the first to regain consciousness. I managed to crawl to our supplies. When I could, I bound the others. I knew I’d need them. I was in that place for months. I made do for food when our supplies ran out. Heh. No one else survived, but I learned many secrets from the Oracle and the carvings on the walls. Many secrets indeed. I was emaciated when I finally left. It was easy enough to pass myself off as a concentration camp inmate once I returned to the Fatherland. I reported the mission a failure. I knew what would soon occur, so I wasted no time in picking a camp victim who looked like me. I had many contacts. It was easy to escape before Berlin fell. And I came here. Heh. You are as smart as I assumed. Of course you think this is all a lie, yes? I said the vision showed me eternal life. But here I sit, an old man in a piss-stained wheelchair. Talking to a young, Aryan boy. Why would I... Oh, no you don’t. [i]Qerech l’kel myan bi’lihjh.[/i] There we are, nice and still. I’ll be in your body in just a few moments. I learned that much in the Tomb. You’ll be in mine. I doubt you’ll enjoy it much. But I guarantee your family will think your taste in music and clothes has improved. I’ve been waiting for this for so, so long. <Click.> [/QUOTE]
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