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Captian Horatio Daisy Gustavus MacNiel Monaco's Journal

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Monday, March 7th, 2005
1:53 pm - Inventory
Since returning from that shadow'd land beyond this mortal life for--what the third time now, I have taken inventory of those items what have been lefted behind for and/or by me.

My ship: Gone.

My crew: Gone, save Magellan Smythe and Argumentus Constantine. Both have been soused utterly the entire time, which pleased me to no end. Far less trouble can be caused by them in such a state.

My other Possessions: Mostly Gone. I have been spared the indignity of waking up from my torpor without certain modesty-giving garments.

My task now, it seems, is to find a Method by which I may procure certain Monies, which, in turn, verily, will allow me to purchase a New Ship with which I will hunt down my Old Ship, steal it back from those thieves, and sail two Ships to the Spice Islands to recover my expenses and make a bit of tuckee on the side.

Once Magellan has recovered from his stupor--this may take a week, we shall consult as the most speedy method of Money Procurement.

current mood: erstwhile

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Tuesday, February 8th, 2005
3:06 pm - What ho!
I say, where have I been? Lost? Forgotten? Ill with dropsy?


I was dead again, but I have been given this my third life. I shall endeavor to waste it as carefully as the others I have had before it! May I forever do things great.


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Friday, January 31st, 2003
5:25 pm - Huzzah!
I have secured a new vessel. The Sham sank at about two in the morning last week. The new vessel is currently named Euchre. I do not like this name. I have been thinking of something along the lines of the Viscous Lemur. Argumentus says it means something quite favorable in his rude-sounding native lingua.

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Saturday, January 11th, 2003
5:36 am - On Deadness
Being dead gave me time to think, as it often does in these cases. After being awkoen with that saffron poultice, I feel as though a change must be made.

We're starting over. Everyone's fired. Get off my ship.

Only Guy Fancophone, Magellan Smythe--who I think is still alive; I could be wrong; I must re-read this blasted electro-log--and Argumentus Constantine, even though he is a garlic-smelling windbag.

I must re-do this adventure, as we have never left port and the ship is rotting away. The hull is, I'm told, rife with screworms and banshees. I also cannot find nearly any of my possessions. This happened to me once in the south of Araby. I had angered a local prince by telling him, inadvertantly of course, that he looked like a waterfowl and that his mother was a whore. He took offense and sent a hashshashin to force me to join the choir invisible, as it were. He slipped a potion in my tankard of grog. When I came to, all of my things were gone and I was buried to the cravat in the middle of a waste-land. So this is nothing new.

I'll write more once I think of what it is precisely that that will be.

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Friday, January 10th, 2003
5:43 pm
Where did I put that map?

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Friday, December 27th, 2002
12:35 am
I may have been dead!

Guy Fancophone revived me with a poultice made of ten grams of saffron. There have been no after affects other than the colour of my urine being a pinkish red. Those blasted Persians have meddled with my plumbing for the last time!

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Thursday, October 3rd, 2002
7:12 pm
One time, you know, I ventures into the Northlands and through a compass error--this was before I had sworn off all things Chinese--I ended up in the lands of Gog and Magog. (An aside: after swearing off all Chinese inventions, I devised a unique method or orienteering involving clove oil, the innards of a duck, and a fife. Details will be provided at a later date.)

As you well know, Gog and Magog are where all sorts of evil things reside. Towards the end-times, these beasts will invade the rest of the world, begining with Europe. Hopefully, they will be especially merciless with those distrustful and lurid Iberians.

The Twin Cities, as I shall call them, we built of tar, pitch, and the bones of dead things. I can't really remember much of anything after that, but I am quite certain that it was amazing beyond all belief.

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Saturday, September 14th, 2002
5:26 pm - Reason
My Good Friend, Baron Munchausen said this, or something like it.

There's too much reason in the world now. There's no room for an old man like me, full as I am with stories of trips to the moon, oceans of wine, and ladies, beautiful ladies! All everyone is concerned about anymore is Facts and Figures. So, I'm going to die now.

Of course, he did not, My Good Friend the Baron cheaated Death on numerous occasions, and this was of course one of them. In my grog-addled state, I thought it fitting to share the above with you all.

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5:24 pm - AHOY!
I have just been informaed that upon the 19th of Septembre, in the Gregorian calander, adjusted by the Hyksos calander's anniversary of Hapshetsut's untimely demise--what a lady!--it will be Talk Like A Pirate Day.

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Sunday, September 1st, 2002
6:36 pm
A'salaam alaikum! Qui est la? My hombre est la bas! Elle baise bien! Ta'mem! Grog.

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10:45 am
I remember the last time I was in Mombasa. I was traveling through the Dark Continent, looking for Aegyptian treasure. Let me tell you, as someone who knows, you will only find such treasures in Aegypt and no-where else. (Excepting of course, Old Aegypt, or what is now known as the Nubian Lands.) And most of it has been stolen by Arabs anyway.

I had not drunk water for forty days, subsisting on camel spider and glasses of sand. Luckily, I also had a brick of dried dates as well. To cover ground more quickly, I had, at the last oasis, chopped down two palm trees. With a pocket-knife, I hewed the two trees into a fashionable pair of stilts. They were quite high.

I practiced with them for a few days before continuing my journey.

An aside: I should mention my fellow travelers. They were all dead at this point. I was simply attempting to arrive at some civilized outpost before I too succumbed to their most fatal fate. Oh, and I wanted Aegyptian pirate treasure too.

My stilts were so high in fact that due to my new position closer to the sun, I dried out like a raisin in the sun. I arrived at Mombasa--a lovely beach city, full of savage creatures, pirates, thieves, liars, clergymen, and communists--at a little under three feet tall.

After procuring a room at a local hostel, I drew a bath. My shriveled body absorbed about three tubfuls of water before assuming it's true muscular yet svelte stature.

I spent a good deal of time in Mombasa. I was un-sober for most of it, so I do not have any coherent tales to tell of that time in my life. I do remember one involving a tempestuous rhinoceros and a fun-loving yet haggard dry goods clerk. But it will have to wait for another time.

Oh yes, another thing. Mr. Magellan Smythe has died. One of his magical medicinal potions backfired, quite literally, and Mr. Smythe was engulfed in flames. I have subsequently promoted Guy Fancophone to the position of First Mate. Even though I cannot tolerate his bizarre moon-man talk, he seems to be most able in matters concerning seamanship and particle physics.

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Tuesday, August 20th, 2002
3:34 am - ?
...Xanadu? Am I in Xanadu?

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Wednesday, June 12th, 2002
12:57 pm
As I was sipping a brandy last evening, I remembered an interesting tale, which I shall now to you relate.

The Phoenician was a gaunt man, unbelievably tall, his head topped with a thinning crop of wispy grey hair. He wore an old flour sack and sandals made of tin and rope. I had arrived in this land after my previous ship, the Withering Druthers, had run aground due to a compass error--since which I have never trusted anything invented by the Chinese. (I pay for all items in gold or silver coinage. Paper money is not to be trusted as it combusts all too readily.)

After a long conversation with this man, I found I had landed in Sfax, the seaport famed for exports of salted fish and cedar timbers. Inland, I learned, were several dry lake beds where salt could be readily obtained. Many native Phoenicians harvested salt to be shipped out to Basqueland, the Saxons, Goths, and the Aegyptian Copts.

I decided to ride a salt freighter toward my homeland. The ship was massive and it reeked of poorly stored fish and hardtack. I was forced to eat ashes and suffer other humiliations. Thankfully I had brought along a flask of bourbon, for which my head would have been removed if it were discovered by a crew member.

The ship ran aground off the coast of a small island which was wreathed in detritus. I was the sole survivor, it seemed, and the ships cargo of cedar boardfeet and salt was lost. I managed to grab a ramekin of salt for myself and a cedar plank to aid in my attempts at flotation. I slowly made my way to the island.

I fell asleep on the beach and did not awake for some time. When I did achieve some semblance of sleeplessness, I noticed several footprints in the sand around me.

But, I tire easily when I'm, as they say, three sheets to the wind. I will continue my tale later, you dirty wretch!

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Friday, May 24th, 2002
10:07 am - Basques!
Those horrid pre-Iberians have struck again!

I was napping, quite gently in my squalid cabin last week-end, when I heard and most cacophonous clamor outside. I went above-decks clad only in my nightshirt to find them. Basques: those dread cod-poachers and navigators. They were spouting some nonsense in that strange Jovian language of theirs, which no-one may ever hope to understand. Their overly floppy berets, too, were in plain view, all places upon their thick-skulled heads at jaunty angles! Oh, what a horrid sense of maritime fashion!

They then proceeded to throw rotten squid parts at my vessel, the Gilded Sham. Rest assured, ye scourge of both Spain and France, that I shall take this matter up with the International Court of the Sea!

Where can I get some Icelandic salt cod? It far better that the scummy waste that those Basques produce.

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10:07 am - Basques!
Those horrid pre-Iberians have struck again!

I was napping, quite gently in my squalid cabin last week-end, when I heard and most cacophonous clamor outside. I went above-decks clad only in my nightshirt to find them. Basques: those dread cod-poachers and navigators. They were spouting some nonsense in that strange Jovian language of theirs, which no-one may ever hope to understand. Their overly floppy berets, too, were in plain view, all places upon their thick-skulled heads at jaunty angles! Oh, what a horrid sense of maritime fashion!

They then proceeded to throw rotten squid parts at my vessel, the Gilded Sham. Rest assured, ye scourge of both Spain and France, that I shall take this matter up with the International Court of the Sea!

Where can I get some Icelandic salt cod? It far better that the scummy waste that those Basques produce.

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Wednesday, March 27th, 2002
10:02 am - Hm!
I think I have a strange tale to tell. It reveals a secret, that being my location for the past several months.

But first, my feet are worn and weary. I require an Ottoman--the footrest--and a stiff drink served to me by an Ottoman--the Turk--before I can begin composing my tale.

current mood: in need of drink

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Monday, September 24th, 2001
4:43 pm - Mystery!
Who has taken my brandy snifter?

current mood: angry

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Saturday, August 4th, 2001
1:14 pm - A fight!

I forgot something. All of my crew live on the Gilded Sham (the rent is quite
nice--free! I own the damnable pile of sea-rot!). Naturally, this leads to some
interesting exchanges between crew-persons.

Arumentus Constantine, who is of Latin descent and reeks of garlic, that horrid
poison herb, was speaking loftily about the benefits of regular colonic
hydrotherapy, something of which I have, thankfully, scant knowledge.

He has talking to one of my Minor Sailors, Peg. Peg is man of dubious history, mainly because he has a peg head, two glass eyes, a hook hand, and two peg legs.
Peg is a quiet man, who usually keeps to himself, but he is handy aboard a ship.
At least, that's the impression I get.

So, Argumentus and Peg were talking about colonic hydrotherapy, which is
something, I have already mentioned, I have almost no knowledge of. I believe the argument was about the type of equipment used in such an intimate endeavor as
this, but I am not certain.

What I am certain of is the result: fisticuffsmanship! Aboard my sweet vessel!
Utterly unheard of! Except that once, when that other guy was drunk and his
what's-his-face! That was excusable; there were extenuating circumstances!

But this!

I watched for a while, slightly amused. In the tumult, the two brave fighters
managed to upturn my mug of sailor's grog, at which point the foolishness had
to end.

Since, Peg had that claw of a hand, and Argumentus was slightly larger than I,
I summoned Guy Francophone to aid me. With a great deal of gesticulating, I got
the point of what I wanted to do across to him.

Then, he ran away.

He came back, with some sort of apparatus in his hand. He aimed it at the
fighting pair and pulled the trigger with no obvious results. But, the gun
was doing something, for the combatants'' blows became weaker and weaker still
until they had simply fatigued.

Later, after an exceedingly long "conversation" with Francophone, I discovered
he was using a Positive Ion Ray Gun on Peg and Arguemntus. I was amazed. This
physicist will be an invaluable asset to my crew.

current mood: Burly

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1:05 pm - Guy
I spoke briefly--well as much as one can speak to him--with Guy Francophone,
my ship's on-board particle physicist. He gesticulated wildly, panting and
hooting in that strange moon-man talk he has. He directed, then, my attention
to a folded newspaper. The headline proclaimed that, indeed, the supposed
discovery of the Higgs boson, a particle theoretically responsible for mass,
was naught but a fib.

I was rather relieved at this news. It had been a fear of mine that this
Francophone would conduct massive experiments with this boson, and perhaps
he would create so many of them as to give the Gilded Sham far too much
weight and sink us all in the briny depths.

Nobody wants that sort of thing.

At any rate, The ship, my meager crew, and I are still stuck in this small
town, drinking each night until we can barely stand. It a fine, adventurous
life, I suppose. It is frustrating, though, to be here, while spirited and
breath-taking Adventure lie just offshore. It is also frustrating to not
fully comprehend why it is, exactly, that we are not moving.

I am afraid that Magellan Smythe, my trusted first mate has come down with
a case of ennui. At least, this is what Guy Francophone tells me. I
worry about him, for he is the sticky mas of glue that will hold our crew together on our harrowing journey to the Spice Islands.

Certainly it's true that our vessel is in need of repair, but nothing drastic.
She floats, after all. We need a new top gallant sail, a new aft mizzen mast,
and a new fore stay sail, but these things come cheap in a town such as this.

Speaking of cheap, I found a wonderfully inexpensive cabin compass today. It's
oil-filled, and points north a great majority of the time. For only $3.39, I
think I made out on top this time!

Well, the sky is getting darker. I think I shall take Guy and Magellan out
with me tonight. Perhaps the sheer silliness of Guy's "language" will make
Magellan mirthful.

current mood: downtrodden

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Thursday, July 26th, 2001
2:13 pm - A Story and Frustration
I am frustrated by my seeming inability to get this Adventure underway. It reminds me of the time, long ago, when a group of the bravest men I have ever traveled with were faced up against the nefarious Ilghazi the Ortoqid, a Turk of some sort, as I recall.

His ethnicity isn't all that important. What is important is the fact that he was quite nefarious. He earned his nefariousness by thieving a most valuable artifact from the vaults of the Holy See. He stole the signet ring of the leader of the Emperor Manuel's Varangian Guard. Known to history only as Stephen, it was reveled to me by a vice-pope type person that Stephen true identity was none other than that of Pope Calixtus II.

Both Calixtus and the Bishop of Oporto conspired to make it appear as if this "Stephen" was an ordinary man, to rouse support for the current (the Second, I believe) Crusade. This one was a two-front war: the one, to fight the Moors in Iberia, the other to reclaim various lost cities in the Latin East.

At any rate, we were traveling in these lands, attempting to recover the signet ring from that loathsome Turk, when we encountered a dissenter. Shoddily clothed, and speaking broken, grammatically incorrect Latin, Imad ad-Din Zengi, the governor of Mosul, chaffed under the iron boot of Ilghaz, and wished quite desperately to see him tossed into the Vatican's dark, smelly dungeons.

After the transferring of a few trinkets--pocket watches, glass beads, the score of The HMS Pinafore, two bonsai trees from the Emperor of Nippon, eighty-three pence, the ocular of my best telescope, and a recipe for bread pudding--Imad ad-Din Zengi told us the approximate location of the blaspheming Ilghazi.

The only trouble was that Ilghazi had hid himself in the deepest parts of the Taurus Mountains, which during the winter, are all but unpassable. Thus, my band and I had to wait until the warmth of spring rid those awful mountains of their white covering. It was hoped, then, that the location of Ilghazi would become readily apparent.

This was not the case. As they are called the Taurus Mountains, not the Taurus Mountain, it should be apparent that there are more than one of them. This does not describe, I think, the truth of the situation. There is, indeed, more than one of these mountains; there are many, many, many of these mountains. It made searching quite difficult.

It took us many fortnights, but we did finally catch up with that nefarious Ilghazi the Ortoqid. We found him in a cave, near the town of Konya, a desolate village, where it seemed the only product was anger and resentment of white- skinned foreigners.

It wasn't all too difficult to pry the ring from Ilghazi's hands, and he was dead and half eaten by what appeared to have been a bear or something. He had, I surmise, been frozen one night, when he had been unable to light a fire in his mountain hideaway. Tough luck for him.

The Vatican rewarded us all rather handsomely, but hinted that we not tell others about out adventures in the service of the Pope. I am, for your benefit, sometimes unable to understand such subtleties.

I'm not quite sure what this story had to do with my current situation as an anxious adventurer, other than the blessed virtues of patience and prudence. It was fun to tell, though.

Where is my morning whiskey and rum smoothie?

Where is my particle physicist? I need more fermions on this ship!

current mood: 100 GeV

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