Wednesday, 26 April 2017

The Adventure of Professor Don Killjoytea de La Nienburg and his trusty PhD student Sancho Foreign Sounding Last Name

Although Infinity & Beyond + 1 magazine doesn't usually publish post-industrial fiction (Pi-Fi), we make an exception for the following submission to 22billionenergyslaves's Pi-Fi short story contest. Infinity & Beyond + 1 magazine, where Higher, Faster, Stronger is not high enough, not fast enough and too effing weak.

In the town of La Nienburg resided for the previous months the famous scientist Professor Don Killjoytea together with his lady Delores. In these frugal times, tenure was rarely rewarded, even for the most brilliant of professors, thus impelling them to travel to far and distant lands for honour, adventure and project funding, dragging with them whatever family the genius scientist had accumulated. Our heroic professor and his lady Delores were regrettably robbed of precious sleep during their habitation in La Nienburg, which the professor, on this fine summer’s day, was determined to correct.

 “Cast your eye at those terrible and vicious dragons on the horizon there Sancho. I do find them offensive,” said Professor Don Killjoytea atop his motorcycle.

“What dragons?” asked Sancho Foreign Sounding Last Name, the Professor Don Killjoytea’s trusty PhD student who was now accompanying the professor in his sidecar, “You don’t mean those wind turbines in the distance? Why, I don’t find them offensive, sir, not at all, I quite like the aesthetics of white towers dotting otherwise uninspiring landscape.”

“These monsters are an offensive blight on our holy land Sancho,” returned the Professor, who was now speeding together with his student towards the wind turbines located only a few klicks further afield.

“As of today we have project money for our attack, which we shall perform at once. I have been preparing for this day when we may finally cause the permanent disruption of these whirling noise-breathing dragons. My research has uncovered previous scientists attacking such beasts head-on, with lance and horse, but who have failed to budge them even an inch! That method of attack will not do here my dear Sancho, against such formidable monsters.”

“Attack them professor?” said Sancho, “but our project is to perform acoustic measurements, sir, and also, well, aesthetics are one thing, but the turbines also provide our humble community of La Nienburg with the electricity with which we use to manufacture passata and other worldly delights.”

“Be not afraid my dear Sancho of a simpler, quieter existence, where one possesses time to think and dwell on thought experiment,” said the professor, “where passata may be boiled by method of passive heating at the height of summer and preserved through the bitterest of winters. Such technology keeps not my love, my delightful Delores of delicate but sleep-deprived beauty awake the night long with odious aerodynamic disturbances and ultrasonic noise.”

The professor and his student raced onwards in the motorcycle and sidecar to the giant wind turbines capped with rotating blades spinning all day and all night without any acoustic pity on the poor professor and his enchanting lady.

Professor Don Killjoytea continued, “my Delores have I spied in the dark of the night, whispering to the walls, while weeping that she be condemned to live forevermore with the noise of a monster that torments her soul, while subject to and dependent its unreliable and erratic power. An end to the suffering of my Delores we achieve today Sancho, I say to you, and with that may I henceforth win back her eternal grace!”

“Here we are!” exclaimed Killjoytea while gazing up at the nearest turbine, “what ghastly dragons are they that beat their wings unremittingly, disturbing the still of the country and the peace of nature. Do Shut Up You Tyrants!”

“When making acoustic or indeed any measurements,” offered Sancho, “it is important to remain open about the final results, even if they may seem unintuitive at first. I suggest we instead carry out blind acoustic measurements, sir, for we seem to have drawn our conclusions before collecting any data.”

“Bring the equipment to me dear Sancho” said the professor while standing in the grand shadow of a wind turbine, “but not our microphones,” he said to his student who was digging through the collection of equipment stacked in the professor’s sidecar, “they will not do here, but rather collect my rope with which we shall lasso these beasts and drag them ingloriously to the ground.”

“I am sorry sir, but your rope will not achieve the downfall of such a gigantic structure as we possess neither the strength nor the project funds to bring down whole wind turbines,” replied Sancho, who had now found the professor’s rope. 

“Yes, you have found it! Tremendous work my boy! Now bind that dragon by the neck as high as you dare climb with the end of the rope fastened here to our chariot.”

Not understanding the professor’s seemingly exotic acoustic measurement methods, the trusty student nonetheless followed his professor’s wishes. The turbine’s tower was now bound and connected to the motorcycle.

“A beast is only as mighty as his natural frequency! That he may look indestructible, the outside being a hardened surface, but the belly is soft and liable to vibrational disturbance. Let us collapse him by way of harmonic vibration. My calculus behooves us to make a sole revolution of the beast every five seconds and with it, the application of the maximum sideways force with which our chariot may convey,” said the professor.

The professor ignited his motorcycle with sidecar and said, “come Sancho, enter the sidecar for we may need the entire centrifugal force a professor, his chariot and humble PhD student are able to generate!”

“That is ok, sir,” answered Sancho, “I prefer to monitor the experiment at a sensible distance here, at a distance at least twice that of the height of the wind turbine. I shall assume the role of the look-out, monitoring the scene for farmers, potential owners of their industrial equipment and other peoples lacking sympathy for both our methodology and modern science.”

“Well you were never cut out for experimentation, dear Sancho; you lack the daring and creative spirit with which the very best of us are blessed. Very well then, I shall perform the experiment unescorted, while you keep close temporal record of my rate of revolution. Once every five seconds Sancho, not a fraction less or more,” replied the professor.

The professor rode circles around the wind turbine, applying as much tension to the rope bound to the tower of the turbine as he could, while his student, by hand signaling and yelling, ensured the professor whirled precisely one revolution every five seconds corresponding, according to the professor’s laborious calculations, to the fundamental natural frequency of the wind turbine’s tower.

The old wind turbine started to sway noticeably, but whether that is accountable to the vicious rotary action of Professor Killjoytea and his motorcycle with sidecar, or because of the quickening of the wind, Sancho could not tell. Further measurements were likely required to separate out these effects he thought, for it was a very old turbine having survived and carefully been cared for over many generations, having been built at the height of the golden industrial age, where from every man-made structure oozed milk and honey to provide for the great washed and manicured masses. Just before Sancho was beginning to feel sorry for the poor wind turbine, he was immediately grabbed from behind.

“What is the meaning of this you….you…IDIOTS!!!” screamed a man waving his hoe at Sancho after spinning the poor student around. “Tell your stupid friend to stop this right now!” he implored gesturing with hoe at the professor.

“Sorry mister,” replied Sancho, “we are here to make some acoustic measurements, and are financed by the good state to do so. Please leave us in peace so that society will be rewarded with high quality data.”

“What? Come away from there you … IDIOT!” yelled the man at the professor, before turning to Sancho to say “who are you and why do you come to ruin one of our last functioning wind turbines? I am the owner of this land and the turbine, which is now vital for the milling of our harvested grain.”

The circling of the professor together with the rotation of the turbine’s blades, who had gathered speed to capture the stronger winds made an explosive periodic percussion, what with the slow *whoosh … whoosh … whoosh* of the blades, together with the *vroom … vroom … vroom* of the professor completing his orbit of the tower, Sancho began to have a harder time hearing the farmer. For his part, the professor had not even noticed the arrival of the irate farmer and his waving of hoe, but continued with all his determination to circle at a constant rate, willing the swaying and then destruction of the machine.

“That is fascinating mister,” said Sancho to the farmer, “I did not catch all of that, however. I do apologise. Correct me if I am mistaken, but do you suggest to me here that the turbine before us is so arranged not to produce the flow of electricity, but to mill the grain you have harvested from these very fields?”

Sancho was struck by delight at the ingenuity of this piece of information upon which the farmer had conferred, thinking that he had even found his thesis topic, which he may finally write and be rid of the crazy professor. He thought little of his current topic, suggested by the professor, to place a cat on a wind turbine’s nacelle, for scaring away birds lest they be batted from the sky.   
“Please allow me to introduce, firstly, the man on the motorcycle with sidecar, who so diligently joyrides around your machinery, followed by myself,” said Sancho. “Together, we are Professor Don Killyjoytea and I am Sancho, his trusty PhD student.”

It is unfortunate that Sancho’s otherwise polite and respectful introduction was periodically interrupted by the whooshing of the wind turbine and the vrooming of the professor’s motorcycle, because this cumulative noise drowned out certain important intermediate words critical to the correct understanding of Sancho’s introduction, at least in the absence of any background noise, which together resulted in the farmer hearing,

“We …. Don … Sancho…,” which, in a Chinese whispers sort of way, one could then forgive the poor farmer for hearing instead,

“MONSANCHO!” screamed the farmer. “You cruel sick bastards! Will you never cease with your crude methods of harassment and litigation, which cripples the honest hard work of small-time farmers such as myself and others in the humble community of La Nienburg!”

That the first names of the professor and the student together sounded very close to the agricultural company that had monopolised the milling of all grains produced in La Nienburg and beyond and thus, for lacking the pressure of honest market competition, had progressed to charging criminally-sized fees for the service of milling and then storing the grain, which, with an ingenious modification to some of the local, albeit aged wind turbines, the farmers had cunningly circumvented, by using instead the rotary action of the wind turbine to mill the grain directly, while storing it in the long silos which doubled as the turbines’ towers.

As Sancho was considering the idea of writing his thesis on the heightened efficiency of this new brilliant methodology, since generating electricity and delivering it over an enormous distance to power a mill seemed to be rather dim of wit compared with using the generator shaft itself to power a mill directly, the farmer had resolved to take prompt action against the professor whom he deemed to be the vandalizing agent of a highly deplored agricultural company. Projecting his hoe horizontally with the handle outstretched and blade butted against his upper arm, the farmer charged on foot towards the orbiting professor who was now, understandably, becoming dizzy after numerous circumnavigations of the turbine’s tower, and thus could not reasonably be expected to foresee a surprise attack of such nature.

“HAHHHH!” shouted the farmer as his makeshift lance directly struck just below the shoulder of the circling professor, who was thrown spinning, now about his own personal axis, from his motorcycle with sidecar, to land heavily to the ground. While seeing the motorcycle come to a chugging halt, Sancho realized that he had probably just witnessed some of the finest jousting seen in these parts for a good one thousand years, and the unlucky professor’s dizziness was now likely manifest in two degrees of rotational freedom.

The farmer, now returning to confront Sancho, said, “and you, what did you say your name was, boy?”

“I am Sancho, PhD student of the professor you have laid out so skillfully.”

“Sancho aye”, replied the farmer, “that sounds foreign; you’re not from around here are you boy?”

“Not at all mister, but I am, but I am! I am proud to be born and bread in these fine, if unspectacularly terrained parts,” replied Sancho.

“Yeah, well what’s your last name then asked the farmer,” while pointing his hoe handle threateningly at Sancho.

“Mannn, I am Sancho Mannn, son of the famous death metal folk duo Roberto and Julie Mannn,” said Sancho.

“What? Why the three n’s?” asked a confused farmer.

“Why two?” answered Sancho.

Meanwhile, the professor had risen to his feet having realised what had happened, and started charging at the farmer in a rage. Sancho glanced up at the professor, pleased to see he was healthy again, but which caused the farmer to face in the professor’s direction and hold his hoe at the ready. Unfortunately, the professor, still dizzy from very recent exploits, and whilst attempting to charge towards the farmer, instead, stumbled dizzily away, which, when viewed from above, tracked a perfect parabolic path away from the farmer and Sancho, before tripping and then collapsing heavily to the ground after losing his balance, to remain grounded and dazed for the present time being.

The farmer, now turning again to Sancho, said “take your accomplice and disappear from my land.”

The farmer then ventured to the motorcycle resting by the turbine’s tower, placed his hoe in the side car, untied the rope and drove the motorcycle away, to leave the poor Sancho and his dizzy, wounded professor to discover novel means back to the town of La Nienburg. 

Wednesday, 1 February 2017

The Heat



“Hey … Trevor!”



Trevor was lying in the direct sun on the banks of the River Main, not that far outside the pleasant coastal town of Frankfurt-am-Meer. Such a clear day as this only occurs a few times per year in this part of the world. The late morning sun was beginning to scorch. Things were heating up.

“Trevor, I have been doing some … extrapolation.”

Trevor had been lying in this position near the water, a very comfortable spot, since the early morning. However, there were problems. As the sun orbits the earth, there comes a time every day, sometime during the middle of the day, when the heat from the sun is at its maximum and that heat can become unbearable. It is now approaching that time of day. It is getting hot. What are you going to do now?

“Trevor, you see, we are one highly successful species. We have filled a certain ecological niche that involves eating everything. But! How long can we continue to do so? How much stuff is actually out there waiting to be eaten by us? Could it be that we have already exceeded the natural carrying capacity of our ecosystem? Have we been condemned to continue expanding outward to the limits of the environment, devouring every trace of life until the very last inhabitants in this pitiful swamp are me and you Trevor? Must we then eat each other Trevor? Is that how this farce is to finally end?”

Now, you do not want to get into the water. You could move out of the direct sun into a more shaded location. But you already have a very comfortable spot here in the sun! Why should you now have to move? The ground in the shade is likely to be moist and there will be all sorts of uncharted unevenness to be dealt with. And what if a cool breeze even picks up while you are in the shade, lying on the moist, uneven earth? It might get chilly.  

“That’s on the one hand Trevor. Down here. On the other hand, that sun up there is expanding, emitting with it more and more heat. This is just the natural life of a star. Our star, the sun, is just one of many stars orbiting the earth. The heat from our star will eventually become so intense that life on this planet will become impossible. The sun will eventually vaporize every wriggle of life until the earth itself is consumed entirely and incorporated into the sun’s own material. It will be like swallowing a whole chicken.”

There must be a compromise. Is there a spot that is not completely in the sun while also not being entirely in the shade? Unfortunately not. You will either have to move under the shading provided by the dense jungle canopy or attempt to endure the middle of the day in the direct sunlight. Surely you can take just a few more hours of intense sun? Surely it is not that bad?

“Trevor, I am worried for the future of the species. Yeah, I see you scowling at the sun there Trevor, but, thankfully, we have two and only two options. Either we somehow reduce our eating to the extent that our ecological habitat can regenerate food at the rate at which it is devoured, being prudent in what we consume, conserving and maximizing that which we have taken, or rather been given to us – you see it is all a merciful gift Trevor – taking into account those sensitive aspects of an intricate ecosystem that can tip the balance from a healthy to suffering one, monitoring closely our thoughts and actions for any sense of ill-purpose or irresponsibility, while acknowledging both the finiteness of what we are able to consume and the truncated lifespan of our species in light of the natural life cycle of the sun itself, a lifespan of ours that always was dependent on the sun, stoically accepting that which giveth also taketh away. Or we spread out to the far corners of the galaxy. I’m for the latter, Trevor.” 

But Trevor was no stoic. He knew he couldn’t stick it out in the sun. “The sun will just keep getting hotter!!!” he said, close to tears.

“That’s right Trevor, that’s right.”


As the unfortunate Bishop Schleimhaut was originally born in the town of Wiesbaden, he often had to deal with friendly accusations, by the good residents of Frankfurt-am-Meer, of cannibalism.

‘Not true’, the Bishop would insist, ‘Wiesbadener cannibalism is a myth born of a quirky misunderstanding.’ Unfortunately, his unsympathetic colleagues at the Central Bank would ignore such rationalizations, choosing instead to subject the poor Bishop Schleimhaut to ceaseless ridicule. A lot of the insults were, frankly, in rather poor taste. 

Now released from the burdens of a long day’s work which included, for example, the simulated biting of his arms from witless colleagues, Bishop Schleimhaut had decided to take it easy for a bit. Taking it easy suddenly backfired, as it always does, when the ghost of the ancient prophet Margaret Thatcher, who had now enthusiastically taken to haunting the long-suffering head of the Central Bank at Frankfurt-am-Meer, appeared before him.

“Bishop Schleimhaut,” she declared, “there is no such thing as heat,” before going and kicking some unionist in the teeth.

The Bishop recoiled from these scenes in absolute horror. The ghost had clearly contradicted itself. Firstly, ghosts, which do not exist, should not be going around telling people whether such a thing does or does not exist. Secondly, and this is a classic critique of all disembodied beings and assorted oracles, the message was not clear and lacked context. Schleimhaut did though applaud the seemingly no-nonsense approach to unionism which had currently crippled the importation of Scandinavian coconut juice to Frankfurt-am-Meer.

As head of the Central Bank at Frankfurt-am-Meer, and someone who history will likely remember as the greatest dental theologian of his time, Bishop Schleimhaut decided to no longer sit around and let his economy go to ruins. If the theology of dentistry has taught us anything, it is that sometimes you just need to, God willing, pull a few teeth.


Studies in Maritime Archaeology – Edited by Josepth E. Quantummy                    page 110

shallow excavations suggesting cannibalism was quite concentrated in the culturally and economically backward town of Wiesbaden. In fact, in those times, Wiesbaden was regularly visited by Scandinavian visitors who may or may not have descended from Vikings. Probably not, since later hordes of Scandinavians travelling by boat were only ever interested in purchasing cheap alcohol in bulk, at least that is, until their modern-day mastery of coconut juice production. 

Being of a much higher level of suburban sophistication than their lowly Wiesbadener counterparts, one could have forgiven the Nordic visitors for looking down on their European cousins. History tells us that whenever encounters between primitive and highly civilized peoples have taken place, it has been only natural to assume the primitive party delights in the gorging of the very flesh won from their fellow man. Scientific confirmation of cannibalism has, however, led to distortions and ambiguity not yet unraveled until now. 

Trying to confirm or deny the cannibalism of primitives would not have been trivial. In such a situation, the early researcher would have needed to remain cool, casually slipping in the old ‘how’s the cannibalism going on around here lately?’ question during pauses in polite conversation with the natives. Naturally, the native would have been completely confused and even shocked at such a question. A certain seed of doubt would have nonetheless been planted in the primitive mind of the savage from the bush and/or Wiesbaden.

If such an advanced visitor, with their highly sophisticated technology (lightweight easy to assemble furniture), is asking about cannibalism and if one knows nothing of modern developments on the matter, one couldn’t then help but think of the urgent need to modernize and pull oneself into the 36th century. Now it is starting to get a bit weird because you haven’t yet answered the nice young researcher’s question. Quick! Say something that will diffuse the tension and divert the intense gaze of the young man, while avoiding any unpleasant disagreeableness toward the friendly visitor. Be polite at all times. “Ahhh, um, good, … yeah … good?”

Armed with oral confirmation, reports of highly active cannibalism in and around the greater Wiesbaden area now start to surface all over Central Europe. Concerned with developments, neighboring regions such as those around Frankfurt-am-Meer decide they will no longer stand for such debasement, sending instead a strongly armed militia to caress a few opinions. The poor Wiesbadeners, comprehending neither the cause of the unprovoked attack nor the garbled Frankfurter dialect, nevertheless detect that the Frankfurter militia were saying ‘something about cannibalism.’

Now very embarrassed at one’s own backwardness which is now even prompting the wanton attacks from previously amiable neighbors, vigorous efforts are now made to modernize. The excavations referred to above have delivered the first pieces of fossilized evidence of such ‘modernization’ (Frankfurter Würstchen), the second being the modern-day residents from Wiesbaden themselves who are known to possess a certain inherent aggressiveness, and are more naturally prone to act out violently.

Wiesbadener cannibalism - is it natural? – by Josepth E. Quantummy


At the docks of Frankfurt-am-Meer,
workers held candles and those deemed dear, 
‘Oh Lord, what to do, please give us a sign,
For their latest offer we have declined.’
prayed the union workers.

Their prayers were answered in an instant,
From the dark appeared one of God’s own,
Good things happen to those who are persistent,
‘Rejoice, rejoice, perhaps our problems are overblown!’,
cried the union workers.

Stumbling, sweating lurched Bishop Schleimhaut,
waving his weapon, loaded without a doubt.
‘Repent! Repent! Your union greed,
has brought my economy to its knees!’,
cried the Bishop Schleimhaut.

Stepping forward so all could hear,
‘Sir, you’re trembling and white with fear,
But from the trigger, please take your finger,
say, you look as if you saw a right winger,’
said the union leader.

‘An angel of the Lord has just appeared,
Strict, aggressive, and disliked my beard.
The information I shall now bequeath,
The Lord’s Angel: she kicketh teeth!’
cried the Bishop Schleimhaut.

‘Dear Bishop, I beg your pardon,
but such violence is only of Wiesbaden.
It is not clear by what you mean,
Kicking of teeth? From what shall we glean?’
asked the union leader.

‘You foolish man of un-brushed teeth,
I’ll rid your stinky breathe and lack of belief.
Ok, it was not that clear, but I got the gist,
The angel said that heat does not exist’,
cried the Bishop Schleimhaut.

‘Dear Bishop, that is indeed revelation,
And there I thought it’s just hot the whole time,
forever sweating like abattoir swine.
But how does this help our situation?’
asked the union leader.

‘Drop your demands of a midday break,
without heat even a sun does not bake.
So end your strike and return to work,
and henceforth may I sing, dance and twerk.’
cried the Bishop Schleimhaut.

‘Sir, we respect you and your theology,
For none of us like you knows dentistry,
However you lack in a certain meteorology,
For important is not the heat, but the humidity,’
said the union leader.

Back to the dark did he scream, cuss and shout,
Pissing and kicking things did the Bishop Schleimhaut,
He knew it was correct, what the union leader said,
while even pointing the weapon at his own head,
did the Bishop Schleimhaut.

‘There he goes one angry, troubled genius,
these violent people from Wiesbaden,
so folks watch out and be on your guard and,
Say, look, did he just flash his …..’
said the union leader.


Studies in Maritime Archaeology – Edited by Josepth E. Quantummy                         page 173

so that before we can understand the resulting enormous European refugee problem in those times, we must first understand the concept of cannibalism, and how espresso was made.

It was originally thought (Quantummy, 7552) that nuclear reactors were arranged according to the following figure:

Depicted is a reactor vessel where nuclear fission takes place, thereby boiling the water that has been pumped through the reactor, a stable balance being attained as heat is transported away as steam from the reactor to feed numerous espresso machines, which direct the steam through grounded coffee beans for the manufacture of ‘coffee’, a beverage drunk by ancient office workers for the purpose of maintaining the illusion of personal productivity.

Later research revealed the hypothesis that such a sophisticated and expensive technology of nuclear reactors would be used to drive espresso machines to be the absurdity it obviously is (Bereitschaftsdienst, 7553). Espresso machines could never withstand the working pressures present in nuclear reactors, and the coffee would taste sour or even acrid. Of course, the steam was instead forced through turbines which turned electrical generators. The generated electricity was then transported through an electrical grid over millions of kilometers in total length to provide electrical power to numerous espresso machines, now dispersed in space, which could force their own locally generated heated steam through grounded coffee beans at a more civilized pressure:

Unfortunately, these things do not operate themselves, despite very sensible attempts to cut labor costs. It is important, first of all, to establish here that nuclear power was safe. With every meltdown, ever more was learnt and safety measures were continually improved.

The pitfalls of unionism – by Hartmut “The Reignman” Rüdlmaier

Studies in Maritime Archaeology – Edited by Josepth E. Quantummy                     page 174

Now, it so happens, as it often does, that negotiations between the owners of industrial equipment and their unionized workers stumble, resulting in industrial action after the union’s extortionist demands of a 5% pay-rise and 1 less working hour per week were rightly rejected by management. Management had offered a very reasonable 2.5% pay-rise, 1 extra holiday per year and the rights to employees’ lady friends every full moon.

In such a situation, all one can do is to carry on nuclear power production, but with a vastly reduced wage bill. This works reasonably well until something extraordinary happens and things go wrong, something that is often called a ‘black swan’ event. A black swan event is defined as the incredibly rare, in fact infinitesimally small chance, that an economist realizes that things go wrong.

Nuclear power plants are subject to greater forces than themselves. The aforementioned electrical grid, although standing apart from a nuclear plant, was nonetheless critical for plant operation. Lacking grid power, the nuclear fission reaction inside the reactor is triggered to shut down and back-up systems switch on to maintain cooling of the nuclear fuel which continues to release waste heat. Espresso, although helpful at this juncture as a skeleton staff of workers scramble to bring things under control in the dark with limited connectivity to the outside world all while wondering if loved ones will ever be seen again if only this bloody fucking reactor pressure release valve will finally open manually, is not possible.

Now we come to the concept of cannibalism which will help us understand why an electrical grid shuts down in the first place. An apex predator will end up having to consume one of its own if the natural environment ceases to provide the energy needed to maintain the lifestyle with which said predator has become accustomed. To help pay for said energy constraints, the predator will ruthlessly take whatever means it has available. For example, an electrical grid is not all electrons, but consists of an almost limitless supply of scrap metal.

An electrical grid, now inoperable without the luxury of metal, becomes unable to supply electricity to nuclear plants. The nuclear fuel continues to generate waste heat sans grid, meaning that the reactor is to be continually cooled to avoid an artless meltdown. Passive cooling, like passive heating, is never a good idea when you have vast networks of complex industrial interconnectedness and full employment to maintain. Non-passive methods for keeping nuclear fuel cool thus require their own source of electricity after battery backup has exhausted.

The pitfalls of unionism – by Hartmut “The Reignman” Rüdlmaier

Studies in Maritime Archaeology – Edited by Josepth E. Quantummy                     page 175

Now it is not the boiling hot reactor, the radioactive fuel within, the failure of the backup cooling systems, and the corresponding accumulation of immense heat that gets you, it’s the humidity. Your last chance for any type of cooling is to pump the reactor with water using the only technology you ever could rely on: the trusty foot pump. After finally releasing the reactor pressure manually (see above), the fuel rods have undergone decompression cooling as the reactor is now at atmospheric pressure, but the rods are starting to heat up again. Now is your only chance to keep things under control if only you could pump enough water into the reactor at a fast enough rate before it all heats up again! But you can’t. History will remember you as one pathetic foot pumper. 

Cold water hitting nuclear fuel rods now of a temperature a thousand degrees or more tends to produce a lot of hydrogen gas, which raises the containment vessel pressure, eventually deforming said vessel, the plastic deformation of which being all that is likely needed to produce the necessary ignition source for a containment vessel full of hydrogen gas and radioactive material. Such explosions tend to spew all types of radioactive what-have-you into the air. If multiple reactors on a continental scale are doing something similar due to continental-scale grid shutdowns, you may have yourself a financial problem.   

But, a continental-scale atmosphere filled with countless radioactive particles is nothing to be overly concerned about. After multiple hydrogen explosions in many European nuclear reactors, it was actually found that air quality improved as people stayed indoors, ceasing to rush around selling each other insurance (hey, you never know what might go wrong). Health studies in those times correspondingly recommended the consumption of at least one glass of plutonium per day. Hence, we now know radioactivity was not the primary cause of the mass movement of peoples in those days.

In lands where philosophers, philologists and poets once frolicked over mountains, the highest cultural achievement in later times consisted entirely of the submission of the seamless tax return. Balancing federal budgets was also considered one of man’s highest aims. But even nuclear power plants whose core had not melted down to a bowl of radioactive soup were already economically marginal. To help balance federal budgets and pay for those now unproductive nuclear plants with molten cores, an annual non-tax-deductible surcharge was introduced corresponding to the half-life of a pool of molten products, to be payable annually for the next 400,000 years.

Unwilling to tolerate such a massive hit to their personal finances and the destruction of the sublime tax return for the foreseeable future, masses of Europeans fled to lands in the near east where they were assured to be treated with the commensurate hospitality with which peoples incoming to Europe were formerly greeted.

The pitfalls of unionism – by Hartmut “The Reignman” Rüdlmaier




“Hey … Trevor!”



Trevor was still lying in the sun. It was very, very hot. You are going to melt any second now.

“You know Trevor, one minute you’re lying in the sun, taking it easy, hoping that you haven’t forgotten anything too important, looking out at the water streaming gently past, ripples dancing, fishes swimming, and then SUDDENLY, the Earth’s magnetic poles switch up on you. Bang! Just like that Trevor.”


“What’s that Trevor? What? Sorry, explain myself clearly I did not. The Earth, just one of many planets of the solar system, is blanketed with a magnetic field that acts as a protective layer to cosmic bombardment by all manner of high-energy nonsense. Without the Earth’s magnetic field, constant exposure to said high-energy what-have-you would destroy all life on Earth, not to mention the erosion of the Earth’s atmosphere out to space due to all the other bits and pieces out there. While one could even say we are dependent on something greater than ourselves Trevor, I say we have things under control.”


“’What’, you say? Well, high energy particles, for example, can rip right through you and shred your molecules to shreds. One highly carcinogenic business. Long-term exposure would be ill-advised. Lacking a magnetic field, we would be perpetually bombarded with them. All life would be wiped out ... especially those frogs there and … those cocky little bastards ... they bounce all over the place and …. HEY! GET OUT OF HERE!!! ... but don’t get too worried about that Trev, dealing with high energy radiation is a bridge we’ll cross once we get to it.”    


“That’s right Trevor, lacking an atmosphere, all water would evaporate since the boiling point of water decreases with atmospheric pressure. If we weren’t condemned to our sea level purgatory here, we could even use that property to measure our altitude, since the thickness of the atmosphere decreases with height. Oh how I would like to climb a mountain one day. Anyway, any water vapor would then erode out to space along with the rest of the remaining atmosphere. The only solution then would be a shock terraforming program.”


“…Saaay Trevor, you don’t look so well. Are you ok?”


“Trevor. You’re completely red! How long have you been in the sun? You know you’ve got sensitive skin.”


“Water? Ah yes, Water! Good idea Trevor. Let me pull you into the water here. You’ll be comfy again in no time.”

“Wa … Wa … Wa … “

“Yes Trevor, almost in the water now.”

“WA … WA … WA … “

“Yes, yes, you’re a big impatient boy Trevor, almost there now….”


“What? … Wait? … Oh … no …”

Monday, 19 September 2016

Bishop Schleimhaut’s Magic Broomstick

Infinity & Beyond + 1 Magazine is proud to present Bishop Schleimhaut’s Magic Broomstick, a submission to the Broomstick challenge. Infinity & Beyond + 1 Magazine, where the rate of change in accelerating progress is rapidly increasing. 

Bishop Schleimhaut was an affable, gregarious character who had excelled at almost everything he had done. While the Bishop was highly gifted at sports, music and the theology of dental practice, one thing he had unfortunately never quite mastered was central banking. This would not normally be problematic for the average scum roaming the nocturnal streets making some god-awful, drunken racket, but Bishop Schleimhaut was head of the central bank at Frankfurt-am-Meer, a glorious coastal town in the middle of central Europe.

In these appalling dark ages, sometimes the only thing a central banker can look forward to is that warm, relaxing shower in the morning:

Weve got the Shower to win
Shower to rule
Come on, Hygienic progression
We have a Shower with joy
It’s more than a Chore
It’s true Showering tradition
We use soap, soap, soap
on a rope, rope, rope
There’s cleanliness in the making
We’ve got the Shower to win
We’re never Stinking
Til the towel is ours for the taking

As the Bishop stepped from the shower and began to dry himself, he was immediately floored by a vision of a burning bush, which is not so bad even if it is the bathroom, but in front of the burning bush appeared an apparition of the ancient prophet Margaret Thatcher.

“Bishop Schleimhaut,” she said, “there is no such thing as the economy!”  


Studies in Maritime Archaeology – Edited by Josepth E. Quantummy                             page 15

and since then, many theories have been put forth to explain the unique tangy aftertaste of certain species of fish caught from a specific patch of sea roughly 400 km north of Frankfurt-am-Meer, over what would have originally been known in ancient times as the long-lost city of Hamburg.

It is of no coincidence that historical records speak of a “Smart” nuclear power plant in this precise vicinity. The Smart Nuclear Adaptive Power plant (SNAP) was a dedicated nuclear facility used purely for supplying energy to an enormous computer complex that ran a highly sophisticated numerical model for the purposes of predicting the weather many months in advance. While this may look like an egregious waste of resources to the untrained eye, one must remember that the ancient central European climate was not a constant 35 degrees Celsius all year round, but consisted of ‘seasons’, one of which was cold enough to deliver snow at Christmas time, whose prediction was critical for determining whether Rudolph’s nose was bright enough for lighting the way.

In order to predict the weather over such a distant time horizon, the numerical model ran a highly adaptive numerical grid able to calculate minute turbulent variations down to the Kolmogorov scale whenever calculations indicated a dynamically complex region of space requiring a finer numerical grid resolution. As the computer complex needed vast, but hugely varying quantities of electricity, depending on the degree of numerical grid adaptation, a power plant of sufficient size was required, while also being able to stand independent from the electric grid existing in those times, as such an enormously fluctuating electrical load would generate prohibitive electrical grid instabilities.

The stand-alone nuclear plant selected to supply the computer complex needed its own modifications to make it both grid-independent and adaptable to the variable energy demands of the computer complex, a refitting which earned the nuclear plant its “Smart” label. A power plant, SNAP or otherwise, generates its own waste heat emitted into the environment, which, depending on the amount of heat, the meteorological conditions and the required forecast horizon, itself needs to be accounted for by the adaptive numerical grid, resulting in a finer numerical grid resolution around the SNAP, more intensive modeling and thus a greater amount of electrical energy to be generated by the SNAP, corresponding in the emission of further waste heat to be included in the numerical model, thus more energy and so on and so forth, etc, etc.

Now modern day readers are likely thinking that “Smart” is an appropriate name for such a risky piece of technology. We must however remind the reader that in those times “Smart” meant ‘intelligent’ or ‘clever’, rather than its modern day definition of ‘Completely Fucking Stupid’. Assuming even the ancient definition of “Smart”, why anyone would call anything “Smart”, especially a nuclear facility, will at any rate still be beyond the understanding of the modern, well-informed reader, since such a label would be falling into the trap of ‘tempting fate’, or even its more psychologically primitive cousin, ‘believing your own propaganda.’ 

On probable causes of delicious but radioactive North Sea fish – by Solomon Bereitschaftsdienst

“Well I don’t care what anyone says, I’ll continue to eat my Fischbrötchen, radioactivity or not,” said Bishop Schleimhaut while flicking through Josepth E. Quantummy’s recently published Studies in Maritime Archaeology – explaining the paranormal, “but I meant the other article, the one about the ‘magic broomstick’. Josepth, my friend, I have an idea!”

Josepth E. Quantummy was a highly valued subcontractor of the central bank at Frankfurt-am-Meer, in large part because of his important ability to defy physical limitations. Sitting opposite in the Bishop’s dentist’s chair though, he was becoming increasingly incensed. Even after 10 minutes of sitting here, listening to the Bishop complain about almost everything, he had still not been offered a drink – not even to wash out his mouth.

“Joe, you know how everyone around here is obsessed with composting. Always with the composting. I am honestly sick of hearing about it. I asked the central bank’s chief economist Rosy Pete the other day for suggestions on how to stimulate the economy and it was all about ‘planting more turnips’. Now I am all for planting turnips, don’t take me for some fascist, but it is not quite the sort of impact I was after. Anyway, we are in the middle of the jungle here! Haven’t these people ever heard of the modern day agricultural marvels of slash and burn?”

“Ha, good luck convincing them Bishop,” said a staring Quantummy at the Bishop’s well-stocked collection of exotic, chilled liqueurs from Scandinavia, “remember the slogan of the NCA, the National Compost Association, ‘from my charcoaled, dead hands.’ I don’t really like turnips anyway.” 

“Careful Joe, you are starting to really sound like a fascist. But this ancient magic broomstick described here, I think, could revolutionize compost collection as it is currently conceived,” suggested the Bishop. “All this sweeping and piling organic waste about just seems beneath us. I know you are the expert here in eluding all materialistic prejudices, but, in my opinion, a magic broom could be the answer to all our problems.“

Josepth E. Quantummy now took a dirty, empty glass from the Bishop’s desk and coyly circled its rim with his index finger while looking slightly sideways with a raised eyebrow at an unimpressed, but fully ordained Bishop in the church of dentistry. 

“Plus, I need to get out of the central banking industry. Setting interest rates as an occupation is hopeless. Honestly, whatever I do seems to make market matters worse. If I am out and about, but feeling a bit grumpy, a bit down in the dumps, maybe I had an argument with a colleague, or perhaps I had a horrifying vision, then word quickly gets out and this sends markets into turmoil!”

Josepth E. Quantummy now simulated finishing the last sip from the used glass with an exaggerated slurp and then letting out an “ahhhh”, before slamming the empty glass back on the desk after wiping his mouth clean along the entire length of his sleeve.  

“The other day I thought, Bishop Schleimhaut, you don’t have to be such an Arschloch all the time. Every now and then, you can at least greet people you pass on the street, smile during interactions with the common man and even look them in the eye. I was then at the bakery, paid for my bread, thanked the baker with a wink and a smile and you know what? He completely flipped out! He closed the shop, kicking us all out then and there, and sprinted the entire way to the stock exchange to sell every last one of his shares!”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” said a depressed Quantummy, “how much stock can a baker possibly own?”

“Josepth, Josepth, Joey boy, I think you’ve had much too much to drink again. If someone is sprinting the full length of the town to sell off all their shares, what type of cascade do you think that will trigger, if this is also spotted by the butcher, florist, doctor, and so on and so forth, etc, etc? That’s why they’ve condemned me to my basement office here, to shield the public from any untended head-of-the-central-bank induced market chaos. If we can somehow get this magic broomstick on the market though, I can finally retire to my garden to meditate on deep, but unsolved problems in the theology of dentistry.”

“Interesting, I had honestly believed you had answered all the big questions,” said a Josepth E. Quantummy through gritted teeth, violently rocking back and forth on the dentist’s chair while clasping the hand rests, as if someone was pulling his wisdom teeth. He was now starting to get the shakes.

“Very close Joe, but not quite. As you know, major breakthroughs, in any field, really can’t be forced. You have to relax, take your time and let the solution come to you. I would even say the most important discoveries have been accidental. Joe, are you feeling ok?”

Josepth E. Quantummy had closed his eyes; now meditating for a brief moment before levitating above the dentist’s chair. The dimly lit basement office was now brilliant from light radiating from the weightless Quantummy and his glorious white lab coat. Josepth hovered slowly toward the small fridge light at the end of the tunnel emanating from Bishop Schleimhaut’s hamster powered ice-box, where awaiting him within was some ice cold, refreshing Scandinavian coconut juice.

“Woooah Joe, hold on there son, I don’t know how that is even physically possible, but you almost fell out of the dentist’s chair,” screamed the Bishop after diving across his desk at full length to catch hold of a shaking, semi-conscious Josepth E. Quantummy. 


Studies in Maritime Archaeology – Edited by Josepth E. Quantummy                            page 68

curious devices excavated from a sunken ship, thousands of years old, recently discovered a few hundred kilometers off the coast of Frankfurt-am-Meer. Since the entire ship was found to have been filled with these strange devices, it is unlikely to have been the product of a twisted fetish from some isolated cult as has been suggested (see Quantummy, 7551), a study which has previously been criticized as having been written by a “drunk” (Bereitschaftsdienst, 7552).
An important clue was recently uncovered from the recesses of the ship after it had been refloated and toed to Frankfurt-am-Meer Harbor for closer inspection, where a perfectly preserved contract for the order of 5,000 “leaf blowers” was uncovered. Why and for what purpose such a large number of “leaf blowers” would be required remained a mystery until it was suggested that the “leaf blower” could have actually been some baroque Ersatz-Broom type of technology.

To test this hypothesis, we constructed a prototype leaf blower, from scratch, based on the inspection of some of the recovered materials from the ancient devices. For fuel for the prototype, we were able to source gratis some of Josepth E. Quantummy’s patented crocodile oil, despite vigorous protests. A number of tests were performed comparing the ‘sweeping’ effectiveness of a standard broom with the hypothesized Ersatz-Broom, where we have used a normalized leaf density to compare the two technologies:
While standard brooms are useful for grouping leaves into a ‘pile’ at the desired location, the experimental results conducted here showed that the “leaf blowers” could not form such ‘piles’ and could not have possibly had any practical function, since they blew the leaves about randomly, reducing on average to a perfect normal distribution. One interesting quirk was the ability of the leaf blower to even send leaves backwards, in the opposite direction of the intended ‘sweeping’ direction.

Another fact pointing against the practical utility of the leaf blowers is that during operation, the prototype leaf blower made an unbearable amount of, as one colleague phrased it, ‘Needless Fucking Noise’. This lends further weight to the idea that the leaf blowers served rather some higher religious ceremonial purpose, perhaps serving as a host technology, albeit noisily, for the transmutation of the soul. Other colleagues are more skeptical of this theory, suggesting ancient industrial peoples were, in fact, “lazy” (Bereitschaftsdienst, personal communication).

The Myth of Magic Broomsticks – fact and fiction – by Gerhard "The Iceman" Johannssen


“This is what I meant,” said Bishop Schleimhaut referring to The Myth of Magic Broomsticks in Quantummy’s Studies in Maritime Archaeology, “if we can somehow fix those leaf blowers, compost collection will never be the same.”

“Fix them?” asked a fully recovered Josepth E. Quantummy of the Bishop, “well, I know this is a controversial view, but the ancient leaf blower, in my opinion, does not need fixing.” A shot of Scandinavian coconut juice for Quantummy did, as always, the trick.

“Well, of course the leaf blower needs fixing,” responded the Bishop, “I’m not going to tolerate any more noise. I wasn’t able to get any sleep last night. It sounded like the whole of Frankfurt-am-Meer was out partying. Everyone had probably liquordated their stock and was out celebrating. How the internal proletariat handles their capital-gains tax, I’ll never know.”

Quantummy continued: “But Bishop, these are really magical broomsticks. I am convinced you can use them for divination. Not half bad for central banking! You can trust me on this Bishop, I am a practicing alcoholtist.”

“Joe, as you know, we already have our own esoteric methods here at the central bank for predicting markets and setting interest rates. What can you possibly teach us about that?”

“Let’s first look at an average broom. What it’s designed to do and what it does quite well, is take leaves that are initially scattered about and collects them together in a pile. But this is useless. You don’t want that. Now your leaf blower takes a bunch of leaves, either scattered about or piled up, it doesn’t matter which, and redistributes them in a perfectly random fashion. You can then group leaves into various ‘bins’ so that bins with an even number of leaves leaves you with a dot, and an odd number you get two dots, I forget which is which, tally all the dots and you have yourself a perfect and practical method for the art of Geomancy.

Now your standard broom is rubbish. It just groups the leaves together and they overlap and sit on top of one another and so who’s to tell which leaf belongs to which bin? You simply can’t divine a thing!”  

“Well that is our recent experience here at the central bank Joe; divination is a tricky business best left to fully trained economists armed to the teeth with theories. You then do the opposite of whatever they say. Chief economist Rosy Pete says plant more turnips, I plant more sweet potatoes.”

“Bishop, I propose we put your new magic broomstick to the test. Ask me anything. Do you have any particular, burning questions you would like answered?”


Later on in the central bank’s courtyard, dark clouds had gathered above, the air was filled with a pre-storm electric tension. Josepth. E. Quantummy fired up the magic broomstick powered by Josepth E. Quantummy’s patented crocodile oil. The magic broom made a horrific, earth shattering noise; there was thunder and lightning. Leaves and all manner of debris were ejected into the air by the magic broom.

The Bishop let out a scream which would have sounded blood-curdling if it could have been heard above the leaf blower. "His eyes shall be red with wine," screamed the Bishop quoting Genesis 49:12, "and his teeth white with coconut juice!"

‘Is there such a thing as the economy?’ he wanted to know. 

Quantummy then switched off his magic broom, sectioned off the distributed leaves into 16 blocks, and proceeded to count the number of leaves in each block. Bins containing an odd number of leaves got one dot and an even number two. You know what I mean.

“Please help me with the counting Bishop. This is why it is Smart to cast a chart in a storm. The wind comes and blows the leaves around and it can ruin your whole divination. Ok, now we have it!“

“Populus,” said Josepth, “the economy is the people; ‘society’ if you will.”

“Can I have a go Joe?”

“Sure! Here. It's yours.”

Sunday, 24 April 2016


While Infinity & Beyond + 1 magazine usually doesn't publish stories not having humanity playing ping pong with the stars, we are pleased to present Trevor, a submission to the infinitely successful  space bat challenge! Infinity & Beyond + 1 magazine, where Infinity is a risible constraint on the limitless potentialities of human development. 






Trevor was lying on the bank of the river, seemingly staring into space. Seemingly still and calm. Silent.

"You know Trevor, I have the sinking feeling that we are not ... the center of the universe. I don't mean we as in, 'me and you' Trevor. We, in that sense, as individuals I mean, are merely lambs for the slaughter. But I mean we as a species. We don't even think of ourselves as a mere species! We live our lives as if the universe reacts, or should react, to our very thinking. I know that we really know we are not the center of the universe but do we? Know? If we do know, this certainly doesn't manifest itself in the way we live our lives; is my hypothesis Trevor. If we really knew we were just another species would we live as we do, if we knew it? I ask you this Trevor."

But Trevor was not staring into space and neither was he calm. He was staring at the water and pondering: 'Should I get into the water?' Trevor dearly wanted to get into the water. The sun was intense and heat unrelenting. The water would be refreshing. The problem is that first minute. It is ice cold. Really freezing. Then there are the rocks on the river bed over which you must step before you find yourself at a reasonable swimming depth. And some of those rocks are really sharp.

"Trevor, truly knowing you are not the center of the universe would mean living and thinking as an equal, indistinguishable member of a gigantic family, at least from the perspective of the universe. Perhaps that is the problem. The universe is so vast, the members of the family so innumerable, you could never function at all as an individual, like us Trevor, and so we make the gross assumption that we are the center of the universe, a superior model under which an individual can function in a universe so incomprehensible, by avoiding the quagmire of floating in an ever-lasting stasis, trapped in the complexity of the contradictions between our thoughts, needs and wishes and that which takes place out there Trevor: Stupid Disgusting Reality."

Trevor glanced out there. That is where you have to step carefully over the rocks and as soon as you think you are one step from being at that depth suitable for swimming, the bottom of your foot grinds over some sharp stone. Must it always be like that? You are freezing, your foot aches and now you have to swim. But you are not a strong swimmer. It is rather quite pathetic.

"You see Trevor, it is only from our perspective that the planets and the sun orbit the earth but I say that is the beautiful model, from my perspective. A heliocentric model only appears elegant from the perspective of a space bat. Now, do I look like a space bat to you Trevor? Do I? No, I am not a space bat. I am just here, stuck, on this … swamp.”

In fact your technique is embarrassing. How, after all these years, have you not improved your stroke? You couldn't swim your way out of a wet paper bag! This really has to change.

"I am so tired of abstraction Trevor, yet at the same time reality is just an incomprehensible mess of noise, colors and insults. Why is everyone always laughing at me? Once and for all, I want to simplify everything, right here and now, to its simplest elements. We, me and you Trevor, are lying here in the sun, on the rocks, by the river. And there Trev, is water. What more could we possibly want?"

Trevor had decided: "I am getting in the water," he declared.

"Good for you Trevor, good for you."


Report No. 478 to the Central Bank at Frankfurt am Meer: On the possible higher causes of the fatal crocodile attack on the River Main in the year 7550 A.D. (After Dentistry)

by Josepth E. Quantummy

A young man was recently attacked and fatally mauled on the banks of the River Main delta, near Frankfurt am Meer, by a common central European salt water crocodile (Crocodylus eurorosus). By order of the Central Bank at Frankfurt am Meer, the following report has been commissioned to determine the higher causes of such an apparently cruel event. Here, we review similar crocodile attacks of the previous 50 years that occurred in the greater Main delta. Important physical parameters such as water temperature, salt concentration and transparency were measured in situ. Highly reluctantly. It is demonstrated here that previous attacks follow a modified Gumbel distribution when classified according to a Brutality Index. Hence, the statistical model shows that crocodile attacks of similar severity to the recent one have a typical return period of 5 years.


Josepth E. Quantummy was world renowned for having broken the law of diminishing returns.

Until Josepth’s ground-breaking discovery, all human endeavors had been constrained by the fact that any particular advance required an increasing effort the next time round to even match gains made previously! Such an appalling state of affairs led, as one can well imagine, to a general malaise in the arts of development and progress. ‘What is the point’, people asked themselves, ‘if any advancements earned the first time around will mean I simply have to work twice as hard to gain a similar benefit the next time round?’ And so for eons people were content with their nihilistic stagnation.

Josepth E. Quantummy had however changed all that. Despite skepticism from various quarters claiming Josepth was either a ‘hack’, an ‘alcoholic’ or, worst of all, a ‘crocodile-oil salesman’, his fame had nonetheless spread and now his expertise was in high demand. Josepth's discovery had injected the muggy Frankfurter air with pure optimism.

Unfortunately, Josepth's recent report to the Central Bank at Frankfurt was not being accepted in its current form. Major changes were required and so here he sat opposite the head of the Central Bank, the good Bishop Schleimhaut.

Bishop Schleimhaut, one of Europe’s foremost dental theologians, was sitting behind his desk insouciantly sipping some Scandinavian coconut juice.
"Ahhhh, delicious," began the Bishop Schleimhaut, "I’m afraid that was my last coconut juice Joe, but can I offer you some Icelandic pineapple juice?"

"Not interested," replied Josepth E. Quantummy, waving Bishop Schleimhaut’s offer away. "I would be interested in being paid for my report of course."

"Yes of course Joe," replied Schleimhaut, "after you make the requested changes, you'll be fully compensated for all your hard work. That is what we are here to speak about after all, unless you have anything else to discuss before we start?"

"May I have some Scandinavian coconut juice?"

"Sorry Joe. Anyway, I and my colleagues were concerned with some of your conclusions. Or rather the lack of the required type of conclusion."

"There is a conclusion in the report, as well as a discussion and summary, and future work."

"Yes, yes, we saw all that, good work etcetera, etcetera. However, the problem is you have completely skipped around the question the central bank commissioned you to answer: Was the horrific crocodile attack and death of the poor young man a product of higher causes, that is, a sign from God of course? You did not answer this specific question in your conclusion."

"Understood, but I found an explanation for the attack that did not require the involvement of a god. As such. I found a statistical model that doesn’t require the intervention from any divine being whatsoever. That is not to say that God or the gods does or do not exist. You'll see I included an ontological argument in Appendix A to erase any doubt about the existence of God, or gods. Nonetheless, God, for this particular incident, can be regarded as a free parameter."

"Your ontological argument was quite unnecessary Joe. I think we can safely assume God exists," chuckled the Bishop.

"I was not convinced of God's existence beforehand, before you hired me. One must keep an open mind about these things. I am now, Bishop, a believer."

"Joe, the Church of Dentistry requires neither your, nor anyone else's ontological argument for the proof of God. We will gladly assume, for all purposes, that God exists and that He is perfect."

"Of course my ontological argument does not rule out the existence of more than one god. I show, quite elegantly let me add, that n ≥ 1 where n is the number of gods in existence. It is staggering to think how often people misinterpret inequalities."

"You are starting to put my teeth on edge Joe. I’ll concede the attack on the young man was particularly brutal as your index suggests and, well, what was he actually doing in crocodile infested waters anyway?”

“It is uncertain whether he actually was in the water,” answered Josepth, “only 50% of his corpse was found in the water. The other pieces, well … he could only be later identified through his teeth.”

“Ah yes, the one universal you can truly rely on. What I want to say is that this attack was unusually brutal and happened to what appears to have been a lovely young man, by all reports, including yours. It just doesn’t make any sense why God would have caused this unless He were particularly pis…”

“I am not quite sure that is how it works Bishop,” interrupted Joe. “Let’s assume n = 1. I think then one says God let the crocodile attack ‘happen’. 

“Josepth, may I remind you what the Bible says about people who even consider the slight chance that n ≠ 1. Matthew 13:42, ‘And the Son of man shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth’.”

“That sounds horrible,” said Josepth, “the poor whales.”

“Exactly. Now let us assume we weren’t sitting here in the basement. My office. Let’s assume we were in, ohhhh I don’t know, my former office with a magnificent view of the jungle. Sunlight would be streaming through the windows and the birds would be singing. To think they said ‘Schleimy, what a great career opportunity. Head of the Central Bank!’ And do you see that Joe? There!"

The Bishop was now gesturing behind the desk at the wall, where Josepth E. Quantummy was to imagine the existence of a window that delivered a magnificent view.

“Look Joe,” flayed the Bishop wildly, “a bird has flown from one branch and landed on another. Truly amazing! An act of God perhaps Josepth?” 

“Um, where?”

“God is everywhere Joe!” said the Bishop while slapping the desk with both hands. “Whether he acts through a bird or a crocodile or whatever, the point is you must know where to look in order to interpret His meaning.”


“Oh for frog’s sake. What a mouth breather. Let me explain it so even you can understand Joe.”

“Did you call me a mouth breather?” 

“If you want to interpret higher causes, all you have to do is maximize the signal to noise ratio. This is the idea behind your classic sacrifice. Failing natural causes, you commit a sufficiently brutal act on something sufficiently sweet and innocent whether that be a lamb or your first born son or whatever … these amateurs who try to read tea leaves have it all back to front! They’re looking at the noise!”

“Um, what do you mean by 'natural causes'?”

The Bishop stormed over to his hamster-powered ice box. The hamster occasionally needed a flick across the ears: "Get back to work you. Scheiß Technik."


After the Bishop had calmed down, he sat back behind his desk.

“Please Josepth, just listen to me. Here is my problem. The markets need liquidity. The central bank, of which I am the head, needs to adjust interest rates in order to ensure that liquidity. Not enough liquidity and the market freezes up, too little and a hedonistic, loose credit existence earns me the wrath of the Church of Dentistry. People stop coming in for checkups. Do you see my problem Joe?”

"Yes. Yes. You need to track the money supply." said Josepth

"Ah my dear old friend Josepth, has the heat gone to your head? Let me get you some coconut juice old boy. While you’re imbibing that juice there, let me show you the Central Bank's Antipæedia."

The Bishop Blitzumschlag walked over to the bookcase covering the entire far wall and pulled a volume from the shelf.

"Ah yes, here it is. Let me explain. The Antipæedia contains volumes of theories which do not work in practice and should never be implemented under any circumstances, in practice. As 90% of the Antipædia consists of economics, it is housed here at the Central Bank. The other 10% includes things like 'evidence-based' psychology and climate engineering. Although in fairness you have the latter to thank for your coconut juice there Joey boy. Let it be said once again, the convergence of multiple jet streams is the most interesting thing to happen to Scandinavia since the Vikings. Anyway Joe, the Antipædia saves a hell of a lot of time that would otherwise be spent pursuing horrible ideas. For example, the other day we had some knucklehead come in here trying to sell us his labor theory of value…”

“I am not following,” said Joe, after slurping some of his coconut juice and then swilling the rest around his glass like a cocktail. “Do you have any olives?”

“The problem is Joe, is that every economic theory that has ever been written is contained in the Antipædia. That doesn’t then leave too many options concerning monetary policy now does it? So all I have left to determine interest rates are a load of bunk theories and a comprehensive theology of dental practice. What we have found however is that there is a small, but significant, correlation between the correct rate of interest to ensure market functionality and the wrath of God."

“Sooo,” said Josepth almost finished with his Juice, “you need me to include a God-coefficient in the Brutality Index?”

“That would be a helpful start Joe. Thank you. On the one hand, most of the market consists of the importation of exotic juices from the North and sand from the South and so it is not so bad. But! You know what happens if the markets lack liquidity?!? Then trade dries up, that coconut juice there stops arriving from Norway (delicious no?) as well as the sand, as you well know, to help build the various levees and barriers to maintain the integrity of the coast. That stops arriving as well. The sand! It doesn’t take too long, given the winds we get here, for coastal erosion to run its course and with the next mid-latitude tropical cyclone, Frankfurt am Meer is inundated with sea water. And you know what Joe!?! This basement here, the very office in which I am tasked with ensuring liquidity, slowly fills with water! I mean. Josepth. What type of sick world is this where one is left to literally drown in the consequences of one’s own ignorance?”

“Is the Antipædia water proof?” inquired Josepth.

“You know Joe, sometimes I think this whole business is enough to make one an ateethist.”

That happened to be the hamster’s trigger word, who immediately sprung from its hamster wheel to sing:

“I’m, too sexy for my wheel,
Too sexy for my cage,
Too sexy for my shirt. 
I’m. A Hamster. You know what a mean.
Costing 9.99
From the pet shop.
From the pet shop.”

“This ice box sometimes acts a bit weird,” said the Bishop, “I only bought it to be honest because the salesman said it came with a free wheel.”




"Hey Trevor."



After much interruption and complication, Trevor had finally achieved the highest aim of conscious existence. That is, to be comfy.

Trevor had almost been completely submerged in the water, but now raised his head above the water, looked at his friend and replied curtly.

“What? What do you want?”

 “Trevor, are you familiar with the saying: 'Knowing but not doing is not knowing'? Well I have been thinking about this saying and really trying to understand it. But then I realized I can’t know it. The saying I mean Trev. I can never really understand it without actually doing it! If the saying is indeed the truth. But how can I actually do the saying Trev … wait … Trevor! … did you see that?!?"

"No. What?"

“Did he … did he smile at me?”

“What? No. Are you sure? Who?”

“That guy walking along there. I think he … I think he smiled at me.”

“Are you sure? He just looks genuinely happy to me. There are those like that are always smiling. It’s sickening I know but don’t worry about it.”

“No. No way. He … he smiled at me.”

“Look, you see him now, he’s still smiling and not looking at you. He is just happy. Hang on. Well look at that. Do you think he’s in love?”

"Trevor, I am sick of this. He smiled at me. Not anymore. No more patronizing smirks. He thinks he's better than me! That, Trevor, was the very last time.”

"I was once in love. We used to stay awake and talk all night while staring at the stars. We would watch the sun rise and then death roll a wild pig."

"Trevor. Follow me."

"What? Wait," said Trevor, "you're not ... oh don't be so thin crocodile skinned. Leave him alone. No meat on him and probably tastes like coconut anyway."

“We shall tear that toothy smile asunder.”

"Oh for frog's sake, does this mean I have to get out of the water?"

Never smile at a crocodile.