Second Life Herald

by Vinzenz Fiertze

The wars of many,
the invincible crew,
her army at the ready,
Vanguards strength proves true.
With insults some squeeze our necks,
until our faces turn blue,
but it seems that their armies names, we always outdo.
They have no clue,
What they have gotten into.

Let us have a mighty spar,
from parcels, regions, and sims afar.
Put their pickled feelings into a jar.
And cover them avast with feather and tar.

I dare ALL the grid's armies, to supox, come fourth,
and attack me now (I'll be waiting in the north).
And after your defeat,
you will see,
how strong a single VG can be!

Inventory server mishap creates inseparable siamese-twin stories

Something went horribly wrong when I put the prims holding the notecards for these two stories on Pixeleen's piano at the Herald offices in Jessie sim - I crashed and when I relogged the prims holding the stories were fused - along with the stories! My interview at the Pearl Victorian brothel is now mixed with an impromptu meeting to determine promiscuity in a mermaid sim - what a mess --Kris.
[we'll try the Linden approach and let the readers sort the fused stories themselves - something like coalesced prims from a bad parcel return - the Editrix]

The Pearl: Victorian Brothel

by Kris Dibou
photos by Bunny Brickworks

When it was suggested to me that I do an interview at a brothel, I was very excited.  I love broth, especially with crackers.  I was hoping they had beef broth, as I have grown weary of chicken and I wondered if broth was prepared any differently in the Victorian Era.  I decided to dress as a Victorian gentleman and be on my best behavior; surely they would offer me some free broth!

Well, imagine my disappointment when I arrived and found there was no food in the whole house; what is more, I think they sold sex there!  I spoke with one of the people in charge, Ms. Hagar Qinan:

Spam filter fails -- critic battles emo poetry outbreak

by Sigmund Leominster, new media critic

Following the tragic failure of my spam filter to do its job, I recently received an unsolicited email containing a piece of poetry from what was described as someone with “a poet’s heart and pen.†Here’s a clip from the poem:

I understand the truth disease sees
I say nothing teaches needs
I dream great meaningful beings free my mind
I try to kill only loneliness
I hope great love visits me
I am extra vast and lopsided.

In the spirit of full disclosure - and so you can get to know the depths of my shallowness - I have to admit that I hope there is a special place in Hell reserved for people who think that stringing sentences together in short lines qualifies as “poetry.†I am neither a publisher nor a professional critic but it has always seemed to me that people who want to pretend to be writers – especially when they are patently unqualified – tend to call their meanderings “poetry†in the hope that sympathetic readers will gloss over the vapidity and turgidity of their pseudo-literate ramblings. For some reason that philosophers and psychologists have yet to discover, people allow “poets†far more latitude than they deserve. Mangled metaphor, grammatical grinding and weird words are no substitute for riveting writing.

By Happy Trails, Private Dick

Night was falling on the big sim.  It was another warm evening, with few if any clouds.  As a matter of fact, I can't remember the last time it rained here; maybe the night Frankenschnail disappeared.  I was out pounding the pavement, looking for clues on Amos Anon's disappearance.  Earlier I had stopped by public records, but could not find a marriage certificate for Amos and Lulz.  They could have been married off the sim though, so I inquired as to his birth certificate.  That's when I got more than I bargained for; the birth certificate said he was stillborn.  I pulled up the whole family- Amos and Al had a sister, Anna.  Amos, Anna and Al Anon were part of a 100 snail litter to Alfred and Audrey Anon.  Out of that litter only Al and Anna made it to adulthood.  So who was Amos?  Where was the marriage certificate?  Why was Al playing along with this...or was he...

Real romance and the virtual world

by Mony Markova

Jan opens his eyes and tries to shake off that dream he just had. Now he needs to find her. See what she is up to. Why the odd messages and the odd words from her mouth; the long pauses in conversations? Even the times she was here, she was somewhere else. And worse, now she is nowhere to be found.

So Jan does the unthinkable and wonders if he needs a password to go after her, into that odd world he had been hearing so much about. In most conversations or stories, some reference to that land soon took over: “Ginger did this" or “Paolo did that.†Sometimes he would hear strange comments of what people can and cannot do in that amazing place he called Strange Land.

To Jan the land seems stupid anyway. There were so many things you couldn’t really do there. But still, he has to see it. Find her. He has the eerie feeling that once he was able to move around he would locate her – maybe catch her in the act. Perhaps she is having an affair? Is an affair in Strange Land is really an affair?

The idea sinks deep into Jan’s heart and floods him with sorrow. His eyes feel shaky and he sees himself alone and in despair. Does she know I love her? Where is she!

If darkness was not already cold in Jan’s soul, he made it worse when he thought, What if she is not the same person there?

In need of finding access, he jumps all over the place, while what is left of his sanity tires to figure out her password. Clues, I need clues, he screams! And so big is his desperation and so huge his pleas that somehow, someway, he manages to open an access door to the land, like a bright light, like a window that opens and fresh air enters. Now he can peek in there, walk it, see it, and yes, get her!

by John Norman-Greenbaum

In another world in the days of yore
I snuck a peek inside the world of Gor
I thought I'd seen all I abhore
Until I saw them lying on the floor
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.

Wove of the wool of an abus'ed sheep
They stunk of her masters wet slimey feet
I ran far away, but still they did reek
Oh, my god! if only I hadn't peeked
At the vile Sweatsocks of Gor.

When Jason sought out the great golden fleece
Clipped from the hide of an ovian beast
He never dreamed, he did not in the least
Smell the infection caused by too much yeast
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.

Her master said they would make her complete
If she'd bow down and kiss her master's feet
The socks had been worn for 17 weeks
Burned holes in marble and smelled of bad meat
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.

by Happy Trails, Private Eye

I was sitting back in my office sipping on my Jack Daniels, my head still spinning from the three Gin & Tonics, 7 Screwdrivers, and 3 Dirty Mothers from last night when the front door opened.  In walked this dame that made my breath jump up and dance around.  I hid the Jack back in the desk drawer and invited her to sit.

"Hello, my name is Lulz....Lulz Anon.  I heard you might be able to help me."

"Do go on, Miss", I said in a calm tone.

"It's my husband, Amos- he's missing".

I called Escargot over to take notes while we talked.  She made a file folder for the A section....Anon, Amos...how appropriate.

"When's the last time you saw Amos, Ms. Anon?"

"Call me Lulz, everyone calls me Lulz.  It's been five days now.  I've tried filing a report with the police but as far as I can tell, they've done nothing."

Chapter III

by Happy Trails

[confused readers may wish to refer to episodes 1 and 2]

snailmonster

From Oozeff Von Frankenschnail's personal diary:

by Happy Trails

The lab was a wreck. Someone or something had smashed anything breakable and a few things that weren't. This was quite an interesting laboratory Oozeff had built. I had never been down here before, and the first thing I noticed was the large gurney in the middle of the room. There were thick leather straps lying broken on the floor beneath it. I looked for a slime trail. I could see Oozeff's where he came in, but the trail that went from the gurney and disappeared into the wall......was huge...and it smelled bad.

I snatched up Oozeff's journal and packed it into my shell then felt around on the wall for the secret door release. When it finally popped open I followed the path down to the riverside where it opened out onto the beach. That's where I lost the trail, so I made my way back to my place.

When I got there, the door appeared to be wide open. As I got closer I saw that there was no door. I turned the house inside out; Escargot was missing, and the place smelled of foul slime.

Now my first instinct was to go out blindly searching for my baby, but I realized that without something to go on I would be wasting my time. So I gave the police a call and reported the break-in and possible kidnapping.

Chapter I- Dr. Frankenschnail

by Happy Trails

I've had a lot of cases in the big sim, but there is still one that makes me wake in the night in a cold sweat.  It's time I told the story, for my own sanity.

We snails have our own med school here in town; a good one too, with a large research department.  The university is the hope of the future for the snail community; a light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.  Then came young Dr. Frankenschnail.

Oozeff Von Frankenschnail was one of those Swiss snails who moved here after the big leaf famine of '07.  Smartest snail I ever met.  He kept talking about chemical compounds with high doses of energy that could reanimate dead cells.  I'd say 'Huh?', and he would laugh, then pull a few different bottles out of my wet bar, mix them together, drop in a frogs leg and connect a hot wire to it.  Now this isn't your normal 'make the frog jump' gag- this leg would dance you an Irish Jig and then glide smoothly into a waltz.  Oozeff was a genius.

by Happy Trails, slick private eye

As a snail, I get stepped on a lot.  Usually it's some noob who doesn't look where they're going.  And yes, I've been in a lot of sticky situations.  Escagot is quite a dame, though.  She stands by me no matter what and doesn't criticize me for all my drinking...and ya know, that case she handed me this morning had some interesting facts.

The rash of dissappearances started shortly after the cooking school incident.  Chronologically, the missing people all vanished in the shape of a spiral, or a snails shell, centering at the cooking school.  Seemed to me that the solution to that case would lie in there, and that would fit into my plans.  Added benefit: someone would now be paying me for my revenge.

Then there was Fatboy; the thing that didn't add up.  Escargot and I spent the night in Pixeleen's butter.  How did Pix get butter on her fingers for Fatboy to slip out of?  If she had stuck her fingers in the butter she would have caught Escargot and me doing the nasty.

by Happy Trails, slick private detective

Now something had to be done about this french cooking school, and I was just the snail to do it.  I opened an office over on 5th street and hired Escargot as my receptionist.  Happy Trails, Private Detective.  Yeah, that's me...gumshoe...private dick. I began by hitting every dive and gin joint in town to scrape up a team to hit the place.  I took on a lot of side jobs to fund this project, mostly trailing cheating wives.  Once they've had snail....anyway, that's another story.

So one morning I'm in my office helping Escargot get her shell back on.  She sure could take dictation.  I heard the front door bell chime.  I nearly fell off the desk.  In walked Fatboy.

"Fatboy!", I said, "You're supposed to be dead.  I saw you in Pixeleen's jar at the cooking school".

"Ha! Ain' no wannabe French Chef gonna do in Fatboy!", he replied.

"I'll go fix some coffee while you two get reacquainted", Escargot chimed in.

"Don't hold back on the brandy, baby".

"..if you have any left", she chided.

by Happy Trails - survivalist snail

There are 10,000 ugly snails in the big sim.  I'm one of them- they call me Trails.  This is my story.

I was out one night, minding my own business; hanging with my best girl, Escargot.  Pretty little french snail.  I've been working on her a long time, and I thought this would be the night I got her out of her shell.  We were in a seedy little bar on the west side, and I was on my 3rd vodka martini, while she drank strawberry margaritas (no salt).

We were getting pretty shit-faced when we slithered out of the bar.  It all seems clear now, but was so hazy at the time.  I remember her shell was already 1/2 off and she was ready for action.  This was going to be my big night.  That's when it happened.  The canning jar scooped us up, and before I could turn my head, the lid was on.

Although my head was spinning from the martinis and the bottle of jack daniels I had for breakfast this morning, I could see clearly through the jar, as it acted like a magnifying glass for me.  We were being taken to the french cooking school.  That could only mean one thing: Pixeleen was having another cooking lesson.

by Nidol Slazar, WU poet in residence

Once upon an internet,
Lived a group of ruthless trolls,
Whom began to pose a virtual threat,
With their vile and treacherous souls,

This vast collective of hate,
Wearing masks of anonymity,
Feared not one place to desecrate,
With their state of unanimity,

Unknown to the public eye,
Existed the people behind the screen,
That could be anyone nearby,
Part of the internet hate machine,

by Dazz Anvil

I was running low on lindens
so I tried to get some cash
when it failed I went get some help
and the simulator crashed
It took an hour to log back in
cuz the asset server’s down
and there were no mentors anywhere
Just a newbie dressed in brown
-----------------
Second Life is borked again
Yeah what else is new
My clothes don’t wanna stay on now
And I can’t attach my shoe
My inventory’s all messed up
and hippos are my friends
but the blog says all are happy now
according to the trends
------------------
Lately I’ve been wondering
How long will this lag last
I just teleported
Now my hair’s stuck in my ass
I downloaded the new RC
with the dazzle color suite
now my avi just won’t stand up straight
I can’t even see its feet
--------------------

by Nidol Slazar

When your life is spiraling downwards,
after you've fallen through the crack,
At the bottom there is nothing,
and there's no way of getting back,

When things begin to lose their meaning,
As your personality goes astray,
People hate you more and more,
As you live through another day,

When the feelings pick apart your soul,
I'm sorry to say there is no chemo,
Perhaps you should stop kidding yourself,
And admit that you are an emo,

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

A captainless ship flew past my watch,
A sign of things to be;
Where once the ship sailed straight and true,
Where once she sailed free;

She wanders lost on ragged seas
And seems to lose her way;
And she never sinks beneath the waves
No harbor found, nor quay.

That she floats, is it enough?
Can that be all she needs?
Or is it best that she should sink
and keep her dignity?

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

Feeling creative, forceful, and bold
I sought out the server code

Onto my harddisc quickly it lands
Tip-tap, clicking with my hands

What did I have when I loaded it
Down? What the hell is this shit?

OMG this really sucks the big
One, I think I need a cig...

Wait a minute, I don't smoke those things;
Not menthol, filtered, or Kings...

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

In order to escape the naggage
I came here without baggage
The women have no saggage;
I love to watch their waggage,
The major cause of laggage.

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

He thought he found himself in heaven
When all his dreams he seized;
All he wanted for the taking
Or creating, as he pleased

The months flew by and all he tried
Grew tiring in the depth
And degree of concentration made,
To max the width and breadth

Of all he ever fantasized
In this life or the next
Until he cared not for his life.
The governer, he did text:

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

On a lavish textured slope
With megaprim tree, built;
My lover, sweet, lay in my arms,
Couple 10 in kilt.

And we commented on the moon
And stars that dripped like honey;
I made a joke and she chuckled as
If she thought it funny.

I carressed her cheek with words formed sweet
As I was want to do;
Seduced her mind and soon, in time,
Seduced her body too.

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

Sitting at the counter tapping
Fingers, just this side of napping;
Pondering at trip back in to
Secondlife once more.

Is she sitting somewhere waiting?
As we speak she's contemplating
The blue button, taking her to
Secondlife once more.

Metaversal mem'ries clinging
To the real human being;
Would it be safe for them back in
Secondlife once more?

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

I sleep by the luminous light
Of my laptop, left on all night;
As closer I drift towards the place
Of digital time, life and space.

Evolution's next step for man?
The digital body's at hand!
When at last we move without keys;
No sickness, death nor disease.

Are not our streets paved with gold
Like in the stories of old?
Will we have eternal life,
Immune to the rifle and knife?

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

Across the sea in Antiquity
Where steam punk engines churn;
The royal navy set about
The task that we shall learn.

To protect the merchants and their ships
And the casual sailor, too;
They searched the sea of Antiquity
For pirates, mighty who

Attack and burn without a word
Or warning cannon shot;
And vanish soon without a trace
'Cept burning flotsam, hot.

A trap was set to close a net
On the wiley pirates there;
The decoy sat on water that
The wind avoided, where

tune by, and apologies to, David Bowie

by Faerie Hax

It's a God awful small affair
To the girl with the purple hair,
But everyone is yelling, "No!"
And her friend has told her to go,
But her friend is no where to be seen.

Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seats with the clearest view
And she's hooked to her little screen,
But the sim is sadd'ning bore
For she's explored it ten times or more.
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on

Campers
Fighting in the dance club.
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go.
It's the freakiest show.

Failure of PN's rumored friday griefing raid causes super hero to wax poetic

[GreenLantern Excelsior sent this tale of online heroics to the Herald offices via the mojo wire saturday, with a note saying "I was inspired to write this after the big PN raid last night ended up fizzling like a wet firecracker". Is the heroic epic poetic tradition is being updated for the new media? -the Editrix]

Banned griefer's ghosted avatar stuck in a walking animation is decorated with props in Sandbox Cordova

by GreenLantern Excelsior

The Great PN Raid of November '07
Was planned to be vicious and mean,
With sim-crashing style,
And "lulz" by the mile,
The worst Second Lifers had seen.

The Green Lantern Core and the great Justice League
Were prepared to observe and report.
With their shields charged to max,
They'd AR the attacks
By the griefers they'd promised to thwart.

The Lindens were ready, their steely eyes steady.
The Grid was in perfect repair.
At the first sign of trouble
They'd move on the double,
Protecting the residents there.

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

I was lying on my back, looking at the stars
When an airship passed between myself and Mars
Gracefully it drifted in the moonlit night
All it's sails full, it's balloon was glowing bright

The wooden ship that hung from the large balloon
Had lanterns all alit, and I could hear a tune
Played on violin drifting through the air
I lifted my spyglass and saw the captain standing there

by Tiny Newt

[last week's episode is here]

Banished earlier from Sanctum Sanctorum Island by the owner Baron Greyson, King Fish Overdrive was ignobly forced to wait offshore in his leaky ship. King Fish was a cocky, powerful fighter whose only admitted vice was the demon rum. He had smuggled two full barrels aboard his ship against orders, presumably to celebrate their almost certain victory. During the long uncomfortable wait in ambush, Overdrive fumed. Now elevated to the lofty position of “Captainâ€, he believed deeply in the principles of democratic rule aboard his vessel. His cutthroat crew, banished and humiliated one and all, delighted in joining their captain in sampling the grog barrels long, hard and repeatedly.

When the signal to attack finally sounded, Overdrive and his bleary eyed crew literally staggered to their battle stations. Their mission; to sail a flanking maneuver designed to surprise the enemy, By now their presence surprised no one. Longjohnson seeing them so uselessly out of position and moving slower still, vowed to make them rue the day they ever signed articles with the likes of Longjohnson Swindlehurst. He would deal with those %^$*#@ blackguards later.

“Two points off the wind and coming fast!†cried the Endeavour’s lookout pointing to the southwest.

As if on cue, the skies parted for a moment and a hot sun blazed down
on the proceedings silhouetting the Endeavour against a forbidding blackened horizon.

by Tiny Newt

[last week's episode is here]

Meanwhile, on the Island of Sanctum Sanctorum, eighty leagues due west by south of Sanchon, Longjohnson Swindlehurst stood by the cracking fire pondering his next move. The ruined castle of the Baron Grayson made a perfect hideout for the old seadog Swindlehurst. The accommodations were sumptuous by any man’s lights. He liked the fact that visitors naturally assumed he was the owner. Bit on the chilly side some nights, what with the bloody roof gone and all, he chuckled.

“Everythingâ€, it seemed, turned on the upcoming meeting with Doctor Apocalypse. Swindlehurst knew, as soon as Dr. Apocalypse spied the “EYE of TRUTH†symbol on his half of the treasure map, the ol’ doc would be willing to fund the two ships needed for the ambush. Chasing down the Endeavour and Commander Newt would be child’s play, Longjohnson mused. The ship was slow, sorely undermanned and pitifully under gunned. What the man saw in that bit of flotsam he would never know.

Swindlehurst struggled awkwardly with his greatcoat, then, fearing he would be late, grabbed his crutch and trundled down the steep underground passage. A light rain fell as he exited the base of the mountain through the well hidden cave opening. The old cripple swore a steady oath as the tangled underbrush tugged at his coat-tails and leggings. Presently, the uneven ground opened onto a flat rock. He paused momentarily to catch a raspy breath and admire the husky square- rigged ship that lay before him. Getting down the steep cliffs to the boarding ladder would tax a sound sailor. By tying his crutch to a lanyard the old sea dog made his way down -half crashing- half falling and always cursing he scrabbled his way down landing in a heap of leaves, twigs and gritty dirt.

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

The cowboy said 'Draw your piece'
And he blew me all to rags;
My gun went off when he had left,
I die while Linden lags.

I flew into a secured land,
I had 1 minute to pack my bags;
Now I'm banned from my friend's land,
Alone while Linden lags.

The pirates will do battle today,
My cursor zigs and zags;
But my avatar will not move,
I sink while Linden lags.

by Tiny Newt

[for those joining us mid-story the previous episode is here]

“YOU’LL PAY DOUBLE FOR THAT!†Sin Trenton’s Slovakian accent was thick with threat. The Navigator was beside himself with fury.

“Save yourself for the melee. She’s the a wily one.†Tiny cautioned.

As is the custom with the pirates of Sanchon, the sea battles culminate in on-shore hand-to-hand combat. The weapons, fitted with Fleet Admiral Chase Speculass’ fighting system, register saber and musket hits on bodies.

One dies by degrees here, thought Robin Sprocket. Robin, wearing the pith helmet and tan digging outfit of a paleontologist, adjusted her blue-tinted glasses and listened carefully as team captains chose sides. The crew from the Endeavour along with Mango Birdbrain and GJ Hennessey, repaired downfield to the Vagabond Sailing Club facilities. Admiral Willis, Commander Beverly Salming, the other lady pirates, Deevah Torok and Malibu DuPont, and the men, Cambell Cochran and Lt. Kris Krivez, occupied the ground in front of the dilapidated Ben-Bow Inn.

“Robin, Sin, set yourselves to ‘always run’,†Captain Newt ordered. He drew his flintlock with his left hand and took a few practice swings with the saber in his right.

“Don’t forget to kick.†You can score also by kicking,†He reminded them. Dueling is tricky. The avatars are steered with the arrow buttons as mouse clicks activate the saber swings. The flintlocks may only be aimed and fired in ‘mouse look’ mode.

Sin Trenton was spoiling to attack Commander Beverly, but was only armed with a Blunderbuss which put him at a decided disadvantage. However, so be it, if that was his weapon of choice.

Even at this distance, Robin noted a strange weapon in Beverly Salming’s hands.

by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate

Come writers and artists, designers and geeks;
Builders and gamers, lovers and freaks;
Those whose dreams have been trampled and burned;
The hated, the ugly, the crippled, the spurned.

Come now all people from all walks of life;
From every nation, come husband and wife.
Come singles and widows, come partners who bide
In small apartments or houses and ride

Into the cities to toil through the day
Or those still at home looking to play.
There is a place where you can still dream
And bring in to life what you could have been.

by Tiny Newt

[the Herald's literary thursday tradition levels up with the resumption of the Pirates of Sanchon series - now a continuing weekly feature - the Editrix]

The captain and crew of the barque HMS Endeavour, a 400 ton SL replica of Captain Cook’ ship of 1860, find themselves press-ganged into fighting a series of sea battles aboard pirate brigantines purely for the entertainment and amusement of the pirate Admiral Benson Willis. During a sword swinging melee ashore the Endeavours become cornered in the old Ben Bow tavern. In the ensuing dust-up Clasico Cassini’s foot crashed through rotten floorboards to reveal a rusted strongbox . Back on board, the crew pried open the strongbox to discover an ancient map.

Later that evening, having successfully foiled an unwanted midnight visitor the crew realized their secret possession of the pirate’s treasure map has been discovered.

Gunner’s Mate Robin Sprocket worked furiously, mumbling to herself as she went about her duties aboard the HMS Endeavour.

“Look at this mess! Where am I supposed to find spare parts for
this junk?†Secretly she enjoyed the old armor. The smooth surface of the heavy muskets caressed the palm of her hand. The beautiful inlaid scroll-work amazed her. One shot, that’s all you get! she thought, shaking her head. In today’s world, one could spray one or two hundred rounds in the time it took to load, fire and reload these ancient firearms. It was all face-
to-face b