The plan to disguise cavalry as infantry had a very bad downside. We all had to walk. Making Graymire look like a pack horse was easy. Continuing to put one foot in front of the other after miles and miles of marching was not. It amused the infantry greatly to see the knights and noblemen aching and wheezing as we slogged alongside them. The dwarfs were at the core of the formation, around the line of wagons holding the supplies and the disassembled walls of the fort. Prefabricated wall segments made it easy to take down and put up the fortification. The wooden barriers were a great comfort when I sank to the ground in exhaustion at the end of a day. Professional infantry were more accustomed to the exertion, but I’d ridden everywhere.
Marching for miles and miles left me staring at my feet most of the day to ensure my tired limbs didn’t stumble. Even so, I noticed as the ground evened out and shifted to low, rolling hills. Trees dotted the grassland closer together than I would have expected, but not so much as to impede cavalry[46]. A few sharp inselbergs of basalt broke up the ground with sheer cliffs. We encamped between two of these sturdy bastions of stone. It took a while for my exertion-impaired mind to realize we were within sight of the city. I did not like the look of it one bit.
The river was disguised by the gentle folds of the land, but split around the base of one of the basalt towers. The city sat around that base, filling the island between basalt and river, yet it still possessed a wall. It looked like mud brick of a rust-red hue. The battlements had stepped crenellations, giving the impression of triangles with only vertical and horizontal lines. Several wooden bridges spanned the water. Solitary riders were already making for the horizon in several directions – likely searching for their King and his host. I watched them go and cast my gaze back upon the city. The inselberg at its heart had not been overlooked by the residents. It was capped with very real ramparts and battlements of stone cut to the same pattern as the city wall. A thin trail wound around the outside of the rock, connecting the citadel to the city.
“I don’t like it,” I said.
“It’s not Gefrah Castle, but the word ‘impregnable’ comes to mind,” Lenz said.
“The river is as much a weakness as a strength,” Gebhard said. We turned to see him seated upon his horse behind us. “But that is not our problem. The dwarfs will insist on being the ones to break that wall.”
I suppressed my annoyance at the thought that Gebhard probably rode all the way here. “What brings you over to this corner of the camp?” I asked.
“You picked the best spot to observe Kydessa without getting too far from the army.”
“How is the river a weakness?” Lenz asked.
“It reduces the amount of work needed to keep them trapped, and limits the possibility of breaking out. That city will not have enough boats to move any significant fraction of its population. Attempting to escape by boat makes it harder to avoid missile fire as well. They will have to hope their supplies hold out until relief arrives. When that relief arrives, it will fall to us to kill it.” Gebhard tore his gaze from Kydessa and looked at Lenz. “Will you be able to do that? I seem to recall you had trouble at Altenheim.”
I stepped between Lenz and Gebhard. “Lorenz is not your concern. If there-” I was interrupted as Lenz’s hand landed on my shoulder. I met his gaze and saw the pained, apologetic look in his eyes. Gebhard pretended not to notice and spoke.
“Fair enough, Prince Kord. Your… contingent will be among those waiting to enter the fray after the Drakoi have become engaged.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I had wondered.” I headed away from the vantage with Lenz in tow. With the nagging thought in my mind, I sought out a spot where we wouldn’t be overheard by anyone who understood volkssprache. “Lenz, I know Gebhard put it bluntly, but you were shaken up after Altenheim.”
“Give me a chance to prove that’s not who I am.”
“You don’t need to prove anything to me. I’m worried-”
“I need to prove it to myself,” Lenz said, interrupting me.
“I understand,” I said.
***
Under heavy guard, legion work parties took axes and saws to the oaks scattered across the landscape. They erased the trees with frightening efficiency, converting them to siege equipment, and beginning work on pontoon bridge segments. The people of Kydessa had raised their own bridges, cutting themselves off from the outside world. The legion had not yet invested the site, staying well out of range of any weapons that might be on those walls. Instead, they made methodical preparations for assailing the island and kept constant watch. I stayed within the camp, drilling and sparring with every weapon in my personal arsenal. At first, I battled Lenz, as I always had. Then some more confident Knights of Gefrah wanted to test their mettle against mine. Soon, I found myself beset by challengers. Every braggart and self-styled champion in the camp was being pressured to back up their boasts or bin the bluster. It was good to practice against people I hadn’t fought virtually every day of my life.
The days passed like this as we waited for sign of Marcel’s army. I began to wonder if the Drakoi king would even show himself before the legion stormed Kydessa. The legion had built an entire second set of ramparts and palisades to protect the siege workshop. These works connected the prefabricated fort to the foot of the closest inselberg. I was taking a break from my own sparring, watching Ritter and Andrei Banik facing off as a team against a pair of squires when a commotion interrupted the bout. Work crews and their escorts streamed in through the gates. Not seeing Gebhard or Archelaus, I hurried over to Hengist.
“What’s happening?”
“I was going to ask you. I don’t speak Dwarfish.” We went searching for someone with better information. Watching the movement of dwarf officers, I found Stojan. The Protoarchistratigos was calmly issuing orders to each officer as they arrived. He looked at us, his good eye narrowing.
“Have we spotted the Drakoi?” I asked in Dwarfish.
“Marcel was trying to sneak past us. He’s almost in position to slip between us and the city in the dead of night. We’re forming up to get between him and the city. You know your role, so don’t bother me.” He turned away without waiting for acknowledgment.
“What did he say?” Hengist asked.
“The Drakoi have been spotted. It’s time to get ready. The infantry is moving to get between Marcel and Kydessa.”
“I have to be with them.” Hengist hurried off, and I ran to my own tent.
“Is it time?”
I wasn’t sure who asked, but I answered, “Yes.” I focused my attention on getting into my armor. This was not a one-person procedure, but Lenz had found me by the time I needed his aid. In turn, I helped him into his panoply. He gave me a weak smile as I picked up my harness of scabbards.
“I think you need more swords,” Lenz said.
“A bit late for that now,” I said, fitting the straps about myself and adjusting the sit of the weapons. Collecting the horse blankets for Graymire’s barding, I turned my attentions to the beast. He sensed the activity in the camp and pawed the earth in anticipation. A few reassuring sounds and a pat on the neck kept him from rushing off as I fitted his kit. I stood beside Graymire and waited. My instinct was to climb into the saddle, but we were the reserve. There was no point in wearing out my horse with my armored weight before the battle was joined. Soren and Johan rode up to me.
“Are we really going to fight this time?” Ritter asked.
“Yes, but not just yet. We’re with the reserves.”
Johan chewed on his lip, the concern breaking the surface of his expression for a moment.
“Try to keep your nerves,” I said. “And get off your horse. We’ll remount when the Drakoi cavalry looks ready to commit.” I looked to the gates, where the infantry columns were still sallying out. Hengist and his retinue rode with them to be the token cavalry within the squares. I led Graymire out of the path of the general flow and closer to the outer wall. There, I climbed to the ramparts to get a better view of the battlefield.
The infantry formed up into three squares and advanced towards the lowlands by the Kydessa bridges. Other than the bristling rows of speartips, I couldn’t tell what any of the footmen were armed with as they marched. The feeling hanging in the air gave me an odd sense of deja vu. It was the same tension that permeated everything waiting for Stefak to attack at Altenheim. But Marcel and his army weren’t even visible. Steel gleamed from our formations as they moved into position. The shine was more universal than the riot of liveries. When they settled on their chosen hillocks, the wall of shields presented to the world transformed the squares into living fortifications. I was reminded of my first view of dwarf legionnaires and the thought that they were as unmovable as stone.
The first I saw of the Drakoi was a dark smudge cresting a hill. They moved with none of the discipline and unity of our troops. A loose mob of disordered individuals trudged across the green. Dirty and dishevelled, they were clad in filth-stained homespun. A few had spears and crude shields, but most carried whatever agricultural implement they’d gotten their hands on. I saw billhooks, scythes, pitchforks, splitting mauls, woodman’s axes, and simple cudgels. It was impossible to tell humans from elves at this distance, but the skrael scurrying about the crowd were unmistakable. The small reptilians had knives, cleavers, and sickles. They were not an impressive sight, but they kept coming. Thousands and thousands of runaway slaves continued to pour over that crest, so many that the sheer tide of bodies might just sweep over the shield walls. Their pace quickened as they laid eyes upon the dwarf standards. Rage and a lust for vengeance lent alacrity to their limbs.
A torrent of arrows and bolts fell upon the mass, spilling red. Where the missiles struck, they dealt a devastating blow, felling scores. Yet, it felt like spitting at the incoming tide. More surged on, breaking into a run to cross bowshot as fast as possible. As the wave of bodies crashed upon the shield wall in crimson sprays visible from the ramparts, a question nagged my mind.
“Where is their cavalry?” I asked. I looked around in confusion as the tide of bodies swarmed around the infantry squares. The corners bowed inward, turning the formations into round islands of stability amidst the churning chaos of the mob. Yet the only horses on the field belonged to Hengist’s retinue in the middle of these islands. I turned about entirely and looked over the other walls of the camp for any sign of the Drakoi cavalry. All I saw were the green hills over which rolled the screams of agony, cries of rage, and ring of steel. Since the mob was not actually endless, and had fully engaged, the absence of Drakoi horse left me even more agitated than the prospect of facing them outnumbered. Grandmaster Straub looked no happier, but maintained a greater degree of calm.
I was looking to see Gebhard’s expression when the first torch was hurled through the air. It tumbled end over end and dropped within the ramparts of the siegeworks. More flaming brands followed, along with the thunder of hooves. Where the mob had been an incoming tide, the torches were a breaking wave, arching over the barricades to crash among the unfinished pontoons. How had they gotten so close? My eyes snapped to the basalt tower next to us. No, we likely had lookouts. But this was their home ground. I doubted there was a rider in Marcel’s host who didn’t know every dip and swell of these hills. The small contingent of archers left in the camp fired over the ramparts, while other dwarfs ran to deal with the fires.
It was easier to climb directly into Graymire’s saddle from the rampart than descend to the ground. Lenz tossed me a lance. Soren and Johan climbed onto their horses. I heard Gebhard yelling, “Not yet, you idiots.” For a moment, I thought he was talking to us. But the gates were swinging open, the dwarfs ignorant of what he was saying. The first Drakoi rode past the opening, and it was too late to correct. Their horses were shorter and leaner than the chargers favored by the knights of the Volkmund. The steeds looked quick and nimble, and were mostly chestnut, dun, or piebald in coloration. The riders wore little armor, and the horses none. Open-faced helms and cuirasses or short mail vests seemed to be the extent of the protection enjoyed by the Drakoi. Heads turned toward us, and Gebhard signalled for the horns to sound the charge.
I lowered my visor. The world shrank to the slice visible though the eye slots, darkness shrouding my periphery. Graymire hardly needed to be spurred into motion, as he leapt towards the fray with his usual zeal. The wide eyes of the lead Drakoi rider made me think about the sight he must be seeing. Monsters of flesh and steel surging out, stirrup to stirrup, from a supposedly empty camp. Of the lot, the one heading straight at him was the biggest. My saddle sat level with his chest, the ridge of my helm high above his head. I thundered towards him at a gallop. Unsurprisingly, he spurred more speed from his steed and bolted from my path.
More Drakoi were pouring around the corner of the camp, looking to descend upon the infantry brawl by the river bank. At the sight of us, some wheeled and tried to break. Some drew their blades to fight, and others continued forward, too surprised to respond. Their once fluid flock turned into a tangled knot. We slammed into it, tons of armor clad muscle smashing aside anything that got in our path. No one tried to obstruct Graymire’s passage. My lance tip whistled through empty air as the nimble Drakoi horses bore their riders from my reach.
The crash of cracking steel and scream of a dying horse told me I was not the biggest thing on the battlefield. The squamous, dark brown beast was taller than any horse, and several times as long. Its huge, shovel-shaped head possessed jaws wide enough to snap up a man in a single bite. Long, scythe-like talons dug into the dirt to hurl it forward at a pace matching the Drakoi horse. Seated in a saddle upon its middle was a man fully encased in plate. The etched, angular metal was a golden bronze hue, and chased with runic text. The helm’s face was forged in a stylized rendition of a bearded man’s, with blue gem lenses for eyes. It had a very dwarven aesthetic. His spear was more like sarissa than a lance, as anything shorter would be unable to reach the battle around him. Despite its weight, he wielded the weapon one-handed.
As the tip turned towards me, I realized we were about to collide.
Wrenching Graymire’s reins to the right, I tried to twist out of the path of that speartip. My hand acted almost of its own accord, trying to grab and turn aside the weapon. I didn’t see the lugs just behind the spearhead even as my left hand gripped them. The shock jolting up my arm started my body moving backwards before the speartip bit. If not for that, I would have been skewered clean. The weapon punched into the steel of my breastplate and lifted me from my saddle. My flight took only an instant, but stretched out forever as I saw sky, then much abused grass. I landed atop the spearhead, and as the lindwyrm[47] rider tried to pull it free, the haft snapped.
There was blood on the speartip as I pulled it free, but I felt nothing of the injury. The rider had paused to look at his broken weapon. I decided to return the other half, hurling it as I rose to my feet. He swayed easily out of its path. I drew Otto’s blade and stared him down.
“I’m not finished with you,” I bellowed, though I don’t know if he understood volkssprache, or even heard me. The challenge in my posture was enough. He urged his mount in my direction, and the lindwyrm charged. I threw myself aside and hacked into its forelimb. My sword cut deep into its wrist in a spray of vitae. It thrashed and roared. I switched my grip to thrust the blade towards the beast’s eye. My lunge was interrupted as it decided to try to gobble me up. My sword tip sank into its upper palate with the crunch of breaking bones. Crimson spurted along the fuller and dribbled down the edge. A crushing swat of its working foreclaw knocked me onto the beast’s tongue. I braced myself between my sword hilt and its bottom canines.
Hot, stinking breath washed over me as it thrashed and roared again. The sound alone shook every bone in me, and knocked the wind from my lungs. It began to grope for me with its foretalons. Feeling the bladelike claws strike my carapace, I drew the gaudy sword and plunged its tip into the flesh of the paw. The lindwyrm flinched back, slapping the sword against its fangs. The steel snapped, with more than half its length disappearing from view with the forelimb. I stared for a moment at the broken blade. It had failed at the chip I’d put in it hacking through the troll’s neckbones.
The lindwyrm thrashed again in an effort to hurl me from its jaws. I would have liked nothing better than to not be kneeling on that slimy tongue, but I needed my sword. It was quite solidly lodged in the bone of the beast’s skull. I tried to pull it loose, but I had no leverage. Rocking, wiggling, sawing, the blade was refusing to budge. With a cry of frustration, I shoved, pushing it deeper in. Bone cracked again, and a great shudder ran through the lindwyrm’s body.
The head crashed into the ground, and I was spat from its jaws, rolling on the flattened grass. My hand fell on something round as I started to push myself upright. It was the haft of my lance, still lying where I’d dropped it when unhorsed. I finally got my eyes on the lindwyrm. The beast was utterly still, and its rider was angrily untying himself from the saddle. Unhooking a flail from his dead beast’s harness, the rider leapt for me. The spiked ball on the end of the chain looked bigger than two fists put together as it arched through the air. There was no way I was going to let him land that blow.
Already in the air, the man without a beast could do nothing to change his trajectory as I raised my lance out of the grass. He struck the tip solidly, and was carried past me, crashing into the ground past my head. The lance haft splintered, pieces raining down around me. Rising to my feet, I snatched up the chunk of lance with the speartip attached. I stalked over to where the man had fallen. He was clearly in no mood to surrender as his boot collided with my breastplate. I staggered to the sound of cracking steel, struggling to regain my breath after the blow.
The man was on his feet, spinning his flail up to speed as I drew breath. I leapt to the side as the oversized flail crashed down, sending up a cascade of dirt and stone chips. I’d dropped the lance fragment, but that was hardly the best weapon at my disposal. The flail whipped up, spun about, and came down again, barely missing my sabaton as I twisted out of its path. Pulling Tabris’ falcatas, I leapt for the other man. I expected him to try to pull the flail from the crater it had made. Instead, he dropped the handle and grabbed me. He caught my right arm about the vambrace, and the left hand about the gauntlet. I was taller by a few inches, but his strength was incredible, halting my momentum with hardly a grunt or sway. I stared through the blue lenses of that implacable metal mask, finally seeing some piece of the man inside.
Rage filled the eyes that stared back at me.
I tried to pull away from his grip, but he refused to release me. His dwarf-made armor so completely covered him that there didn’t look to be any place not plated. It reminded me of the lictor’s armor in both style and completeness. Except there was a gap. Though depicted as bearded, human features never carried quite as much facial hair in dwarf art as the race that crafted it. The bucket-shaped helm provided protection from the sides and top. But without a beard, it was possible to get under it from the front, if only I could get either of my swords free. As I pulled futilely against his strength, an epiphany struck me.
I let go of the falcata in my left hand. In that moment of slack, my hand slithered out of the gauntlet and dropped to my belt. Unexpectedly freed from my resistance, his hand pulled back. Fingers about the pommel, I tugged the assassin’s blade free from its scabbard. My arm came up as his came down. Sparks spat as the steel of my sword skittered up his breastplate. The world went white in a flare of pain and the ring of steel on steel as he brought Tabris’ falcata down upon the crown of my helmet with a crushing impact.
For the second time, I was struck down by that same blade.
[46] The land around Kydessa is an Oak Savannah amidst the remains of a long dead volcanic range. The soil that remains makes for poor tillage.
[47] Though commonly called a lindwyrm, the creature was really a Colossal Skink, and not a member of the lindwyrm family. They are as big as the name suggests, and difficult to break to the saddle.
If you want your own copy, the whole book is available from Amazon in eBook, Paperback, and Hardcover variants.
thanks for the latest installment.
You’re welcome.
I feel compelled to mention I’m not reading this Glibs series – because I liked the first installment so much I immediately bought and devoured it.
Thanks again, UnCiv!
So, no first impressions on this particular chapter?
A good cliffhanger ending. Will he wake up to victory or captivity?
I recall reading how Hideyoshi took a purportedly impregnable city by damming up a river and flooding it out. But it doesn’t seem like the terrain would be suitable for that tactic. The landscape reminds me of the Missoula scablands out West south of the Columbia.
The skink-rider is probably very pissed Kord killed the mount he had spent years training.
Fighting squares, a heroic cavalry charge, a monstrous mount, and a champions type duel. Kord even got to use all his swords.
Nice.
I did have to look up ‘squamous’. +1 vocabulary test.
I first ran into ‘squamous’ reading Lovecraft. Talk about a vocabulary test…
It’s used in some drug commercial – something about lung cancer.
Squamous cell carcinoma, “a type of cancer that can occur in the skin, the lining of internal organs, or the respiratory and digestive tracts.”
Some of the words I had to look up aren’t even in the dictionary.
I bet most of them were styles of bladed weapons and/or the various elements of a complete set of armor. Someone did their research! 🙂👍 (Or is just so well-read on the subject that it comes naturally!)
Yep, that.
I should be around for my comments later, UCS. I’m currently occupied in the Unfun Zone of cover letters. I’d like to hear your impressions/ thoughts, and anyone else in or familiar with government employment. A damn interesting job opportunity grabbed my eye, a temp job as Editorial Assistant in the Office of Code Revision: “The Office of Code Revision is responsible for editing documents for the Indiana General Assembly and preparing and publishing internet and bound versions of the Indiana Code. The editorial assistants will work with editors and attorneys in a physical office in the Indiana Government Center. Remote work is not available for these positions.”
It’s a Hail Mary, but ya gotta throw ’em. Also good to have for later.
Would you need specialized skills for legal editing?
I dunno, Evan. From what I gather of your personality on this site, I think you would be profoundly unsuited for (a) government employment and (b) a job editing state statutes (and possibly regulations). Absolutely zero scope for personality or creativity – in fact, you will be severely penalized for the merest whiff of creativity in editing published statutes and regulations.
At this point, that’s a massive turn-on. It’s a temp gig, but it looks good. I just wanna put my head down, perform my task, and move on. This work is just proofreading docs and making sure someone didn’t misspell something. Possible talks of how to condense and add clarity. All fun talk.
Work is what you do to afford fun. Disagreeing and hating the laws would also be a perk. Getting insight into the system adds fantastic incentive to pay attention to the minutia on a personal level, as well as professional. Writing ideas originate somewhere. Just gotta pay attention. I’m mighty proud to be so damn stubbornly chipper.
As for legal skills, I absolutely doubt so: “Editorial Assistant (IHP) is responsible for receiving, updating, and proofing legislative documents for the purpose of printing and publication. These documents consist primarily of legislative bills and any subsequent amending documents.”
I’m gonna show up tomorrow as well. Give ’em a face and I’ll have my docs. Worst case Ontario, the position’s full and I’ll still be there to ask about what happens in July and subsequent developments. Ya know, get two birds stoned at once.
At this point, that’s a massive turn-on.
We won’t kink shame you.
What am I saying? Of course we’re going to kink shame you. 😛
Evan, are you totally done with Phlepotomy? I ask, as you seem discouraged, and, having been there once myself coming out of school and the first job being complete shit, turned away from a bit of hard work to take jobs I wasn’t really suited for.
My advise is to stick with it. Find a place to either volunteer (blood drive type stuff), or a job that no one seems to want (don’t know what, but they are out there). Don’t let some weird, stupid stuff keep you away from what could be a legit career that you were at least excited about.
@Zwak: I’m not *totally* done, but nearly. It really didn’t fit my brain’s ability to work. The restart at the new gig shoulda been much easier. I also legit fucked up a couple of times. Not enough to warrant a full quit, but close. I’d really like to get officially good at it so I have it as a backup for rainy days, and I’m not quite there yet. It would be fabulous to be able to just operate the machines. I’d be damn good at legit phlebotomy, and my own doc’s phleb worked at the same plasma center I did — her few months there were enough to get out. The quick pace and more stabby techniques take longer for my brain to adapt to, too long for plasma centers. (If they gave me an extra month to adjust, I’d be just as sharp as the Lifers, but that’s obv not how they operate.)
Writing/editing is what I’m best at and certainly my Dream Job. This Hail Mary is just that, but it’s always worth throwin’ ’em. Aggressive mistakes are *FAR* preferable to passive ones. (They haunt all of us, don’t they?)
@Ted: Oh-dearie, me! I expect every kink of mine to be shamed, though I’m as vanilla as it gets. Having said that, I was legit date raped into losing my virginity in a threesome, one of whom was married with her drunk husband passed out downstairs. (<– I wasn't aware of that.) I regret nothing. Reverse that, with two older dudes doing it to an underage drunk chick?! Pound me in the ass prison. (If Kirsten had become pregnant, that woulda also seriously fucked me over, though no way she woulda gone along with that.) I've done other .. interesting things in the kink-realm, I suppose. I'm moral to the point of 'shame' being a solemnly rare emotion.
Well, there ya have it. Or at least a start. Who wants to un-wind it?
“Having said that, I was legit date raped into losing my virginity in a threesome, one of whom was married with her drunk husband passed out downstairs.”
I should rephrase. I lost my virginity while I was likely ‘legally’ date raped, but not morally. I was 19 and had experimented with drugs plenty on my own, but was offered (and happily accepted) booze and some pills on the side from the gals. It was an XMas party my bro was hosting. One thing led to another and the unmarried redhead finally got her way. Married gal was certainly in the bed, but she wasn’t involved in the act. I don’t recall if she did anything but watch. I didn’t get in trouble, though bro had a few curt words with me. He also had quite a different proposal of his own 15 years later, which I also stupidly ignored. (That one may be merely dormant.) Oh, could I ever expand on that tale, but those *are* the legit specifics.
Going back over old notes and FB memories (good to store so I can get all pics+ before I bounce it for good), I REALLY wish Young Ev would’ve seen all the blindingly obvious signals that redhead had been slapping me with for a few years beforehand, along with many other fair maidens in my youth. I’d like to have that week with Hannah back, to start.
From the dedthred, on defamation:
“you good and well know that the issue is the question of the public persona, not the clear liability of defaming a minor person”
That “public persona” is your reputation, and damage to reputation is the sine qua non of defamation. You can’t have defamation without damage to “public persona”. Some people have a more widely known reputation than others (“public figures”), for which our Supreme Court has crafted, out of thin air, a higher standard for proving defamation, but the basics are the same regardless of whether your are a “public person” or not – you have to show damage to reputation/“public persona”. And reputational damage can be very real, regardless of whether you are a “public person” or not.
Assuming a reputation…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeYn_W14zTU
bad reputation
Side by side comparison of a Starship and Saturn V.
https://x.com/teslaownerssv/status/1868191629112434848
She really was the greatest sight….
Those long thin erect shafts are quite impressive, yes.
It’s the girth when it pieces the atmosphere that really impresses me.
“Trump Considers Privatizing US Postal Service That Lost $9.5 Billion In FY2024”
https://www.zerohedge.com/political/trump-considers-privatizing-us-postal-service-lost-95-billion-fy2024
Just this and getting rid of daylight savings and I’ll consider it a successful presidency; hell, put him on Mount Rushmore.
JFC.
What an astonishing waste of money, especially considering how almost irrelevant the service is anymore.
What? You don’t appreciate gobs of junk mail?
While I do love the “if it fits, it ships” program, the rest is crap. Which I am not allowed to say at home, as my MIL had been a postal clerk at one time.
The flat shipping boxes are only a deal if you’re shipping something small(ish) but heavy. Otherwise you’re wasting loads of money, which I’m sure is what the point of the program is.
How come we are all having to split routes, then?
Well, not me, any more, since I got promoted to regular carrier.
I mean, I could help, but my route was frankensteined from the worst parts of two other routes, and I’m out until 20:00 or so every night. So, there’s no point in even asking me to help, because I can barely get my own route finished.
Also, I hate Amazon.
Also, go to the store to buy your dog food and paper towels, you lazy snotnoggins.
Also, I really hate Amazon.
My wife’s friend’s husband works at the post office and says it is a jobs program for the unemployable.
He is trying to get his 20 in at the USPS after 20 in the army. Double pensions.
Many amusing stories from him about how fucked up the mail system is and the people who are employed there.
No job should give a pension at 20 years.
Some jobs are more worthy than others.
Coffee’s for Essential Workers.
That more INEssential workers weren’t up in open arms over that branding is a testament to our civility and a damning demonstration of our willingness to bend the knee.
“No job should give a pension at 20 years.”
I’m amenable to it for military, but only if they are in a combat role.
Of course, any rule like that would be abused like a redheaded stepchild.
There is definitely a lot of material for a sit-com.
I can drive 30 miles to Walmart. I only pick up my mail at the post office 2X a week now and most of the time my p.o. box is empty.
I think most rural people are similar to me. Most of the communication is via email anyway.
A double load of beautiful busty babes for Slutty Sunday After Dark.
https://archive.is/dUesT/c6743c63660d9fcad31a02d7bf0087ee0d6bd84c.jpg
https://archive.is/BseQR/7ee12a6257a66644b97627ab2ceabaeb0a1d6c08.jpg
NSFW.
https://archive.is/UwR7H/3ecd0de4ee9b645ed31bc86d076745937e84e5c4.jpg
https://archive.is/ZKbba/c9a7eb6e3933942c3041e656a991ae54fbff75ea.jpg
NSFW.
https://archive.is/EhuOA/eb2dd4ff56c4a385afad5519655c766a9f6f58fa.jpg
https://archive.is/xINF4/0bf9a70a8a93a41fb0fc07e1a7f1946766791c2a.jpg
NSFW.
https://forum.xnxx.com/attachments/slim15-jpg.1771383/
NSFW.
Alright, this is just ridiculous:
https://x.com/Pismo_B/status/1860580960376619087
Gun nuts be trippin’
Two questions:
1. What does he do for a living?
2. Is he married because what wife is gonna put up with that?
My guess was firearms wholesaler.
Inherited money.
Why would he need to be married when he can just wank over his collection at any time?
A hoarder with monomania?
I would also like to have money. I would also like to have more than 2.5 hobbies with which to occupy my vast estate.
To give the dude credit, safe-owning is a pretty dope pastime if ya can afford it. Dreams of avarice pass soundly with a safe in every room.
What was done to Disturbed’s cover of Sound of Silence is a crime. Nay, it is heinous depravity.
Someone must pay.
Very large, ‘Meh.’ How often does he actually shoot any of those guns?
Never. They’re display pieces.
My thoughts exactly Sheldon.
I’m gonna sound like a gun grabber, but what is he gonna do with 100 guns?
There better be some tremors coming.
Please watch this,
https://x.com/bearlyai/status/1867385310990283094
That was something else. Aragorn does need to blink, and the eyes are all fuckaroonied. Could be the start of a So Bad It’s Good romp. Would not watch.
More snow than I’d like to walk through; not quite enough to shovel.
Good morning Glibs and Glibettes!
Be careful kicking ass in the Northeast, it may be slippery out there.
😁🎩☕
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=P_i1xk07o4g
🎶🎶
Good morning, Sean & Ted’S.!
50 degrees and cloudy at the moment here in SW OH, with a forecast high of 58 and “downpours.” 😕⛈☔⛈
75 and sunny. Another beautiful day.
So you’d better get ready.
We may be comin’ to your town. 🙄
“Nuthin’ to see here”
Drone keeper skips Podunkville
Good morning!
P322 ran without a hitch. It shoots low. When I realized I needed a 12:00 hold, things went smoothly. Crappies factory sighting job I’ve yet encountered. However, I’m planning to put do on it and that requires removing the rear sights, so…meh?
“However, I’m planning to put do on it”
Well, OK then.
NA has a gun sighting orphan named Do?
Huh. Apparently (based on that and he lack of an ending consonant on “crappiest” ) my “T” key needs more violence to work.
I fully support the USPS being privatized—as long as anyone will be able to start his own post office and deliver “first class mail”.
The post office lost money, I’m sure, because the upper management have carnal love for Amazon, and are completely clueless how long it takes to sort, load, and deliver parcels. They’re losing money by having to pay overtime, is my guess. Overtime pay cancels out the pennys-per-package that I suspect the USPS makes from Amazon deliveries.
The money they lose on each package is made up in bulk.
Also, every job I’ve had, the company has gone bankrupt.
Even FedEx Express, the flagship company of the FedEx corporation, is being absorbed into FedEx Ground.
So, don’t buy USPS stock.
I’d leave that off your resume.
I have a particular talent for getting hired by companies that aren’t going to make it.
suh’ fam
whats goody
TALL W. VA CANS!
(its “wild and wonderful for some reason)