NOTES FROM THE DEATHSTAR. VOLUME II

Los Angeles of Anaheim 1, New York 0

The Battle for Jhangti-land began only moments after Bob took his last breath. The sounds of Jhangti weeping was interrupted by the clanging and clattering of battle armor. The Jhangti horde gasped in fear and awe as a full grown Jhangtun God of War, recognizable to me from his shrine in the hospital entry, marched across the torn village and kneeled next to the dirt covered body of the local. As the God whispered to the deceased singer I recognized his voice and realized that the God War and my old pal the doctor were one and the same. After a moment of solemnity, the God of War looked up at me and asked me if I was ready to lead the people in the fight against the great evil. Using the language we'd managed to create between us the Doctor seemed to be conducting a battlefield job interview. I set my jaw and insisted that I was up to the task. The God of War/ Doctor nodded and pointed in the direction of the bumbling UGRAD workers and muttered, "the weak shall go before the strong." Before I had time to concoct a proper battle plan three dozen of the most zealous Jhangti men and about seven equally bloodthirsty women took off across the town square, ostensibly avenging Bob's death. The UGRAD soldiers noticed the threat a bit too slowly and I watched one of them get swallowed whole by the crowd, equipment and shreds of uniform material were rpped off him and thrown into the air.

Los Angeles of Anaheim 12, New York 6

We found Bob lying by the edge of town. Jhangti land was in flames and the UGRAD soldiers had put the "dirty whore" on a huge dolly while they struggled to hook it to a winch and pulley system that was protruding from the roughly drilled hole they'd blasted in the surrounding bedrock. Bob's body had been buried nearly up to his neck and as the desperate Jhangti circled around their hero, the only part of his body that wasn't covered in dirt was his mouth. Every breath he took, the dirt crept closer to engulfing him, every shifted step of the Jhangti crowd threatening to bury their hero alive. As Bob lie there, helpless and nearing the end, he began to sing what could only be described as the most heart breaking battle hymn in the history of the Jhangtun, and possibly the world. I didn't actually know what the words meant, and haven't subsequently asked for their translation, but don't think that I ever will. Watching Bob lie there, covered in dirt, singing about Jhangti land and his people and the end of his world I cried for him, I cried for the dead of Jhangti and I cried for the Cearling Mercy Whore. (not sure why, with regards to her, but I'd be lying if I denied it.)
Bob's lyrics, unfettered by comprehension:

Ode ka Jhangti

Tin lack mit pernie butel.
Tin lack mit gorna laaaaay.
Tif tan pinter lack nig tuggles
for the jhangti gun ga laaaaaay.

Terly pin pin worza butel
tin lack mit hann lerlablaaay
tif tan pinter tard a farder
for the jhangti gun ga laaaaaay.

New York 13, Baltimore 3

Luckily, during my time in journalism school I had audited a class crosstown at West Point in tunnel battle techniques, and though my recollection of the tactics were a bit rusty, I was enthusiastic about employing them in our impending confrontation with UGRAD. Reports from the trailing Jhangti suggested that UGRAD's forces consisted of seventeen men outfitted with dark brown camoflauge, oxygen packs and headlamps in case of cave ins. The were also all carrying large manual drills and flame throwers which they used to blast holes in the dirt walls that were the very structure creating Jhangti-Land. The Jhangti were anxious and their opinions fractured into a pair of camps; the camp that wanted to return to Jhangti Land to look after their friends and belongings in light of the new threat, and the camp that wanted to press on, who took UGRAD's invasion as further sign that the Organization needed to be stopped at all costs. Unfortunately, in my mind, both arguments possessed a certain level of merit. The rebellion would mean nothing to the Jhangti if their friends and family were annihlated, on the other hand, I wanted to get back to the surface as quickly as possible without seeming insensitive to the plight of my rebels. As surely all great leaders do in times of strife, I waited for a sign, an omen, a spiritual prod in the correct direction. Little did I know that the signs would soon appear; when word came to the camp that the beloved Jhangti singer/songwriter Bob had been buried in a crumbling cave-in, even the most rebellion minded Jhangti threw caution to the wind and rushed back towards the village. I tried my best to run towards the front of the pack to maintain an air of leadership, without actually overtaking the lead runner, thereby revealing my ignorance of the proper path to take; a trick that I had not learned in West Point but actually knew instinctually.

Baltimore 7, New York 6

The rebellion experienced some logistical problems right from the get-go; the tunnels of the underworld that the organization dug were narrow, so narrow that while marching through we had to fall into a pattern that strongly resembled a summer camp buddy system. Matters of morale aside (nothing dampens a violent spirit like the buddy system) this situation hampered our communication, eliminated the possibility of turning around and cut down any advantages our sheer numerical breadth would have provided in the case that we ran into any members of the Organization. My fears were justified when panicky, shrill cries rippled up the line. My buddy, Luxxy, turned and stopped walking. The men behind him shouted in Jhangti, and again, I could only comprehend about a third of what they were saying but I kept hearing them repeat the word UGRAD over and over. Luxxy shouted at me to run further into the tunnel and my hesitation and confusion lasted only momentarily; the movement of the line in my direction literally forced me to turn and run lest I be trampled. Leading the pack blind I ran and ran, picking up the pace even more when I heard explosions in the background. After running until my lungs burned we reached a clearing that looked similar to the tiny caverns Jinky and his vender people had lived in. The line of Jhangti didn't need instruction, they huddled into the caves as soon as we made it into the clearing. Luxxy huddled in next to me and breathlessly informed me that UGRAD soldiers had invaded the Jhangti village. UGRAD had received news that Jhangti land was in jeopardy during the riots, and they had sent a squad down to retrieve NASA's probe vessel, the "dirty whore" we'd been using as an editing bay. The UGRAD troops had apparently misplaced their maps of the underground tunnel system and had resorted to blasting holes through the ground, a tactic that not only threatened the structural integrity of Jhangti-land and the surrounding villages, threatening to bury us all alive, but also send spurts of flame down various tunnels, reputedly setting a few of my rebels ablaze. Morale had suffered a significant shift from bravery to fear. UGRAD must be stopped.

Baltimore 13, New York 4

Leaving has turned out to be more of an ordeal than the triumphant, epiphanical parade out that I'd envisioned. The doctor strongly recommended that I not go on a great journey, insisting that I had neither the heart (broken) nor the lung capacity (too acclimated to the nether regions) to survive. I begged to differ, knowingly misleading him when I told him that my chest felt strong and clear; in reality, a persistent throbbing pain under my right arm had plagued me for weeks. With the help of the trusty pack mule, I put in a good morning's work in the triage center, saying my farewells to the horny, suspiciously healthy women before taking one last stroll around Jhangti-Land. Sure, the place was but a mere shadow of its former self (no metaphor intended, the destruction of the luxury apartments had left a ground zeroesque gaping wound in the center of the town) but it still exuded a certain primeval charm. One last whiskey at the saloon, one more mouthfull of that wretched Jhangti staple, the root vegetable, and I'd be on my way, but you know what the Jhangtun say about best laid plans: "rutgwippy terla la flop," which roughly translated as don't make em, or something along those lines... As I walked towards one of the dark corners of the town that I hoped would lead to a tunnel that would lead me back to the surface I saw a crowd amassing in the main square. I tried to avoid them by navigating behind the flophouse, but the crowd seemed determined to march along with me and as they fell instep I began to recognize faces one by one, surprised that the women of the triage center were marching side by side with the Jhangti wait staff formerly employed in the luxury apartments. Former fans of "Spence McGill" to the rescue marched side by side with Luxxy and some of the crewmembers from the very same well-crafted hit show. Luxxy, for his part, avoided making eye contact with me, but never broke stride. Most surprisingly, though, Jinky his band of embittered, cannibalistic venders joined the ranks and the group chanted in unison, "Spence Magrill... Spence Magrill..." I'd clearly amassed some sort of underworld force, and as I made my way into one of the numerous tunnels without any true indication that I'd chosen the correct one, Luxxy worked his way over to me and revealed that the Jhangtun had come to believe that I was their saviour, meant to lead the prophesied revolution against the Organization's oppression. Despite their numerous earlier attempts on my life, these people were now sworn soldiers, and I their general, marching with them on the way to battle George Steinbrenner himself.

Boston 9, New York 2

If I know one thing, I know that when you're heart broken and faced with a veritable death sentence because you've had the misfortune to fall for a mythical local figure who leaves men so devastated they all eventually take their own lives, the worst thing to do is sit around and mope about it. I tried more traditional divertisements such as skipping rocks down the alley behind the hospital and partaking in idle gossip with my fellow broken men, but nothing seemed to soothe my aching soul; nothing, that is, until I decided that my life would not end in Jhangti Land. I'd come down here in search of a story. I'd come down here to track George Steinbrenner, sure that he was up to something nefarious that I could record in the hopes of earning a banner headline in a big city rag or at the very least a sale that would offset some of the miscellaneous expenses I'd accrued in the last thirteen months of relative unemployment, and in my time down here I'd lost my way. I'd lost track of the story. I'd lost track of my roots, which, I'll admit, consist of tracking and mocking the antics of the New York Yankees. Sure, I'd seen Jeter playing some videogames, and learned that Abreu had a penchant for Jhangti hookers, but dammit, I longed for the surface. If my love for Cearling was going to kill me, then I sure was gonna make it to one last ballgame. Look out surface dwellers... Spence is coming back, broken heart or no broken heart.

New York 10, Boston 3

I just got some bad news. Apparently, the last verse of the song Cearling Mercy Whore had never been properly translated to me. The singer vows to kill himself if he can't get the girl back, and the metallic clack at after the last refrain is meant to represent him doing just that. The doctor reluctantly explained this to me after I'd been badgering him for a hard diagnosis on my situation. He looked at me sadly and indicated (we communicated via a hybrid system of part Jhangti, part grunt, part hand gesture and part good old English language expletives which he'd apparently grown accustomed to while allowing Yankees to perform surgery for fun) that there was no hope for me. I'd been bitten by the Cearling, I'd fallen in love for no good reason, he claimed. At first I argued, but realized amidst my stammering that we had not, in fact, consummated our relationship in any traditional way. She'd never, in fact, shown the least bit of interest in me, a fact that I'd been loathe to acknowledge up until this very moment. The doctor had seen this all before and admitted that none of Cearling's victims had in fact had the opportunity to taste of her forbidden fruit and his grave manner implied that if any of them had, it would have caused a heartbreak so destructive that the very existence of Jhangti-land may have been in jeopardy. As it were, the best he could do was feed the heart broken men and treat them to a little TV and other creature comforts until the inevitable moment where they finally cracked and killed either themselves, or themselves and others. I stammered and shook my head and stamped my foot and crowed at the top of my lungs, the denial felt like an insidious bile that filled my entire body and I wanted to spit it out and start over, but the doctor's unwavering glare told me that I too was doomed to live the life of a man broken by the Cearling Mercy Whore. Her name, apparently, was meant to be ironic.

New York 1, Boston 0

I feared for my life as any man would, but a strange change seemed to have come over the women in the wake of the riots; despite the fact that the secret was clearly out I needn't have watched my proverbial back. The women actually seemed fond of me, and not in the same way that they'd acted when I believed they'd been fond of me but had actually been plotting my death, no, this time I was fairly certain it was the genuine article. Their fondness manifested itself in a variety of different styles, some pursued the traditional method of batting their eyes when I changed their bed pans, while the more brash tried less subtle approaches including but not limited to allowing their robes to fall open (tip to tail, have you), making desperate lunges for my genitals as I passed by and screaming my name whilst digitally manipulating themselves in front of me. As flattered as I was by the attention it merely made my heart ache for Cearling worse, and I inquired to the good doctor just how long my treatment would last. The doctor had little concrete data to offer. He suggested that I converse with a few of my fellow patients to see how far along I felt in comparison to them, which would allow the doctor to speculate on my progress by comparison; a method I deemed highly unscientific at best and really damaged my overall opinion of the physcological attention I'd been receiving. If I didn't get over her soon I'd be libel to take one of these crazy women up on their lascivious offers, and that wouldn't do anyone any good.

New York 5, Minnesota 1

I began to think that the victims of the riot were taking advantage of the doctor's hospitality when the bandages I changed frequently concealed wounds that had already healed. In each particular instance the woman responsible for the deception would look up at me and bat their eyelashes. I fought the urge to argue with them, to accuse them of taking advantage of a kind hearted, altruistic Jhangti, perhaps the only one in existence from what I could tell, as well as dishonoring the real victims and casualties of the melee, the dozens of Jhangti who didn't survive the fires or the carnal battles that occurred. I was further annoyed by the fact that these women who harbored inexplicable, misdirected feelings for me beared such a striking resemblance to Cearling; they were, of course, her people, and she shared the crow's foot hairline, the small, almost reddish eyes, the crooked smile and the inexplicably dark skin. Looking at each one of them was like looking at Cearling in a fun house mirror. None of them were nearly as beautiful, like they were all half-baked sketches rendered by the shaky hand crafts class at an old folk's home. Perhaps I was projecting a longing through my gauzed up visage. Perhaps these women could sense that I had recently fallen in love, maybe it was a smell, or some ethereal Jhangti sixth sense, but the longer I worked in the triage area, the more bed linens I changed, surgical tape I dispensed and advils I handed out, the more of those lascivious looks I received. Eventually I realized that they had all adopted a nickname for me, I'd hear the same phrase whispered back and forth as the pack mule and I approached with the day's supplies. I'd hear a woman yell it out and snicker as I was cleaning her friends unsoiled bandage. The Jhangtun language was vague and damn near incomprehensible (as I've mentioned before) but some sounds and words were quite similar; like whiskey and whore, and sometimes if I listened hard enough I managed to get a sense of what the women were saying. One morning I was dispatched to help a woman who'd been admitted to the triage ward with a nasty leg wound that the doctor believe corresponded to an inverse head wound received by a man on the other side of the ward. I cradled her in my arms so that the pack mule could rip the sheets off her bed, and she smiled thankfully and whispered the familiar phrase at me. Up close and personal I had no trouble discerning it's meaning. "Spence Magrrrrll." She winked at me when she said it, as if the two of us were sharing an illicit secret.

New York 8, Minnesota 2

Some of the victims we were treating in the makeshift triage area were men, but the majority were women, many of whom I recognized from my days as the local whipping boy. It seemed silly to me that two dozen heart broken men spent their days wasting away only a few feet from nearly three dozen injured women. The women in the triage unit spent the nights sleeping under a tent we'd fancied out of I beams and miraculously undamaged bed linens from the luxury apartments. As I drifted off each night (invariably after a drink or two of the good doctor's "jhangti vium") I could hear them chattering with each other, alternately shrieking with laughter or howling in pain. I tried to encourage my obstinate bunkmates to head out for a breath of fresh Jhangti-land air, but they all steadfastly refused to leave the ward, despite the fact that Jhangti broadcast TV had been disrupted indefinitely, leaving them to spend their days and nights playing draughts or phase ten (an obscure card game imported from the surface that often led to fist fights in the heart hurt ward). As I certainly couldn't appeal to the women, fearing that any direct contact would reveal my identity, I was left to bear my burden as a silent bridge between the two world's of isolated misery and buried my self in each individual task that filled the minutes of my days so as not to linger on the feelings of sterility that this situation inspired in me. I contemplated confessing the problem to the doctor, but whenever I spoke to him he steered the direction back to the mercy whore, and clucked his tongue at me as if to say (in whatever jhangti words apply) "stop ignoring your own problems, grasshopper."