Aramazd
Deity
Happy Birthday
Happy Birthday Simon Darkshade!!
- Thread starter The 777 Hoax
- Start date
Perfection
The Great Head.
Whenever I castrate someone, I think of you.
You're an inspiration to us all!
Happy Birthday.
Let us feast!
You're an inspiration to us all!
Happy Birthday.
Let us feast!
GenMarshall
High Elven ISB Capt & Ghost Agent
Newbie rape?puglover said:
Maniacal
the green Napoleon
I can make a good guess as to what that is.CivGeneral said:Newbie rape?
Happy birthday Simon!
![[party]](/images/smilies/partytime.gif "Party [party]")
classical_hero
In whom I trust
His famous catch cry was, "A Noob. Let's rape him.CivGeneral said:Newbie rape?
"Happy birthday anyway, even though you don't visit these forums much anymore.
azzaman333
meh
Happy Birthday.
Abaddon
Deity
have a good one
CurtSibling
ENEMY ACE™
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2001
- Messages
- 29,455
To my fellow member of the Black Korps - Happy Birthday!
The world will be ran to our tune one day, alt kampfer!
The world will be ran to our tune one day, alt kampfer!
Simon Darkshade
Mysterious City of Gold
Der Sieg Wird Unser Sein, Herr Ritter von Sibling! Gott strafe false metal and all that.
A belated thank you kindly to all those who I know who made their tributes here; it is right that I am not as frequent a poster or visitor here as I was 2001-2003, what with work, writing and more right wing places, but your sentiments are much welcome.
As for those who I do not know and offered birthday greetings, do you really know what you are getting in for... 
puglover - Ah yes, I remember it too. Of course, that was back when you were twelve or so.
Perfection: Feasting is good, and I will remember that when I complete the birthday bounty today.
And, given your mention of castration, I thought I might give a little gift back. From the archives:
(an invitation to lunch)
If you are really keen, my associates in the Union Corse can arrange your kidnap for Friday morning at 1132 hours. You don't need to pack, but a light lunch may be useful. Dress is formal evening wear, tails, tophat, etc, etc.
You will seized from the street from behind by four burly thugs cunningly disguised as leprous gibbon salesmen on their way to a conference in Lisbon and drugged out of your senses, courtesy of a very large and sharp syringe. Thus incapacitated, you will be placed in a hessian bag, castrated for good measure, and thrown roughly in the back of a van. Using backroads and smugglers roots, you will be driven to a disused nunnery in Holland where the snatch squad will hand you over to the next team.
They will conduct a thorough desensitizing psychological brainwashing process, so that you have no more perception of reality than the Italian cricket team. This will include repeated screenings of Flipper and North. You will also be castrated for good measure. The team will be cunningly disguised as Tunisian ornithologists with pronounced stutters and a penchant for nude tennis.
After 6 months of lying low at St. Flodders, you will be sealed into a coffin with the corpse of the team leader, who will kill himself when the job is done. The coffin will be placed into the back of militarily adapted hearse, and driven by a circuituous root to a mortuary. From there, you will be unpacked and put on the Orient Express, cunningly disguised as ladies luggage. You will also be castrated for good measure. You will be thrown off at Vienna, where a pair of Siamese twins will take you to Salzburg, partially by horse and cart and concealed beneath a shipment of carrots.
There, a burly Italian mountaineer looking suspiciously like Franco Nero will carry you over the border and into Venice, where you will be locked in a luxuriant hotel room overlooking the stunning views of the beach and Dirk Borgarde perving on the little boys. Some two days later, a man will knock upon your door, and then open it, claiming to be able to sell you a lifetimes supply of coconuts. Ignore him. The concierge will come up to your room, and put you in your taxi to the airport. On the way, the driver will castrate you for good measure.
Via Rome, you will fly to New York, kept in a cage with two rather amorous monkeys. You will be picked up by a traffic cop, a construction worker, an Indian and a sailor, which should be an interesting experience. A short taxi ride to a hazy flophouse in New Jersey later, you will be greeted by a crowded room of CB radio enthusiasts, and castrated for good measure. A man in the corner will approach you for a match. You will see right away he is not ordinary. He'll say 'Are you looking for something easy to catch?' Ignore him.
Later that night, you will be whisked away in a motorcycle sidecar to an abandoned airfield where you will be flown by seaplane to a waiting submarine in the mid Atlantic. Upon coming aboard, you will be castrated for good measure. Your quarters will be with the petty officers, who despite their name can be quite magnanimous. Except for Bruce, he's a real b1tch. The sub will creep along at a slow rate to avoid detection, and eventually surface off the coast of Devil's Island.
From there, you will relayed to Guyana by highspeed Zodiac, where you may meet with me via videolink in the shady backroom of a knocking shop in the bustling slums of Georgetown. You will of course be blindfolded during said videoconference. And my voice will be supplied by Daniel Radcliffe. And following the experience, you will again be brainwashed so that you have no memory of it, or the other experiences you have had; you will be conditioned to think that you have only spent two weeks in Paris, swimming in the Seine and thinking dirty thoughts about M. Eiffel's tower. Not that they could do any good, seeing that as a parting gesture, you will be castrated for good measure.
(a newspaper advertisement)
SEEKING A SERVANT
Evil Dictator, early 20s, Nordic appearence seeks companion for afternoon tea, etc. Male, all limbs intact, preferably smoker, aged 8-15, cute appearence, conversant in Volpük, enjoys Harry Potter, films, music, long walks on moonlit beachs, battleships, torture and biscuits, flogging the inferior, rough shag (tobacco), discussing the philosophy of such great thinkers as Machiavelli, Hitler and Barbara Cartland, and helping with the final solution to the Times crossword. Additional duties to be specified at later stage.
(details of available works)
Available for just $49.95 (plus five quarts of potato blood, nineteen and a half cubits of blessed cedar plundered from the naughty cinema underground in the Vatican, half a Fenian (freshly nogged), a sack of splinters from the True Wine as first regurgitated by Albert of Josephamathia at Worms in 1143, an antique palfrey as gundy for the day and three frightened flint flying ferrets from Fotheringay's Festering Falangist Ferret Farm, 555 Ffoots Flat, Fendergobyln, Florida) from a shady booksellers operating out of a brown suede briefcase disguised as a painting of a pair of mad woman's trousers in that dingy ally next to the disused child refinery in Santiago, Chile. For a limited time only. Ask for Emil. Got nothing to do with the book, but you should see his most interesting collection of skin disorders - you'll never look at the words 'pustule' or 'cancre' in the same way again.
(Nazgul construction and unsubtle recruiting)
Thank you. We're all refreshed and challenged by your unique point of view. It is very possible, given new advanced breeding methods and vats not available in the Third Age.
It does not require use of my evil precious, but rather a mixture of eggnog, seven special herbs and spices from a Kentucky chicken slaughtering plant, the abducted hair piece of an illithid talk show host, the head of David Cassidy, hummingbird essence from the inner sanctum of the Altar of the Sun in the 5th of the Seven Lost Cities of Cibola, volcanic dust from the slopes of Mount Etna, an autographed picture of Herman Goering topless, and a gallon of the blood of the innocent for taste.
Place in a platinum vat covered in Icelandic runes telling the story of the Saga of Frank Tyson on the 1954/55 Ashes Tour, combined with some delicated cerulean velvetine highlights depicting the vanitas and hubris of various 17th century spies who posed as fishmongers. Simmer lightly, intone the appropriate ancient sonorous corporate incantation ("Harakileh Mzombombar Xook Xook Andelaäe Lös Segletöverhavensnartnogi20år Ilfyrebus Terratoe von Clovis Mercifis Zbigniew Brzezinski Ai Aie Aieh Raholowa") in a campy Transylvanian accent and clad in midnight shaded vestments of purest denim while moving around the cauldron fourteen times widdershins (with incidental music from the soundtrack to Zorba the Greek playing in the background), sprinkle some ghoul dust, add a twist of lemon, and allow to boil down for ten minutes before infusing it with electricity and a teaspoon full of malice aforethought (available from all good Latvian health food stores, between the ginseng and Yersinia pestis).
The resultant mixture is then injected into the leg of an appropriate host by a cute 12 year old midshipman of HM Royal Navy (attired in a dashing blue formal uniform with highly polished gold buttons) using a beige umbrella on the morn of Walpurisnacht at 0743, on the Piccadilly Circus tube platform. His actions are disguised by a catfight between two of the Met's finest undercover transvestite policemen over who gets to use the curlers first.
The mixture gestates in the longshank of the unsuspecting bearer for thirteen days, before bursting out and reducing them to bloody scraps of flesh and gristle at a socially awkward moment, preferably at an upmarket garden party. The newly created Nazgul baby is then picked up by a stork of RAF Strike Command from Coningsby, and relayed swiftly to the Evil Nursery, where it is surrounded by all the attention, dried whale meat and plush toys it needs to thrive and grow up to be a big strong dark rider of utmost depravity and evil.
Their childhood is an idyllic one, full of black fairy floss and githyanki guisarme-volgue practice at the Vampire Circus, five legged races at the Dismemberment Factory, yak rides, swimming with my pet great white shark Fluffy in our private sea (You really thought the Aral just dried up? ), screeching lessons and long walks through the Dark Forest picking mushrooms (for conversion to fungoid minions). When they reach the age of 6, they are sent away to 1890s era English boarding schools through the time portal, in order to fully school them in the arts of evil, perversity, sickening depravity, the biscuit game, and the value of developing a good leg glance against left arm bowlers.
By the age of 15, they are ready to step out into the world as fully molded Nazgul - fine upstanding Black Riders created for the modern era.
As for having a job for you, unfortunately we have no vacancies for 'scholers' at the moment, but being born in 1988, we just might be able to fit in to some of the other...job opportunities...available within the Evil Empire. Have you perused the previously displayed wanted notice, 'Seeking a Servant'?
(contemplative reflection on the nature of history)
It's quite possible that the future you have at some unspecified point in the future will be better than the future that lies in the future of the present. And hope really is part of the future as well, but arguably part of the future of the present, so that the hope of the future at some point later in the future will be somewhat different than the contemporary hope of the future present and if I keep going on like this I fear that the monkey who is typing will suddenly leap into the air, shriek something in Esperanto, and turn itself into a Mobius strip, which will cause an awful mess and I just got the dwarf to clean the blood off the carpets from last time when I got to contemplating metaphysics and the poor simian scribe turned itself literally inside out which was quite a sight to see and indeed won a prize at the Ulan Baator Funniest Slave Video contest but it does not bode well for the future of those monkeys, or the monkeys on the staff in general, so I definitely want their future to be a better future than the future that is theirs for the present. I hope.
(description of one's autobiography)
A good, traditional title on a plain black leather cover, lettering in silver embossed Gothic script. Pages will have silvered or gilt edging, with red silk woven page marker. Title will be something along the lines of 'Victory', 'Triumph of the Will', 'Blood, Honour and Fire' or 'The Shadowed Testament'. Length would be about 1000-1200 pages.
There is much that is written on the pages, and in between the lines. Like Mein Kampf, a mixture of autobiography, philosophy and political manifesto, as well as historical context, and personal reflection on events. Perhaps some pictures as well
"This is me at the smoking radioactive ruin of the Eiffel Tower"
"This is me watching cricket with a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me feeding the world's last surviving communist into a sausage making machine feet first, applauded rapturously by some old ladies and a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me taking tea with some ministers and a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me laughing and clapping at the public executions with a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me guest hosting Monsterpiece Theatre in the new series of Sesame Street with Cookie Monster"
"This is me standing next to a pile of skulls speaking to a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me sitting in a throne made out of skulls listening to the gymnopedie with a bevy of pageboys and Fluffy (pet great white shark)"
"This is me in a red velvet smoking jacket and fez discussing affairs of state with a bevy of pageboys"
Enjoy.
A belated thank you kindly to all those who I know who made their tributes here; it is right that I am not as frequent a poster or visitor here as I was 2001-2003, what with work, writing and more right wing places, but your sentiments are much welcome.
As for those who I do not know and offered birthday greetings, do you really know what you are getting in for...
puglover - Ah yes, I remember it too. Of course, that was back when you were twelve or so.
Perfection: Feasting is good, and I will remember that when I complete the birthday bounty today.
And, given your mention of castration, I thought I might give a little gift back. From the archives:
(an invitation to lunch)
If you are really keen, my associates in the Union Corse can arrange your kidnap for Friday morning at 1132 hours. You don't need to pack, but a light lunch may be useful. Dress is formal evening wear, tails, tophat, etc, etc.
You will seized from the street from behind by four burly thugs cunningly disguised as leprous gibbon salesmen on their way to a conference in Lisbon and drugged out of your senses, courtesy of a very large and sharp syringe. Thus incapacitated, you will be placed in a hessian bag, castrated for good measure, and thrown roughly in the back of a van. Using backroads and smugglers roots, you will be driven to a disused nunnery in Holland where the snatch squad will hand you over to the next team.
They will conduct a thorough desensitizing psychological brainwashing process, so that you have no more perception of reality than the Italian cricket team. This will include repeated screenings of Flipper and North. You will also be castrated for good measure. The team will be cunningly disguised as Tunisian ornithologists with pronounced stutters and a penchant for nude tennis.
After 6 months of lying low at St. Flodders, you will be sealed into a coffin with the corpse of the team leader, who will kill himself when the job is done. The coffin will be placed into the back of militarily adapted hearse, and driven by a circuituous root to a mortuary. From there, you will be unpacked and put on the Orient Express, cunningly disguised as ladies luggage. You will also be castrated for good measure. You will be thrown off at Vienna, where a pair of Siamese twins will take you to Salzburg, partially by horse and cart and concealed beneath a shipment of carrots.
There, a burly Italian mountaineer looking suspiciously like Franco Nero will carry you over the border and into Venice, where you will be locked in a luxuriant hotel room overlooking the stunning views of the beach and Dirk Borgarde perving on the little boys. Some two days later, a man will knock upon your door, and then open it, claiming to be able to sell you a lifetimes supply of coconuts. Ignore him. The concierge will come up to your room, and put you in your taxi to the airport. On the way, the driver will castrate you for good measure.
Via Rome, you will fly to New York, kept in a cage with two rather amorous monkeys. You will be picked up by a traffic cop, a construction worker, an Indian and a sailor, which should be an interesting experience. A short taxi ride to a hazy flophouse in New Jersey later, you will be greeted by a crowded room of CB radio enthusiasts, and castrated for good measure. A man in the corner will approach you for a match. You will see right away he is not ordinary. He'll say 'Are you looking for something easy to catch?' Ignore him.
Later that night, you will be whisked away in a motorcycle sidecar to an abandoned airfield where you will be flown by seaplane to a waiting submarine in the mid Atlantic. Upon coming aboard, you will be castrated for good measure. Your quarters will be with the petty officers, who despite their name can be quite magnanimous. Except for Bruce, he's a real b1tch. The sub will creep along at a slow rate to avoid detection, and eventually surface off the coast of Devil's Island.
From there, you will relayed to Guyana by highspeed Zodiac, where you may meet with me via videolink in the shady backroom of a knocking shop in the bustling slums of Georgetown. You will of course be blindfolded during said videoconference. And my voice will be supplied by Daniel Radcliffe. And following the experience, you will again be brainwashed so that you have no memory of it, or the other experiences you have had; you will be conditioned to think that you have only spent two weeks in Paris, swimming in the Seine and thinking dirty thoughts about M. Eiffel's tower. Not that they could do any good, seeing that as a parting gesture, you will be castrated for good measure.
(a newspaper advertisement)
SEEKING A SERVANT
Evil Dictator, early 20s, Nordic appearence seeks companion for afternoon tea, etc. Male, all limbs intact, preferably smoker, aged 8-15, cute appearence, conversant in Volpük, enjoys Harry Potter, films, music, long walks on moonlit beachs, battleships, torture and biscuits, flogging the inferior, rough shag (tobacco), discussing the philosophy of such great thinkers as Machiavelli, Hitler and Barbara Cartland, and helping with the final solution to the Times crossword. Additional duties to be specified at later stage.
(details of available works)
Available for just $49.95 (plus five quarts of potato blood, nineteen and a half cubits of blessed cedar plundered from the naughty cinema underground in the Vatican, half a Fenian (freshly nogged), a sack of splinters from the True Wine as first regurgitated by Albert of Josephamathia at Worms in 1143, an antique palfrey as gundy for the day and three frightened flint flying ferrets from Fotheringay's Festering Falangist Ferret Farm, 555 Ffoots Flat, Fendergobyln, Florida) from a shady booksellers operating out of a brown suede briefcase disguised as a painting of a pair of mad woman's trousers in that dingy ally next to the disused child refinery in Santiago, Chile. For a limited time only. Ask for Emil. Got nothing to do with the book, but you should see his most interesting collection of skin disorders - you'll never look at the words 'pustule' or 'cancre' in the same way again.
(Nazgul construction and unsubtle recruiting)
Thank you. We're all refreshed and challenged by your unique point of view. It is very possible, given new advanced breeding methods and vats not available in the Third Age.
It does not require use of my evil precious, but rather a mixture of eggnog, seven special herbs and spices from a Kentucky chicken slaughtering plant, the abducted hair piece of an illithid talk show host, the head of David Cassidy, hummingbird essence from the inner sanctum of the Altar of the Sun in the 5th of the Seven Lost Cities of Cibola, volcanic dust from the slopes of Mount Etna, an autographed picture of Herman Goering topless, and a gallon of the blood of the innocent for taste.
Place in a platinum vat covered in Icelandic runes telling the story of the Saga of Frank Tyson on the 1954/55 Ashes Tour, combined with some delicated cerulean velvetine highlights depicting the vanitas and hubris of various 17th century spies who posed as fishmongers. Simmer lightly, intone the appropriate ancient sonorous corporate incantation ("Harakileh Mzombombar Xook Xook Andelaäe Lös Segletöverhavensnartnogi20år Ilfyrebus Terratoe von Clovis Mercifis Zbigniew Brzezinski Ai Aie Aieh Raholowa") in a campy Transylvanian accent and clad in midnight shaded vestments of purest denim while moving around the cauldron fourteen times widdershins (with incidental music from the soundtrack to Zorba the Greek playing in the background), sprinkle some ghoul dust, add a twist of lemon, and allow to boil down for ten minutes before infusing it with electricity and a teaspoon full of malice aforethought (available from all good Latvian health food stores, between the ginseng and Yersinia pestis).
The resultant mixture is then injected into the leg of an appropriate host by a cute 12 year old midshipman of HM Royal Navy (attired in a dashing blue formal uniform with highly polished gold buttons) using a beige umbrella on the morn of Walpurisnacht at 0743, on the Piccadilly Circus tube platform. His actions are disguised by a catfight between two of the Met's finest undercover transvestite policemen over who gets to use the curlers first.
The mixture gestates in the longshank of the unsuspecting bearer for thirteen days, before bursting out and reducing them to bloody scraps of flesh and gristle at a socially awkward moment, preferably at an upmarket garden party. The newly created Nazgul baby is then picked up by a stork of RAF Strike Command from Coningsby, and relayed swiftly to the Evil Nursery, where it is surrounded by all the attention, dried whale meat and plush toys it needs to thrive and grow up to be a big strong dark rider of utmost depravity and evil.
Their childhood is an idyllic one, full of black fairy floss and githyanki guisarme-volgue practice at the Vampire Circus, five legged races at the Dismemberment Factory, yak rides, swimming with my pet great white shark Fluffy in our private sea (You really thought the Aral just dried up? ), screeching lessons and long walks through the Dark Forest picking mushrooms (for conversion to fungoid minions). When they reach the age of 6, they are sent away to 1890s era English boarding schools through the time portal, in order to fully school them in the arts of evil, perversity, sickening depravity, the biscuit game, and the value of developing a good leg glance against left arm bowlers.
By the age of 15, they are ready to step out into the world as fully molded Nazgul - fine upstanding Black Riders created for the modern era.
As for having a job for you, unfortunately we have no vacancies for 'scholers' at the moment, but being born in 1988, we just might be able to fit in to some of the other...job opportunities...available within the Evil Empire. Have you perused the previously displayed wanted notice, 'Seeking a Servant'?
(contemplative reflection on the nature of history)
It's quite possible that the future you have at some unspecified point in the future will be better than the future that lies in the future of the present. And hope really is part of the future as well, but arguably part of the future of the present, so that the hope of the future at some point later in the future will be somewhat different than the contemporary hope of the future present and if I keep going on like this I fear that the monkey who is typing will suddenly leap into the air, shriek something in Esperanto, and turn itself into a Mobius strip, which will cause an awful mess and I just got the dwarf to clean the blood off the carpets from last time when I got to contemplating metaphysics and the poor simian scribe turned itself literally inside out which was quite a sight to see and indeed won a prize at the Ulan Baator Funniest Slave Video contest but it does not bode well for the future of those monkeys, or the monkeys on the staff in general, so I definitely want their future to be a better future than the future that is theirs for the present. I hope.
(description of one's autobiography)
A good, traditional title on a plain black leather cover, lettering in silver embossed Gothic script. Pages will have silvered or gilt edging, with red silk woven page marker. Title will be something along the lines of 'Victory', 'Triumph of the Will', 'Blood, Honour and Fire' or 'The Shadowed Testament'. Length would be about 1000-1200 pages.
There is much that is written on the pages, and in between the lines. Like Mein Kampf, a mixture of autobiography, philosophy and political manifesto, as well as historical context, and personal reflection on events. Perhaps some pictures as well
"This is me at the smoking radioactive ruin of the Eiffel Tower"
"This is me watching cricket with a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me feeding the world's last surviving communist into a sausage making machine feet first, applauded rapturously by some old ladies and a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me taking tea with some ministers and a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me laughing and clapping at the public executions with a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me guest hosting Monsterpiece Theatre in the new series of Sesame Street with Cookie Monster"
"This is me standing next to a pile of skulls speaking to a bevy of pageboys"
"This is me sitting in a throne made out of skulls listening to the gymnopedie with a bevy of pageboys and Fluffy (pet great white shark)"
"This is me in a red velvet smoking jacket and fez discussing affairs of state with a bevy of pageboys"
Enjoy.
Perfection
The Great Head.
Thanks, Simon! I haven't seen a few of these!
Your prose is most elegant and beautiful.
Your prose is most elegant and beautiful.
Simon Darkshade
Mysterious City of Gold
I know. Just like me.
CurtSibling
ENEMY ACE™
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2001
- Messages
- 29,455
That made me weep with memories of der good old days.
Meleager
Stoned as a Statue
I didn't see this thread before..
Happy Belated Birthday.
Happy Belated Birthday.
Simon Darkshade
Mysterious City of Gold
Who says it isn't? I have changed a lot of notions on insidious string pulling, as being more subtle gives me more time to listen to Wagner and "discuss affairs of state" with the pageboys. 18 hour operas and ...the other stuff... take a lot of a man's time between lunch and my nap.
AL_DA_GREAT
amour absinthe révolution
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
Simon Darkshade
Mysterious City of Gold
What?! Is it 2007 already? Curses, I've overslept...
