Pax Romana
- Thread starter Vanadorn
- Start date
Kickbooti
Ecclesia Militans
Still reading, still enjoying.
BrianJ
King
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Perspective wins hands down!!
Remember - this is the first time - not counting ironclads which are definitively smaller than galleons - that any large scale, non-wooden sailing vessel is even remotely possible to the Romans or any culture for that matter.
And massive transport vessels with diesel powered turbines and iron sides capable of housing thousands of units across an ocean voyage - certainly captures the imagination.
V
Hopefully some writing tonight - if not, then tomorrow
Thanks again all for your support!
Remember - this is the first time - not counting ironclads which are definitively smaller than galleons - that any large scale, non-wooden sailing vessel is even remotely possible to the Romans or any culture for that matter.
And massive transport vessels with diesel powered turbines and iron sides capable of housing thousands of units across an ocean voyage - certainly captures the imagination.
V
Hopefully some writing tonight - if not, then tomorrow
Thanks again all for your support!
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Anthony picked up the silver cup from the mantelpiece and turned it over, feeling its heft as his eyes danced around the decorated paneled walls. Dozens of different pistols and rifles as well as scores of swords and axes hung proudly, the streaming sun from the skylight illuminating the entire west side of the room. He placed the cup back and nodded his head, “So you see, I need a requisition sent most urgently to the, uh...erm,” he fished inside his lower vest pocket and withdrew a scrap of paper. “Senatus Populusque Romanus Military Exquesher Office in Rome.”
The man seated comfortably in the hand stuffed, crushed velvet blue couch flicked one end of his cigar absently, the trailing ash caught by the waiting presence of his maid holding a brass tray near his elbow. He smiled at her the same way a hunter would at his prized retriever before returning his gaze to Guiltius. “I know what it is you would need,” he replied, his voice deep and gravely from years of too much whiskey, “but what I don’t understand is what you need me for?”
Guiltius smiled broadly, eyes glinting as he prepared to launch into his speech. “The current situation here is, you have to understand, a bit of a mess. No?” The other man nodded, head cocking slightly in agreement. Anthony continued. “The Senate can’t control the army. The army and navy are at odds. The impressors are against the loyalist. The loyalists are against the monarchists. And in the mix of it all, we have a two front war here against some rather unconventional enemies that is stretching our soldiers to the limits and beyond.”
“But you are not a military man, Mister Guiltius.”
“No, sadly on that note I am not, BUT I do have the good graces to represent one.”
“Hmmm,” the seated man shifted, crossing his legs over each other the other way. “If you are right, I still don’t see why you are coming to me. Couldn’t your ‘friend’ handle such a requisition.”
“Normally you would be right, but he is currently fielding a large number of soldiers against the northern aggressions of the Incan Empire for starters. And secondly, such a req would need to be ratified by a ranking member of the armed forces with at least a captain’s stripes; of which sadly, my much maligned and needy companion is short of by one chevron.”
“Ah,” he brought his cigar back to his mouth and drew in a mouthful of smoke, savoring it before letting it escape from his lips in a rippling stream. “I think I am beginning to see.”
Guiltius idly ran his fingers against the smooth barrel of an Egyptian style shotgun, playing his palms just over the walnut stock. “And being in the field, he cannot rely on his superior to act in haste on his request, especially since it would have to go through the normal bureaucracy and you know, as a retired officer yourself that some bean counter would most likely parse the requisition down or discard it all together.”
Leaving the weapon alone, he turned around continuing, “And being a lieutenant himself, a requisition signed with only his name and sent to the Exquesher would be discarded or returned without even being looked at.” His grin broadened, “So I come to you, good sir, as a patriot and fellow supporter of Rome and her armed forces, to help me in having this document drawn up so my agents can ensure it gets to Rome as swiftly as humanly possible.”
“And what is it you are requesting for your friend?”
“A trifling really I’m sure, but for the men in the field it is the difference between freedom and a violent end.”
“Well?”
“I am to requisition one thousand medium ranged standard issue design rifles with, er...,” he looked back at his paper, “less than 1% degree of barrel width variance between them.” He looked back up and smiled. “Delivered to Mikona Warehouse, 2nd Wharf Street in Huamanga.”
The seated man laughed. “Damn, Mister Guiltius, you have got a set of brass ones, don’t you?” He laughed louder, his voice eventually breaking down into a ragged set of coughing. “1% of variance? Zeus’ Balls, that’s a hoot.”
“Are you saying it can’t be done?”
“Oh, no no no, it can be. I just know for a fact that the Exquesher is going to be crapping ten penny nails when this crosses his desk.” He tapped his cigar, the ash once more caught without fail. “I have been saying it for years, we need to revamp the entire line of the modern soldier from cap to boots and everything in between. It’s why I’m semi-retired...he he he,” he chuckled, holding his left arm up and showing the missing end of it where it stopped at his elbow, “the fact they don’t listen to us and my arm being chopped off.”
“Perhaps after the war is over, someone will see that your idea has merit.”
“War department doesn’t work like that, Mister Guiltius. When there is no war, no one bothers to spend money, research, or development on things to better suit a war.”
Anthony shrugged, still keeping his expression friendly and his grin present as he tried to bring the deal to a close. “All things being equal, I don’t think our men and women on the front line can wait that long. And as for the Exquesher, I don’t think that his discomfort or displeasure should detract from vital needed arms for the soldiers in the field.”
“I don’t know, it’s a rather big deal for what you’re asking me. I’m not officially part of the COC anymore and I am not sure that this friend of yours you represent will have a happy Captain behind him when he finds he’s gone around the proper channels.”
Feeling himself grow elated to finally be at the end of the deal, Guiltius nodded exaggeratedly as he brought his pitch to a close. “I know what you are saying, and it is for that reason that I am seeing it fit to have your patriotic duty amply rewarded in a way that I know would bring great pleasure and satisfaction to you.”
“Oh really?”
Guiltius grinned wider, the door behind him opening and three of his men entering with treasures in tow. The first one lowered a flat wooden box that when opened held a gross hand rolled taipedonig leaf cigars from Chichen Itza. The second one placed a larger metal box on the ground, this one filled with 14 individually packed wooden casks of forty year old scotch. And the last one had a battered, beaten UAL prisoner in tow, the man’s hands lashed together behind his back, feet hobbled by a length of wooden stays and chains. His mouth was gagged but his eyes were wide as he looked at the now white faced Major and blanched himself.
“This is a League sharpshooter known as Falayd ibn-Ashmael. I had a friend look him up, especially since I know for a fact the two of you have a history together. He was, in all places if you can imagine, here in Huamanga in the prisoner of war camp just sitting around waiting for the war to end or the League to pay for his release.” His eyes centered on the Major’s empty sleeve. “I assume you would want to have some word with him, you know, man to man.”
He withdrew a sheaf of masterforged requisition forms and placed them in front of the officer, pushing an inked quill into his hand. “I would gladly leave all this to you, as well as the use of two of my men should you need assistance during your ‘conversation’ for a few hours in exchange for lets say,” he counted the pages quickly, “nine copies of your signature on these forms. Seems pretty cheap, one signature for each month you’ve been retired, wouldn’t you say?”
About an hour later, Guiltius sent off a missive to Lieutenant Sulla of the 11th Veii Riflemen that his request for six-hundred specified rifles would be arriving within the next two weeks, the fresh faced private taking the sealed satchel bag gravely before saluting and racing away. Anthony sighed contentedly as he turned in his chair and looked out the window.
“Something wrong, sugar?” Candace asked, running her hands across his chest as she hugged him languidly from behind.
“Me? Nope,” he grabbed her fingers and squeezed them, bringing the tips to his lips to kiss her painted nails. “Everything is fine.”
She stepped around, sliding into his lap and pressing her form against his chest. “So you did good business, sugar?”
Anthony grinned. “Girl, I’m a businessman.” And then he leaned forward, kissing her carmine stained lips as he ran his hand against her buttocks. “And all I do, baby, is good business.”
The man seated comfortably in the hand stuffed, crushed velvet blue couch flicked one end of his cigar absently, the trailing ash caught by the waiting presence of his maid holding a brass tray near his elbow. He smiled at her the same way a hunter would at his prized retriever before returning his gaze to Guiltius. “I know what it is you would need,” he replied, his voice deep and gravely from years of too much whiskey, “but what I don’t understand is what you need me for?”
Guiltius smiled broadly, eyes glinting as he prepared to launch into his speech. “The current situation here is, you have to understand, a bit of a mess. No?” The other man nodded, head cocking slightly in agreement. Anthony continued. “The Senate can’t control the army. The army and navy are at odds. The impressors are against the loyalist. The loyalists are against the monarchists. And in the mix of it all, we have a two front war here against some rather unconventional enemies that is stretching our soldiers to the limits and beyond.”
“But you are not a military man, Mister Guiltius.”
“No, sadly on that note I am not, BUT I do have the good graces to represent one.”
“Hmmm,” the seated man shifted, crossing his legs over each other the other way. “If you are right, I still don’t see why you are coming to me. Couldn’t your ‘friend’ handle such a requisition.”
“Normally you would be right, but he is currently fielding a large number of soldiers against the northern aggressions of the Incan Empire for starters. And secondly, such a req would need to be ratified by a ranking member of the armed forces with at least a captain’s stripes; of which sadly, my much maligned and needy companion is short of by one chevron.”
“Ah,” he brought his cigar back to his mouth and drew in a mouthful of smoke, savoring it before letting it escape from his lips in a rippling stream. “I think I am beginning to see.”
Guiltius idly ran his fingers against the smooth barrel of an Egyptian style shotgun, playing his palms just over the walnut stock. “And being in the field, he cannot rely on his superior to act in haste on his request, especially since it would have to go through the normal bureaucracy and you know, as a retired officer yourself that some bean counter would most likely parse the requisition down or discard it all together.”
Leaving the weapon alone, he turned around continuing, “And being a lieutenant himself, a requisition signed with only his name and sent to the Exquesher would be discarded or returned without even being looked at.” His grin broadened, “So I come to you, good sir, as a patriot and fellow supporter of Rome and her armed forces, to help me in having this document drawn up so my agents can ensure it gets to Rome as swiftly as humanly possible.”
“And what is it you are requesting for your friend?”
“A trifling really I’m sure, but for the men in the field it is the difference between freedom and a violent end.”
“Well?”
“I am to requisition one thousand medium ranged standard issue design rifles with, er...,” he looked back at his paper, “less than 1% degree of barrel width variance between them.” He looked back up and smiled. “Delivered to Mikona Warehouse, 2nd Wharf Street in Huamanga.”
The seated man laughed. “Damn, Mister Guiltius, you have got a set of brass ones, don’t you?” He laughed louder, his voice eventually breaking down into a ragged set of coughing. “1% of variance? Zeus’ Balls, that’s a hoot.”
“Are you saying it can’t be done?”
“Oh, no no no, it can be. I just know for a fact that the Exquesher is going to be crapping ten penny nails when this crosses his desk.” He tapped his cigar, the ash once more caught without fail. “I have been saying it for years, we need to revamp the entire line of the modern soldier from cap to boots and everything in between. It’s why I’m semi-retired...he he he,” he chuckled, holding his left arm up and showing the missing end of it where it stopped at his elbow, “the fact they don’t listen to us and my arm being chopped off.”
“Perhaps after the war is over, someone will see that your idea has merit.”
“War department doesn’t work like that, Mister Guiltius. When there is no war, no one bothers to spend money, research, or development on things to better suit a war.”
Anthony shrugged, still keeping his expression friendly and his grin present as he tried to bring the deal to a close. “All things being equal, I don’t think our men and women on the front line can wait that long. And as for the Exquesher, I don’t think that his discomfort or displeasure should detract from vital needed arms for the soldiers in the field.”
“I don’t know, it’s a rather big deal for what you’re asking me. I’m not officially part of the COC anymore and I am not sure that this friend of yours you represent will have a happy Captain behind him when he finds he’s gone around the proper channels.”
Feeling himself grow elated to finally be at the end of the deal, Guiltius nodded exaggeratedly as he brought his pitch to a close. “I know what you are saying, and it is for that reason that I am seeing it fit to have your patriotic duty amply rewarded in a way that I know would bring great pleasure and satisfaction to you.”
“Oh really?”
Guiltius grinned wider, the door behind him opening and three of his men entering with treasures in tow. The first one lowered a flat wooden box that when opened held a gross hand rolled taipedonig leaf cigars from Chichen Itza. The second one placed a larger metal box on the ground, this one filled with 14 individually packed wooden casks of forty year old scotch. And the last one had a battered, beaten UAL prisoner in tow, the man’s hands lashed together behind his back, feet hobbled by a length of wooden stays and chains. His mouth was gagged but his eyes were wide as he looked at the now white faced Major and blanched himself.
“This is a League sharpshooter known as Falayd ibn-Ashmael. I had a friend look him up, especially since I know for a fact the two of you have a history together. He was, in all places if you can imagine, here in Huamanga in the prisoner of war camp just sitting around waiting for the war to end or the League to pay for his release.” His eyes centered on the Major’s empty sleeve. “I assume you would want to have some word with him, you know, man to man.”
He withdrew a sheaf of masterforged requisition forms and placed them in front of the officer, pushing an inked quill into his hand. “I would gladly leave all this to you, as well as the use of two of my men should you need assistance during your ‘conversation’ for a few hours in exchange for lets say,” he counted the pages quickly, “nine copies of your signature on these forms. Seems pretty cheap, one signature for each month you’ve been retired, wouldn’t you say?”
About an hour later, Guiltius sent off a missive to Lieutenant Sulla of the 11th Veii Riflemen that his request for six-hundred specified rifles would be arriving within the next two weeks, the fresh faced private taking the sealed satchel bag gravely before saluting and racing away. Anthony sighed contentedly as he turned in his chair and looked out the window.
“Something wrong, sugar?” Candace asked, running her hands across his chest as she hugged him languidly from behind.
“Me? Nope,” he grabbed her fingers and squeezed them, bringing the tips to his lips to kiss her painted nails. “Everything is fine.”
She stepped around, sliding into his lap and pressing her form against his chest. “So you did good business, sugar?”
Anthony grinned. “Girl, I’m a businessman.” And then he leaned forward, kissing her carmine stained lips as he ran his hand against her buttocks. “And all I do, baby, is good business.”
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Put down your weapons!”
“You put down yours!”
“I will shoot! Put it down! Stand down!!”
“I tell you my men will fire! Lower them! Lower them!”
The hot stink of copper hung over the square like a cloud, tainting the very air the screaming men of the 5th Byzantium were breathing as they stood chest to chest, toe to toe with the amalgamated defenders the usurping Arabian nationals had cobbled together to ward Ica. Blood soaked the street, running through the cracks in the stone as dozens and dozens of men and women lay dying on both sides of the barricades.
Horses had been abandoned along the outskirts of town after the reliberating Romans had breached the outer defenses and achieved the city proper. Since then it had been a fight one building, one corner, one block at a time. A company of soldiers had turned the corner and found themselves face to face with a similar strengthed Arabian force holed up behind barricades.
Barricades they found themselves surprisingly on the wrong side of.
“In the name of Allah, drop your weapons or my men will open fire!!”
The Roman Centurion opened his mouth slowly, sucking his lips between his teeth as he tried to best judge the safest way out of this surprising mess for his men. “Can’t do that, Ay-din!” he answered, flexing his hand on the butt of his rifle’s stock. “You and your men are going to have to drop them!”
“I will shoot! I will give the order to shoot!!”
“Don’t do something stupid! Just, just lower your guns!”
“You have to drop your weapons, Roman! Now, now!” The Arabian commander was shaking visibly, the muzzle of his purloined rifle wavering as it tracked its way across the Roman’s position. His men and women behind him were also nervous, but the grim set of their jaws belied any chance of them surrendering easily.
“By the order of the Senate and People of Rome, you are hereby...”
“Won’t do it! You drop yours!”
“YOU ARE hereby ordered to lower your weapons...”
“Allah shall guide us!”
“And surrender yourself immediately!”
“NEVER!”
Fingers squeezed. Bullets cracked and flew. The sound of wet meat mixed in with the whizzing screams of flying lead. A person howled, another roared. Cordite and sulfur assaulted the senses. Blood fountained and more cries of agony. More bullets cracked. Someone fell against the wall, holding their stomach in with weak fingers. Another drew a knife and threw himself into his opposite number, blade rising and sinking.
More gunshots followed; ragged strips of blasts and bangs. People fell, hitting cobbled streets as corpses or wounded. Men in red and black beat on those uniformed in yellow. Soldiers and farmers, warriors and civilians. Under the skin they both bled the same blood. Red blood. Blood that soaked the spongy dirt between the cobblestones. Blood that made the smooth surfaces slick.
The Centurion stared emptily at the smoggy sky over Ica, his gaze even and unwavering as he lay back against the curb. A hole had been drilled into his right cheek and a much larger one had blown out the back of his head. So even though he was there as mute testament to the sudden and bloody battle, his opinions on the twelve second firefight stopped just before the first second had elapsed.
But if he had lived, he would have been happy to know the 5th Byzantium secured the public square and regrouped, moving on to the next pocket of resistance. There was even a chance he would have cracked a smile when the UAL flag was struck down at 6 PM the following Tuesday and the Roman Eagle fluttered once again in place.
However, the dead, the numerous dead, the mounting dead, the continuously falling for their country on either side of the battle lines no matter what the cost dead...cannot voice their opinion.
Chances are though; their opinion would have been simply to still be alive.
“You put down yours!”
“I will shoot! Put it down! Stand down!!”
“I tell you my men will fire! Lower them! Lower them!”
The hot stink of copper hung over the square like a cloud, tainting the very air the screaming men of the 5th Byzantium were breathing as they stood chest to chest, toe to toe with the amalgamated defenders the usurping Arabian nationals had cobbled together to ward Ica. Blood soaked the street, running through the cracks in the stone as dozens and dozens of men and women lay dying on both sides of the barricades.
Horses had been abandoned along the outskirts of town after the reliberating Romans had breached the outer defenses and achieved the city proper. Since then it had been a fight one building, one corner, one block at a time. A company of soldiers had turned the corner and found themselves face to face with a similar strengthed Arabian force holed up behind barricades.
Barricades they found themselves surprisingly on the wrong side of.
“In the name of Allah, drop your weapons or my men will open fire!!”
The Roman Centurion opened his mouth slowly, sucking his lips between his teeth as he tried to best judge the safest way out of this surprising mess for his men. “Can’t do that, Ay-din!” he answered, flexing his hand on the butt of his rifle’s stock. “You and your men are going to have to drop them!”
“I will shoot! I will give the order to shoot!!”
“Don’t do something stupid! Just, just lower your guns!”
“You have to drop your weapons, Roman! Now, now!” The Arabian commander was shaking visibly, the muzzle of his purloined rifle wavering as it tracked its way across the Roman’s position. His men and women behind him were also nervous, but the grim set of their jaws belied any chance of them surrendering easily.
“By the order of the Senate and People of Rome, you are hereby...”
“Won’t do it! You drop yours!”
“YOU ARE hereby ordered to lower your weapons...”
“Allah shall guide us!”
“And surrender yourself immediately!”
“NEVER!”
Fingers squeezed. Bullets cracked and flew. The sound of wet meat mixed in with the whizzing screams of flying lead. A person howled, another roared. Cordite and sulfur assaulted the senses. Blood fountained and more cries of agony. More bullets cracked. Someone fell against the wall, holding their stomach in with weak fingers. Another drew a knife and threw himself into his opposite number, blade rising and sinking.
More gunshots followed; ragged strips of blasts and bangs. People fell, hitting cobbled streets as corpses or wounded. Men in red and black beat on those uniformed in yellow. Soldiers and farmers, warriors and civilians. Under the skin they both bled the same blood. Red blood. Blood that soaked the spongy dirt between the cobblestones. Blood that made the smooth surfaces slick.
The Centurion stared emptily at the smoggy sky over Ica, his gaze even and unwavering as he lay back against the curb. A hole had been drilled into his right cheek and a much larger one had blown out the back of his head. So even though he was there as mute testament to the sudden and bloody battle, his opinions on the twelve second firefight stopped just before the first second had elapsed.
But if he had lived, he would have been happy to know the 5th Byzantium secured the public square and regrouped, moving on to the next pocket of resistance. There was even a chance he would have cracked a smile when the UAL flag was struck down at 6 PM the following Tuesday and the Roman Eagle fluttered once again in place.
However, the dead, the numerous dead, the mounting dead, the continuously falling for their country on either side of the battle lines no matter what the cost dead...cannot voice their opinion.
Chances are though; their opinion would have been simply to still be alive.
Last edited:
psweetman1590
Emperor
Another excellent addition, Vanadorn. 
Might I suggest adding "for" where I put an asterisk? Nothing actually wrong with the way you have it now though.
Might I suggest adding "for" where I put an asterisk? Nothing actually wrong with the way you have it now though.
Should be "or".
General Mayhem
Monarch
- Joined
- Aug 30, 2004
- Messages
- 329
Wow, after being gone over a year I thought this would be done and am amazed to see its still going strong. Great writing as always Van, and look forward to more.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Guid gave his brother a scathing glance, pointing to the engine part in his hand and spitting at his feet. “Damn it all to hell an’ tarnation, Mervos!” he roared aloud, “We dun just were given this here fancy arsed automobile and you gotta go an’ tinker take parts orf of it!?” He ripped his slouch cap off his head and beat the other man across the chest with it. “Why what to the blackest Abyss did ye have ta go an’ dew a plumb fooled thing like that fer!?!”
Mervos flinched, backing up till he was flat against the side of the barn. “ON ‘ccount it din’t need ta be there!”
“Din’t need ta be there?” Guid squinted. “If’n tha’ be were th’ case, then WHY was it a’hangin’ orf th’ bottom o’ th’ engine then?”
“Well, lemme shows ye.” Mervos crouched low, crab walking till he was against the front fender well of the horseless carriage. He pointed. “See tha’ thingie there?”
“Wot thingie?”
Mervos reached further under. “There. Right there. Where th’ doohickey comes outta tha’ flange thingie and sorto loops unnerneath like?”
Guid nodded, lowering himself to one knee. “Yeah. I kin see it. Tha’ doohickey an’ unner.”
Mervos smiled, dropping to his pot belly and wiggling further under the fender. He grabbed the pipe end and shoved two fingers inside. “Well, lemme tells ye, this ‘ere pipe leads back up to th’ top o’ th’ engine.” He shoved his hand up, tracing the pipe until it disappeared above. Then he extricated himself and climbed to his feet, folding up the side of the engine compartment to reveal the motor itself. He touched the same pipe and kept following it. “See how it comes into this ‘ere area and sorto goes near them vents?”
His brother nodded, scowling. “Yeah. I rem’ber them vents.”
“Ye plugged them up.”
“I know, I know. Dumb arse idea. I got it.”
Mervos chuckled. “Well, I gotta say, after ye ‘ad dun it, I got t asking Phyricus as ta why tha’ them thing would ‘appen an’ ‘e told me tha’ plain as day, the engine needed ta breath.”
“He be pullin’ yer cockles, lad,” Guid laughed. “Just ‘acause sumone dun says its gots th’ power o’ horses, dunt mean its actually made from horses.”
“Dew I look as stupid as you act? ‘Cause if I do, please dew me a solid an’ put me outta my misery. Durn tarnation ye is stupid.”
“Unless ye’d like ta pick up yer teef wit’ broken fingers,” Guid threatened with a shaking fist, “I would be thinkin’ ye might wanna lay orf it.”
“Wotever,” Mervos tossed the engine part he was holding and caught it again. “Anyways, it needs ta breath ‘acause th’ fuel needs air ta burn. Same as when ye snuff out a candle by coverin’ it an’ wot not.”
“Aright, I follows ye.”
“So, th’ vents feed air to th’ engine an’ th’ air feeds to th’ fuel an’ th’ fuel burns which makes th’ engine go. Got it so far?”
Guid smiled. “Aye.”
“Well, it seems tha’ this vent pipe also siphons down to th’ back o’ th’ vehicle to get th’ burned gunk outta th’ way while ye drivin’.”
The elder brother thought hard, “Um, Phyricus called it th’ exgaust.”
“Tha’s right!” Mervos clapped. “Exgaust. Well, this part here would make th’ exgaust stuff all git bunched up so ye dunt burn yerself if yer standin’ ‘ahind th’ carriage.” He grinned. “Wot it was ALSO dewin’ was gummin’ up th’ ‘mount o’ air tha’ was getting’ inta th’ engine!”
Guid looked at his brother absently. “I dunt unnerstand why ye’d take it orf then?”
“Simple. Wit’out it on, there kin be MORE air gittin’ inta th’ engine! More air means th’ fuel burns hotter, an’ if it burns hotter, th’ carriage kin go faster!”
“But wot ‘bout th’ smoke? Won’t it choke ye if yer drivin’?”
Mervos smiled broadly, “Not...if yer drivin’ real fast.”
The other brother grinned. “Fast?”
“Aye.”
“Fast is good.” Guid gave the new Portia horseless carriage a once over, brows knotted. “I wunder if there is anythin’ else we kin dew ta make it go faster?”
Mervos took the wrench out of his pocket and handed it to his brother. “One way ta find out?”
Guid took the wrench gravely. “Tha’ there is, bro.” He put his slouch cap back on. “Let’s see wot else we kin dew.”
Mervos flinched, backing up till he was flat against the side of the barn. “ON ‘ccount it din’t need ta be there!”
“Din’t need ta be there?” Guid squinted. “If’n tha’ be were th’ case, then WHY was it a’hangin’ orf th’ bottom o’ th’ engine then?”
“Well, lemme shows ye.” Mervos crouched low, crab walking till he was against the front fender well of the horseless carriage. He pointed. “See tha’ thingie there?”
“Wot thingie?”
Mervos reached further under. “There. Right there. Where th’ doohickey comes outta tha’ flange thingie and sorto loops unnerneath like?”
Guid nodded, lowering himself to one knee. “Yeah. I kin see it. Tha’ doohickey an’ unner.”
Mervos smiled, dropping to his pot belly and wiggling further under the fender. He grabbed the pipe end and shoved two fingers inside. “Well, lemme tells ye, this ‘ere pipe leads back up to th’ top o’ th’ engine.” He shoved his hand up, tracing the pipe until it disappeared above. Then he extricated himself and climbed to his feet, folding up the side of the engine compartment to reveal the motor itself. He touched the same pipe and kept following it. “See how it comes into this ‘ere area and sorto goes near them vents?”
His brother nodded, scowling. “Yeah. I rem’ber them vents.”
“Ye plugged them up.”
“I know, I know. Dumb arse idea. I got it.”
Mervos chuckled. “Well, I gotta say, after ye ‘ad dun it, I got t asking Phyricus as ta why tha’ them thing would ‘appen an’ ‘e told me tha’ plain as day, the engine needed ta breath.”
“He be pullin’ yer cockles, lad,” Guid laughed. “Just ‘acause sumone dun says its gots th’ power o’ horses, dunt mean its actually made from horses.”
“Dew I look as stupid as you act? ‘Cause if I do, please dew me a solid an’ put me outta my misery. Durn tarnation ye is stupid.”
“Unless ye’d like ta pick up yer teef wit’ broken fingers,” Guid threatened with a shaking fist, “I would be thinkin’ ye might wanna lay orf it.”
“Wotever,” Mervos tossed the engine part he was holding and caught it again. “Anyways, it needs ta breath ‘acause th’ fuel needs air ta burn. Same as when ye snuff out a candle by coverin’ it an’ wot not.”
“Aright, I follows ye.”
“So, th’ vents feed air to th’ engine an’ th’ air feeds to th’ fuel an’ th’ fuel burns which makes th’ engine go. Got it so far?”
Guid smiled. “Aye.”
“Well, it seems tha’ this vent pipe also siphons down to th’ back o’ th’ vehicle to get th’ burned gunk outta th’ way while ye drivin’.”
The elder brother thought hard, “Um, Phyricus called it th’ exgaust.”
“Tha’s right!” Mervos clapped. “Exgaust. Well, this part here would make th’ exgaust stuff all git bunched up so ye dunt burn yerself if yer standin’ ‘ahind th’ carriage.” He grinned. “Wot it was ALSO dewin’ was gummin’ up th’ ‘mount o’ air tha’ was getting’ inta th’ engine!”
Guid looked at his brother absently. “I dunt unnerstand why ye’d take it orf then?”
“Simple. Wit’out it on, there kin be MORE air gittin’ inta th’ engine! More air means th’ fuel burns hotter, an’ if it burns hotter, th’ carriage kin go faster!”
“But wot ‘bout th’ smoke? Won’t it choke ye if yer drivin’?”
Mervos smiled broadly, “Not...if yer drivin’ real fast.”
The other brother grinned. “Fast?”
“Aye.”
“Fast is good.” Guid gave the new Portia horseless carriage a once over, brows knotted. “I wunder if there is anythin’ else we kin dew ta make it go faster?”
Mervos took the wrench out of his pocket and handed it to his brother. “One way ta find out?”
Guid took the wrench gravely. “Tha’ there is, bro.” He put his slouch cap back on. “Let’s see wot else we kin dew.”
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Globetrotter
...wherever i may roam...
Great story Vanadorn. Is there any place though where we can read it without the comments? Ideally, you put the whole thing in a pdf document, clean of all comments and non-story posts, for us to be able to read easier, especially if we were away for some time 
Great job!
Great job!
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