Post by Dunwik on Jul 22, 2023 21:00:13 GMT
March 1920
House took a slow drag from his cigar and settled behind the Grand Chairman's desk, Bosch sitting to his left, Satan to his right. For once, Arthur wasn't here - off declaring that he was a god to some schoolboys and setting up something with his beloved little tile puzzle tests. The room was heavy with tension and House steepled his hands.
"I think we all know by now, the old order of Dunwik is dead; the old order of the world is dead," his heavy-lidded eyes looked about, "...and things will not get better, men. Power, true power, lies in the darkness, and true power is a gun, a knife, a bomb... a plague, a famine, a war," House shook his head, "beyond that. It is the fear that at any moment, someone can kill you. That is strength. Unseen, known viscerally, not cerebrally.
Bosch weighed a small amount of cocaine on the back of a laminated card about the size of his hand - a new process made first for securing archival documents, but now, used for other means. Satan's mask of tattoos remained unmoving. He'd been privy to Arthur's speeches too.
"Don't be Arthur," Bosch said, "we've had enough of Arthur. The people love his charades, but we aren't the people."
"It's bigger than him now," Satan said, "...House, we know. Even he doesn't know what he did. He brought the sky down on our heads."
"Think bigger than Dunwik," House drummed his fingers on his desk. Mahogany: expensive, sleek, luxurious, and powerful. Like his father's desk, all those years ago. Playing with his dad's spreadsheets, the black ink always outnumbering the red... ah. Those wistful days were long gone now, "Florin is barely a man and losing his mind. The boy prince Wilhelm of Tholeland... will one day be a king. The Sadaler Raikh is set to have a succession of feeble geriatrics play the role of Hauhkuno. The Sheenish Association will likely be the only ones to stay a stable course... assuming we don't see another Yerkes," he shook his head, "we will have a decade of peace, and then a decade of war. Some damn fool business in New Respite or Ostrea," House took a breath in, "Arthur was a sledgehammer of a man. He shattered the ossified, dying revolutionary scraps and fashioned something else. Now, his ungainly creation - us - stumbles about and seeks to administer itself a new form, before we disintegrate under our own malformations... and we need friends for this. Real power isn't a gun, it's not having anyone want to fight."
"We're dug in like ticks up a horse's ass," Satan drained the last of his pineapple soda, "it'd take more than an act of the Puye 'gods' to crack us now. Three hundred thousand men, two million veterans, guns in every house, batteries on every shore, airports, rail lines everywhere," he gestured to his chest full of medals, "anyone trying to take an inch of Dunwikki soil would have an easier time chewing through a wall of cast iron. That's taking... not holding. We're invincible."
"So the Lengans thought," Bosch raised a finger, "dug in, 'allies' at their backs, guns for every man, woman, and child. It'll take only some new weapon to break us, we'll have no defense. I see what House is saying here - the way to win is never to fight at all."
"We need to discard Arthurian geopolitics and reintegrate, the way Platt wanted to," House rubbed his chin, "the time will come when we are armed with weapons inconceivable and clad in armor inviolable. But that day isn't today. For now, we need time, we need money, and we need allies. Have you any ideas?"
"The Sheenish motorsport," Bosch said, "has raised some interest. As did the "A Divinian World's Fair. A place for nations to compete harmlessly would be ideal. A sporting event, perhaps?"
"Not a sporting event," Satan shook his head, "the sporting event. Not just one sport, but all of them, in a stadium, the largest in the world. Any entries will be household names. The winning teams take home..." he steepled his fingers, "one million dollars and a trophy made of finest ivory."
---
To all the peoples of the world:
We cordially invite you to compete in the World's Athletic Fair: the greatest chance to showcase the athletic prowess of your people and culture in front of a global audience. This event shall begin August 1st, 1921 in a special arena in Miskatonic: all food and lodging shall be handled by us to the highest standards. The best athletes of Dunwik will compete in the following sports:
Field hockey, hammer throwing, marksmanship with a rifle, unarmed martial arts (boxing, wrestling, and mixed), blade duels (saber, epee, and longsword), 100-meter swimming, a 5k run, rugby, and weightlifting. The winning team in any sport shall take one million dollars in bullion and an ivory trophy. The leader of whichever nation wins the most medals shall additionally receive a platinum medallion, custom-made to his specifications (although total platinum composition cannot exceed 500g).
We hope you provide a solid competition. If you have any sports to suggest, please enclose them within.
-Roland Bosch & Maxwell House, representing Dunwik.
House took a slow drag from his cigar and settled behind the Grand Chairman's desk, Bosch sitting to his left, Satan to his right. For once, Arthur wasn't here - off declaring that he was a god to some schoolboys and setting up something with his beloved little tile puzzle tests. The room was heavy with tension and House steepled his hands.
"I think we all know by now, the old order of Dunwik is dead; the old order of the world is dead," his heavy-lidded eyes looked about, "...and things will not get better, men. Power, true power, lies in the darkness, and true power is a gun, a knife, a bomb... a plague, a famine, a war," House shook his head, "beyond that. It is the fear that at any moment, someone can kill you. That is strength. Unseen, known viscerally, not cerebrally.
Bosch weighed a small amount of cocaine on the back of a laminated card about the size of his hand - a new process made first for securing archival documents, but now, used for other means. Satan's mask of tattoos remained unmoving. He'd been privy to Arthur's speeches too.
"Don't be Arthur," Bosch said, "we've had enough of Arthur. The people love his charades, but we aren't the people."
"It's bigger than him now," Satan said, "...House, we know. Even he doesn't know what he did. He brought the sky down on our heads."
"Think bigger than Dunwik," House drummed his fingers on his desk. Mahogany: expensive, sleek, luxurious, and powerful. Like his father's desk, all those years ago. Playing with his dad's spreadsheets, the black ink always outnumbering the red... ah. Those wistful days were long gone now, "Florin is barely a man and losing his mind. The boy prince Wilhelm of Tholeland... will one day be a king. The Sadaler Raikh is set to have a succession of feeble geriatrics play the role of Hauhkuno. The Sheenish Association will likely be the only ones to stay a stable course... assuming we don't see another Yerkes," he shook his head, "we will have a decade of peace, and then a decade of war. Some damn fool business in New Respite or Ostrea," House took a breath in, "Arthur was a sledgehammer of a man. He shattered the ossified, dying revolutionary scraps and fashioned something else. Now, his ungainly creation - us - stumbles about and seeks to administer itself a new form, before we disintegrate under our own malformations... and we need friends for this. Real power isn't a gun, it's not having anyone want to fight."
"We're dug in like ticks up a horse's ass," Satan drained the last of his pineapple soda, "it'd take more than an act of the Puye 'gods' to crack us now. Three hundred thousand men, two million veterans, guns in every house, batteries on every shore, airports, rail lines everywhere," he gestured to his chest full of medals, "anyone trying to take an inch of Dunwikki soil would have an easier time chewing through a wall of cast iron. That's taking... not holding. We're invincible."
"So the Lengans thought," Bosch raised a finger, "dug in, 'allies' at their backs, guns for every man, woman, and child. It'll take only some new weapon to break us, we'll have no defense. I see what House is saying here - the way to win is never to fight at all."
"We need to discard Arthurian geopolitics and reintegrate, the way Platt wanted to," House rubbed his chin, "the time will come when we are armed with weapons inconceivable and clad in armor inviolable. But that day isn't today. For now, we need time, we need money, and we need allies. Have you any ideas?"
"The Sheenish motorsport," Bosch said, "has raised some interest. As did the "A Divinian World's Fair. A place for nations to compete harmlessly would be ideal. A sporting event, perhaps?"
"Not a sporting event," Satan shook his head, "the sporting event. Not just one sport, but all of them, in a stadium, the largest in the world. Any entries will be household names. The winning teams take home..." he steepled his fingers, "one million dollars and a trophy made of finest ivory."
---
To all the peoples of the world:
We cordially invite you to compete in the World's Athletic Fair: the greatest chance to showcase the athletic prowess of your people and culture in front of a global audience. This event shall begin August 1st, 1921 in a special arena in Miskatonic: all food and lodging shall be handled by us to the highest standards. The best athletes of Dunwik will compete in the following sports:
Field hockey, hammer throwing, marksmanship with a rifle, unarmed martial arts (boxing, wrestling, and mixed), blade duels (saber, epee, and longsword), 100-meter swimming, a 5k run, rugby, and weightlifting. The winning team in any sport shall take one million dollars in bullion and an ivory trophy. The leader of whichever nation wins the most medals shall additionally receive a platinum medallion, custom-made to his specifications (although total platinum composition cannot exceed 500g).
We hope you provide a solid competition. If you have any sports to suggest, please enclose them within.
-Roland Bosch & Maxwell House, representing Dunwik.