+----------------------------------------------------------------------+ | The Olympia Times issue g2-130 | | August 10, 1999 | | | | turn 130 299 players http://www.pbm.com/ | +----------------------------------------------------------------------+
Questions, comments, to play: firstname.lastname@example.org
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People of Olympia,
If all went well Lord Foul met his maker this last month. Lord Foul is the first of the Musketeer leadership responsible for the Musketeer war against the Lords of the Crown that got punished by our supreme armies. It is a war he and others choose and it is a war against the believes of the LOTC.
Let me also stress that the Rimmon Musketeers are still the agressor, we did not choose this war. Instead we defended peace to the last minute. Alas the Musketeer leaders sucked the Musketeer membership into a war they neither wanted nor can win. The Lords of the Crown armies have several other Rimmon leaders in mind meant to be captured:
Lord Maltar as Musketeer leader, Garren Ravensblood as Musketeer general, ICLF membership as Rimmon Collaborator, Zwagon as Musketeer leader,
I can only give a good piece of advise to the Rimmon Musketeer membership: you have been lied to, influenced and used. Don't be fooled and punish the ones responsible for your demise.
For now, I rest my case, Bruennor Battlehammer, Prominent member of the Gutbuster Brigade, King of Delzoun, Lord of the Crown.
-- Bruennor Battlehammer 
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May the Red God smile upon you. The Herald of the Brotherhood of the Red God
-- Wodan [d987]
Official Press Statement concerning one "Oleg the Loudmouth":
He is a vulgar little maggot, a worthless bag of filth. He couldn't pour piss out of a boot with the instructions on the heel. He is a canker; a sore that won't go away.
He is degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing he exists. I despise everything about him. He is a bloody nardless twit protohominid chromosomally aberrant caricature of a coprophagic cloacal parasitic pond scum, and I wish he would go away.
He is a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. He is a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. He is a jerk, a cad, a weasel. His life is a monument to stupidity. He is a stench, a revulsion, a putrefaction, a big suck on a sour lemon with a lime twist.
He is a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying his alleged birth into this world; an insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who spawned him and then killed themselves in regret for what they had done.
I will never get over the utter feelings of debasement from belonging to the same species as Oleg. He is a monster, an ogre, a malformation. I barf at the very thought of him. He has all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid him. He is vile, worthless, less than nothing. He is a weed, a fungus, a ferment, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention that he smells?
If he isn't an idiot, he is making a world-class effort at simulating one.
He is a snail-skulled little twit. Would that a hawk pick him up, drive its beak into his brain, and upon finding it rancid set him loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of his ignoble blood. May he choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of his own trite, foolish beliefs.
He is weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. He is grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. He is foul and disgusting. He is a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on him. His hand even refuses autoerotism. He is unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.
And yet he expects his delusional self-important statements of opinion to have meaning with us. He blindly fantasizes that his tiny-fisted tantrums have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake.
He is a waste of flesh. He has no rhythm. He is ridiculous and obnoxious. He is the moral equivalent of a leech. He is a living emptiness, a meaningless void. He is sour and senile. He is a disease; a puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meat slapper.
On a good day he's a half-wit. He reminds me of drool. He is deficient in all that lends character. He has the personality of wallpaper. He is dank and filthy. He is asinine and benighted. He is the source of all unpleasantness. He spreads misery and sorrow wherever he goes.
I cannot believe how incredibly stupid he is. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid. So stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. He is trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid that is so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularly stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on the warm side of Mercury stupid. He emits more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Perhaps he is some primordial fragment from the original Big Bang of Stupid; Some pure essence of stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know.
Other than that, I have no problem with the guy.
-- Morgor the Mangler 
uma oma we will get ya
At Least Lord Foul fought like a man. Unlike Artemis, who ran from battle once again this turn. For those who care, fret not Lord Foul Lives and will return to the war front soon!
-unidentified family member-
The Greyfell Privateers - Forging a new future!
Maybe one of these days I'll find some land to call home.
Please Visit the Crimson Dragons Web Page at http://www.geocities.com/area51/stargate/9565 for great tips and information as well as the latest scoop on the Crimson Dragon / Plato conflict.
Glad to hear things are going so well for Foul and Oleg. I was afraid there wouldn't be anything left for me. Hang in there, guys.
The musketheads bite!!