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isn't quite ashamed enough to present

jr conlin's ink stained banana

:: Family History, Part 2

More Conlin Family History that i did not make up just now (maybe, ok, definitely). What follows, i have pieced together from local legends, family lore, and the recently discovered wall etchings at the Ros Comáin Home for the Unsettled)

Elias Bertrand Conlin made it his life’s mission to do something about the greatest act of evil ever perpetrated by one man against humanity. The senseless loss of millions of lives and the complete destruction of the island of Crete were well known and documented by the historians of the mid 1800’s to the point where no greater insult could be made in any language than to call another person a Minion of Brännakattungar.

When Elias was just ten, his father had taken him one summer on a solemn pilgrimage. For days, the train chugged past the fields of graves that nearly filled what remained of France, across the deserts of Northern Italy and finally south to Greece. Father paid the 80 drachma fare and they sailed to see the mighty clouds of steam rise above the Mediterranean where the ocean still lapped against the still cooling dome of raw mantel. At night, even 50 years later, Elias wrote how the sky glowed a faint orange and the smell of molten metal lingered in the breeze. It was a deeply disturbing experience for one so young, but much like the new granite it set Elias’ mind about what needed to be done.

He spent much of his adult life deep in studies of math and the new sciences that were cropping up around him. He journeyed to talk to the greatest minds, spent many a sleepless week pouring over thesis and tome, and during his travels, he spent time tinkering with gadgets and mechanisms of his own design. In his 50’s he spent what little money he had remaining on a one room apartment in Diakofti. For several days, he hauled crates, lengths of metal pipe, and chemicals into the apartment. Thick black cables snaked from the windows to a set of dynamos he secured in the courtyard. These droned with a regular thrum that made some of the older women of the village nervously cross themselves.

Not much is known of the night when lightning from the apartment struck the heavens. Men speak of how the dynamos shrieked like demons as the black diesel smoke billowed into the starry night. Children speak of the dancing curtains of green light that hung above the village. After the echos of the mighty shock has faded to the point where the frightened cries of the sheep could be heard, the bravest men of the village were met by Elias at his door. His service revolver, held limply by his side, still smoking.

“Is it there?” the blood splattered Elias cried to the shocked villagers. The men had no idea what Elias was talking about and stood, dumb, staring at the crazed foreigner. A cautious voice from the back of the crowd asked, “What?”

Elias angrily pushed his way past the ignorant farmers and ran outside. He started to smile when he no longer saw the hellish orange cloud on the horizon, then laughed joyfully when he spotted the distant lights of Crete on the horizon.

He bruskly grabbed one of the confused men who followed him to the shore. “Tell me what you know of Stephan Brännakattungar!” he demanded.

The villager, having overcome his shock, fired back at Elias. “Look, you, i don’t care who the hell that is, but your devilish contraption scared three of my sheep to death.” The other men joined his angry tirade with their own concerns and demands for reparations.

Elias stared at the men with his jaw slackened in surprise. Do these men not realize what he had just done? Do they actually believe that their livestock are more important that the rescue of millions? Elias felt his own blood boil and without a word stormed back to his apartment, slammed the door, and a second bolt of lightning cracked through the sky.

He re-emerged to the familiar sent of molten rock and faint orange sky and walked sternly up to the now significantly more Asian villagers. “There, are you happy?” Elias sneered.

“What? No, of course not.” The villagers cried. One of the refugees spoke up in broken Greek, “My home in Beijing, full of metal demons. i come here, with rest of family to start new life. Now you do same thing that destroy home. You Stop!”

It was then, as if on summoning, that one of the ironically named Protectors descended from the sky. Beams of death burned several shoreline homes as it’s voice boomed “ILLEGAL KNOWLEDGE USED. TERMINATION INITIATING.”

Elias knew better than to dawdle as the rest of the village ran screaming into the hills. His door had barely closed when the third bolt split the island’s night.

Elias exited his apartment to a fresh sea dawn and a cry of “Now do you see what i’ve saved you from!?”

From here, i have no record of what happened to the Elias’ equipment after the villagers had destroyed it. Only that Elias was labelled as dangerously insane was exiled from the island once they released him. Apparently, he spent a portion of his later years writing highly detailed historical fiction, which he swore was true. He was later “hospitalized” after a rather distressing incident at a Cretan barbeque restaurant.

Blogs of note
personal Christopher Conlin USMC memoirs of hydrogen guy rhapsodic.org Henriette's Herbal Blog
geek ultramookie

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