Letter from Charles Babbage, progenitor of the modern computer, to engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, August 6^th, 1824

My Dearest Isambard,

I do hope this letter finds you in good health of both body and mind. I am greatly pleased to hear of your progress on the Thames Tunnel, and I am equally pleased to report to you that my Difference Engine has made great leaps in its path of development. In fact, I have stumbled upon many exciting corollaries that I wish to describe to you in great detail, should you have the time and inclination to read them.

The first such discovery was made quite by accident, when I left a wooden etching of my beloved housecat Frederick quite near indeed to the Engine. Having been tinkering with the Engine’s applicability to the task of writing, there happened to lie several short notes, notably imperfect in both grammar and spelling, on the table among my idle musings. One, quite by accident, fell on the etching, below the face of my beloved Freddie, as if intended by Our Divine Father to be a caption of sorts for this delightful rendering of the feline. Due to some blemish or other in the Engine’s programming, the note, which meant to have read “I beseech you, kind Sir, for a spot of blood pudding until suppertime,” read instead the quite absurd “I MAY HAZ BLUD PUDIN.” Though at first mention I thought the happening both mundane and rather daft, after a number of hours it began to strike me as droll indeed; O, the folly and farce of a cat which might speak in the manner of the Simple Child! Since then I have produced a number of such pairings, and I intend to present them as a possible Application of the magnificent Engine at the next meeting of the Royal Society. Perhaps in time, the great minds of that grouping shall take it upon themselves to create their own inanities in the selfsame style. I predict a splendid future in which the finest Scientists and Artisans alike may, as Father Martin Luther did so many generations ago, tack their own handiworks for all to see and marvel upon. My Engine, it appears, shall not merely serve to aid in the manipulation of Maths, but to stimulate minds the civilized world over!

I shall inform you in the near future of the other corollaries that have come into the light of my progress. I am working now on a device which, while maintaining the guise of an important news declaration, within mere seconds transforms itself into a diorama of a smitten bard promising his lady love that he shan’t give her up, nor let her down, nor turn around and leave her, even in all the heated glory and blaze of her womanly Emotions.

May you share in my vision for this Utopia of the genius!

In Christ,

Charles

~ As Recovered by Solomon Klein

“Listen up, ya schmucks,” growled the wise Fairheart, fluttering his gossamer wings in agitation. “Them Angels ain’t playin’ by the rules no more. They movin’ outta Pittsburgh, outta state, pushin’ that Angel Dust shit far as Akron. And I don’t need to tell ya, gentlemen, that Akron is Fairy Dust territory – our turf. Our goddamn turf!”

With a twirl of his wand, King Fairheart smacked his inept son Prince Brightweather in the back of his head. This was his cue to refill the buttercups of harsh Meadow Nectar whiskey the other Dons had in front of them, the only task in the Clearcloud Kingdom the Prince was capable of. The other Dons thought him simple.

“Sorry, Papa,” he mumbled.

King Fairheart fingered his shoulder-holster as he marvelled at his son’s stupidity. This was a tic of his, like a unicorn tapping its hoof to a happy song or a crack junkie’s shakes. He would not use his .45. Not in this meeting.

“This Dust the angels are pushin’, it’s cheaper, stronger, and more addictive than our shit. And to the lowlifes we peddle to, that means it’s fuckin’ better.”

He picked up a vial of the Angel Dust, and a vial of his own product. He examined the contents of both closely, though he’d done so many times before. They were nearly identical, besides potency and price; both were bright pink in colour, with sparkles all the colours of the rainbow. One sprinkle of Fairy Dust and a boy of true heart could do anything he could imagine – but a sprinkle of Angel Dust was like sitting in a vat of heroin with slit wrists.

“So, fellas, we gotta do something about it. The Tooth Fairy’s workin’ on hookin’ the kids early, but it ain’t enough, and nothin’ we do to the formula is gonna help either, cuz that Angel shit is just too fuckin’ good. That only leaves one option, fellas, an’ I think you already know what it is. We gotta let the Angels know that sellin’ on our turf is more trouble than it’s worth. Pony Boy, I believe you done got somethin’ to tell us there.”

Pony Boy preened his lustrous purple coat and whinnied. “The Angels have been sending their stuff across the state lines in the trunks of some Mexican truckers connected with the yayo boys in Cleveland. One of their guys – goes by the name Speedy – he’s been getting cocky, bringing in more shit than he should and catching the eye of the fuzz. My boy on the force has been tracing his route and we know that there’s a nice thirty miles or so where no one’s watching him. That means he’s our first and easiest target.”

King Fairheart cut him off. “If we get Speedy, which shouldn’t be too much hassle, we might scare the Mexicans off without gettin’ into another fuckin’ bloodbath with the Angels. I know none of us like each other much and I ain’t any different in that respect, but this benefits all of us, and then we can go back to shootin’ the shit out of each other like old times.” Prince Brightweather let out a guffaw but shut himself up when he caught his father’s eye.

Lord Goldenleaf of the Enchanted Forest quietly fumed in his seat, cheap cigar stuck in his jaw, purest starlight emanating from its tip. The sounds of his nephew’s murder the previous month during the raid on the Angel compound in Canton hadn’t stopped playing through his head since, and he couldn’t be convinced that Prince Brightweather’s incompetence wasn’t somehow to blame. He slammed his fist down on the table in front of him and stood up, staring King Fairheart down. “Bullshit!” he growled, voice like a sparrow’s song. “We all know that if yer goddamn moron of a son hadn’t blown the goddamn stake-out,” he motioned to the Prince, “the Angels wouldn’t even know we was a threat! We wouldn’t be in this fuckin’ mess!”

The King calmly leaned back on his toadstool chair. With the look of a man deep in thought, he tapped his wizened fingers on the table, inches from his wand. Suddenly, he pointed it at Lord Goldenleaf, and with a blast of colour and the dank stench of cotton candy, Fairheart’s target fell back into his seat. Goldenleaf grasped his throat, eyes bulging, as pathetic gasps struggled to fill the stunned silence of the abandoned warehouse. Prince Brightweather scrambled to clean up the golden sparkles now littering the table below Fairheart’s wandtip. The rest of the Dons watched in horrified silence; they knew that this was the first time a wand had been used at a Dons’ Meeting since 1963, and no one could forget the struggle that followed that incident. A few more seconds of feeble wheezes and spasms and Goldenleaf fell silent, his mouth open and drooling like a starving dog. Bloody, vomit-soaked gumdrops and candy corn slid up from his throat and spilled down his chest to the floor, staining his imitation Armani along their way. Fairheart smiled at his handiwork, and let out a sadistic laugh before turning to his stunned colleagues.

“Looks just like his whore sister after Twinklefeet got through wit’ her, don’t he, fellas?” the King asked, expecting laughs. He got them; at this point, he would get what he wanted.

~ Solomon Klein

Solomon Klein was born in Naples to old-fashioned Italian parents. Before becoming a successful author, his life was never separable from that of the Mafia. Angel Dust, a semi-autobiographical telling of his experiences as a young driver for his mobster cousin, is his fifth novel to date. It will be released February 28, and a book signing is scheduled for that day at the Euclid Ave. Barnes and Noble.

Vick Lancer.

Three basic principles determine awesome names. These are a) near-rhyming, b) famous people, and c) real words. Stay with me. Gregory Peck derives its awesomeness from A and C: “Greg” and “Peck” sort of rhyme, and “peck” is short for “pectoral muscle” which is like a boob but on a man. “Peck” is also the first part of “pecker” and is what birds do to eat. Also, he is a famous person himself, and as such automatically qualified for B, but because he already had two principles he donated principle B to an orphanage that was built on a cliff by a blind architect.

Erik the Red had a name that contained two real words, which in Scandinavian mythology meant that he was destined to be close to Newfoundland, but not actually live there. He is also named after anyone who has anything to do with the colour red, like Cincinnati Reds relief pitcher Edinson Volquez or the British, satisfying principle B. His name also contains a K rather than a C, placing it on the awesome end of the C-K spectrum. Unfortunately, he was also a Viking, which means in practice his name was pronounced with grunts and swishy sword noises.

How about Magnus ver Magnusson? You probably don’t know who he is. But if you heard it you would probably expect to be hurt shortly thereafter. Magnus employs principle A, because Magnus and the Magnus part of Magnusson rhyme, and principle C shows that he respects his father, whose sperm created him, because of the word “son.” And if you need any more proof that this man is worthy of his name, Magnus ver Magnusson is ESPN’s four-time World’s Strongest Man, which means that on a shelf in his garage there are four trophies that if laid end-to-end would be longer than your large and small intestines combined and heavier than the middle part of the sun.

Magnus shares the secondary principle of German prepositions with legendary name-haver Baron von Zeppelin, one of the few names to satisfy all three basic principles, along with most sexually mature animals. The “ron” part of his first name is pronounced similarly but not identically to the “Lin” part of his last name,, unless you’re Asian. His parents decided to name him after famous person the Michelin Man, who of course is a blimp with PSD or pug-like skin disorder, a crippling disease from which Baron himself suffered. Finally, as you know Baron von Zeppelin is an anagram for Venal Bone Zip Porn, which are all real words and is also my favourite kind of pornography.

These are some of history’s greatest names, scientized and formulugated. Remember, use this knowledge carefully, for with great kick-assery comes great responsibiliness.

~ Shlomo Klein