A thought I had. I'm not sure how far it's going to go.
------------------------------------------------------
When I found the bus at the junk auction, I knew I'd found a vehicle for the handwavium.
The 'wavium came into my possession much like any controlled substance did, by chance and circumstance. A friend had some, was going to make a flying car, and was feeling generous. He gifted me a small amount, which I then stashed in a paint can in the garage. I was going to use it; I just didn't know how.
Frankly, I felt that some of the fen were going off half-cocked. Watching the news and the security theater that the American government was cooking up over handwavium just made me shake my head, and talking to the fen that were planning to take off for the Great Beyond sounded like reinventing the wheel 600 times over, so I bided my time and waited to see what happened. And then the Professor went off his nut in Paris, and the Really Real World slammed the lid. The 'wavium in my garage suddenly got a lot more dangerous to own. I wasn't about to get rid of it, though; there were too many traps in simply turning it over, and flushing it down the toilet would have done God knows what to the local sewer systems.
So it sat, patiently, in my garage. And then, one day, I saw an old bus sitting in preparation for a junk auction. It wasn't too old, maybe 30 years or so, and in the flat-nosed style that Greyhound had made so well known. It still ran (poorly), and it was decked out for personal residence; I think it had been somebody's tour bus, once upon a time. I saw it and didn't think much of it, but sitting next to it was an old Ford truck, with a camper shell. Which, by itself wasn't that remarkable, and I didn't think anything of it until I got home and saw the can of 'wavium.
Archimedes was sitting the bathtub when he had his moment. I, at least, had my pants on.
The bus wasn't cheap, but it wasn't that expensive either. I bought it for a paltry amount, and managed to get it home. The guys thought I was crazy, but they were all for it, if it meant I would share the glory of a flying bus. None of them really liked their jobs anyway. We reupholstered the seats that we didn't tear out, added some equipment from an old RV, jammed in a wi-fi and router and an extra generator next to the bathroom, and installed a satellite radio system. New tires, new parts for the engine, and new windows. In the end, it took about six months of saving and eating a lot of mac and cheese, but we had a working bus. It was time to finish the project.
We drove the bus out to my family's land in the middle of nowhere for the final steps. I was worried about the 'wavium, but the can seemed to have enough in it to coat the exterior. And then Wendy suggested we coat the inside as well. I figured, "what the hell?" and gave it a good varnishing. I capped the can, and we crashed out for the night, waiting to see what would happen.
I can honestly say I wasn't expecting the boxy, black vehicle that stood there the next morning. The mural of the stampeding yellow mustangs along the side was what I was hoping for, though. The back end of the bus had widened, and where Gary had slapped on a set of fins ("To dissapate the heat!" he had jokingly insisted), there was what could only be an engine of some sort. A massive blister of Plexiglas protected a collection of antennae, of which I only recognized two. But the biggest surprises were inside.
Wendy was the most noticeable. She'd slipped inside during the night, after we'd gone to sleep. I suspect she'd been hoping for the transgender - the hormones were slow and she certainly couldn't afford the surgery, and psychologically Warren had been Wendy for a number of years now. She looked good, positively jubilant. We didn't find out about the ratgirl part of it until later.
As for the bus, it looked much more impressive than I had hoped. The second level was as I had hoped, with a bank of computers, televisions, and other communications equipment, all updated to the 21st Century. The kitchenette had popped into being around the bar fridge and the camp stove, encapsulating the generator. I hadn't counted on the brushed steel cabinets, but they looked good. The small set of bunks still took up the back half of the lower compartment, and the 'wavium had taken the liberty of converting the privacy curtain to a wall with a door, and incorporated the camp shower into the actual bathroom. Each bunk, formerly a table with a sleeping bag, was now a full, curtained bunkbed, like in a Pullman sleeping car, sleeping eight. Behind the communication center on the second level was a small room, with a smooth floor and walls lined with polished pine. A futon was rolled up in the closet.
Looking at the driver's seat made it clear that moving the bus was going to be difficult. We probably could drive it on the road, but I had no idea how I was going to get it off the ground. As I sat in the driver's chair, confessing that I had no idea how I was going to learn to fly the thing without crashing it, J. said, in a good-natured, mocking tone, "Nice going, Blackstone. Only you would create a vehicle without any idea of how to fly it."
My retort died on my lips as we heard the Voice. "Don't be mean. We don't have to be mean."
The laptop mounted next to the dashboard flickered to life, and we saw his face. He didn't look exactly like Peter Weller, but we could see the resemblance. He smiled, and said, "Howdy, partners. You ready to get this show on the road?"
When Buckaroo Banzai asks a question like that, there's only one answer. We had the bus packed in six minute flat, and in 10, the bus lifted off the ground under my nervous control (with Buckaroo's tutelage), and we headed for orbit.
That was 18 months ago. We grabbed the old Ford truck as quick as we could, and found us a turbine engine that nobody was using. We're still working on the overthruster, but Buckaroo's a patient teacher. It seems that he's managed to download everything from a number of archives, including the Library of Congress. Not legal, I know, but he just made copies, and he didn't touch anything else. Or so he says. I believe him. For now, though, the Jet Car has a nice docking clamp up top, behind the sensor bubble, and it makes for a pretty decent shuttle. As for the bus, only one name was appropriate. You should have heard the first Pulpers we hailed when we identified ourselves as World Watch One.
Buckaroo keeps us in shape. There's not a lot to do in space between destinations, and he has a good sense of what we need to do to make our minds sharper and our bodies fitter. We got a few others in on it, and the round table is full of discussions on how to make the Solar System better. I can't say the Boskonians are real, since we haven't seen any yet, but we're helping people help themselves and protecting them from the petty evils of the System, both Mundane and Fen. We've even managed to become a pretty decent little thinktank, and several patents on non-handwaved tech are starting to pay off. In the meantime, I think we're doing some good.
We got the blazers last month. We even got Earl Mac Rauch's blessing, after he and Mr. Richter had a conversation with Buckaroo over the go phone. We're not the Cavaliers, not yet at least. We will be soon, or so Buckaroo assures us. That would be great, but I'm just happy to be helping people.
We're the crew of World Watch One, better known as the Blue Blazer Irregulars. We help, because we can. And as the Boss says, "No matter where you go, there you are."Ebony the Black Dragon
Senior Editor, Living Room Games
http://www.lrgames.com
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."
------------------------------------------------------
When I found the bus at the junk auction, I knew I'd found a vehicle for the handwavium.
The 'wavium came into my possession much like any controlled substance did, by chance and circumstance. A friend had some, was going to make a flying car, and was feeling generous. He gifted me a small amount, which I then stashed in a paint can in the garage. I was going to use it; I just didn't know how.
Frankly, I felt that some of the fen were going off half-cocked. Watching the news and the security theater that the American government was cooking up over handwavium just made me shake my head, and talking to the fen that were planning to take off for the Great Beyond sounded like reinventing the wheel 600 times over, so I bided my time and waited to see what happened. And then the Professor went off his nut in Paris, and the Really Real World slammed the lid. The 'wavium in my garage suddenly got a lot more dangerous to own. I wasn't about to get rid of it, though; there were too many traps in simply turning it over, and flushing it down the toilet would have done God knows what to the local sewer systems.
So it sat, patiently, in my garage. And then, one day, I saw an old bus sitting in preparation for a junk auction. It wasn't too old, maybe 30 years or so, and in the flat-nosed style that Greyhound had made so well known. It still ran (poorly), and it was decked out for personal residence; I think it had been somebody's tour bus, once upon a time. I saw it and didn't think much of it, but sitting next to it was an old Ford truck, with a camper shell. Which, by itself wasn't that remarkable, and I didn't think anything of it until I got home and saw the can of 'wavium.
Archimedes was sitting the bathtub when he had his moment. I, at least, had my pants on.
The bus wasn't cheap, but it wasn't that expensive either. I bought it for a paltry amount, and managed to get it home. The guys thought I was crazy, but they were all for it, if it meant I would share the glory of a flying bus. None of them really liked their jobs anyway. We reupholstered the seats that we didn't tear out, added some equipment from an old RV, jammed in a wi-fi and router and an extra generator next to the bathroom, and installed a satellite radio system. New tires, new parts for the engine, and new windows. In the end, it took about six months of saving and eating a lot of mac and cheese, but we had a working bus. It was time to finish the project.
We drove the bus out to my family's land in the middle of nowhere for the final steps. I was worried about the 'wavium, but the can seemed to have enough in it to coat the exterior. And then Wendy suggested we coat the inside as well. I figured, "what the hell?" and gave it a good varnishing. I capped the can, and we crashed out for the night, waiting to see what would happen.
I can honestly say I wasn't expecting the boxy, black vehicle that stood there the next morning. The mural of the stampeding yellow mustangs along the side was what I was hoping for, though. The back end of the bus had widened, and where Gary had slapped on a set of fins ("To dissapate the heat!" he had jokingly insisted), there was what could only be an engine of some sort. A massive blister of Plexiglas protected a collection of antennae, of which I only recognized two. But the biggest surprises were inside.
Wendy was the most noticeable. She'd slipped inside during the night, after we'd gone to sleep. I suspect she'd been hoping for the transgender - the hormones were slow and she certainly couldn't afford the surgery, and psychologically Warren had been Wendy for a number of years now. She looked good, positively jubilant. We didn't find out about the ratgirl part of it until later.
As for the bus, it looked much more impressive than I had hoped. The second level was as I had hoped, with a bank of computers, televisions, and other communications equipment, all updated to the 21st Century. The kitchenette had popped into being around the bar fridge and the camp stove, encapsulating the generator. I hadn't counted on the brushed steel cabinets, but they looked good. The small set of bunks still took up the back half of the lower compartment, and the 'wavium had taken the liberty of converting the privacy curtain to a wall with a door, and incorporated the camp shower into the actual bathroom. Each bunk, formerly a table with a sleeping bag, was now a full, curtained bunkbed, like in a Pullman sleeping car, sleeping eight. Behind the communication center on the second level was a small room, with a smooth floor and walls lined with polished pine. A futon was rolled up in the closet.
Looking at the driver's seat made it clear that moving the bus was going to be difficult. We probably could drive it on the road, but I had no idea how I was going to get it off the ground. As I sat in the driver's chair, confessing that I had no idea how I was going to learn to fly the thing without crashing it, J. said, in a good-natured, mocking tone, "Nice going, Blackstone. Only you would create a vehicle without any idea of how to fly it."
My retort died on my lips as we heard the Voice. "Don't be mean. We don't have to be mean."
The laptop mounted next to the dashboard flickered to life, and we saw his face. He didn't look exactly like Peter Weller, but we could see the resemblance. He smiled, and said, "Howdy, partners. You ready to get this show on the road?"
When Buckaroo Banzai asks a question like that, there's only one answer. We had the bus packed in six minute flat, and in 10, the bus lifted off the ground under my nervous control (with Buckaroo's tutelage), and we headed for orbit.
That was 18 months ago. We grabbed the old Ford truck as quick as we could, and found us a turbine engine that nobody was using. We're still working on the overthruster, but Buckaroo's a patient teacher. It seems that he's managed to download everything from a number of archives, including the Library of Congress. Not legal, I know, but he just made copies, and he didn't touch anything else. Or so he says. I believe him. For now, though, the Jet Car has a nice docking clamp up top, behind the sensor bubble, and it makes for a pretty decent shuttle. As for the bus, only one name was appropriate. You should have heard the first Pulpers we hailed when we identified ourselves as World Watch One.
Buckaroo keeps us in shape. There's not a lot to do in space between destinations, and he has a good sense of what we need to do to make our minds sharper and our bodies fitter. We got a few others in on it, and the round table is full of discussions on how to make the Solar System better. I can't say the Boskonians are real, since we haven't seen any yet, but we're helping people help themselves and protecting them from the petty evils of the System, both Mundane and Fen. We've even managed to become a pretty decent little thinktank, and several patents on non-handwaved tech are starting to pay off. In the meantime, I think we're doing some good.
We got the blazers last month. We even got Earl Mac Rauch's blessing, after he and Mr. Richter had a conversation with Buckaroo over the go phone. We're not the Cavaliers, not yet at least. We will be soon, or so Buckaroo assures us. That would be great, but I'm just happy to be helping people.
We're the crew of World Watch One, better known as the Blue Blazer Irregulars. We help, because we can. And as the Boss says, "No matter where you go, there you are."Ebony the Black Dragon
Senior Editor, Living Room Games
http://www.lrgames.com
Ebony the Black Dragon
http://ebony14.livejournal.com
"Good night, and may the Good Lord take a Viking to you."