Fictionary Supplement: Part 2 - Vagabonds and Miscreants

Nalph Raider
Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma to a long line of vagabonds and brigands, Nalph Raider knew from a young age that he had a mission to complete. His teen years were spent in angst and anomie as he felt isolated socially and ideologically from his "communitarian" and "schoolist" peers. But upon reading Atlas Shrugged—after which he cut out the insert "about the author" photo of Ayn Rand and has kept it in his wallet since—Nalph's anarcho-capitalist views finally solidified.

Nalph then went out into the world—by which he meant the continental United States—to do battle with federal regulation in every form, because it was inherently illegitimate. Nalph would break into cars and remove their airbags and seatbelts; on certain days he would even deflate their tires to a level not recommended by the Department of Transportation. Nalph would also chain himself to the entrances of fire stations, to temporarily prevent these socialized hellions from getting out to literally break into private property with axes. It was, however, when Nalph was discovered intercepting and shredding social security checks that the local (socialized) police force stepped in, fining him—i.e. taking his wealth by fiat for redistribution.

This was the last straw for Nalph, who decided it was finally time to "go Galt." He purchased a derelict barge which he positioned in the Gulf of Mexico in International Waters—out of reach from the oppressive socialist governments surrounding him. He remains there today, patiently awaiting the legions of productive people, who will inevitably leave behind the looters and moochers.

Jack Larva
The story of Jack Larva is a few minutes in the tellin'. He's seen a lot of strange stuff, to hear him tell it, and some of his roustabouts (especially from the early days, mind) are spotty and incoherent, and ought to be taken with a pinch of salt and vinegar, both of which he is purported to keep in handy supply in his front jacket pocket. Larva was born in a brick oven in the tenement which his immigrant parents shared with their neighbors and friends. His earliest memories, Jack has said, are of the aromas of matzo ball soup and pesto basil wafting through the cracks in the wooden cupboard that was to become his bedroom. For fun, he used to kick the family mutt until he got tired. His father would laugh and laugh.

From his rough-and-tumble beginnings, young Larva developed a charisma as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge, and he seemed destined for the stars! Rumor has it, he could charm the pants off a goat! Jacky spent a peculiarly long amount of time exploring this talent before he realized it could not be used to make money. Locked out one afternoon by his parents, the boy decided to go off and make his fortune. But he was in a pinch, and need cash - and quick! He did everything - scourin', scrubbin', sashayin' - you name it - but always with a smile on his face. His sporting demeanor was further propped up by his chums - a ragtag crew of miscreants who called themselves the Gentleman Jims whose main interests included but were not limited to fresh fish, yelling at immigrants, and dames (broads).

Jack Larva discovered his talent for shadow-puppetry by happenstance. One dusky, grimy Thursday morn, whilst the boy was amusing a crow with his offensive hand gestures, taught to him by enthusiastic (some would say a little too-enthusiastic) merchant marines on holiday, he managed to catch the attention of a local fishmonger. Needless to say, the vendor was ill-amused; having smoked his last mackerel this morning, his mood had run understandably afoul. As the hilarious and brilliant shadows danced against the lattice and brick of the alleyway, Jack realized his place, his niche- his piece of the American pie lay within this dreamy two-dimensional world of wonder. His epiphany was short-lived, however, as he failed to sense the impending approach of the monger from behind, until it was too late. A scaly mass of paper and ink and scales welted his noggin, and left him seeing stars. Stars like Humphrey Bogart! Who gave him the encouragement he needed to finally make the push to Vaudeville, where he prospered and amazed hundreds! Also, Greta Garbo.

Qui-Nine Gin
Discovered at a young age due to his high Midichlorian count by his pediatrician on Dantooine, Qui-Nine Gin was quickly sought out by Jedi recruiters. Enrolled at the Jedi Academy on Coruscant, Qui-Nine was studious and respectful to his elders, if a bit quiet and awkward. As the Jedi are very strict housemasters, and as he was not especially skilled at sneaking about, Qui-Nine rarely made it out into the bustling planet-wide ecumenopolis that is Coruscant. Receiving acceptable marks in Force-sensitivity and below average on lightsaber fencing, Qui-Nine was set to graduate as a Jedi Knight in 65 BBY. His peers pressured him into hitting the Entertainment District of Coruscant to celebrate, where Qui-Nine discovered the “Djinn & Tonique,” a drink with far greater potency than his normal evening glass of blue milk. Stumbling to his graduation ceremony while still quite inebriated, Qui-Nine was expelled from the Jedi Order before even officially joining it after using the Force to lift the Dean of Students’ robe while he was speaking to the audience in a ceremony being broadcast galaxy-wide.

In response, Qui-Nine decided to embrace his destiny and embarked upon a two-week bender that has lasted the better part of three years. Qui-Nine is found most frequently at O’Twi’lek’s Pub, where he amuses the patrons with his Jedi powers. He believes rather strongly that his tab only exists due to his skill with the Jedi mind trick (“You will put this on my tab.” “Ok, sure thing, Mr. Gin!”), though he has irked some bartenders by attempting to levitate liquor bottles behind their backs, only for them to shatter on the ground.

One day, in O’Twi’lek’s Pub Qui-Nine was visited by a mysterious shrouded man. He sat down next to Qui-Nine and provided a sympathetic ear to hear Qui-Nine’s life story. Patiently listening while rubbing his palms together in a manner that would be disturbing to the attentive, the cloaked man told Qui-Nine, “The Jedi have mistreated you, my young apprentice. The Dark Side of the Force has no such prohibitive notions. Join me, and you shall be able to both drink and get your revenge on the Jedi!” Qui-Nine seemed to contemplate this for a moment, but then his eyes glazed over and he mumbled something about a lack of pickled eggs at the bar. Taken aback, the now-revealed Sith Lord muttered, “The Force is strong with this one…” To which Qui-Nine replied, “Nah, the Force is strong with this one,” pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a deep swig. Several other bar patrons nodded approvingly, and the Sith were once again humiliatingly defeated.

The Bushwick Yeti
Infused with the power of seven lesser apes, the loathsome beast known simply as the Bushwick Yeti derives its pleasure from small bloody triumphs and public feats of strength. His mane, a woolly white, covers his powerful frame from head to toe, exposing little skin to liken him to his prey. Rumor has it, he nests within an abandoned water-tower. Others are convinced his true home s farther north - the snowy badlands of Ridgewood and Glendale, barely inhabited wilderness into which few brave explorers have ever dared to venture. No matter his home, his nomadic ways and unique camouflaging abilities strike fear into the plaid-wearing pink-skins he hunts. For you see, many years ago, the Bushwick Yeti lived in a remote lumber hamlet named Hibernia in the Northwest Territories, far from his new land. His kind were as prosperous as they were ferocious, and over years, they learned to become skilled hunters of the Flannels who lived in the indoors places. But alas, the Yeti tribe of the North grew fat and lazy, and soon there were no more flannels to hunt! Food becoming scarce, one impetuous young Yeti named Mike left his home in search for prey abroad. In the far south, and to the east and west, legends said, there were massive unexplored quarries of Flannel awaiting meat harvest. Mike knew his destiny lay in the wicks of the Bush, and so undertook the perilous trek alone, as others were too lazy to accompany him.

The locals began to surmise something awry after the first major snowstorm of 2009. As the pattern moved north, residents realized the breakup-via-disappearance of local art-rock collective, The Film Crickets. They were never found, causing their unreleased tape, "At Least I'm Not You" to spiral into legend among the clinically depressed. Then, as the snow melted, bloody strips of red, other red, and green would appear, strewn about in seemingly violent fashion. Panic imminent, the local authorities suggested that the missing youths (by then, the count was above fifty), "I dunno, moved back ta California or some shit. Yeah, moved. What can I say? New York, it's a tough place! You ask me, maybe dey shouldna come in here in the first place. I mean, New York, ehh, always been more of a denim town, y'know?"

Special thanks to Associate Editor LK Shov for the tales of Jack Larva and the Bushwick Yeti!


Dog Handjob

So, a good friend of the Volidity Report, Squid Brains, created an exquibulary flyer for a fake show featuring fake bands at a real venue! Going to show that fake bands can also have real songs, the Volidity Report is proud to present the first single for the NYC-based "goo-beat" band Dog Handjob, entitled "Dog Handjob":