 |
WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate May 2000 |
|
WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate May 2000 |
 |
INSIDE SCOOP |
|
THE TRIALS OF A PO: PART I (Note on titles: I contribute my own title list in the vein of Bizcarp, forever Queen of FedChron titles... perhaps use that to add to your already expansive collection? I start at the bottom of the ladder, however, with a mere five titles. Biding my time though, it will surely build!) Alright, I admit it, I'm lazy. I procrastinate, too. Just about every FedChron article so far has been written Friday evening or at the very latest (and that pushes the envelope for getting it in on time) Saturday morning. Seeing as I don't have time Saturday morning to write this, I must forego sleep for my duty to the public as a journalist (read: the one person who might actually care out there). Since I wish so much to be in the arms of Morpheus, I have used the oldest trick in the book: make this into multiple parts. But at least I'm honest! Now, I get to recount to my (un)adoring public why for those like me being a PO is an exercise in futility. It is an endless cycle of losing money that was there minutes ago and wondering if perhaps the Galactic Administration had you on their blacklist when they approved your planet. Then there is the horror of trying to actual design a planet and the "times that try men's souls" as you work on ironing out every little typo, bug, and bad pathing problem. Of course, you have to get a planet first! I honestly never thought I would make Explorer. The daunting task of maxing out one's stats with only a company to make you profit intimidated me. My clothes, however, strangely garnered for me a substantial sum of money. Perhaps not so strangely if you knew what they were - I don't like giving out my trade secrets (note from Gavin's brain; the part that actual knows what's really going on but is stifled by all the other, more eccentric parts: he has no trade secrets, he doesn't make any money, remember?), but my email address is included at the bottom if you have to know. Fortunately, Ferreri, being the wonderful person that she is (ignore the fact that I only met her once), graciously donated enough money to fund me in my endeavors with no prior urging or begging. So I happily went off, leaving completed SOL stats puzzles in my wake, and became an Explorer. Ho-hum. What to do now? Oh, right... <ranks> tells me I need to online my planet. That is something to do, isn't it? That process scared me alright. It just seemed like so many things could go wrong. Before I even attempted the link construction, however, I decided to be a stubborn Explorer and actually have most, if not all, of my planet done in Genesis first. Writing, clicking circles, glaring when I accidentally closed the text box with too many characters and had to go into a .txt file to fix it, all that became part of my daily regime. Somehow I managed to finish my planet in Genesis, though. With the design aspect taken care of, I soon learned of something to plague me later on in my PO career, however: buying goods you never got to sell. Even if someone describes their planet as non-existent or the size of a pinhead, it still takes thousands of tons of some strange element to make the planet. Though I do remember games being a part of <di info link> and that one confuses me. I hired people to build my link with materials I gave them, not to sit around and play games! Or is that one single robot uses all the materials to build my link in an hour, while the "supervisors" sit around and play games? We'll never know! Eventually, I manage to cram all those goods into a Titan warehouse and elsewhere, scrape up enough cash to order the planet, and then get detained because I don't have a Planet Owners' License. Fortunately, an old <cough> friend <cough> of mine was able to supply me with one and I continued to contribute to bureaucratic corruption, always something to be proud of. Finally, I proudly flashed my PO License to Slarti and ordered a water mini. At this point came the hour of percentages. Either Preach or Djkat (I'm really sorry I forget here... all you Dukes just blend into one person to me) became my percentage wall and let me scream 35%, 55%, 67%, etc, at seemingly random intervals. I did seem to have one that was shorter than an hour. Must've been the "supervisors" with their "motivational skills." Finally, I made sure to sell every humanly possible thing I could. Factories, bays, warehouses, anything to throw some cash into my company balance before the Big One came. Scrounging up every last groat, I slowly, ever so slowly typed in online. Next, came the letters, one at a time. M - Y - T - H - O - S - E (note about that: after I mentioned the name Mythos in 'It's Good to be Back,' my first FedChron article, someone, out of spite most likely, made a commander named Mythos, so I eventually decided on Mythose). Then the proofreading of 13 letters. It says online, right? That's with one 'n,' ok, good... Mythose is correct. No 'I's and everything is perfect. I acted like I was at a second-grade reading level the way I went over those two words so slowly. I literally grabbed one hand, extended my forefinger, and held it on the 'enter' key to make sure I didn't slip and hit another letter by accident. What's near 'enter?' 'P' and 'L.' Which sounds good, because they though of Mythosep or Mythosel doesn't appeal to me. Taking a deep breath, I take the plunge, and hit 'enter.' "Mythose is number 1 in the queue. Please be patient, this might take a few minutes." That's alright, I can wait a few minutes. A few minutes later: WHAT?!?! Why does the queue have to be so SLOW?! Stop making me WAIT!! Finally, the Imperial Herald (I loath him for what he got me into) proclaimed me Squire of Mythose. And there was much rejoicing. If only I knew the horror to come. Next week in the FedChron, Part II! (Unless somehow in the next week I die in a fluke incident - heart attack, car wreck, brutal murder due to a hate crime against bad journalists that desperately want to sleep. Actually, don't rule out number 3 if you don't see me for the next week...) If you think Gavin is a lazy, good-for-nothing, sleep-zombie that just wants to relax on a nice fluffy pillow and is mad because he's as this very second retyping this part of the article because WordPerfect decided to crash and only save part of the article, you are probably right. If you have any comments, however, e-mail me at Gavin_of_Mythose@yahoo.com.
THE
TRIALS OF A PO: PART II Foreword: I just read over last week’s part of this article mostly out of boredom and the need for something to further postpone the writing of this week’s part and I apologize profusely for all the grammatical errors (as a result of typos, not that I have no grammar skills)… I can blame it on lack of sleep! I would also like to extend thanks to Dread, Squire of Syphon for hosting a party that further occupied my time and Zman, whose wonderful Federation Phrase Game is a great time eater when you wish not to work. Obligatory recap for those who didn’t read last week: <See title>, and Part I dealt with leading up to all this by buying a planet. Finally, I received my planet on March 17, 2000. It’s been over two months now since that hell began. Everything started with that fateful original exchange. That fateful original exchange is still with me, by the way. It has never ceased its constant mocking of me since the first day. Laughing in my face as I make gains for no reason at all and then lose them plus extra for reasons less understood than the reasonless. The first step was to "walk the exchange up." I still don’t think I completely understand why I didn’t just set the stockpiles to wherever they needed to be in the first place and have done with it. I believe my inquiries prompted a response that it could cost me some cash. Everything else already does, though, so why not add that to the list? I was very excited about the prospect of planet design, however, so before I could finish the walking up the exchange process, I headed into the workbench with Genesis in hand and began the long upload. This was to be the first of many. I managed to finish walking up the exchange a couple days later and began the week of my secret lover: the workbench. I spent hours with it everyday. From when I first discovered that you must have an extra space between paragraphs in Genesis for them to look correct to the concept that Genesis doesn’t translate literally to the workbench and many things come out distorted, I learned much that week. There were daily uploads with Genesis for almost a week. She, err, I mean it, truly was my lover. We even had our first fight when I spent ten minutes trying to re-write a single location. So began the drudgery of POdom. Hauling out excess. Hauling out excess. Hauling out excess. Being told to fill defs, instead hauling out excess. I was so naive then. I actually thought I was making some sort of measurable progress. Of course not. My exchange was more volatile at that time than the Nasdaq! If I even looked at my exchange the wrong way, everything would plummet. In an effort to curb these violent movements, then, I decided to enlist the service of some of our less-experienced Fedders: FO’s. Ahhh, to be on the high-end for once. I spent months of my life as an FO. It seemed strange, really, to finally employ somebody like that. It was a much deeper feeling than that involved with first offering jobs. Of course, it turned out, like all the other ideas, to be a bad one. Gone were the fun old days of hauling out excess. Instead, I had to keep track of the flood of lubs entering my exchange and everything became "haul out lubs." There was one problem though. I learned that nobody in the entire Universe has any use for lubs. No less than four duchies I would constantly check to see everyone selling lubs and no one buying them. To sell and take a loss was considered a good day; to sell and make a marginal profit was unheard of. Eventually, the FO (Jakecohen was his name) promoted, only to leave Fed without telling anybody. One embarrassing surprise during the FO ordeal, though, was that of the fact that when doing a DI of a planet, factories will only be listed if running. I did not know that, of course. I then found it very perplexing to see the facs gone one day and back the next. I nearly reported it as a bug to IB! Some kind soul eventually righted my confused mind, however, and I actually was angry that I wouldn’t get a chance to report a bug. At this point I feel the effects of fatigue overcoming me (again), so I will adjourn for now (again). Be glad, though, that I didn’t get in one of those fluke car accidents or heart attacks this week. I still wouldn’t discount a hate crime against bad journalists, however. Of course, all this could be a ploy to… well, let’s not spoil that yet! Final Word: All typos and grammatical errors are a direct result of sleep deprivation. The fact that no one ever even looked for them before sending this in, however, is a combination of sleep deprivation and laziness. To see the effects of those two powerful forces, email Gavin_of_Mythose@yahoo.com.
THE
TRIALS OF A PO: PART III Foreword: In a strange occurrence that usually coincides with such phenomena as Halley’s comet, UFO sightings, and Alsatian not soiling a fresh copy of the FedChron on Sunday morning, your diligent reporter Gavin has braved the horrors of the week and has intrepidly decided to write Part III (the final part… you can all breathe a sigh of relief now) of this series on a Thursday and then an early part of Friday before sleep has claimed his noble soul. This effectively concludes the Art of Not Making Money, and installment #3 has been fortunately brought to the Fedding public with a minimum of head injuries caused by dozing off when fatigued and leaning forward until my head comes into painful contact with the monitor. Obligatory recap for those who didn’t read last week: <See title>, and Part II dealt with the entangled mass of work that involves having little NewBods carve a niche (marked by profit loss, in my case) into your planet with their factories. Obligatory recap for those who didn’t read last week or the week before: <See title>, and that’s all I’m going to give you. Get off your lazy rear… or as the case may be, move your finger slightly to the left and go find the FedChron Archives. Having covered the topics of purchasing the mass of earth, metal, etc. one calls a planet, dealing with the preliminary exchange managing, and watching NewBods (mostly old players that quit during pay-to-play or at the fall of AOLFed) promote at a sickening speed that makes you want to hearken back to the olden days of cycles where a profit number just below promotion after twenty days meant doing the whole thing over again, I come to some very sound conclusions, as well as discuss my own personal way of handling POdom at this early stage. For those of you who want tips on how to make money, quit reading now. I suggest you try some more profound reading, perhaps Olias’s Scoundrel’s Corner? Wait… profound, Scoundrel’s Corner? Scratch that. Let me see... actually, if you want any form of in-depth analysis about Fed... you shouldn’t be reading the Chron really. First, I noticed some very interesting things after the hauling period of my PO career met an abrupt halt. When I learned how much of a waste hauling was, I finally decided to just enjoy Fed. Specifically, the social side. While I toured the various drinking establishments of the galaxy, traveled the galaxy for Fed events, enjoyed the company of my duchymates, tweaked all the little errors in Mythose (actually, that will never be done), and enjoyed the company of the most beautiful Ishtar (the Babylonian goddess of love, fertility, and war, and also, my Fed lover), <di Mythose> provided only a momentary distraction. Sure, it was fun to see if I was making money (or, in most cases, losing it), but there were more pressing matters to attend to, like pints of Diesel’s Old Peculiar! Sometime during this period, I was in a transition stage. I had accepted the fact that hauling will bring naught but misery, but it still feels good to have a build. Once during this time, Kewlcat, a friend of Catspaws, who is a friend of my duke, asked me how many builds I had. I replied with something along the lines of, "Take the days in the week minus 3 + 4." Then, Kewlcat, in an overt display of extreme generosity, handed me a jaw-dropping (to a poor just-Squire such as myself) sum of 400 megs, enough for a build. For once I managed to haul, and dragged the goods into my warehouse. I was a bit disheartened to see all those goods (and the money that paid for them) seemingly disappear, but supposedly a build will make your planet run better. Yeah right. For all of maybe a week. After waiting the usual hour, I returned to my lounging in the various bars of the galaxy lifestyle, and for the next week, I was surprised to see my exchange rise 10 megs everyday. Finally, things were going my way! Why, I was making so much cash I even hauled once or twice. I had started after the build with 150 megs in my treasury, and at its peak my treasury was at about 230 megs. Then, I honestly don’t know what got into me (perhaps too many pints of Diesel’s Old Peculiar, which I had since grown a taste for). I actually allowed factories on my planet again. I thought I was doing something good to help a NewBod. Nope, not a chance. That 230 megs steadily plummeted until I was constantly below the 150 I started with. Strangely, however, the FO has not been online (to my knowledge) for a couple weeks now. I have learned however, something the Buddha once taught, to seek the middle way. While his middle way perhaps does not coincide with mine (I believe his didn’t involve frequenting bars and pubs across the universe), I have shed the burdens of actually caring about my groats. As long as I have enough to afford a pint of the local brew, I’m just fine. Sure, I still check my treasury, but I don’t stress out when I see (at this very moment) the treasury balance at 62,532,080 IG. Finally, I would like to comment quickly on something I call the Danny theory, perhaps one of the most intelligent concepts I’ve heard of in quite awhile. It’s quite simple really. Never leave CDs. As long as the drinks keeps coming and the conversation stays fresh, why ever leave? I don’t even think he’d get up out of his chair if the dogs Olias and Khajjika investigated for the last few weeks invaded CDs in an orgy of bathroom accidents, toilet water drinking, and crotch sniffing. He just recently did his second build without ever leaving the comfortable confines of Chez Diesel. He won’t tell how either. That’s his second build, by the way, since he acquired Raptorian sometime on AOL! Brilliant! Danny also claims he has somewhere in the vicinity of 1.6 gigs in funds... without hauling. He explained it somewhat in terms I didn’t understand (things involving stockpile and such... words I’d rather tune out in the hopes of something involving alcoholic beverages). Perhaps if he has a few too many drinks I can learn his secret in layman’s terms. So, for the enterprising young Squire looking to make a fast move to Thane (where I hear you actually make money)… you are asking the guy who thinks the only hauling he should ever do is that of hauling a case of ale from the bar over to his table. For the enterprising young Squire who wishes to take advantage of the various social aspects of Fed (namely, drinking), I have but one piece of advice for you: read the other two installments of this article to see what a pain all this planet business is, then go sit yourself down in the nearest pub, and get yourself rip-roaring drunk. Oh, and don’t ever, ever haul unless someone gives you the money for a build. If you wish to commend Gavin for the fact that he wrote this before sleep claimed his vacant soul... you spoke too soon. For this last sixth of the article or so was written at 11 pm on Friday night. But at least he began on Thursday, and that’s always a start. So go ahead and give Gavin a hearty congratulations for beginning to break the habit of severe deadline procrastination and then, give him a slap in the face for wasting a perfectly good weekday doing work of any sort.
To all those who responded to my comment that Delos was the only planet in the queue, I thank you. There's enough work to keep me busy for a couple of dog years, well, at the rate I work. To all those who responded to my comments concerning how a Senator's life is rather slow and dull, stay out of my way lest I bite your posterior. Your well-intentioned suggestions to Hazed have made my life miserable. Now I have Other Responsibilities, most of them involving Great Paperwork. I thought paperwork was what Master put on the kitchen floor when he couldn't get home during the day to let me out. So when Hazed told me that my life was too sedate because I wasn't turning in enough Paperwork, I promptly grabbed a copy of the last issue of the Fed news, did my thing on it, and submitted it proudly for her inspection. She was not pleased. She broke out in those cute little blue spots again and snapped her fingers at the Cleaner. The droid scooped up my rejected offering and whapped me on the muzzle with it as she lectured on what was expected of me from now on. I still see no difference between Paperwork and what I previously did on the paper. Anyway, as a Senator I have to miss a great many naps in the pursuit of Great Paperwork. As always, there is a weekly planet review to be typed and approved. Er… most weeks. Unless I cover them with enough chocolate that the demi-goddess eats them for a snack and I can use the Owner Ate My Homework excuse. Every week I am supposed to draft Important Bills and submit them to the No1 Court for approval. Since no one is ever there, I usually snatch the official stamp and approve them all. When I became a Senator, the demi-goddess told me one of the perks of the job was that the Galactic Management would always pay for my insurance and cloning cost. Well, what she forgot to tell me was that every time I died I'd have to fill out another six page triplicate form stating things like exactly how I died, where I was, what I was doing, and why the bureaucracy should clone anyone stupid enough to die in that manner. Fortunately I've become so adept at this form that I can fill it out, submit it, and get cloned and reinsured in the blink of an eye. The form for reimbursement for clothing, though… well, after the first couple of attempts to wade through that mire I decided to just buy them myself. Speaking of money, I have none. Check this out: >sc >buy spybeam >spynet report Fang >give Fang 1 >order >buy round single measly
crusty edge of a dog biscuit Did you spot the anomaly in the score? I have no wallet. No funds. That means more Paperwork every time I want a bowl of water or a crust of bread. Every groat I spend for a ship, every penny I toss away on a pizza, has to be approved by Galactic Management, reviewed by every deity in Fed, laughed at by all the staff members, requested in triplicate… well, you get the picture. Uh oh. That also means I can't buy my own clothes! >act once again heads for the cramped storeroom in the office block. Glancing around to see if anyone is looking, he positions himself next to the shelves full of forms, all in triplicate of course. He smiles, marks some territory, and sneaks off to Delos.
THERE'S
ALWAYS A DETAIL Okay, perhaps I overlooked a minor detail in last week's article. There's always a detail. However, that detail has brought to my doorstep a rather large pile of rather cranky letters, many of which involve plans of pain for my personal personage. These letters came from the people who tried to use my recipe. Folks, you should have learned this in Commander Academy: You can't pick a zlitherworm up with your hands! Besides being a very painful experience, it is invariably fatal. If you're not insured, well, natural selection still does work. However, I am a firm believer in giving everybody a fair whack in life, so I'm going to fix the little detail I left out and give you all a lesson in... Zlitherworm Fishing Actually, it's not fishing. It's just called that. And before you yell at me again, I didn't name it. Well, technically I did. I think I did, anyway. But I digress. Catching a zlitherworm is a simple procedure, about the same as juggling contact grenades. The thing to remember is the number of a good insurance agent. So, let's get started! What you'll need:
With the sticks and wire, fashion a small cage. Be sure to leave the bottom open, because you'll be dropping it on the unsuspecting worm. Suspend the cage with the cable. Your best bet is to loop it over a tree branch or, failing that, someone else's ship. By "someone else," I mean not yours and not mine. Of course, the worm won't just zip under the cage. They, like fish, know you're there to catch them, so they won't cooperate. (I can see all you veteran fishermen nodding out there.) So, you need to find some bait. If you can find someone who isn't too bright, they'll do fine. Just ask them to stand under the cage and try to strike up a conversation with the worm. However, I don't know anybody that self destructive, so you'll probably have to make do with a copy of the Merchant of Venice, by Shakespeare. Being an outstanding literary work, the worms will strike this lure again and again. I'll bet you didn't know zlitherworms loved fine reading, did you? The next step should be fairly easy to figure out... so I'll skip it. Okay, you've caught a worm! I know what you're thinking: now what? Well, you hit it with the club, of course! You brought two in case one of them breaks. The last thing you want is an injured (and subsequently angry) zlitherworm around. After the beast is dead - or at least very subdued - you can remove it from the cage with the aid of armored gloves and follow the recipe. Simple as that. So now you know. At least now we won't have to subsist on pizza and Mystery Meal for everything we eat. And if you enjoy the zlitherworm, that's great. However you won't catch me eating that. It's too much work. I prefer a simpler, and believe it or not, just as tasty fare. Starship parts and sauce. Yum. Well, folks, by now we all know the drill. If you need to tell me something, write, talk, dance, sing, or whatever you prefer at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com and let me hear it!
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: THE COMPLETE SCOUNDREL'S GUIDE TO FEDERATION If you are NOT Wolfyn, Duchess of Caddo, or any of her alts, this guide is by Olias, Baron of Emancipation, Emissary to Foojaloo-II, Tuba Virtuoso, Scoundrel, Holder of the Sacred Super-Poofy Extra-Wide Fuzzy Ball for Journalistic Mediocrity. If you ARE Wolfyn, Duchess of Caddo, or any of her alts, this guide is by... uh... Duke Ryno.
You want some advice on how to get started. Brother, have you come to the right place. The first thing you need to do is read the Quickstart Guide to Federation, located http://www.ibgames.net/federation/fedinfo/fedquick.html. This represents the first and last time you will need any familiarity with the rules whatsoever. The second thing you will need to do is download both the Newbod's and Advanced Guides to Federation. Upon completion of download, print up hard copies of both manuals. Having done so, find a window. Open it. Chuck both manuals out the open window. This is a necessary duty, a coming of age ritual that will prove your devotion to... uh... scoundrelness. Now then, the very first thing you need to do after your first login is to find the Starship Cantina, possibly the single most important location in the game. Head east, then southwest from the location where you were spewed forth into DataSpace. Shortly after your arrival to the Starship Cantina, at least 47 people will show up there as well. These folks will be seething with curiosity as to whether you are a Genuine New Player or just some stinking alt. Rather than answer this burning question, type in the following: BUY ROUND <enter> (Okay, it will cost more than 10ig. But why screw up a snazzy title for a technicality?) Now, the horde of people in the cantina will be clawing over each out to try to Help You Out. Do they do this because they are kind, generous people, who have a moral compunction to assist a new player? Of course not! This is Federation! They are doing this because they like to feel important, like old battle-scarred veterans. They love nothing better than to assert their seniority by playing the Wise Mentor type figure. Now don't get me wrong, my young apprentice. I'm not saying they're bad people. Maybe just a bit goofy. Good or bad, however you may feel about them, you – in the true scoundrel spirit – are going to use them like disposable diapers. The first thing you need to do is establish a support base. To do this, you need to change them from friendly to awe-inspired. This turning-of-the-tables will be accomplished by waiting until one of them asks you who you are. Say the following: >say Actually, I am a returning player. I used to play Federation when it started on AOL. I remember paying $5,000 dollar AOL bills back then. Now please, greenie, try to type it like that. Nothing is going to peg you as a 12-year old kid on mom's computer and totally botch my grand scheme quicker than: >say me is a returning player me use ta play da Fed on da aol. Member payin da $5,000 aol bills back den :p Got it? Good. At this announcement, at least half of them - disappointed that you go back further than they do – will politely excuse themselves and leave. The remaining half are going to be skeptical and want proof. "I played back then, too," they will say. "What was your name back then? Hmm?" Don't panic, greenhorn. Uncle Olias has it all planned out. Speak the following: "My name back then was XXXYYYY," where 'xxx' is any three letters, and 'yyyy' is any four numbers. This was AOL, remember. Something like Xqt2503 smacks of an AOL screen name, and should be enough to fool them. You will then push them from straining to remember to belief by doing the following. Single one of them out, someone that appears to be a person you would not mind having sex with. Say the following: >say Wolfyn? I seem to remember you. Didn't we meet at that (X) party that time? In this instance X is any sort of substance that can be rubbed, smeared or sprayed onto someone else's body and then licked off. Jello, pudding, whipped cream – hell, you could put 'carburetor cleaner' for that matter – and someone, somewhere will have had a party that involved licking that off the guests and will instantly remember your presence there – which, of course, it wasn't. This is it, kid. This is your moment. You have just become the Groundhog that Owns Federation. Now, before you can set about the joyous task of extorting these people's hard-earned money, you have an obstacle to overcome. This hurdle is your present rank – groundhog – a rank that restricts anyone from giving you groats. If 'groundhog' sounds to you like nothing so much as a bloated pig snuffling around in the dirt looking for truffles, you have a good grasp of this rank. Fear not, Uncle Olias will get you to the rank of Captain without a long trip through the carpal tunnel. But first- Awwww, look Hazed! Out your office window there! It's a family of bunnies! Awwwww. Okay, spud. Now that my editor is distracted, read fast. You need to say the following to your newly-devoted followers: >say Geeze, this Fedterm front-end sure is hard to read. Half of them will simply start blathering instructions about changing font types and colors in Fedterm, but the other half will tell you about a thing called zMUD. >say zMUD? What's that? At least one of them is going to pipe up proudly at this point, because they are accomplished at programming it and want everyone to complement them on their cleverness. This is exactly what you must do. Lay it on thick. After a few moments of unabashed praise, they will tell you: "Well, I even programmed a thing I call Alt Cougher v1.0. It's a fully automated module that bribes the official, obtains a ship for you, and takes your character hauling jobs in Sol. It can make you an adventurer in 20 minutes. Even has an AutoGrubber, so you don't starve to death." Butter this guy up until he sends you a version. Locate it in your mailbox and download it. You will receive one of three things. Alt Cougher, as promised, or A back-door password stealing credit card number obtaining thing that automatically buys one of everything at Amazon.com, ships it to this guy, and charges it to you, or A virus that changes all the icons on your screen to miniature Barneys singing the "I Love You" song. Keep repeating the process until you come up with "A", then use it. Welcome to the rank of Adventurer. Buy a bunch of rounds for your new buddies and they will surely give you groats, tons of them. Awwwww, would you look at that! Some cute little duckies have joined the family of bunnies! Awwwwwwwww, how cute! Okay, you need to get your butt over to Mars, find the clothes store, and grab some duds. Having done that, exit the clothes store and enter Chez Diesel, where you will surely find some Fed Staffers lounging about. You must convincingly explain to them at great length that you are an alt of Gavin of Mythose – newly appointed as a full time writer for the Official Fed Chronicle - and are conducting research for an upcoming article, the subject of which is the Grand Master. To facilitate your research, you will tell them, it sure would help if you could actually find the GM without having to travel all over creation. You need to find him, because you would like to interview the guy on his predictions for the upcoming year on the performance of tech commodity stock. This will sound so incredibly stupid that the staffer will more than likely just tell you where he is. They will think it a story so inane that it couldn't possibly have been made up, and in any case, they will want you to go away. Telling you where to find the GM represents the fastest way to make you get lost and leave them alone. Welcome to the rank of Trader. The name implies you will have to do some trading. Ha. Find the person you allegedly licked carburetor cleaner off of, the one you we established that you wouldn't mind having sex with. You objective at this point is, in fact, to have sex with that person. The side benefit is, of course, that they may actually be good at it. The real benefit of this sordid little relationship is setting up this poor sot to actually carry you through the upper ranks, which otherwise might entail some work on your part. Spend at least a good week building a strong love relationship, making every attempt to appear happy when he, she or it (this is science fiction) is around. Also during this period, it will be necessary to spend a great deal of time in the cantina. Be sure to get there early in the evening, before everyone else, and wait. After awhile, people should start rolling in. Do nothing. Say nothing. People will assume you are afk at first and after they get involved in conversations of their own, will forget you are there entirely. Once they have forgotten your presence, type the following: >act has appeared with a shimmer of teleportation effect. You'll fool them all. They'll think you just arrived, and that you are a Baron. Do nothing to dissuade this belief - most cantina patrons are far too lazy to type SPYNET REPORT. Flirt openly. Buy drinks. Be everyone's best friend. Find someone that is universally disliked and disparage them openly on channel 9. Jump on the bandwagon. Constantly post warm fuzzies on the board to the person you "love" and generally try to fool everyone into thinking you are a Nice Guy. Do the Cantina Teleportation Trick as often as you can get away with it. Lick all sorts of crud off of all sorts of people at any parties you are invited to. Then... die. You heard me. >suicide >suicide Immediately create a new character with the same name. Once back in Fed and a Groundhog again, immediately tune to channel 9. Once on nine, you must weave a story that will gain you widespread sympathy of the DataSpace population. >xt Oh my GOD! I was just doing some hauling, trying to help POs that had just been dumped on to fill their deficits the rest of the way and I DDed! On a planet I... um... can't quite remember the name of! All that work! All that hauling! My Baron Builds! ALL GONE!! >xt Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!! Now, if you've followed Uncle Olias' guide you will be the recipient of the largest disaster relief fund mounted to-date in Federation. The groats will come pouring in like a tsunami of prosperity. Better yet, your "true love" will be so distraught at seeing your grief she may offer to help you out, to haul and promote you back up to your "former" rank of Baron - while, say, you're at work during the day or out with the fellas at night. Give her your login and password and tell her how much you'd appreciate that. Welcome to the rank of Baron. She'll have been too busy hauling to have given it all much thought. Now that you've reached Baron and her task is done, she might start doing some pondering. She might find some holes in your story. She might come to recognize you for the lying, swindling, no-good, cheating, dirty, rotten scoundrel that you are. She knows too much. It's time to dump her like a shipment from Onyx. Change your password. Then immediately get back on channel nine. Tear your hair, beat your breast, tell them all how you caught sweetums cheating on you behind your back with Snertis Annoyis. Create and distribute a bogus log of the whole sordid affair and then appear shocked and grieved that it has been so widely distributed. Send it to Uncle Olias. I'll claim I got it from her and publish it here. She'll try to tell the truth about what happened, but folks will be so outraged they will think she is just being vindictive. If you played your cards right and have even an ounce of charisma, you should be able to 'rebound' all over DataSpace with all the babes you were 'harmlessly' flirting with all the while. The sympathy will be so thick that it drips and oozes. You are a Baron. What's more, you have earned the right to cook Bantha Burgers. You are a scoundrel. Welcome to the good life.
FED
OP-ED: ART DUCHY This week I decided to poll the duchy of Art! (Duchess: Artopia) Welcome to the Duchy of Art! The Duchess Artopia bids you welcome, and wishes you a safe and prosperous stay. Trade Art!
{*~~`SyPhOn'S Link and Orbit`~~*}
Keshrika: Rank: Industrialist,
Overlord of Vision
Roberts joined Fed cause there was a serious shortage of "Canon-vulnerable" ships in RL, and he had da urge ta rape-pillage-n-plunder Rere: "Chigins dragged me in, kicking and screaming" Bearclaw: "I followed a link from the aol start screen when aol went flat rate" Liza: "Fell into a blackhole" Prash isn't sure where he is, or how he got here Ladyviveve agrees with Prash's answer Keshrika: "I had a husband... he found Fed on AOL... he introduced me to Fed.. I kept Fed and gave him the boot" Macnbc: "I ended up in Fed when I was on AOL and was incredibly bored one day... since then I have learned not to be bored and on AOL at the same time." Roeth: "Started on AOL, left when Fed went solo but still charged more than a flat rate, came back by chance years later. Btw had a devil of a time finding it again via search engines" Bearclaw couldn't find it with search engines Juel had to find something constructive to do with her time Macnbc went back to Fed after getting an e-mail from Hazed about flat-rate coming. Macnbc: ::Shouting:: "THAT'S MY FINAL ANSWER REGIS! MOVE ALONG!" Er… okay then… moving right along…
Roberts: ::winks:: "Sexy Vixen I found" Prash: "Boredom" Macnbc: "I stayed because whenever I tried to leave I started going into withdrawl. Think I can sue IBGames like those people suing the tobacco companies?" Keshrika: "I was captured by pirates and one of them wouldn't let me go" Liza: "Couldn't find my way out of the blackhole... so I wandered around and found a place to live." Juel: "my computer is stuck here" Ladyviveve: "I stayed cuz I thought I had some good friends" Rere: ::winks:: "I guess my friends and the fun keeps me here" Macnbc: "Another reason I stayed was because one of the IBGames staff told me that they would hunt me down and kill me if I stopped letting them suck $10.00 out of my bank account each month." Keshrika: "Rere stays because she couldn't live without all the work we cause her in Checkmate" Rere: ::winks:: "Oh yes, it's the heavy salary I draw from The Duke" Rere hides her 1 groat Roberts stays for more complex and silly rulez to develop ;) Poo: ::smiles:: "because there isn't any better game around" Macnbc: "Does anybody in here know how to transfer IG in Federation into $$$ in a Wachovia bank someplace? I'd be incredibly wealthy if I can figger it out." Macnbc continues typing "transfer 10000000 to bank account" Mongo stays because he loves work Macnbc: "Did we get it right Jelly? Or do we need to use a lifeline? I'd like to use my phone-a-friend to call my lawyer…" Jelly allows Macnbc to poll the audie... WAIT... she's doing that already
Roberts: ::winks:: "Merchant... cause back then things were balanced, and 6 was the next best thing ta sex" Smok: "Hmmmm... guess Merchie. I had fun as a Merchie." Macnbc: "Adventurer. #1: "Adventurer" has a nice ring to it. #2: no planets to manage #3: all the fun of Fed, and no responsibilities. #4: there is no #4" Keshrika: ::Smiles:: "Explorer because getting your planet is such a huge exciting step" Bearclaw: ::winks:: "GM cause my company made more money than my planet" Prash: "groundhog so I could sit in the earth cantina and drink", Rere: ::winks:: "Explorer, None of the responisbility, all the groats, then the excitement of onlining for the first time again" Liza liked explorer... it was fun planning for the future on the planet she found in the blackhole. Ladyviveve: "merchant... I had alot of fun". Macnbc: ::winks:: "I was only an explorer for roughly 4 hours so I wouldn't know what that was like" Roeth: "Baron, I had money and I could shimmer" Bearclaw: "captain was fun too, you could actually leave sol"
Ladyviveve: "too much" Bearclaw: "real life? what's that?" Smok: "What's real life?" Liza: ::looks around:: "I thought I was living my real life... you mean I'm not?" Prash takes the fifth Rere is too busy in RL to think about Fed Macnbc: "I only think about Fed in real life for roughly 5 minutes after I get off the computer, then I leave it behind." Bearclaw has actually dreamed in text Keshrika: ::smiles:: "You're presuming I think" Juel: "I love the cast of characters... much easier to deal with the Fed ones" Bearclaw: "I can't recall my real name!" Macnbc: "I once had a dream that I couldn't get into Fed because some hacker was messing up my computer... that was a weird one.." Poo: ::Smiles:: "I don't think about Fed... but I think of my friends" Roeth: "Not much actually, when I have free time I play around and talk with some people here. But I'll goto a movie or dinner and not give it a second thought. The people make the game, Fed is nothing without them." Bearclaw: "I think about Fed constantly" Prash thinks of Fed, sex, rl money, and groats... not in that order though Roeth: "When I actually think about Fed the game, I wonder why things are so slow to get fixed or change in game. And whether Fed actually has any full time programmers hired."
Roeth: "Heck no, hehhee" Rere: ::winks:: "Only if I could work in the whippy cream factory" Bearclaw: "absolutely not!!!!!!" Juel gags at the thought Ladyviveve: "no" Liza: "No way!" Keshrika: "Not bloomin likely" Macnbc: "Only if I suddenly became a masochist." Prash already is a workthingy Bearclaw thinks about how he treats his workthingies Roberts coughs! A poor... penniless, Gold munchin thingy, hopelessly strapped ta some ignoramus's build table waitin ta be slaughtered so he can make gamez? Oh Suuuuurrree ;) Bearclaw eats his workthingies Ack! Rere cringes Poo: "workthingies a la mode... hrmmm."
Bearclaw has bought you a glass of Spacerock's finest, smuggl- er, imported all the way from Spacerock! Rere buys you a Pina colada with a cute little umbrella topped with pineapple and a cherry! Ladyviveve: "tequilla...and cranberry chasier" Liza: ::winks:: "Sweet Red Wine" Macnbc: "ZSIV BLAST! (Available only on selected planets in Checkmate duchy)" Keshrika: "I like it when other people buy the drinks." Keshrika winks Jelly realizes this is a perfect way to get free drinks Roberts has bought you a ((~~*REVENGE*~~)) Tastes great, less fillin, but gets even with ya in the mornin! Bearclaw 's faverite drink is a revenge Roeth has bought you a tall drink with a strange looking curly straw in it, the drink appears to have fog rolling out of it!
Thank you to all the participants. Suggestions? Comments? Want to submit a question? Want YOUR duchy polled? Email Jelly at: Jelly@columnist.com.
ALSATIAN GETS SOME DISTURBING MAIL Last Sunday's mail delivery didn't seem especially out of the ordinary at first. There were the usual requests for planet reviews, an advertisement for the Grand Opening of a new grooming service on Venus, a yellow envelope reading, "You might already be a winner of 1,000,000 chew toys from Pawprints ClearingHouse...", free samples of Dr. Fogg's Liv'r Snacks, and this month's edition of Playmutt. I deposited most of the mail on the floor, grabbed the postman by the seat of his trousers and held on until he coughed up his entire galactic delivery of Liv'r Snack samples, and retired to my doghouse so I could critique the literary selections presented in my magazine. They have interesting articles in Playmutt. I only read it for the articles. Really. On Friday I got to the rest of the mail. Well, it takes a long time to fully review all those articles! One envelope was particularly smudged and scruffy looking, with a corner slightly gnawed and what appeared to be a generous coating of dried drool on the surface. On the front a single word was scratched in large capital letters: Alsation. Now what planet owner could expect a fair and impartial analysis of his/her/its planet's design when he/she/it can't even spell the reviewer's name right? "AlsatiAn, AlsatiAn!" I muttered as I tore open the envelope. Instead of the usual missive begging for a planet review the envelope contained nothing but a single torn scrap of newspaper. Scratched on the margin I found this message:
Hep? By bones, what was a hep? And who is… Hound! Why of course, this letter was in code! No self-respecting sentient canine would even think of committing grave spelling errors unless he was trying to get a message out in code. A spynet report of Hound showed he was a squire, whereabouts unknown; his planet languishing in Sol and closed for business. So where, assuming I could decode the word "hep", was I to send "hep" to? I turned the scrap over and found it was torn from the Fed Chronicle. The edition date was from last Sunday, the same date as the postmark on the letter. Therein must lie a clue, I thought to myself. Newspapers generally have limited use for me. They are good for shredding when the rawhide supply is low and my teeth need light exercise, they are often rolled and used as a cudgel by Hazed when she has an urge to abuse my snout, and they are well suited for lining the kitchen floors when no one remembers to let me out during the day. The cleaner had already been by the backyard, so I knew I wouldn't find any shredded editions left out. Hazed hadn't been around this week to caress my muzzle with a copy, so that left one place to look for the rest of the paper. I trotted to the kitchen and surveyed the floor. Ugh, no one had been cleaning up in here for a while. There were several sheets scattered about the area in various states of use, and peering around the wet parts I found nothing unusual until I chanced across last week's Scoundrel's Corner. Now, the Scoundrel's Corner articles I usually don't piddle on. They are reserved for my more private business. But reading between the piles, I discovered the awful truth. We had been exposed. The whole thing was there: the deployment of our best divisions, our communications network, and even my involvement with the diversionary "In The Doghouse" bill. Now I understood; Hound was in hiding with the remaining troops, and he needed my assistance. He needed some "hep" too, but first I'd have to sniff out his hiding place. Hoping that he might have taken refuge on one of the planets in my review queue, I wasted no time in heading to Thorus. I took the magazine just in case it was a long trip.
|
SCOUNDREL'S GUIDE TO
FEDERATION