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I've updated the pdf-version of this AAR with the last few chapters.
You can find the link in The Yogi's signature.
Oh, and you are welcome.
The pleasure is on our side.
You can find the link in The Yogi's signature.
The Yogi said:
Oh, and you are welcome.
The pleasure is on our side.
I think many will agree the thank yous should be coming from us the readers to you for such outstanding writing. I could say this is a fantastic AAR but its so much more, its a brilliant literary piece and all the Kudos belong to Yogi.
THANK YOU!
THE END
The ancient ones were angered by the noisy human magicians and awoke.
The world ended.
Yogi,
Guess what I got to listen to part of on the radio Saturday night...
It was a radio dramatization of the Insidious Fu Manchu, titled The Shadow of Fu Manchu!
It featured Nyland Smith and some other folks I didn't recognize.
Very cool!
Rensslaer
Guess what I got to listen to part of on the radio Saturday night...
It was a radio dramatization of the Insidious Fu Manchu, titled The Shadow of Fu Manchu!
It featured Nyland Smith and some other folks I didn't recognize.
Very cool!
Rensslaer
Rensslaer said:
I had the same reaction the first time I found out he was Swedish.
Hey wait a minute he's never proven he's Swedish!
I'll bet he's really posting from a farm house in Kansas. Joe
Storey said:I had the same reaction the first time I found out he was Swedish.
Hey wait a minute he's never proven he's Swedish!
Joe
Jag tror inte att vi är i Kansas längre, Toto...
Is that evidence enough?
I've also met cthulhu live a few times in Stockholm (BTW, cthulhu, you still have that beer to cash in from your birthday!), so he can vouch for me being at least part swedish (the other part is spanish).
I'd have loved to hear that radio drama, Renss!
Is that where cthulhu lives? I never was good at longitude and latitude. :wacko:
The radio broadcast sounds cool. What were you listenning to Rens? I can't think of any radio stations, at least around where I live, that do that sort of thing.
The radio broadcast sounds cool. What were you listenning to Rens? I can't think of any radio stations, at least around where I live, that do that sort of thing.
The Yogi said:
I have been meaning to send you an email regarding that beer for a while now, buddy.
To the rest of you - I can indeed confirm that I have drunk beer with The Yogi a few times in Stockholm. He spoke perfect swedish, so I have no reason to doubt that he really lives in this wonderful country.
VILenin: The longitude, latitude location is a place in the south pacific ocean, where Cthulhu's fabled sunk island of R'lyeh is supposed to be according to Lovecraft's novel 'The Call of Cthulhu'.
It's a show called "Radio Revisited" by Don Corey -- www.rwpi.com .VILenin said:
Here is a link to their schedule, which lists the show I heard. I listened to the Denver affiliate, but there seem to be others AND one of them appears to be an Internet station, so you and The Yogi could probably listen in!
There may be more than one station around here, and more than one show that plays these old radio programs. I've listened to quite a few recently, including Fibber McGee and Molly, and something called "Dave Dollar: Insurance Inspector" :rofl: and a show with Sam Spade, as well as "The Shadow" of which The Yogi is also familiar. Some of these shows are really funny (whether meant to be, like Fibber McGee, or contextually!
).Rensslaer
Cool, thanks Rens.
Oh, uhm, of course, I knew that.o Now that I actually bother to look at the coordinates that makes sense. *sigh*
Oh, uhm, of course, I knew that.
o Now that I actually bother to look at the coordinates that makes sense. *sigh*
OK, it has been a while, but here goes an update!
Don't get your hopes up too much, there won't be coming more in the quick succession of this spring, but at least we're rolling again.
Thanks for your patience!
Don't get your hopes up too much, there won't be coming more in the quick succession of this spring, but at least we're rolling again.
Thanks for your patience!
Saana
Kingdom of Yemen
May 1st, 1940
’Honoured Imam, appointee of Allah, the compassionate and the merciful, there’s an infidel, a German here to see you!’
Günther Duhrn, who understood Arabic with some difficulty, waited patiently behind the major domo while the Imam of Zaydi, the de facto ruler of Yemen, pretended not to notice him, and failed miserably. He cast quite obviously curious glances at the comparatively towering German, who sweltered in his black civilian suit but refused to acknowledge it even by sweating.
The Imam didn’t receive his supplicants in a throne room – that would have been too ostentatious for a holy man like him. Instead he sat on a grand but none too clean chair of old, some would say decrepit wood in a large but dark and definitely smelly room inside one of the many-towered houses of Saana. The air inside the chamber was oppressively hot, and somewhat less dry than outside. There were abundant flies, not few of which hovered around the head of the “appointee of Allah”, probably attracted to the rich findings to be made in his grizzled beard, Duhrn was certain. Himmler’s sorcerer had to make a constant effort not to wrinkle his nose in contempt. As far as Günther Duhrn was concerned, the anti-semitism of the NSDAP was not inclusive enough; he found Arabs to be every bit as üntermensch as Jews without even the redeeming quality of being dangerous.
The Imam nodded to acknowledge that he would see the visitor, and the Major Domo shuffled out of the way. Duhrn stepped forward and bowed formally, bored and annoyed with the whole “audience” ritual.
‘Salaam Alekium, Infidel! What brings you to the lands of the Zaydi?’ the Imam asked without loosing any time.
‘Reverend Imam, I’m an historian, and I beseech your blessing and your aid in exploring some regions of the Rub Al Khali.’
The Imam and the Major Domo looked at each other for an instant before exploding in laughter. Duhrn held his composure, allowing just the hint of a sneer to appear in his patrician features.
‘Infidel, the sun has cooked your brains already!’ the Imam finally exclaimed, wiping his tears. ‘The Rub Al Khali is also known as Allah’s Frying Pot. Most men who try to cross it perish, roasted alive, and those who survive must pray that they do not bear witness to the Jinni of the desert!’
‘The Jinni?’ Duhrn asked with mild curiosity.
‘Ah! Indeed! The old ones speak of the Sand Devil who guards the secrets of the passage to the deep desert. And even should you get there, the sands shift: East becomes west. West becomes south. What looks like sand to you soon becomes poison pits. Men and horses fall through and are boiled!’
‘Nevertheless, I’m willing to make the attempt, blessed Imam’, Duhrn said with forced politeness. ‘I come well prepared. All I want is a guide.’
‘You know not of what you speak, infidel! You’ll have to face hundreds of miles of salt where no food or water can be found, the sun scorching your pink skin like the very furnaces of Hell! That accursed place is home to demons and evil spirits! Men go mad!’
‘Yes, clearly’, Duhrn muttered dryly.
‘What was that, infidel?’
‘Nothing, blessed Imam, I was just reflecting on how lucky I am to have been forewarned by your wisdom of all these dangers. Nevertheless, I must travel trough the Rub Al Khali.’
‘But why, infidel? Why would you throw your life away on such a fool’s errand? What do you seek?’
Duhrn sighed. ‘Well, if you must know I’m writing a biography of the mad poet, Abdul Alhazred.’
‘That’s not even a real name, infidel! Are you making fun of me?’
Duhrn looked nonplussed, but the major domo’s expression was serious as he leaned close to the Imam, whispering. ‘He means Abd-El-Hazred, the cursed!’
Now the Imam’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re writing a book about that accursed blasphemer? He was torn to pieces in broad daylight by an invisible fiend, a fitting end to a life filled of sin and blasphemy! But I know now what you seek – the Nameless City, that no man alive has seen! ’
‘Yes, blessed Imam, I seek the city that Abdul… Abd-El-Hazred dreamed of. I know that it should be close to lost Irem of the Thousand Pillars – and I’m sure that you command men that know the deep desert better than anyone, someone must know how to find Irem, from which I will conduct my search.’
‘You’re mad! I will not help you!’
Duhrn drew himself up to his full height. ‘Now listen well, you malodorous, flea-infested little chieftain! I represent the interests of Heinrich Himmler, if that name is familiar? Or if it not, then at least you might know of the Thousand Year Reich of Germany, which has humbled the proud British? Do not anger us, or you will regret it bitterly!’
The Imam went white with anger. ‘You DARE threaten me, in my own house! I will…’
‘You will nothing!’ Duhrn made a gesture, and suddenly the room was no longer gloomy and hot – it was dark as in the middle of the night, only the faintest grey light filtering in through the windows, and bitterly cold. The breath of Imam and the mayor domo, coming in frightened gasps, formed little white clouds of vapour before their mouths. Duhrn walked closer, his ice-blue eyes suddenly looking all black, like sable marbles in their orbits.
‘Demon!’ The Imam whispered. ‘Begone, in the name of Allah, the compassionate and the merciful!’
‘Not before you give me what I came for!’ Duhrn demanded in a horrible voice, booming and superhuman. It was all an illusion, a parlour trick taught to him by Xaltotun – but it was very intimidating. The German sorcerer moved his gloved hand again, and cast a sleeping spell on the Major Domo who collapsed to the ground. He would wake up later – but the Imam couldn’t know that.
‘I will have it, or your soul!’ Duhrn roared.
‘I will help you! I will help you!’ the Imam wailed. ‘I will send word for a guide from the deep desert tribes! You will have whatever you want, demon, just leave me alone!’
The lights returned to normal, as did the temperature and Duhrn’s eyes. ‘Very well, blessed Imam!’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I await your guide at the harbour, on my ship.’
Once he was alone again, the Imam shuddered, but smiled knowingly. Yes, he would help the German demon – for after all, would even he ever return from the Nameless city? Most likely, the demons that inhabited that place would devour Günther Duhrn, ridding the faithful of him forever. The Imam chuckled somewhat forcedly at the prospect.
Kingdom of Yemen
May 1st, 1940
’Honoured Imam, appointee of Allah, the compassionate and the merciful, there’s an infidel, a German here to see you!’
Günther Duhrn, who understood Arabic with some difficulty, waited patiently behind the major domo while the Imam of Zaydi, the de facto ruler of Yemen, pretended not to notice him, and failed miserably. He cast quite obviously curious glances at the comparatively towering German, who sweltered in his black civilian suit but refused to acknowledge it even by sweating.
The Imam didn’t receive his supplicants in a throne room – that would have been too ostentatious for a holy man like him. Instead he sat on a grand but none too clean chair of old, some would say decrepit wood in a large but dark and definitely smelly room inside one of the many-towered houses of Saana. The air inside the chamber was oppressively hot, and somewhat less dry than outside. There were abundant flies, not few of which hovered around the head of the “appointee of Allah”, probably attracted to the rich findings to be made in his grizzled beard, Duhrn was certain. Himmler’s sorcerer had to make a constant effort not to wrinkle his nose in contempt. As far as Günther Duhrn was concerned, the anti-semitism of the NSDAP was not inclusive enough; he found Arabs to be every bit as üntermensch as Jews without even the redeeming quality of being dangerous.
The Imam nodded to acknowledge that he would see the visitor, and the Major Domo shuffled out of the way. Duhrn stepped forward and bowed formally, bored and annoyed with the whole “audience” ritual.
‘Salaam Alekium, Infidel! What brings you to the lands of the Zaydi?’ the Imam asked without loosing any time.
‘Reverend Imam, I’m an historian, and I beseech your blessing and your aid in exploring some regions of the Rub Al Khali.’
The Imam and the Major Domo looked at each other for an instant before exploding in laughter. Duhrn held his composure, allowing just the hint of a sneer to appear in his patrician features.
‘Infidel, the sun has cooked your brains already!’ the Imam finally exclaimed, wiping his tears. ‘The Rub Al Khali is also known as Allah’s Frying Pot. Most men who try to cross it perish, roasted alive, and those who survive must pray that they do not bear witness to the Jinni of the desert!’
‘The Jinni?’ Duhrn asked with mild curiosity.
‘Ah! Indeed! The old ones speak of the Sand Devil who guards the secrets of the passage to the deep desert. And even should you get there, the sands shift: East becomes west. West becomes south. What looks like sand to you soon becomes poison pits. Men and horses fall through and are boiled!’
‘Nevertheless, I’m willing to make the attempt, blessed Imam’, Duhrn said with forced politeness. ‘I come well prepared. All I want is a guide.’
‘You know not of what you speak, infidel! You’ll have to face hundreds of miles of salt where no food or water can be found, the sun scorching your pink skin like the very furnaces of Hell! That accursed place is home to demons and evil spirits! Men go mad!’
‘Yes, clearly’, Duhrn muttered dryly.
‘What was that, infidel?’
‘Nothing, blessed Imam, I was just reflecting on how lucky I am to have been forewarned by your wisdom of all these dangers. Nevertheless, I must travel trough the Rub Al Khali.’
‘But why, infidel? Why would you throw your life away on such a fool’s errand? What do you seek?’
Duhrn sighed. ‘Well, if you must know I’m writing a biography of the mad poet, Abdul Alhazred.’
‘That’s not even a real name, infidel! Are you making fun of me?’
Duhrn looked nonplussed, but the major domo’s expression was serious as he leaned close to the Imam, whispering. ‘He means Abd-El-Hazred, the cursed!’
Now the Imam’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re writing a book about that accursed blasphemer? He was torn to pieces in broad daylight by an invisible fiend, a fitting end to a life filled of sin and blasphemy! But I know now what you seek – the Nameless City, that no man alive has seen! ’
‘Yes, blessed Imam, I seek the city that Abdul… Abd-El-Hazred dreamed of. I know that it should be close to lost Irem of the Thousand Pillars – and I’m sure that you command men that know the deep desert better than anyone, someone must know how to find Irem, from which I will conduct my search.’
‘You’re mad! I will not help you!’
Duhrn drew himself up to his full height. ‘Now listen well, you malodorous, flea-infested little chieftain! I represent the interests of Heinrich Himmler, if that name is familiar? Or if it not, then at least you might know of the Thousand Year Reich of Germany, which has humbled the proud British? Do not anger us, or you will regret it bitterly!’
The Imam went white with anger. ‘You DARE threaten me, in my own house! I will…’
‘You will nothing!’ Duhrn made a gesture, and suddenly the room was no longer gloomy and hot – it was dark as in the middle of the night, only the faintest grey light filtering in through the windows, and bitterly cold. The breath of Imam and the mayor domo, coming in frightened gasps, formed little white clouds of vapour before their mouths. Duhrn walked closer, his ice-blue eyes suddenly looking all black, like sable marbles in their orbits.
‘Demon!’ The Imam whispered. ‘Begone, in the name of Allah, the compassionate and the merciful!’
‘Not before you give me what I came for!’ Duhrn demanded in a horrible voice, booming and superhuman. It was all an illusion, a parlour trick taught to him by Xaltotun – but it was very intimidating. The German sorcerer moved his gloved hand again, and cast a sleeping spell on the Major Domo who collapsed to the ground. He would wake up later – but the Imam couldn’t know that.
‘I will have it, or your soul!’ Duhrn roared.
‘I will help you! I will help you!’ the Imam wailed. ‘I will send word for a guide from the deep desert tribes! You will have whatever you want, demon, just leave me alone!’
The lights returned to normal, as did the temperature and Duhrn’s eyes. ‘Very well, blessed Imam!’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I await your guide at the harbour, on my ship.’
Once he was alone again, the Imam shuddered, but smiled knowingly. Yes, he would help the German demon – for after all, would even he ever return from the Nameless city? Most likely, the demons that inhabited that place would devour Günther Duhrn, ridding the faithful of him forever. The Imam chuckled somewhat forcedly at the prospect.
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Ah, very nice to see an update, Yogi. Great scene, I loved how Duhrn made them squirm.
Ahh Durhm ... my favorite good-/-bad guy ...well ofcause Skorzeny and Buch Rogers are cool too ...but they are more like regular goodguys
An update, splendid. I do hope we will get to see Indy foil Durhns efforts in the desert, I always thought Indy was at his best in sandy ruins.
