by Branson Hagerty
of BlackJack's Node
"Despite the fact that Brumby suffers from a chronic case of non-existent grammar, he has wedged himself in the hearts and minds of those who enjoy hearing trolls babble on about ice cream, hot head samurai, ice cream, the town of Hell, in Michigan, and, last but not least, ice cream. Brumby is the most popular feature of Blackjack's Shadowrun page, which should give us all yet another reason to keep our doors locked at night." (13 stories, archive from 2001)
Funny how things go, no? One minute we up in da clouds. Next
minute we down in da dirt. I think confusing. And, I think right!
But it all fun none the less. If we have clue as to what going on
in the world it be no fun at all. Me like the idea that when I go
to me car at night I don't no if it be there all nice or be blown
to little bitty pieces. Sure this make most people mad. Dey say
"Damnit, where da hell my car?". I say "Gee, much surprised car is
still here!". Make my life so much easier. Same thing when I get
up in da morning. I look and sniff and scratch my bum and go "Huh!
I still here! Goodie!". When I get shot up I go "Gee! Bout time!".
Let me tell you little story. There was little human runner who went around all day with hand on his gun and eyes shifting this way and dat and always got da job done and was always on time and never got lazy or nothing and finally a big gang was wandering along and filled him with lots of little bitty holes for no reason and now he dead. And he had no fun in life. Now people probably be saying that he probably live longer then he would have because he so watchful and careful and safe. Well, I say he still got dead so it don't much matter now does it? Dead is dead and there ain't much more ta say.
What me getting at is dat running is serious little thing we do but dat not ALL we do. If all you can do is da running then you are of low brain. If you so narrow in the head that all you can think about is shootin and blowin up and killin and flying and driving stuff then you missing out! There lots out there! Go to museum or something or go to park or go to circus. Take break from da shoot, bang, shoot world and sit and eat some ice cream. When was the last time you even had ice cream? Gee, I think I'll go get me some ice cream.
People keep comin' on up and sayin' to me "Brumby, you are the
Troll Shadowrunner Philosopher, are you not?". And Brumby reply,
"Yup." And dey say "How does one become such a philosophical troll
such as you are?". And I say "If da sun shines through an outhouse
roof you should probably go and fix da roof." And they look all
thoughtful and go away. I have no idea what it mean when I say
dat, I just know it makes dem go away.
And dat da big problem with da world. People just don't wanna go away and leave you alone. I do not pretend to be all high and mighty and say I do not do these things as well. I just think it funny. Most of people getting pissed is resulting from dem just not going away. Nobody fight if one fighter just go away. Nobody have war if everybody just go away and leave enemy alone. Nobody have to wait in line and get all antsy if they go away and find different eating place. But it is not good if I go away and do not shadowrun because den I have no money to go to eatery to get all antsy in line at. A troll gotta eat.
Speaking of eat, everything is so simple all by itself I wonder why everything so darn chaosy. I figure we living things gotta do two things: eat and go to toilet. If everybody just eat and go to toilet, everybody be happy. People throw sex in der all da time. Brumby just think dey all horny. Brumby tell them dat. Dey go away.
Da world is full uv pricks. But youse probably already know that.
I mets da bigest prick of dem all da other night, probably da
stupidest one too. Hez a street sammy which is basiclly what I iz
but I tell ya, sammyz like him give us all da downer image. He be
standin der outside da bar, actin' all human and happen, not even
coverin' hiz skin against da red rain cuz he though he wuz cool. I
wuz just walkin in to get a beer or ten and da bum starts gettin
into my face. He sez, "You think you ken beat me, you sloppy,
bumpy, ugly, trog!". To tell ya da truth, beatin him was da
furthest thing from my mind till he started messin with me. I
think I wuz ponderin' those little fuzzy dice people hang frum der
rear view mirrors. I wuz thinkin' of gettin' me a pair.
Anyways, hez all in my face, messin up my dice ponderin', and poppin out blades and pullin gunz and stuff till he had a pair of smugs (dats SMGs to you lay people) and pointy sharp things and eye lazers and all kinds of cyber toys and shit. Oops, I swore. In any case, he'z standin threre yellin "Bring it on!" and I, just for a mini second, thought about researchin' just how many of those toyz he gots I could cram up hiz behind. But den I started thinkin, why give him what he wantz? So, I give him a big Brumby smile, and jander into da bar leavin him there with his gunz and pointy things and stuff standin in da red rain trying to act cool. I orders a few beerz and start thinkin that maybe just leaving him der aint so good a idea, either. So Brumby, being da big thinkin type guy I am, started ponderin how much hiz skin must be hurtin from da rain.
It wuz a tequila shooter that gave me the idea for da salt. I think he'z da only sammy who ever got his butt whipped by a seasoning.
So de Johnson walks up to me with his big smiley on his face and
says, "Hey Brumby!", and I look around to make sure he'z actually
talkin to me. (You would be mighty surprised at how many other
Brumbys are running around out there. I heared some of dem have a
top speed of ninety kilometers per hour! That's one damn fast
Brumby. I ken only get my own self Brumby up to four, and dats
when I'm bein' chased by hell hounds.)
So da Johnson seyz, "Hey, Brumby! I'm sendin' you to Hell!". I wuzn't especially happy about dis and wuz wonderin' where in da heck he got his authority to be sending people to da great smoldering hereafter. So da next thing he says iz "Brumby, stop choking me! It's a town in Michigan!"
"Ah! Michigan!", I say'd, "...........where'z dat?". And he tells me it some place near da city of Buggies and dat it has plenty of apples, which is good because other den Cow On A Stick, apples is one of Brumby's favorite foods. So I ask whut I supposed to do and he says: "Just be a troll.", which was kinda nice because bein' a troll is something I've gotten pretty good at.
So I go to Michigan. Well, Brumby'z been in da city for about one hundered percent of his whole life and it wuz really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really nice goin' through da birdz and da treez and all da nauralisticy type stuff. I even got to leave my Panther at home for once! It a damn shame more peoplez don't leave da city every once in da while and get out in da country and do some stuff dere. What stuff, you say? It all boring, you say?
Well, say dat to the bunch of racists who greeted Brumby with sticks and stones for the purpose of breaking Brumby's bones. See, it wuz nice, but it was still a run and wit any run you gotta be a runner. So I wuz, der in da middle of nowhere where nobody ever think a run ever be. And after I wuz done (I guess all I had to do was go "BOO!" and dey all quieted down which izn't too bad a way to pick up fifty grand) I got to go back through da nature and da birds and wuz all pretty relaxed till I got back and found dat somebody had stolen Brumby'z Panther. (If any body see it it'z got "Brumby'z Gun" painted on da size.) So I had Brumby a run and a vacation all in one neat little bucket. It wuz nice. I didn't even have to step in sewer poop.
So I'm just a walkin' and a mosyin' down da street, going 'bout
my shadowrunnerish type of activity type things, when all of a
sudden I on da ground. I take a lookie at my tummy and, wouldn't
ya know it, der be a big old hole in it. I could even put my
finger in it, and Brumby have pretty big fingers, so dat makes it
a pretty big hole. I dunno who plugged me; at da moment I was too
busy looking at my Brumby blood fallin' all over da ground to pay
any attention to why it wuz dere.
Now Brumby'z been shot before. As a matter a factoid; Brumby'z been shot A LOT. But Bruby never quite gets used to it, which is a durn good thing because den I like to keep myself not shot even more den normal. Brumby sees a bunch of people get shot all da time and they don't get killed so dey think: Hey! I invincible! I can do ANYTHING! But what Brumby thinks dey don't realize is dat dey may have been pretty damn lucky dey didn't get a bid old hole in der head instead of der armor jacket. 'Member: da more you get hit; da more chance you have of getting hit BAD.
So, anyway, Brumby sittin der, bleeding on da side walk, wishin I was somewhere else without a hole in me, when doc wagon comes runnin up and puts me in da van. Dey let me out even before I get to da hospital; dey told me da hole wasn't dat bad and dat all it took was some putty and a staple to close it up. BUT, what dey also tell me is dat if da bullet hit one centimeter to da right: Brumby be DEAD.
So here's a lesson from Brumby to you: Sure da bullet hit your jacket; but your jacket only a few bits away from your HEAD. And if you get hit in da head, you dead.
Huh. Brumby made a rhyme.
Yup. It Brumby's birthday. Da big 25. I'm sure some of u liddle
people, particularly dem littly bitty humans, are sayin to youze
selfs: "Da big 25? What so big about dat?" Well, little human
people, it may not seem dat big to youze, but to Brumby - who will
probably bite da big one at age 50 - it mean I'ze gettin over da
It also pretty big because Brumby a troll.
Anyways, it feel funny knowin dat all I got is another half of life to live. When you a little (ok, younger) troll scampering around and breakin stuff you don't really think all dat much about dyin naturally. You thinkin about people puttin bulletz in your head or tryin to make enuf cash to pay da rent for da next few months. Sometimes it seem dat people get tied up so much in da daily stuff and da survival stuff dat dey forget to stop and ponder: Have me done anything in dis life yet?
I actually a bit pissed at da little 25 year old humans (and even MORE pissed at dem damn eternal dandilion chompers) dat dey get to mosey around with a pretty good chance dat dey won't die by God (or whozeever) hand for another 75 whole years while us trolls gotta start ponderin da downhill so early. Da humans run around and run dem corps and run dem shadows and if dey lucky enuf to dodge da bullets and extractions da next thing dey know dey 50 and dey start whinin: "Oh, I so old! My life is over!".
Well, I just writin to say: Shut da hell up. Brumby'z now marching toward da big Body Bank in da sky and you don't hear ME bitchin about how old I iz. Brumby too busy writin, and makin a name for himself, and getting ice cream, and runnin, and walkin in da park, and goin to see movies, and LIVIN LIFE to sit around an whine over da fact dat he half way dead.
Perhaps dat why you see so few troll runnin corps or runnin malls or keepin all those holier-den-thou position in life. Not because we stupid or because we ugly; but because we trolls don't have time to waste on dat mundane shit.
Da guy in da antique store gave Brumby a slanty kinda curious
look when I walked over to dis old Smith-Corona manual typewriter
and asked: "Doez it work?" Da guy just look at me and sayz: "What
doez it matter? You're not gonna type with it, are you?".
Dis kinda bothered Brumby. After I ask da guy a few questionz Brumby realized dat da store owner had no idea why somebody would want to uze such an old machine. He figured people would just put da writer on a shelf or someting and have peoples walking buy and sayin: "Gee! Dat a nice typewriter!" and den keep on walkin.
Brumby don't get it. Now, unless Brumby mistaken, da purpose of da typewriter was to type with clickity-clicking on da little piece of paper. It don't seem to make a whole bucket full uv sense if da typeriter don't do dat. It a TYPEWRITER, for criminy sakez!
See, Brumby wanted da typewriter cuz he don't like to write Brumby Poetry (coming soon) on a computer. See, poetry supposed to come from da heart. It not supposed to be edited or word processed or cutted and pasted. When da poetry hitz da paper, it supposed to stay there. Even if it sux. At least datz Brumby'z opinion.
Wit a word processor, it too easy to erase. With da typewriter, it is there and it ain't goin nowhere. (And for doze of youze wonderin how a troll like Brumby can type witout breakin everything I just like to say dat, even though Brumby'z handz are big and strong, even a troll like me self can have a gentle touch when needed. Just ask Brumby'z girlfriend. :)
Anyways, Brumby has forgotten what da hell this writing was supposed to be about. I think da moral was supposed to be something like: "Just becauze it old, don't mean it no good." or "Just becauze it old, don't mean it just dere to look at" or something to dat effect. Make up your own moral or something. Brumby has to go type....
click, click, clickity, click click..........
Da following are some poimz dat Brumby wrote about his runnin
adventures. Brumby haz been toyin wit da more freeform, incoherant
formz of poetry because dat seems like da only kind of poemz
people likes to hear in coffee houses. Brumby once read a poem dat
actually rhymed and made sense and dey splashed me with espresso.
Brumby learned his lesson.
Brumby in da sewerz
Dere seemz to be a lot of poop here
And pretty much all over da place
Even on da ceiling
And da grates
Damn, it smell bad in here
Has anyone seen Brumby's breather?
I think it fell in da poop
Little Human Corp Guard
Brumby is walking
To da corp
A big building
Wit fences and dronez and guards
Like da one on front of Brumby
A little guard
A human guard
He yellin at Brumby to stop
He don't seem ta realize dat Brumby have long arms
Dat Brumby can grab him
And throw him
Into da electric fence
Why Trolls Pick Their Noses
Have youze ever wondered
Why we troll picks out nozes?
Why we root around in our nostils
Like dere was a pound of gold in there?
Why we never seem ta mind
Rooting around like a freak
Looking all ignorant and such
As if a booger's just about to leak?
Well da answer to da question is simple
It not complicated in da least
We trollz pick our own nozes
Because YOUR noze is usually out of reach.
It a busy day In da middle of Seattle
And Brumby walkin along
Wit his ice cream
Under sunny skies
In a happy day
A runabout 'bout clocks him
And though Brumby iz safe
He haz dropped hiz ice-cream!
And his gaze turns to da car
And da little human suit inside
And Brumby grabz the bumper wit one hand
And lifts da car into da sky
And flips it Over And Over And Over
And it stops Spinning on da roof
And da little human inside
Bouncing around like soy in da cup
And Brumby turns around
And walks back
To get more ice cream
While da runabout
Spins into da night
Lemmie start by sayin' dat just because Brumby found someperson
dat he really carez about don't mean dat I can't still break you
into itty bitty pieces using only my pinky finger. I dunno why
more shadowrunnerish types of people don't make a try to find
somebody to like lots. Dere are so many runnerish types who go
around sayin "Oh, I such a big ole' badass" when da simple idea of
likin sombody makes dem squirm like worms on a hot plate. (Not dat
Brumby has ever fried worms.)
So whut happened wuz I wuz chasein' someone in da sewers wit a bunch of people when dis lovely female tollish kinda girl decides she's gonna whomp me on da forehead wit a aluminum baseball bat. (She wuz one of da people I wuz chasin'). Da best defense I could mount on account of me being mesmarised was to look concerned and go "Hello, lady". Not dat my attempt at flirtation stopped her from whompin me, but it did delay her a bit and da swing wazn't nearly as hard as it coulda been.
So, after Brumby got outta da hospital I was drinkin a few gallons of beer down at da local troll bar and dere she was, dressed to kill, and armed ta do pretty much da same thing. I figured dat since we wuz no longer on da run I'd mosey on over and say hello.
So, after Brumby got outta da hospital I wuz at da local troll resturaunt when I saw da lady again. Brumby wuz much surprised when she walked over and said hello (after she got me to stop hidin' under a table). She said she wuz sorry she whomped me at da bar, and then demanded dat I thank her for not whompin' me harder in da sewer. We sat down and ordered a bucket o' hot wings and started talkin about runnin and guns and runnin and guns and all dat other stuff dat makes life fun. When she left, she said she wanted to see Brumby again, and I decided dat this might be a good time ta try to give her a kiss on da cheek.
So, after Brumby got outta da hospital da lady an me started seein' more of each other. We started talking about stuff other den guns and had a good time goin ta sports and trids flics and all kindz of stuff. While Brumby used ta have to spend downtime sittin around and cleanin his guns, me can now spend time with my new friend and life is much happier and much much less shitty.
Anyway, dats da story of how Brumby fell in love. And remember: Just cuz Brumby has shown you a little bit of hiz heart don't mean dat I won't knock ya into a pit if you piss Brumby off. Dat is, of course, if Tsarina don't beat you up first.
Dere is often a times or two whenz little human peoples who don't
knows how smartly intelligent Brumby iz decide dey gonna be mean
racial kinda nasty people and try to make funs at Brumby'z
notexisting stupidity. Dey seem to tink that jus cuz trollz
in all da trid shows act dumb and do nuthing but shoot at people
and say stuff like "Duh, where'z my grenade
launcher?". Dey tink all trollz is big an stupid and
cannot think enoughs to find dere way to da crapper.
Now, even Brumby haz to admit dat dere are more den a few trollz who ain't da brightest. Goblin scaryization ain't exactly no picknick, and many troll peoplez is lucky ta get through it with dere sanity not in little pieces, let alone dere smarts. And, sure, lots of us talk kinda funny and deep and choppy, but, hey, YOU try talkin in normal voices when ya got a jaw structure like a horse and vocal speaker cords da size of da Astrodome.
But even doe Trollz tend ta be really good peoplez, sometimez little racist human kinda peoples decide dey want to pick on us. Now, dere are many professionally psychological kinda ways to deal wit dis. Some of da professional people say a troll gettin racially bashered should just fight back by workin our wayz up through society and gettin stuff right dat way. Well, dis is all fine and great but it ain't gonna stop a little racist kinda mean street person whoz been beatin' up Brumby lookin trollz for a long long time. And den some professional peoplez say dat trollz should trys to reason wit da bunch of racially mean kinda people becauze dey say da dis is da only way ta get da racially mean kinda people to change dere meanie ways. Well, dis is just swell, but it iz kinda hard ta talk when youz got a pack of meanie human racial people hittin you in da face wit clubs.
So what Brumby doez is hit dem square in da face wit his fist until dey fall over. Den he tie dem nekked to a fence and make a big sign dat says "Brumby is sorry he had ta beat up deze racially meanie humans. Brumby just had better tings ta do den listen ta stupid people speak shit. Tank you." Doez dis solve da bigger problem of racially meanie kinda people? Well, probablies not. But it makes Brumby feel lots better and dey tend not ta bother ME ever agains.
Youze gonna have to pardon Brumby if he don't sound too cheery
today. It been about a week or five days or something since
Brumby got hit wit a big bad flu bug dat managed to skip past hiz
various filters and whatnot. Da first day I had da sniffles,
da second day I had tummy rumblings, and da third day I don't even
wanna talk about. It was very much un fun.
What really sucked 'bout Brumby being sick is dat he had a very much important and high paying run dat he really woulda like to have done. It wuz for a Johnson Brumby had very much past dealing wit and who usually gave Brumby increases in money cuz he knew dat he didn't like to screw things up. Also, Brumby has been lookin at a special edition type Viking dat would look great next ta his Warthog.
In any cases, Brumby can normally take a pill or something similar to make the nasties go away. He then go on the run, finish it up, and den come home and sleep for many days. But dis time da bug Brumby got was nasty bad. Brumby took da pills, cleaned da blood filters, and ate da soup, but nuthing was gonna make da bug go away. And it wasn't even like Brumby coulda gone runnin' anyways and just puke when he needed. Brumby could hardly even walk to da fridge to grab another beer.
Da Johnson was a bit pissed of course, but he wuz one of da few run setter up kinda people who knew dat peoples sometimes get da bug (though he did charge Brumby da contract escape fee). It is a kinda bad funny how people think us runnerz are 100% unaffectable by bad stuffs. Da fact is, we runnerz tend ta get much more bugz den everybodys else 'cuz be is always around nasty types. 'Course, we tend ta have strong willz dat make us more able ta get stuffs done even when we not feelin good. But sometimez we still get a bug dat knocks us on our butz.
Anywayz, Brumby iz gonna go back to sleeps. Brumby don't feel too bad 'bout missing da run, cuz he rather get yelled at and take naps till he better den puke on a electric fence whilez trying to bust into Ares.
Brumby made sure he got lots of tough like oriented cyber and bio
kinda things when he made da decision to start wit da
runnin. Brumby wuz pretty protected anyways, what wit da
dermal thickened skin stuffs, and da fact dat he weight more den
many swat teams all putted together. And Brumby haz to admit
dat he wuz beginnin ta get dat feeling dat anything dat would come
at him wuz just gonna bounce off.
See, even da most brightest and insightfully types of people can sometimez get der mind thoughts crossed. Brumby haz been hit wit da bullets many, many timez, but almost every single one of dem times da bullets never did a whole lot other den bruise Brumby'z skin. And after a long times of not gettin hurtz real bad, it gets real easysimple ta think dat you is nuthin short of inpenatratable. Cuz of dis, Brumby got into da habit of runnin in fronts of da bullets and thinkin' he don't get hurtz.
Well, when Brumby awakened in da hospital with da tubes runnin out his face and whatnot, and one or thee dozen plugs keepin his insides from spillin out through little holes, Brumby realized dat he better get his shit in a row.
Last thing Brumby remembers is a big bad troll like guy startin to hoze his hidin place in a factory he wuz gonna blow up. Brumby wuz runnin late, and da troll only had a SMG type bang generator, so in da interest of savin a minutes or two he decided ta charge da bad guy.
Two things were not realized by Brumby at dat time. Da first is da fact dat da bad guy had one of dem military type targetin' computer nasties in hiz brain. Da second is dat Brumby didn't have noticed dat da gun wuz firin' APDS bang fliers. Brumby gots maybe a small percentile of a meter from hiz hidin when da bad guy unloaded on da places on Brumby dat happened to have da weakest armorish protection. Dat iz da last thing Brumby rememberz.
So now Brumby is in da hospital wit about 200,000 nuyens of body and cyber damage. Considerin da run wuz only payin 20k, perhaps Brumby should have stopped for one moments of five so he could have seens just whut his bad guy really wuz. It iz bad news ta take a 180,000 nuyens loss, not includings da time and runz Brumby will lose while he laid up in da hospitalz.
So Brumby would likes to just tell everybody dat just because you didn't get shot to little bitty pieces da first 30 timez you runned in front of da gun, dat 31th time may be da one dat puts you in da ground.
So Brumby wuz doin' the running kinda thing on a fine sunny
night, with all da shootin and whatnot, and wuz keeping da Bad
Guys not happy an' all, when some of da lightz went kaboom, and
den all da lights went out. Dis wazn't all dat surprisin',
cuz I wuz in da barrenz and da electricated type company don't
much cares about da people out here cuz, let us face it, nobody
really got all dat much interest in paying dere bill. So dey
letz da system start doin' surge and blackout kinda things.
Anyways, da completeness and suddeness of da blackout didn't ruffle Brumby much, on account a he gots all da thermos and unltrasoundz and whatnot he could fit into dose eyez of hiz. So Brumby finished up wit hiz bang shootin, grabbed some fancy kinda chip from da Bad Guys, and den high butted it back to hiz local apartment type place (Brumby gots places all over). After Brumby plugged da chip into hiz 'puter, Brumby's pay-day would become a pretty soon type of event.
Az Brumby walketed back to hiz local apartment type place, he could see dat da lighting illumination wuz not happening dere either. Brumby wuz gettin' a bit worry frazzled by now, cuz he remembered dat hiz 'puter battery wuz dead and dat he had left it plugged in ta da wall (not even wit a power boom protector, since da last one blowed up a couple of days past). If da 'puter did a nasty kaboom, da effectz wus gonna be much even worse den just loozin a new Brumby poem. Dis wuz cuz Brumby had recently got some softwares he needed from a hard to getz contact so he could do stuff wit da chip.
Anywayz, da 'puter went boom. Lots of boom. Like, pieces of sparky parts all over da room kinda boom. Da backup drive went boom too, which iz just fine as well, cuz brumby has forgottens ta use it. Brumby wuz not proud dat with all his smart vastness he had done a no-no dat will cost him many bucks. It woulda only taken brumby 'bout 15 secondz ta back up. Now Brumby'z gotta spend 15 dayz getting hiz shit in one place again.
So Brumby's just gonna reminds all of youze dat takin' da time ta hit a liddle button is sometimez with da time it takes ta hit da liddle button. It'z not doin' da little things dat screwz ya.