Ensifus P-Mod Est

And Ensifus the Miner, finding grievance with his now-tame life of Administration, was granted salvation when the Java Game Experts saw fit to grant unto him his mightiest Sword of Moderating yet, that of the Runescape Player Moderators. And to his friends, he said: "Behave."

Nova Invicta

John the Mighty: The Tale Continues

Porcupine Tree’s Trains blared as this author suddenly found himself thinking about John the Mighty, a being of incredible power and evil, the character perhaps serving as a caricature as this author’s most notable characteristics. The manuscripts documenting John’s adventures are "John the Mighty" and "To Sir With Love II: Sir’s Revenge," but as many fans may suspect, John’s adventures are far more varied and interesting than those found on this author’s googlepage.

The following are facts concerning John that the publicly available short stories have not revealed.
• John’s Ultimate Destiny™ involves killing.
• John’s favourite film is Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Commando
• John’s favourite band is Manowar
• John is able to do complex algebra in his head. He once used this ability to the Evil Lord Yakakoza.

At the moment, the manuscripts documenting John’s incredible journey and his Ultimate Destiny™ are scarce. When this author discovers the missing pieces of John’s chronicles he will publish them as quickly as possible, and then, perhaps, we will understand the purpose of John’s inhuman power and merciless evil.

At the moment, it is unclear whether the character Sir is an enemy of John, or merely an obstacle in his path. From the “To Sir With Love” short story, we can see that Sir is a man of incredible good and persistent modesty. Fans have most likely come to realise that the contrast between Sir and John may not be coincidental.

At the moment we are left wondering: who is John, where did he come from, and what is his Ultimate Destiny™? The author will continue to scour the earth for the remaining manuscripts, and with any luck we will know the answer to these three questions within this lifetime.

KNIGHT OUT!

And lo, did Rumour become as reality, and there was much rejoycing.

Today as I sat a-working upon my TAFEwork, a strange, otherworldy sound did fill my ears most unexpectedly, and thusly did I slip unawares into a sophoric lassitude that numbed me from the concerns of this world. Then came a-drifting upon the wind of this newly-discovered dimension the voice of Agent Knight, and he spake unto me in such a way that I was filled with the knowledge that he had indeed moved to Mackay (as Rumour had suggested earlier), and that the moving was so swift at the behest of his parents that he was not able to contact us earlier.

Until next time,
Nova Invicta

Agent Knight has left us. Where or why, who knows?

Hail, adherents. It is with great sadness, and not a little confusion, that I report the apparent disappearance of one Agent Knight. He was a great friend to this Mantle, and I hope that we remember him always. Or, at least, discover his whereabouts.

This harrowing tale begins with his lengthy absence from That Which is Called School. *flashback*

One of us: So, where's James?
Another: I dunno.

*end flashback*

But enough of these melancholy recountings. In memory of his greatness, we his vassals have decided to make available his most recent and only remaining unpublished work of literature, To Sir With Love II: Sir's Revenge. Being originally intended as an assignment, some preliminary segments of his writing appear more subdued than is his norm. However, and fortunately for his devoted readership, he, like me, cannot contain the tides of his own creativity, and so we are able to experience once more the full extent of his genius. The reader should also bear in mind that we were left with but a draft, and knowing his tendency to revise large portions of his work, that it is most probably less refined than what was published of his earlier works.

To Sir With Love II: Revenge of Sir

Mark Thackeray walked up the stairs of North Quay High. After a lengthy break, he was back. Last year he had taken a group of rowdy students and hand managed to guide them to a butter future by teaching them manners and respect. He anticipated his new class with mixed feelings. At first, he recalled how noisy and rude last year’s seniors hand been, but he soon remembered how pleased he had felt when the students had risen to his expectations and how satisfying it had been to be a teacher.

He opened the classroom door and was met with a scene that was disheartening, however predictable. Students sat on desks and chatted loudly. He overheard bits of their conversations, “Oh, it’s that bleedin’ black fellow they had teachin’ last year.” He moved towards his desk and heard the students laughing, but ignored it, even though he realized they were probably laughing at him.

“Could I have your attention please?” said Mark, clapping his hands. The students finally settled down and took their places. “My name – “he said, before he was cut off by a large boy chatting to a friend. When the boy stopped, he continued: “- is Mr. Thackeray, but you may call me Sir.”

A boy in the back, wearing a leather jacket, couldn’t contain himself and began to laugh uproariously. “What is your name?” Mark asked. The boy responded, “Greg.”

Another boy on the left called out, “No ‘e’s not, ‘is name is Thomas!”

The class laughed excitedly.

“Is your name Thomas?”

A girl on the right said, “He’s right, it’s Thomas. He was just pullin’ your leg!”

The class laughed again.

“Settle down,” said Mark in his deep, authoritative voice.

HERE THE STORYLINE BRANCHES OFF INTO “CLASSIC AK”. IT IS RESUMED AT A LATER POINT.

Before Mark could begin speaking again the door flew open and a tall, dark-haired youth walked in menacingly. Mark observed him curiously.

“John?” one of the students whimpered. “I thought you were going to prison”.

“I was,” he replied in a deep and manly voice. “But now I’m not.” The ambiguity was unsettling.

“Could you sit down, please?” Mark said.

John’s initial reaction was to argue, but he remembered that arguing was how “that incident” had happened, the horrible event that had almost sent him to prison for the rest of his life. He sat.

John sat in a way that exuded confidence, but ensured he did not come across as a petty criminal. The class pretended to ignore him, but they all knew that there was no stopping the chaos that followed John wherever he went.

“Later in life, textbooks and math will not help you nearly as much as your behaviour and manner. You must behave respectably, and you must learn some manners,” Mark explained.

John watched as this inferior being chattered away. He knew manners, he knew respect, and he’d had enough of these ramblings. He knocked his desk over, and approached Mark with fury in his eyes. “I’ve had enough of you for one year!” John screeched.

“You have no manners,” said Mark. “How do you expect to get anywhere in life without them?”

“I know manners!” cried John. “Knife on the left, fork on the right.”

“No, knife on the right, fork on the left.” Mark said.

“W-what?” John exclaimed, as he backed away. He sat in his seat in a crumpled heap. There was no doubt in his mind – Sir was going to pay.

That night, John met with a close associate of his, an African-American called Alexander. They met in Alex’s dilapidated apartment, right in the middle of the suburbs. “I need this bastard taken care of!” said John, thumping the kitchen bench.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Alex asked.

“You remind me of him,” John croaked.

“Wha-“he stuttered.

John tore out the man’s throat and blood splattered across the kitchen bench. “That’ll teach you,” he said, and the man coughed up blood and fell to the ground. He was going to choke within minutes. John left him to die.

The next day in class, Sir wrote equations on the board, oblivious to John’s devious schemes. The chalk scratched the chalkboard. A thump was heard. Sir looked behind him. He saw nothing out of the ordinary and went back to writing.

While Sir was looking away, John picked up a student in the row in front of him and threw him out the window. The body hit the concrete with a splat.

In an instant, John took the boy’s seat. He was now a little closer to Sir and his plan could be put into action.

The minute that Sir turned around, two of John’s agents burst through the windows in a hail of shattered glass. It was painful for the class to see the disappointed look in Sir’s eyes. The two agents drew their guns, but the class raced towards Sir, to protect him.

A girl yelled: “No! If you want Sir, you’ll have to go through us.”

John stood, his anger roused. He ran towards the students and knocked them out of the way like bowling pins. “Kill him!” John yelled.

“Why me?” Sir asked.

“Because you are the scum of this earth!” John grunted.

“I came to this country when I was 16 in the hope of a better future. I was born into poverty, and I had to eat rats to survive. When I moved here, I taught myself to read and write. I wanted to get a job. Why must you take that away from me?”

The two agents dropped their guns and began to weep like children. “You ignorant fools!” John said and drew his own pistol. He shot both of the men in the head. Blood spilled out of the wounds.

“Must you do such violent things?” Sir demanded. John grabbed Sir by the testicles, yet he did not waver. John’s fist tightened, but he got no reaction. Sir was kneed in the crotch with enough force to send a man flying, yet still he did not react. John tried again and again to no avail. “Enough!” John yelled, and pointed his gun at Sir.

Without warning the side of the wall exploded and both men were sent flying to the other side of the room. A helicopter lined up alongside the building. Driving it was Sir’s old friend Denham. “Come in!” he said. Sir got up and ran towards the helicopter with incredible speed. They set off, leaving John choking under a pile of brick and rubble. But John was alive. And he would get his revenge.

The End…Or is it?

FOR THOSE INTERESTED, INCLUDED HERE IS THE REMAINING PART OF THE ORIGINAL STORYLINE.

“What are we learning about this year, eh?” called Sandy from the back. She was easily identifiable by her beehive hairdo. “Many things,” Mark replied, “the first of which is that you do not call out in class. Putting your hand up before speaking will allow civil discussion to take place.”

“Our other teacher didn’t- “

“I am not that other teacher.”

Sandy gave up, but Thomas insisted. “What Sandy means is we’ve had the same rules for the whole time we’ve been at North Quay,” he said. “Why can you just show up and change ‘em!”

“Yeah!” Sandy shouted. “That’s what I meant!”

“She’s right, you’re a bleedin’ menace!” a second girl called out, who was lighting a cigarette.

“Get that filth out of your mouth!” Mark said, raising his voice for the first time, both to his surprise and the surprise of the class. He walked towards the girl, took the cigarette out of her mouth, and tossed it in the bin.

“I paid good money for that!” she said.

“Cigarettes are filthy things and smoking is a terrible habit. There will be no smoking permitted in this class.”

“Why’s that?” Thomas yelled.

“I insist that you put your hand up before speaking.”

Thomas glared at him, but finally put his hand up. “Why is smoking such a filthy habit?”

“I do not want cigarette smoke filling this classroom. Imagine the way this classroom would smell if she persisted. Not only this, but frankly, it makes a lady look like a slut.” The class was silent. “Yes, you are a lady, he said, looking at her. “You are all adults, and you must learn how to behave like one.” Sandy put her hand up. “Yes?”

“No one’s ever called me an adult before,” she said. “My mother still calls me a kid.”

“Perhaps you just need to get used to being called an adult, and being expected to behave like one. If you do not know how to, I must teach you.”

Without warning, the bell rang. The students packed up their books and hurried to lunch. Mark had not managed to set the class into line yet, but he had made one small step in the right direction.

It is theorised that the John starring in the Classic portion of the writings is in some way related to John the Mighty, as they exhibit many of the same behavioural characteristics, such as arrogance and a disrespect for the sanctity of life. However, like the origins of Tolkien's mithril, we may never know the truth of the matter should the opportunity to commune with Agent Knight never again present itself.

Until next time,
Nova Invicta

A chance for titled normalcy, perhaps

Hail, friends. Unlike my previous blog entries, the purpose of this one is certainly less noble than what has come to be considered the norm among my adherents. It is, in brevity (not one of my more notable characteristics, perhaps), an introduction.

I am, as my readership knows me as, Nova Invicta, author of the Horrible Gelatinous Blog. Only one part of the glorious quartet of minds that were chosen as Administrators for this browser-based insight into the minds of the disturbed. Inexplicably, last night as I lay outside contemplating the structure of a silver atom, a shining sword streaked downwards from the heavens, bound for my face. I rolled aside, but not before the white-hot blade had, from its tremendous radiating heat, seared the word MANTLE into my cheek. I thought this a logical occurance, given the aforementioned heat, but later I realised that instead of giving a mirror image, like the embossed letters should have, the brand was perfectly legible...

I took a closer look at the sword, and, sure enough, embossed on the blade was the legend "MANTLE ADMINISTRATOR". The mild surprise shocked me like a small electrical discharge. Here was another Sword of Moderating, to replace the one lost months ago, when the Snitz shed its skin and reincarnated so that a new generation of Moderaters could rise from the rich alluvial soil of INT.

But wait, this was no SpamSlayer! 'Twas a Dirk of Administration, with shorter blade and a more ornate, inlaid hilt. A ceremonial weapon for the most part, made for the combat of comments, not posts. With good reason, too, for who would wish to do battle against their fellow contributors and friends?

Its friction-fuelled fires now quenched by the chill night air, I reverently took the freshly-forged weapon. I was a Moderator no longer, and those days of Snitz are behind me now, but I am honoured to Administrate this Mantle.

Hmm. Despite this purporting to be a brief introduction, it seems that I could do little to check the tides of my own creativity. Perhaps I do have the power to forcibly delete sections of my posts, but somehow I cannot see that happening.

Until next time, I take my (mantle-related) leave.

I like Beck

There is a swear filter on this thing, and it's annoying. I can't say **** or **** or even ****. How can I write an entry without saying ****? That's ****ed up. Apparently I'm the only one that had a problem with it.

I'm writing this entry for one reason and one reason only: Gunther, Jamie's duplicate account. God, seriously, that's taking things too far. Let me explain. I have a knack of picking out the flaws in teachers and venting my frustrations. One teacher that is rumoured to be... not exactly friendly (although incredibly intelligent) is Mr. Uhllman. After having a chuckle at his odd name, I decided to google it up. I discovered a scientist whose name was indeed "Gunther Uhlmann." I attached another joke to that, resulting in "Zerginböch Gunther Uhlmann," the most brilliant name for a human being ever. This became a nice in-joke that would pop up every so often (okay, in every conversation). And Jamie, who had no involvement in the joke, has stolen it to make another account. Agh.

And that's not it, he's gone around spamming blogs and attempting to copy another brilliant joke, Newton's timeless conversation with himself (WHY DID I DELETE IT?). Jamie, please. You're a great guy and a good friend but this is not funny at all, just irritating.

KNIGHT OUT!