Tuna Skull and Cloak and Dagger tactics

Dear Diary,
Three months on this ship and I'm already starting to show signs of lunacy. It pains me to consider questioning the integrity of the shifty-eyed gypsy who sold me our desalination pump in Kiev, though it may be wise to write a note instructing the maintenance crew to conduct a complete diagnostic to ensure our physical and mental well-being. Nevertheless, even with my flagging cognitive prowess, I'm confident the innate values and beliefs that form my spiritual core remain unshaken.

Contrary to what others say, I have a conscious. Yes I know what you've heard, but I'm here to set things straight. Several especially close-minded individuals on the council have made attempts to discredit the opinions I've recently formed toward some matters pertaining to Quelins on the baseless grounds that a man, namely me, cannot claim to possess a healthy moral compass while simultaneously harboring a belief in the genetic superiority of his own tribe.

Few except Eugene (aka Tuna Skull) have been willing to hear me out, though everyone knows Eugene's a Quelin-lover and is merely engineering a poor attempt to throw the rest of the council off his scent. Don't get me wrong; I appreciate his support, but sometimes I can't help but enjoy ribbing him about how he probably wouldn't think twice about mixing his seed with one of those fetid humanoids. I made a joke indicating as much in front of his wife at the spring officers' dinner and she glared at me with a facial expression immediately stricken by an almost irrepressible fury. It was soon gone of course just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with a conciliatory mask that belied her rage but reinforced an obvious truth. Unless you want to watch your husband impaled on the business end of my laser septor, don't fuck with High Priestess Terry Phelps.

Sincerely,
Terry Phelps

Through the Eyes of a Chinese Milkshake Machine

"I've killed many men in my time, but I have never slain wantonly or stained my hand in innocent blood, only in self-defense. The Almighty gave us our lives, and I suppose he meant us to defend them; at least I have always acted on that, and I hope it won't be brought up against me when the clock strikes."
-Allan Quartermain, from "King Solomon's Mines" by H. Rider Haggard.

Terry deployed our batallion at around 3pm. The sun, still perched prominent and oppressive in the sky, drenched my army-issued neck sweat-kerchief and moistened the grip on my rifle. Our charge was simple, flush out every grotto and fox hole in the Caucasus and plant depth charges in the entire string of mud volcanoes skirting the western edge of the Caspian, an area commonly known as The Womb among infantry.

These Qulins can be a nettlesome bunch, or so I've been instructed by my superiors. I've never seen one up close but if I'm doing my job right I shouldn't ever have to. Between the bunker busters, RTTs, and my rifle, all i know for sure about the Qulins is they run on two legs and sound much like men when they die. The promise of never having to put a bullet in anything less than 200 yards away was part of the reason I enlisted afterall. That's not to say the question of what I've been killing all these months hasn't ever sparked my curiosity. I will say this – if even a third of the rumors I've heard are true I don't mind going right on keeping my mouth shut and quietly pulling the trigger. The last thing I need is these so-called magic spores they release upon explosion settling in my eyes and lungs.

Introduction

i appear before you today, humbly girded in my finest knickers and satin spats, to carry out a charge passed on to me by an affable anthropomorphic panda I encountered in a dream last night. He commanded me, in between sips of warm caramel which he drew from a jewel-encrusted chalice, to pollinate your minds with my dementia and proselytize the gospel of the First Church of Mother Locust.

I regret to say I have no recourse but to comply with his wishes, as failure to do so would be tantamount to writing my own death sentence, a fate traditionally administered, in accordance with Church bylaws, as a fatal innoculation of liquid feces by High Priestess Terry Phelps.