“Toolbox Murders” – Inspiration for the Nuclear Powered Combat Chainsaw

This pathetic little plastic toy chainsaw, a relic of a brief period of "kinder, gentler" weapons, could not even cut through a warm stick of butter. Properly "scaled up" , though, it inspired the Nuclear Powered Combat Chainsaw, capable of cutting a Main Battle Tank in two with one lazy stroke.

1) upgrade the bar from under 2 inches to 8 feet

2) upgrade the cutting teeth to 5-inch razor sharp "shark teeth" fabricated from diamond dust coated titanium carbide

3) upgrade the spring motor to a computer controlled high torque electronically commutated 12-phase electric motor powered by a 100 megawatt portable nuclear reactor

4) offset alternate cutting teeth laterally to maximize cherf removal rate

5) add piezo-electric actuators to vibrate the teeth sideways to prevent seizing and stalling

After these simple upgrades you have a saw that is capable of producing more than "minor temporary inconvenience". Featured in the upcoming motion picture "Blood Bath Beach Meatcleaver Machete Toolbox Murder Chainsaw Massacre: A Love Story".

"Who will survive and what will be left of them?"

"You can’t take it any more.
The arms are spinning on the floor.
That’s what the chainsaw massacre
………………………………………..is for"

(As performed by me in a hotel lobby in Seville, Spain on New Years Eve 1988 along with appropriate insane cannibal mass murderer gestures.)

Added December 2013 — the performance was 25 years ago today!!

Posted by ramalama_22 on 2012-10-23 00:02:22

Tagged: , Nuclear , Powered , Combat , chainsaw , pathetic , plastic , toy , kinder , gentler , weapon , warm , stick , butter , Main , Battle , Tank , razor , sharp , shark , teeth , diamond , dust , coated , titanium , carbide , computer , controlled , high , torque , electronically , commutated , electric , motor , 100 , megawatt , portable , reactor , cherf , removal , rate , piezo-electric , actuator , vibrate , minor , temporary , inconvenience , upcomin , motion , picture , blood , bath , beach , meatcleaver , machete , massacre , love , story , toolbox , murder , MBT , arms , armament , war , violence

THE FALL AND RISE OF BOOKWORM JANE

THE FALL AND RISE OF BOOKWORM JANE

.

The first sounds to enter Jane’s ears as she awoke, were those of the waves crashing against the shoreline of neatly peppered rocks to her left. Bleary eyelids fluttered and fought with the seductive forces of gravity as a stream of light brought her rapidly to a state of consciousness, and with it a painful sensation that crept up her body like mutant ivy strands twisting and wrapping themselves around her very sinews. Somewhat disorientated and perturbed at being pulled forcibly from the pleasures of a dream that involved falling down a dark shaft directly into the arms of none other than George Clooney, suitably attired in a white tux with distinguished speckled grey hair and a charming grin, and a vice like grip that brought both reassurance and a strange sensation in her loins, slowly Jane realized that the aforementioned was merely a dream and that reality was about to slap her in the face like a wet halibut to warm flesh.

Adrenalin kicked in and she felt the pace and beat of her heart increasing as the pain seared with menace and relentless brutality through her limbs. It was all she could do to stop herself screaming, but she knew it would give him such sweet delight to hear her do so and she was not about to give in to his vindictive whims. In her mind she saw that Jackal and Hyde face, so indelibly etched upon her memory. How could one forget such charming characteristics, which had swept her willingly off her feet yet which belied such a blackened heart devoid of compassion or love.

It was obvious that her right ankle was broken, perhaps a rib or two as well as with her right hand, she slowly traced the contours of her body, noticing the numbness in places and the agony that rippled through her side as her fingers delicate caressed her upper right thigh downwards. Eyes still scrabbling for clarity of detail, she fumbled in the soft granules of sand beside her until her fingers fell upon the contours of her spectacles which she held up to the light against the cloudy skyscape high above her prone body. The glasses seemed still to be intact, with the left glass shattered like a starfish shape and the right arm wildly bent in a jaunty angle downwards from it’s true position. Dusting off the residue sand that had clung like limpets to the metallic form, she placed the glasses onto the bridge of her nose, pushing them into position with her right index finger and attempting to squint through the broken glass piece which gave the world a curiously odd perspective. Now she could make out the detail in the rock face directly overhead, from where she had been so unceremoniously dumped by callous hands and mind filled with evil intent.

Pain residing somewhat as the endorphins soothed and bathed her brain, now her thoughts turned to concern, perhaps fear as she realized that he was somewhere in close proximity, possibly watching her every move, maybe making his way down the rock face to finish her off via a less circuitous route than the option she was given no choice but to take. Jane pushed her head back into the sand until her forehead was level with the horizon directly behind her, eyes able to stare up and beyond ascertaining that he had not yet arrived from his descent. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she felt the pulsing pain in her skull, eyes scrunching up in a tight ball as she yelped. Thoughts of dragging herself outwards to the open shoreline and screaming for help, just like the end of a chapter from "Black heart" that she had read recently on the recommendations of a girl friend, soon evaporated as she recalled that the charcater in the story had also been shot and died alone and pitifully where he lay! She let out an audible gasp as her eyes opened reticently upon the full impact of her injuries. A shock wave raced through her body and she instantly felt an ice cold sensation grip her throat and forehead, a desire to vomit as her eyes picked out the details in the bone fragments peeking from her right ankle like the bones of a fallen desert creature picked clean by scavenging buzzards. The right ankle was no more. Ripped and torn, smashed into fragments with blood pooled beside her body like some colourful mosaic in the golden sands. If it were a motion blockbuster from Hollywoods precotious producers, she would marvel at the computer generated graphics of her crushed bones and mangled flesh, but this was the real deal and not a cause in any way for delirium or applause.

In her mind, Jane relived the memories of the events leading to her unfortunate situation, how she had reported him to the local Police and their futile attempts to place restraining orders upon a violent psychopath. That fateful meeting at Laura’s twenty first birthday bash in Joey’s bar and grill, and the excitement that entered her life as a tall dark stranger made her acquaintance and offered a world of possibilities on happy horizons. It was almost funny now, she felt, pondering how desperation, loneliness and a hundrum existence enlightened only briefly by the company of musty first editions and two demonstrative felines have the capacity to blind an impressionable girl to the false promise of love that a stranger on the scene can offer the weak of heart and mind. But Jane wasn’t laughing now as she realized the hopelessness of her predicament.

From behind she could hear the sound of bramble being pushed aside from the descending footpath behind and to her right at the side of the cliff face. Perhaps a passing resident out for a stroll with their beloved pooch, a jogger perhaps, an early morning photographer looking to set up his equipment to catch those early morning hues from the golden hour around sunrise. Jane used all of her strength to pull her smashed ankle slowly to her right, pushing on her buttocks and swivelling all the while in agony, tears streaming down her pale cheeks until she was up against the rock face, back arched and eyes facing forwards into the clearing with the sea out in front of her. Seated in her own blood, flesh pressing down on tiny splinters of shattered bone distributed in the fall, she swallowed hard and fought the pain with determination and grit. She was about to summon her strength and call for help, when he came into view from the left of the rock face.

Eyes darting about, Jane scooped up a large rock to her right, and a pointed piece of driftwood that was long enough perhaps to defend herself. Those eyes pierced her soul, dark and menacing as he came a few steps closer and smiled with a sickening mischief that filled Jane with fear and loathing. Why had the Police been so powerless in her defence, offering nothing more than cups of luke warm tea and words of hollow comfort? Why had she been so stubborn in refusing to give in to the inevitable and move back in with her parents down in Dorset? It all seemed so crystal clear now to her, as she watched his footsteps growing ever closer, the memory of his breath in her ear as he had held her by the throat and blamed her for the mess he was in just before pushing her so ruthlessly from the top of the cliff. She even remembered the curious weightlessness of the fall before blacking out upon impact. Now she was alone and defenceless, powerless to defeat her foe as he grinned like the cat who got the cream, ever closer, ever more menacing through her broken spectacles.

Just a few feet from her battered limbs, he stopped and reached into his jacket pocket, right hand revealing the blade of a knife which glistened beneath the sunlight, like the harbinger of her demise it promised to be. An ironic smile formed upon Jane’s lips as she dropped the rock and piece of hopeful driftwood, submitting to the inevitability of the final assault which perhaps would free her once and for all from the turmoil and mayhem that had become her life. How life could change in an instant. Unable to defend herself, Jane at that moment felt strangely unafraid of her persuer, for the first time in tese last traumatic months. With nowhere left to hide and a distinct inabilty to run, she was defiant in her acceptance of fate and determined to give no satisfaction to him as he terminated her life. He moved in fast, dropping to his knees and grabbing her hair in his left hand, pulling her face up towards his own as his mouth formed into an angry snarl and he hurled abuse at her as the knife raised into the air. The pain was intense as strands of hairs were wrenched from her scalp, her eyes all the while studying the form of the vicious blade that reflected her features in the morning light. Adrenalin coursing through her veins with one last burst, her left hand grabbed the piece of pointed driftwood, and screaming at the top of her lungs, "Don’t you know in all the best Hollywood films, the bespectacled heroine always defeats her foe!", she thrust the wood directly into his throat, the jagged tip emerging through the back of his neck as he fell sideways, dropping the blade and clutching his throat as a river of rich ruby life force ebbed and flowed from his fatal wound. He flailed and kicked for a short while, eyes glazing over as he drew his last breath before his mouth settled in the sand and he breathed no longer.

Jane propped herself against the rock face once more, eyes looking out towards the horizon where the the waves rolled and crashed. Perhaps as the morning light came, she would be found and saved by a passer by, perhaps the returning tide would sweep her out to her demise. Perhaps this had all been one long and terrible dream from which she would suddenly awake. If this had been a Hollywood blockbuster, how the audience would have cheered and applauded at the conclusion…….

.

Written December 11th 2010
Photograph taken on October 28th at Botany Bay in Broadstairs, Kent, England at sunrise.

Nikon D700 14mm 1/25ths f/11.0 iso200
Nikkor AF-S 14-24mm f/2.8 G ED IF.

Posted by DESPITE STRAIGHT LINES on 2011-12-30 12:36:16

Tagged: , horror , abduction , terror , violence , stalker , attacker , heroine , girl , injured , injury , pain , salvation , ‘botany bay’ , broadstairs , kent , england , victim , nikon , D700 , seaside , rocks , cliffs , story , ‘#ilobsterit’

UNHCR News Story: Syrians in Jordan: preventing the most vulnerable from falling through the cracks

UNHCR News Story: Syrians in Jordan: preventing the most vulnerable from falling through the cracks

UNHCR community service worker Ameera Faraj tends to the emergency needs of refugees.
UNHCR / G. Beals / February 2013

Syrians in Jordan: preventing the most vulnerable from falling through the cracks

AMMAN, Jordan, March 7 (UNHCR) – It’s morning and a 70-year-old Syrian man stands outside the UNHCR building in Amman among hundreds of other asylum-seekers. His trousers are dirty. His black shoes, covered in dust, are falling apart. His hands shake uncontrollably, bouncing off his frayed coffee-coloured sweater. His 60-year-old wife helps to keep him standing. A hijab (veil) covers her head.

Heba Azazieh, a senior field associate, sees the couple. At first she thinks the man is suffering from the morning cold, but she soon learns that he’s shaking because of the terrible violence he has seen. "May God protect your ears from what we will tell you," the woman says.

She recalls that when the Syrian conflict began in March 2011 tanks rolled through the streets of their home city of Homs. Snipers set up position on rooftops, sending the old man into a fit of convulsive fear. Neighbours said it was not safe to stay and the couple fled, hoping to return in a few days. "We left with the clothes on our back," the old man tells the attentive Azazieh.

Their money was consumed in no time. Three days later, they called their neighbours who told them that armed men had taken over their home. Shells had obliterated the verandah. Everything was lost.

And now they’re in real need of help: the old man’s UNHCR registration papers are out of date; the local pharmacy will no longer provide him with the medicine that controls his shaking; and there is a problem accessing his monthly cash grant of US$140 from UNHCR. For some reason he can’t withdraw money using the ATM card he was given, and it is this cash that keeps them alive.

It’s a typical case for UNHCR’s Azazieh, who heads up a small response unit designed to listen and act on the emergency needs of refugees like the elderly couple. She quickly renews the man’s papers and calls an associate to deal with the bank problem. It may seem simple, but Azazieh and her professional, caring team are providing a vital service.

More than 360,000 Syrians have sought shelter in Jordan and many arrive desperate and in need of urgent medical, material and other assistance. Some, like the old couple, face fresh problems after arrival. UNHCR has supported Jordan in its efforts to coordinate the response to the Syrian crisis and has provided critical goods and services to the displaced.

But doing so is an immense challenge. As insecurity in Syria prevails, thousands of mostly women and children are fleeing to Jordan daily through official and unofficial crossing points. The majority of the exodus is dispersed across urban and rural communities.

Azazieh’s team helps those in need from all over the country. No appointment is necessary. Potential emergency cases are referred to the appropriate staff. The objective is to protect the most vulnerable from falling through the cracks. Some of those who do not receive regular assistance suffer from everything from serious medical conditions to sexual violence and exploitation.

On the day that Azazieh, who is Syrian-Jordanian, meets the old couple, there are about 500 other people waiting to be seen. Her job is to direct the flow of misery efficiently. "Cases that we would previously consider as the exception are becoming the norm," she says, gesturing to an area where refugees register. It is packed with older people and the sick as well as single mothers and their children.

Urgent cases are referred to UNHCR’s community services team. In the basement of the office, these refugees line up to speak in private with a team of specialists. Ameera Faraj, a community services worker, listens and tries to help as one family after another tell of how their world came to be broken.

In the small interviewing room, Faraj faces a 32-year-old woman with her five children, ranging in age from 10 years to seven months. Her five-year-old daughter has fallen in love with Faraj’s computer. Her mother tells her to stop being a nuisance, but Faraj is happy to see the little girl smile. "Don’t worry, darling," she says to the mother. "Your little girl is not a problem for me."

The woman and her children live off the US$6 per day that she earns collecting vegetables for local farmers. She lives in a makeshift shelter in the countryside. She has no cooking utensils. She arrived from Syria because she was afraid for the safety of her little ones.

Faraj looks at the youngest boy and her face suddenly turns serious. She examines his hands and feet. She stares at his sunken eyes. "This boy is malnourished," she says. "You need to take him to a health centre immediately." The woman quietly protests. "If I take him to the health centre, I will lose my day’s pay," the woman says. "I have five children to feed."

Faraj’s tone suddenly turns sharp. This is not a request. "You will take this child to a health centre so that he can receive treatment." she says "You will not save your son from Syria to lose him in Jordan." The woman is given emergency cash assistance to help cover her immediate needs. UNHCR field officers will soon visit her at her home to ensure that her children are going to school and that she is safe. Her eyes well up and she exhales.

The community services worker has no time to rest. As the woman leaves, a man in a wheelchair presses into the room. He too has nothing. He lives on the second floor of a building and must pull his body up the stairs. He needs to pay the rent and his daughter needs to go to school.

Faraj will see as many people as possible today. And when she goes home to her own family she will keep her telephone on. There are women at risk of sexual violence who know how to reach her. She could be needed again. This is the rhythm of her life in an emergency.

By Greg Beals in Amman, Jordan

Posted by UNHCR on 2013-03-08 09:35:44

Tagged: , middle east , jordan , syrian refugees , staff , women , counselling , monitoring , children , UNHCR , UN Refugee Agency , United Nations Refugee Agency , Amman , Syria , Conflict , emergency , refugees , refugee camp , asylum-seekers , violence , Homs , registration , shelter , assistance , aid , help , protection , urban refugees , border , arrival , gender based violence , sexual violence , News , News Story , information , ‘health , family , elder