CONCERT OF THE SUBLIME: PART I OF II


CONCERT OF THE SUBLIME:
PART I of II
jungle.jpg


Standing at the library room window of the former Patton Estate (formerly the Jansen Estate), Chuck Oswald listened to the thunder roll outside as he clutched his newborn baby boy, Emmanuel, in his arms. Unknown to the Supreme Chief of the Office of Racial and Religious Affairs, his father-in-law Joe Steele, the President of the nation, the Atheling of the Manifest Destiny Party, was breathing his last not so many miles away. Emmanuel would never know his grandfather.

Wyetta, garbed in a white gown and still looking exhausted from her recent childbirth, entered the library. "Charles, would you care for a warm glass of milk? I thought I'd have the help prepare some. Storms like this always give me such a frightful time trying to sleep. I can put Emmanuel to bed in the nursery if you'd like."

Charles, shirtless and wartime scars plainly visible, newborn son at his chest, cut an image of a Pinnacle Man, a Pinnacle Man who would soon be sworn in as President of the Republican Union. "I'm fine. Go along to bed. I'll be there shortly. A warrior prince needs to listen to the storm and not cry or whimper. No son of mine will be afraid of a storm."

"I do hope he's not scared, Charles. He's basically a little puppy and he doesn't understand a storm or, well, anything really. Of course he'll cry. It's normal."

Chuck turned around to face her, as if to show the calm, unbothered expression resting on their infant's face. "He loves it. Just as he will one day love the roar of the crowds and the blasts of artillery and grinders. A tiny, perfect, little Pinnacle Prince. Now go along, as I said, I'll be to bed shortly. I'll put Emmanuel to bed. You needn't worry about either of us."

"All right, dear. I love you. Both of you."

Chuck nodded, his recently showered mop of wavy brown hair bobbing down onto his eyebrows before turning back around to gaze outside. Emmanuel cooed. "That's right, my boy. Emmanuel Oswald fears no storm," Chuck whispered, allowing the chubby little fingers to clutch at one of his own. "You know, son, a wise guy once told me, 'Every time it thunders, you are hearing a war in Heaven. I wonder who is winning today? Quite frankly, I'm ready for another bastard to have a go at the wheel.'"

A cavalcade of thunder let loose once more and lightning struck a far off steeple's rod. Oswald smiled. "Right on cue! Listen to it, son. It's like a concert of the sublime. Chaos produces sounds more beautiful than any composer. Just like you, Emmanuel. If anyone can be said to be a product of perfect chaos, it's you, little one. Your father is an Infee passer, and your mother is the daughter of the Jev-damn President. I shouldn't still be alive. Neither should you, kid. I'm a hurricane, and you are the eye. Together, we will be unstoppable. Your mother said, 'Both of you," a minute ago. Both of me. Both of you. You and I, me and thee, are the same, kid. We will rule the world. Together!"

The "wise guy" who told Chuck his line about "war in Heaven" was a key sculptor of his personality and worldview. As he stood and listened to the storm, he thought back to his old friend. With another flash that lit up the Philadelphia skyline, Chuck remembered it all. Charles Oswald was back in the jungle....

***

Chuck Oswald listened to the patter of raindrops against the jungle canopy. His whole body was covered in mud. In the thick of the wilderness, the only visible part of him were the whites of his eyes as they shone when a blast of lightning crackled in the night sky overhead. In his hands he held a drum-fed Colombian Fuego-34. His boots were Brazilian in origin and his pants were Peruvian. He wore no shirt, just the same brown grime and muck which he wore on his face to camouflage himself. The only thing that stood out as recognizably American was the rusting Navy cutlass strapped to his back. He and his best friend and shipmate, Reginald "Lazarus" Hubbard and taken it from Hubbard's father's corpse when the fled the wreckage of the battleship R.U.S. Cape Cod, following its destruction by Neutie warships. The two men vowed to present the saber to President Steele, if and when they could ever return to America.

For over eight months, the twenty-odd survivors--many of which Oswald personally saved from a watery grave by swimming with their shirts clenched in his teeth--had been lost behind Neutie lines, running and gunning as they went, nursing their wounds, and burying about half their number. They had developed a reputation as the "Demons of the Jungle," striking out at targets civilian and military before diving back into the heart of darkness to evade capture, and then doing it over and over again. They were far, far from American lines and to stay along the coast was suicide, as the Neutie coasts were where most of their troops were. So into the black jungle they went, deeper and deeper every day. Bridges were blown, trees cut down, depots set alight. About two-hundred miles northwest, the American legions were on the attack every day, deploying Black Bliss defoliant that sent wafting tufts of black death high into the atmosphere like little storm clouds on the distant horizon.

But right now, in the blackest part of this particular stormy night, the ten remaining sailors in Oswald's group of castaways stood along the treeline with bated breath, watching the laborers at a cannery factory prepare to leave for the night. In Spanish, which several of the Americans were quickly learning to understand, the foreman thanked the clocked-out workers for their service to the country, working for half-pay to produce tinned rations to feed the soldiers at the front.

"Chuck," whispered Lazarus Hubbard, who stood motionless next to Oswald, clutching a set of Brazilian-made service pistols, "We doing this thing?"

"Gotta make sure there aren't any guards. They have been stationing more at soft targets like this because they are sick of our bullshit. We have to bide our time, Laz."

Shrugging and motioning as if he was about to blast one of his sidearms at the civilians, Hubbard asked, "What would Zap Zephyr do, Chuck? If he were here right now?"

Oswald raised a muddy eyebrow. "What?"

"Do you think Zap Zephyr would be afraid of facing a few fat old men or boys too young to go to the front?" Hubbard asked,

"Well, no. But he'd still think things through, Laz-"

"-Well, Skip Hancock would charge his ass down there and disable that factory with extreme prejudice!" Hubbard boasted, referring to Zap Zephyr's first mate in his comic-book voyages through the stars. Without another word or argument, Hubbard sprang forward and out into the open field by the factory, rain soaking into his applied mud camouflage. Before anyone knew what was happening, Hubbard marched boldly up to the workers, who began cursing and shouting in Spanish, and started opening fire. One old man hit the ground, screaming as a bullet hit his gut. Another, younger man's head had turned into a mist of red as the bullet exploded into his right eye-socket.

With no choice but to start their attack, the American boys charged out, guns blazing, cannery laborers falling like flies and scurrying for cover behind parked trucks and wagons. As an overweight security guard with an impressive black mustache drew his own pistol and aimed it at Hubbard, Oswald opened up with his Fuego-34, sending bullets into the man's torso and neck like a sewing machine at full speed.

As the massacre continued all around, Seaman Jeffrey Goldberg, a young Jewish kid from New York, rang alongside Oswald as they closed the distance to the factory doors. The boy of about 17 years carried a satchel with high explosives looted from a previous supply depot raid, and he patted it wordlessly as they ran, as if to ask Oswald if he should prep a bomb to blow up the cannery.

"No!" shouted Oswald breathlessly before opening up with another well-aimed blast of grinder-fire. "No, we need to gather supplies first. They should have medical supplies or first aid kits and we'll load up a truck with cans! Now, take some hostages! I don't want all of them dead!"

Over the next few minutes of animalistic cries and gunfire, most of the cannery workers were slain. Three of the "lucky" survivors were hogtied by a black Southron boy from Lewisiana named Thaddeus Smock, who was the muscle of Oswald's ragtag group of jungle demons. Smock and another man carried the Colombians inside the front doors of the factory and threw them, weeping and screaming, into a corner of the entrance foyer while the other men searched the bodies for anything useful, finding mostly a few pesos and a lot of pocket lint in the corpses' khakis, dungarees, and overalls. Oswald ordered the bodies to be lined up perfectly at the entrance as a scare tactic, one of their trademarks. As they spread through the small factory, they took leather bags and began to fill them with canned pasta and chicken, as well as greedily lapping up water and refilling at a wash station sink.

Just as the raid seemed to be a smashing success and they were about to leave, Oswald bent down over one of the blubbering hostages and smacked the man in the shoulder with the butt of his grinder. "Dile a tu gente que los demonios yanquis llevaron a tus amigos al infierno," Oswald said in a bad Spanish that would have been amusing if it wasn't so terrifying a phrase and situation. "Tell your people the Yankee devils took your friends to hell."

Just at that moment, at the same time a peel of thunder shook the earth, a nearby window shattered, sending glass flying. Goldberg hit the ground, eyes shocked and confused, a stream of red pulsing out of his neck. Within seconds, he was gone.

"Goldberg's down!" cried Smock, scrambling to the ground. Before everyone realized what was going on, more bullets came spraying through the windows and walls of the cannery foyer. Another American seaman, named James Randolph, let out a pained cry as he grabbed a fresh bullet wound on his left arms.

Doing a painful crawl over the many shards of cheap broken glass, Oswald made it to just under the windowsill, poking his head up slightly to look out. Outside, Colombian military trucks were pulling up, loaded with scarlet-coated members of the local police. A rusty old Great World War belt-fed gun was responsible for the hail of death currently splattering the cannery. "They were expecting us, Laz! You think Hancock would fall into a trap?!"

"Fuck you, Chuck! What are we gonna do!" Hubbard yelled the words as he tipped a nearby table over for extra protection.

"Let them know we have hostages! We'll leave out the back and release them when we get to the treeline!" Oswald replied as he checked his gun's drum magazine.

Another seaman, Godfear Thomas, came sprinting from the back area of the cannery and slammed himself next to Hubbard behind the table. "We got Neuties out back too, fellas! We're Jev-damn surrounded, boys!"

Oswald crawled like a muddy, slender spider over to the corpse of the young Jewish explosives expert, using a bootknife to cut the straps on the explosives bag. Finding several grenades and a few sticks of dynamite inside, his mind began to formulate a plan. Within a few moments, he had laced the front wall of the foyer with bomb. "We're gonna go out the front after we blow it to hell! They won't expect it! I'll throw a grenade at that grinder truck first, and then we'll blow this whole fuckin' wall off! You guys read me? So back the fuck away!"

No one could have predicted how Oswald would plant the explosives. He pulled the hogtied hostages up to just under the front windowsills and shoved sticks of dynamite into their mouths as they screamed and pleaded. Hearing their muffled cries, the grinder fell silent outside. Oswald grasped a Brazilian stick grenade, pulled the pin, and in one swift motion stood up and flicked it out the shattered window that had claimed Goldberg. "Mazel tov, you sonsabitches!" he cried as it flew true and came to rest just in front of the grill of the grinder truck. Policemen went running like jackrabbits when they realized what was happening. In a blinding flash, the truck's front end became an enormous pipe-bomb, sending flames and shrapnel flying in all directions. The gunner up top went flying back about ten feet, his body shredded by hunks of steel. Ammunition inside the truck began to cook off, further peppering the dazed and terrified law officers who cried out for Mother Mary to protect them in their native tongue.

In another blinding flash that partially deafened the Americans, the hostage-bombs went off like tubes of sausage stuffed with gunpowder, sending the rusty sheet metal and brick front wall toppling to the ground. The Americans sprayed gunfire liberally in all directions as they charged out of the wreckage and through the black smoke. Policemen tried to return fire with sidearms and shotguns, but it was such a nightmare that few shots made it even close. One officer with a thick black beard a flat rounders-style cap charged up to Oswald and swung his pump-action like a club, smacking Chuck's back, right on the injuries he was still recovering from from the shipwreck. Oswald tumbled to the ground, the air sucked out of his lungs and stars dancing before his eyes. Just as the officer prepared to smash the shotgun's butt down on the future President's head, a well-aimed pistol shot from Hubbard sent the Colombian flying back, clutching his shoulder.

"Do you think Zap would forgive Skip for fucking up if he just saved his ass, Chuck?!" Hubbard said joylessly as he pulled their leader to his feet and shoved the dazed man on.

"You fucking sombrero, jawla-penyo-munchin' motherfucker!" screamed Chuck, shoving Hubbard off and turning around to face the wounded attacker on the ground behind them. He raised his grinder and riddled the man with bullets before Hubbard dragged him along once more, both blasting in all directions as they sped down the jungle road.

To the Americans' collective dismay, they noticed headlights advancing toward them from down the road. It was more police from the nearby village. Thinking it might very well be the end of the line, Chuck and Hubbard shot each other knowing looks as they dove into the treeline. Flashlights and lanterns were speeding through the jungle trees. There were at least thirty. There was no way they were going to shake this many. This was the worst situation they had been in since the sinking of the Cape Cod.

"I guess I'll see you in hell, Chuck!" yelled Smock from behind a cluster of rocks and foliage. "It's been an honor, sir!"

Chuck Oswald whipped around to see a policeman leveling his pistol just inches away from his face. Thinking fast, he dove at the man, sending him hurtling backward and the shot into the air just inches above Chuck's hair. Drawing the cutlass from its scabbard on his back, the future President took the rusty blade and shoved it into the chest of the Colombian. Ripping it out and holding the bloody sword overhead like a Spartan king, the young man ordered, "Gather around me! We die like men! This is it, boys!"

As the howls and fierce barks of attack dogs and the shouts of police grew closer, many of the remaining Yankees muttered prayers to their mysterious Jev, the cosmic deity that had once supposedly been the same Jehovah of the Christian Bible, but who was now the patron deity of violence and hatred. As the foreign foes poured out of the thick foliage all around, the Americans opened up a fearful barrage of bullets and oaths. Seaman Thomas fell to the earth, his lower body peppered with buckshot, blood gurgling out from his lips. Smock stood up tall from behind his cover and opened up with his own Fuego-34, killing the man who shot Thomas.

Everything seemed to go into slow motion. Every time Chuck stood up from his cover and squeezed the trigger, it was like time crawled. He could see the path of bullets whizzing all about. He could hear the cries of fear and rage from men on both sides, as well the gurgling, wet, pained squelches of the dying and wounded. A scrawny, malnourished attack dog bolted at him, to be met with the blunt edge of the cutlass, sending it whimpering and scampering back into the darkness. A Policeman came from behind, his berserk shouting giving away his position. Chuck turned just in time to see the man unintentionally run himself directly onto the outstretched sword. It was a warrior's death for Chuck Oswald. He saw visions of his short life, all the peaks and lows. All the transcendent highs. But in this moment, surrounded by the bodies of his enemies, facing death with no fear, Chuck could only hear the chaos around him and love it. It was more beautiful than any concert hall piece. It was like painting a masterpiece with the blood of enemies who had no idea who they were facing. Evil, the devil incarnate, Oswald the Despoiler, stood tall, rejecting his cover, as the enemies' bullets whizzed all around him. The Beast of America, on a meeting with destiny that would not allow him to die this day, flicked his rusty sword through the air, lopping off the arm of a poorly-trained, skinny young kid too young to go to the front. What would have been seen as fortunate and safe became a showdown with Lucifer, the God of Chaos, a devil of a man fighting like a man possessed. The sound of the Hispanic kid whimpering on the ground was cut short by a blast of grinder fire from Smock, again downing another cop. This was it. The concert of the sublime. Chuck Oswald had entered his own nirvana.

A bullet smacked into his right thigh, sending him tumbling down to his knees. He couldn't even feel it, though. Chuck simply raised his rifle and blasted away into the heart of darkness again. The barrel was near red-hot. Casings littered the jungle floor. Headlights and spotlights from nearby trucks became blinding. Smock went down, his head blown from its shoulders by a shotgun blast. Hubbard ran out of ammo for his pistols and grabbed the fallen Southron's Fuego and kept up the fight, his left leg oozing red. This should have been the final moments of Chuck Oswald. No one should have survived this, let alone go home, marry a President's daughter, and then become the damn President. No one.

The spotlights suddenly shot upward, toward the sky. Screams of panicking police were drowned out by the sound of gunfire from high atop the canopy. Could it be a plane? American fighters on a sortie? Cokie gunships in way too deep?

And then a new noise joined the concert of the sublime. A sputtering, chopping, peculiar noise that Chuck recognized from attending a circus a few years prior. It couldn't be! But it was! As the drops of rain were joined by automatic grinder casings falling to earth, a gap in the canopy revealed a strange-looking craft with a glass bubble up front and four massive whirling blades up top. On the side of the airborne vessel was a cartoon logo of a kangaroo wearing two red boxing gloves. On its head was a propeller beanie. Men stood on the small transport area behind the bubble, blasting away with grinders, sending the cops scurrying in all directions. Another identical craft--Chuck could hear several now--carried several more gunners wearing pinned-brim hats, and these men were hurling pineapple grenades out the side. One of the military surplus vehicles the police were using detonated in a ball of fire. "Yeet!" cried the crewmen of the strange vehicles as they buzzed overhead. Oswald knew that battle-cry and accent anywhere. There was something odd, though, about them. It seemed as if their faces looked bizarrely weathered and stiff, emotionless, their eyes sunken.

In their little bit of clearing, Oswald and his surviving men watched the first contraption touch down just a few feet away. The amount of wind produced was staggering, sending leaves and debris flying everywhere. A man wearing khaki shorts and shirt, brown boots, and a pinned-brim bush hat greeted Oswald and his men. "Quite the ballyhoo, innit, mates? We heard tell through Infee comm chatta that the po-po was lookin' for some mangy bodgers out doin' warcrimes and shit, alright? Figgered we might as well join the tea party once we saw the explosions and shit, yeah? Captain Stanley Morgan, Australian Republican Kanga Volunteer Fly Corps, at your service, mates. Folks call us Morgan's Flyin' Cirus. You yobbos need a ride outta this shithole?"

The man was talking but his mouth was not moving. As time became time again and Chuck came back to reality, he would have felt glad. But instead he asked a question.

"Is... Is that a flayed fucking face on your... face?"

The Australian laughed and pulled a leathery mask down to his chin. "Fooled ya! Hah! Not even the biggest big-boulder Pinnie deckhole in Aussie would have the guts and nuts to wear a fuckin' face. Gen-yew-ine sheepskin, that! But you get the effect, don't ya, mate?! Works like a spiffy in a jiffy to strike some fear and piss into the Infee bodgers, donnit? Now, unless you enjoy gettin' eaten by panthers or whatever the hell else is gonna be sniffin' and smiffin' all this blood and shit, I'd recommend lettin' me ferry you away from your current pre-deck-a-ment. Your chariot awaits, gentlemen."

"What the hell is that thing?" Hubbard groaned, clutching his leg, feeling the pain now from his own wound.

Oswald answered for the Australians. "It's a whirlygig. Experimental shit I've seen at airshows before. Get on and let's get the hell out of here, we'll talk about the newest issue of Popular Technicanics later."

Morgan extended a hand and pulled Chuck onboard and tossed him a tourniquet to get his thigh wound under control, and the same for Hubbard. As the craft took off with its passengers and another swooped in for the other three remaining Americans, Morgan told Oswald, "You know, I invented these bastards! Buncha nods at the big corps told me these clankers of mine are too dangerous for use. So I volunteered to come out here and prove they are worth a bloody deuce, right, yeah? Your gov promised land and soil for every Kanga who came out here and fought for yas. So when this big Manifest dust-up ends, I'm gonna live in luxury and have a thousand conquered Infee laborers assemblin' my 'gigs on my own South American New Aussieland plantation. But now here we be! Nice to meet you lot of callywumps! We know all about you from the talkieboxie chatta. These Spaniards hate the livin' fuckers outta ya, lemme tell ya! Say you lot are demons from hell an' shit."

From the cockpit, a young Australian pilot with a mock-human leather face turned about to say, "Good-ace work back there, mates! You lot are boosin-boosin, on God, yeah!"

"... What?" Oswald asked, barely understanding a single word his Anglo-Saxon brothers from other mothers were using. Right at that moment, a massive bolt of lightning lit up the sky, setting fire to a tree they were flying right over dead ahead.

"Holy Jev! That was close!" cried Hubbard, his face pale and eyes wide.

Morgan laughed heartily, almost maniacally. "It just lets ya know you're alive when you come that close to dyin'! A storm like this is a beautiful sight. Rare-ace back home in the duster. I bet you feel pretty fine-ace 'bout survivin' that little kerfuffle a min ago, don't ya? Same shit!"

Chuck realized he liked this man. The whirlybird listed to the left side, sending casings and gear sliding across the metal floor as it narrowly dodged a slightly taller tree. "I get where you are coming from, Captain! I'm Ensign Charles Oswald, R.U.S. Cape Cod, sunk. Navy Group V, Republican Union."

"Outta Halifax, yeah? Wait!" A look of realization spread across the Captain's face. His actual face, not the flayed one. "Ain't you the bodger what's a-courtin' Joe Steele's daughter? Blimey fuck, it is, innit! You didn't have to be here. Why the bloody fuck did you come here?"

"Let's you know you're alive, I suppose," Chuck replied, using Morgan's own turn of phrase.

Smiling a gap-toothed grin, the Australian said, "I like you, son! You got piss and the devil in you, and I am here for it, on God." Even over the near-deafening noise of the vehicle's filthy engine, the loudest thunder Chuck had ever heard shook them in their chests. Another lightning bolt set a distance cluster of trees on fire. "Must be a war in heaven, right now. I wonder who is winnin'? Might do well to give someone else a turn at the ol' wheelie, right, yeah?"

Hubbard finished tightening his tourniquet, looked over at him, grinned, and replied, "The Yankees are winning. eight to nothing. Bottom of the ninth."

Morgan laughed and tossed Hubbard and Oswald a bottle of some sort of Colombian booze from a storage hatch. The Flying Circus sped on into the night.
 
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For reference, when thinking of the Brazilian Fuego guns, just think of a variant slightly dieselpunky PPSH.

Also, the Australian pidgin is some of the most hilarious shit to read aloud. You guys asked for Australian lore. You are about to find out they have become a truly bizarre branch of the Anglo-Saxon sphere. I'm using real Aussie slang, and also making up shit that I think is amusing or fitting. This chapter is a prime example, I think, of how I have become better over the years at mixing the doomsday apocalyptica with the surrealist black humor I love from things like Dr. Strangelove, Men Who Stare at Goats, Apocalypse Now, Death of Stalin, etc. At least I think so. You're free to think it's shit, as well. lol It's the style I always wanted, but never knew how to tack down. I think I am finally figuring it all out.
 
More Australian lore? Well, that's really interesting. Their language is kinda weird but at the same time fun, I think it adds more depth to TTL's worldbuilding.
 
For reference, when thinking of the Brazilian Fuego guns, just think of a variant slightly dieselpunky PPSH.

Also, the Australian pidgin is some of the most hilarious shit to read aloud. You guys asked for Australian lore. You are about to find out they have become a truly bizarre branch of the Anglo-Saxon sphere. I'm using real Aussie slang, and also making up shit that I think is amusing or fitting. This chapter is a prime example, I think, of how I have become better over the years at mixing the doomsday apocalyptica with the surrealist black humor I love from things like Dr. Strangelove, Men Who Stare at Goats, Apocalypse Now, Death of Stalin, etc. At least I think so. You're free to think it's shit, as well. lol It's the style I always wanted, but never knew how to tack down. I think I am finally figuring it all out.
BOOSIN BOOSIN ON GOD
 
striking out at targets civilian and military before diving back into the heart of darkness to evade capture, and then doing it over and over again
In light of the insurgencies he'll spend his presidency trying to put down, that is strikingly ironic.

Anglo-Saxon brothers from other mothers
Meaning they're cousins or half siblings... and if the second, who's the father?
"The Yankees are winning. eight to nothing. Bottom of the ninth."
Good line. Though after that business with the canal and the sootstorms I might make it eight to two.
it's the style I always wanted, but never knew how to tack down.
Your writing has improved a lot since 1.0, at least in my humble opinion
 
Back in the "catching up: the league of nations" chapter, it said that Nixon rescued Chuck and not Australians. Was that retconned?

To quote Heath Ledger:

"It's all... Part of the plan."

Also, we're only at eight months into Oswald's time being shipwrecked. He was down there for like, a couple years. So something happens.
 
To quote Heath Ledger:

"It's all... Part of the plan."

Also, we're only at eight months into Oswald's time being shipwrecked. He was down there for like, a couple years. So something happens.
Speaking of the Amazon…have you ever heard of Neom? You should check out the discussion in the Discord, I think it would be great inspiration for Oswaldia. Imagine Oswald builds the city of Fluidopolis as a giant unsustainable monument to the Pinnacle Future he plans, which is never finished and quickly collapses into ruin and is abandoned to the enroaching jungle as soon as he’s out of power.
 
Speaking of the Amazon…have you ever heard of Neom? You should check out the discussion in the Discord, I think it would be great inspiration for Oswaldia. Imagine Oswald builds the city of Fluidopolis as a giant unsustainable monument to the Pinnacle Future he plans, which is never finished and quickly collapses into ruin and is abandoned to the enroaching jungle as soon as he’s out of power.

I have not, but it sounds like it takes inspiration from my inspiration for my Oswaldia ideas: Fordlandia.
 
I have not, but it sounds like it takes inspiration from my inspiration for my Oswaldia ideas: Fordlandia.
Oooh, nice name. Neom is a real Saudi mega project planned by Muhammad Bin Salman (who is a huge megalomaniac as I’m sure you know). They want it to be 33 times the size of New York (and are engaging in ethnic cleansing to have it built).





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You do not see a Giant Wall of Soot.

Honestly Saudi Arabia reminds me a lot of NUSA and MBS specifically reminds me a lot of Oswald, especially with his absolute megalomania and image as a “reformer” who is really just a narcissist and megalomaniac trying to rebuild the country in his own equally dictatorial vision.
 
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