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rabbitcruiser · 4 months ago

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World Coconut Day

Discover the tropical taste and versatility of this round, hairy fruit with a hard shell. From coconut water to oil, there's so much to love about them!

A popular fruit consumed around the world, the coconut is healthy and tasty, and it grows in tropical regions. World Coconut Day celebrates everything that has to do with this delicious and nutritious fruit!

History of World Coconut Day

Coconuts are a food that humans have found sustenance in for at least 2,000 years. Probably native to Indonesia, the name coconut translates to “walnut from India”. While coconuts would have traveled throughout the Indian subcontinent and even to Africa in the early years, they didn’t make it to Europe until some time around the 16th century.

It is likely that coconuts were introduced to Europeans through the Maritime Silk Road, which connected the East with the West. Marco Polo may have been one of the many travelers and explorers who would have brought coconuts back with them.

When the Asia Pacific Coconut Community (APCC) was founded in 1969, it was created in an attempt to help support and promote the tropical countries that are high in growing, producing, selling and exporting coconuts. Located in Jakarta, Indonesia, this group stays connected with the production and export of coconuts. Sharing scientific expertise and coordinating activities within the industry, the members of the APCC are responsible for the growth of more than 90% of the coconuts produced and sold all over the globe.

Founded in 2009, World Coconut Day was started by the Asia and Pacific Coconut Community to promote the activities of coconut growers while raising awareness about the fruit for those outside of the growing community.

The celebration of World Coconut Day offers plenty of opportunities for this important product of the Asia-Pacific region to enter into the forefront of conversation of people around the world!

World Coconut Day Timeline

1st Century BC

Coconuts are present in Indian subcontinent

Historical records from Sri Lanka show that coconuts existed before this time.

16th Century

Coconuts are introduced to Europe

Arriving as many exotic foods did, through the Maritime Silk Road, Europeans were exposed to coconuts through traders like Marco Polo.

1946

Almond Joy candy bar hits the scene

This candy bar combines the sweetness of shredded coconut with an almond and then covers it in delicious milk chocolate.

2004

Vita Coco introduces coconut water

Offering a delicious and nutritious beverage, Vita Coco begins a trend of bottling coconut water and making it commercially available.

2009

World Coconut Day is first celebrated

Started by the Asia-Pacific Coconut Community, World Coconut Day aims to raise awareness and bring harmony to the growth and distribution of coconuts.

How to Celebrate World Coconut Day

Getting involved with World Coconut Day is easy – all it takes is tasting and enjoying this delicious fruit. Consider some of these ideas to celebrate the day:

Enjoy Eating a Coconut

Some people who haven’t grown up around this delicious fruit might be intimidated by its brown, hairy shell. But once it is broken into and the creamy white flesh is exposed, it is a fragrant delight to behold.

First, start by poking a hole in the coconut at the end near the ‘eye’, where the shell is the thinnest. Use a screwdriver or hammer with a clean nail to make the hole. This will allow for the water of the coconut to be drained.

Pro Tip: Strain the coconut water through a cheesecloth and into a cup, and then drink it up!

Once the juice has been drained out of the coconut, one of the easiest ways to break open the fruit is by using a handsaw to cut it in half. Other people might want to simply put it into a sturdy bag and bang it against a stone or concrete until it breaks. This method is a bit messy, but it works.

Once the coconut is open, remove the meat from the shell and enjoy eating it fresh!

Cook or Bake with Coconut

One way to enjoy National Coconut Day without having to go to the trouble of cracking open the fruit is by purchasing the coconut in bags that are shredded or chipped. These are often pre-sweetened and ready to be used in recipes. Since the fruit is a tropical one, and the day falls at the end of the summer, many recipes are cool and refreshing.

Consider cooking or baking with some of these recipe ideas to celebrate the day:

Coconut Cream Pie. This classic pie contains coconut flakes or chips, coconut milk, heavy cream and eggs, and is topped with mounds of sweet whipped cream.

Coconut Ice Cream. This refreshing dessert is so simple, all it needs is 6 ingredients: whipping cream, sugar, vanilla, milk, salt and, of course, shredded coconut.

Coconut Milk Pudding. This delicious recipe is similar to the consistency of flan, but is made with coconut milk, gelatin, mango, butter, grated coconut, condensed milk and other simple ingredients.

Coconut Rice Pudding. A special blend of coconut milk and rice, this dessert is delicious when served with a homemade rhubarb compote or jam. The coconut and rhubarb flavors just meld together on the tongue!

Drink a Piña Colada

A classic tropical drink, the piña colada contains delicious ingredients like pineapple juice, coconut cream, rum, lime juice and ice, all blended together into a delicious frozen beverage. Throw the ingredients in a blender at home and mix it up. Garnish with a drink umbrella and skewer with red cherries for a vibrant presentation.

Try Out Some Coconut Water

A fairly new product on the market, bottled coconut water can be found in many places around the world now. Coconut water is actually the juice or liquid that comes from young coconut plants. Some brands of coconut water that might be worth trying out in celebration of National Coconut Day include Vita Coco, ZICO, Naked Coconut Water, and C2O.

Listen to Some Coconut Themed Music

One fun way to enjoy National Coconut Day is to enjoy a few songs that were written around the theme of coconuts. Try out some of these ideas to get started making a tropical playlist just for this day:

Coconut by Harry Nillson (1971). Probably the most famous song about coconuts, the lyrics are “put de lime in de coconut and drink ‘em both togedder”.

Cocoanut Woman by Harry Belafonte (1957). Released on his album called “Belafante sings of the Caribbean”, this song is about a lady on the island who is selling coconut water.

Coconut Telegraph by Jimmy Buffet (1981). Appearing as the title song on the album of the same name, this song speaks of a Tuesday on the island when information and gossip is exchanged.

I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts by Merv Griffin (1950). With lyrics that make a story out of a coconut toss at a fair, this song is a silly and playful classic from a bygone era.

World Coconut Day FAQs

Is coconut a fruit?

Even though it has the word “nut” in the name, coconut is a fibrous, one-seeded fruit that falls into the drupe, or stone fruit family.

Is coconut oil good for you?

Yes. Coconut oil has a variety of nutrients that are healthy when consumed by humans, including fatty acids, healthy cholesterol, ketones and more.

Do coconuts grow on palm trees?

While coconuts do grow on a certain type of palm tree, not all palm trees are coconut trees.

Is coconut water good for you?

Coconut water offers many healthy benefits, including electrolytes, magnesium, potassium, antioxidants and more.

Should coconut oil be refrigerated?

Coconut oil is long-lasting, up to two years, and does not need to be refrigerated.

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headoverjojo · 5 years ago

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Tricia omg I need MOAR Uncle Hol and Werewolf!Mista please 😂😂 and Formaggio!! And the kiddos!! Aaaaahhh, that Halloween special, hhhhhh, a blessing :’) As usual, hcs/scenarios.. anything is fine :3 Ma soprattutto ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ

Esteeeeeee ლ(´ ❥ `ლ) ლ(´ ❥ `ლ) Ah!! That special :,) and YESSSS, I’d love to write more about that AU >:3 Sooo, here we go!! I hope you’ll like that :3

Here is the mentioned special, if you want some lore and contest! And, also, Valerio is the “blog” name for Formaggio, by now!

The Big Kaboom

(Under the cut for length!)

“Uncle Hol! Uncle Hol!” the tall man turned, hearing a choir of kids’ voices calling him, and brightly smiled, when his eyes landed on the small platoon of baby-werewolves. Here his nephews and nieces were!

“What’s up, puppies?” he asked, picking up the smallest of them, a boy and a girl, and bouncing them in his arms, making them laugh. The boy picked Hol’s hat and wore it, but it was too big and fell on his nose, making Hol laugh, amused. The puppies were so cute!

“What about giving it to Michi, hm?” the little one nodded, and the tallest of them, a boy who was more or less thirteen years old, picked the hat and put in on his head, with a bright and happy smile on his tanned face.

“So, kids? Did you want just my hat?” he asked, playful. The kids shook their heads, and the older ones pulled him on the couch, sitting then next to him, an excited expression on their faces.

“We want to know what happened during the Big Kaboom!” Hol laughed, already amused just by the memory of it. What a memorable night it had been…!

“Sure! But we’ll need also uncle Guido and uncle Valerio’s help. Mind to go to drag them here?” three of them, one girl and two boys, sprinted to go to catch their uncles, like the little wolves they were. After a couple of minutes, the two arrived, letting the kids pulling them by their hands, rolling their eyes and faking resistance, even if the smile on their faces betrayed their real amusement.

“So? What do you want, little feral monsters?” Formaggio asked, mischievously grinning when the little ones loudly complained, throwing themselves on him, in a wrestlemania-like move that did nothing to the assassin, if not to make him laugh more, while he was ruffling their hair.

“We want to know what happened during the Big Kaboom!” the boy still nestled on Hol’s lap declared, immediately backed by his cousins. Formaggio dramatically sighed, ignoring his nephews and nieces’ puppy eyes that, they knew so well, always undid him.

“Uhm, what do you say, Guido, uncle? Should we?” he teased, grinning at the kids’ protests. They were so easy to nettle!

After a little time when they faked to think about it and seriously ponder on it, all framed by the continuous kids’ complaints and rolls on their laps, the three looked at them. Their grins told everything and the kids exulted with loud cheers; they were going to receive their so wanted story!!

“Alright, alright, we’re tell it. Sit comfortably, kids; it’s a particular story…”

“Where should we taking him?!” Fugo, supporting a half-unconscious and wheezing Formaggio, looked at Mista, who was, with Trish and Hol Horse, his uncle, supporting the other vampires of the group. Shit, what kind of damn New Year Eve was that?!

“What do you mean, we have to take him where they could help!” Mista barked back, giving to Bruno and Narancia, the two he was supporting, little slaps on their cheeks, to help them to recover. They only groaned in response, mumbling something about a so delicious blood, more delicious than any wine they had ever tasted when they were human. Sure, Guido thought, grumbling, that damn blood they had drunk was from someone who had really high blood alcohol level, so high that it ended up getting them drunk!!

“I fucking know it, Mista, but who?! A veterinary or a doctor?!” this made Mista stop for a second from his umpteenth sequence of slaps on his friends’ cheeks. Damn, that was a legit question…

“Whatever, he has to spit that hellish fur ball! Veterinary will be!” he declared, picking up Narancia on his shoulders, carrying Bruno with his free arm and marching towards the nearest veterinary clinic. He just hoped it was open, even on New Year Eve!

Finally, he saw it. Because both of them were in part animal, sometimes Formaggio and Guido got “animal” problems, and one or the other had to carry the other to the veterinary, so they perfectly knew where every clinic or ambulatory was. More than one time, also, it had been a perfect excuse to know and even flirt with a doctor…

“Mista- Mista!” Mista, who was deep in his thoughts, felt his body being blocked by something, right on the doorsteps of the clinic. What the-

“Have you forgot that we are vampires? We have to be invited to come in!” Fugo hissed, feeling on himself a repellent force that didn’t allow him to enter. Mista groaned, throwing at his uncle and Fugo, respectively, Bruno and Narancia and picking up Formaggio, shaking him to make him regain a little consciousness.

“Ohi, Vale! You have to turn into a cat, yeah? C’mon, do it for me. C’mon, furball!” Formaggio groaned, glancing at him, but did as he was ordered, turning into a big, fluffy and wheezing red cat. Mista picked him up and ran inside, to make him be finally cured.

Fugo sighed, flopping down on the sidewalk, with Narancia’s head on his shoulder. The boy was mumbling something about math and, to Fugo’s surprise, he was doing additions, multiplications and even fractions, and every result was right. The man sighed, rubbing his temple. Years spent trying to teach him something, and now that he was drunk he could do every single calculation…

“Guys- guys, what are we doing here- it’s New Years Eveeee, c’moooon! What are those looong faces? We have to celebrate! Sooo, let’s go to, uhm… a bar! A karaoke!” Giorno, unusually lively, dragged Trish with him, laughing and cheering, when also his drunk pals agreed, trying to follow him without falling or stumbling one on each other. Every attempt to stop them had been vain, as they turned into bats and flew away.

Then, Fugo just sighed, eating down a deafening scream, and turned into a bat as well, following those idiots, with Trish, while, on the ground, Hol Horse was running at really high speed.-

“Please tell me again what is happening.”

“We’re at a karaoke bar, Bucciarati and Abbacchio are about to make out on the bar counter, Giorno’s crying his eyes out and telling to some stranger about his evil vampire dad and Narancia is singing The Piña Colada Song on the karaoke.” Trish tiredly listed once again. From the other side, Mista stayed silent for few seconds, deadly silent, to the point that Trish could hear cat-Formaggio choking and coughing while meowling in protest.

“What the hell are Fugo and my uncle doing?” Mista voice was forcibly calm; Trish had learnt that this meant that he was about to snap. And he had snapped just once or twice in all those years.

“Fugo’s trying not to kill Narancia and your uncle is consoling Giorno; I’m making sure Bucciarati and Abbacchio don’t actually start to make out for real. I don’t want to be arrested.” Mista sighed, rubbing for the umpteenth time his forehead. That was crazy…

“Hold up, I’m coming. Formaggio’s almost done with the fur.” Trish grimaced, hearing another wheezing sound from nearby and the vet voice that was encouraging Formaggio to spit, just another little spit!

Disgusting.

“Alright… not like we could go anywhere, in any case. We’ll wait here.” With that, Trish hung up the phone, grabbing once again Bruno from the collar, to keep him at a safe distance from his, apparently, lover. On the background, Narancia had started to sing Mr. Blue Sky and Giorno, who, when drunk, apparently had heavy mood swings, crawled on the stage to join him in the song, while Hol was marching to pick them both and finally end that torture. That was really an explosive end of the year…

“And so, kids, that’s how your uncles spent the last hours of 2010 and the first of 2011 in a vet clinic, and how I and the vampire clan end up in a squalid karaoke bar!” Hol concluded, with an amused smile. Saying that the kids were shocked was an understatement. What the heck…

“But why you call it The Big Kaboom? Had something exploded?” the little girl asked, throwing her head back to look at her uncle. Hol chuckled, patting her on the hair, while Mista and Formaggio cleared their throat.

“This is a story for another time. Now go to do your homework, hop hop hop! Or I’ll call uncle Abbacchio!” the children rushed upstair without protesting; they didn’t want to make uncle Abbacchio angry! Mista sighed, spreading on the couch, grumbling under his breath.

“Should we tell them that that night we actually made a shop of fireworks explode to avoid Narancia to be sent in orbit tied to one of them?” Formaggio asked, making both his cousin and uncle groan.

“Maybe, one day… when we are sure they won’t go to spill it to the group. After all, they were drunk… they don’t remember a shit.” Mista answered, lowering his hat on his eyes, sighing. Jeez, what a night it had been…

Never again.

Or maybe not?

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kaboommagazine · 7 years ago

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Kaboom! Bombshell of the Day! (10/16/17): Model Killie Dancehall

Killie Dancehall Info: Age: 24 Zodiac Sign: Virgo Hometown: Toronto, CN Ethnicity: French Canadian Occupation: Model/Dancer Measurements: 36-29-34 Height: 5’6” Weight: 130 Instagram: @i_am_killie Snapchat: @killie_dancehal Dream Car: More than one :$ Best Advice You’ve Ever Received: Stay Focused Favorite Meal: Lobster Favorite Drink: Pina Colada Favorite Bar/Nightclub: I like travelling and…

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#2017 #Killie Dancehall

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topsolarpanels · 8 years ago

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Know Your Enemy: Celebrating 50 Years of the Forever War

Robert Sammelin

No one drank more than the scientist. Every night, after whatever patriotic black-tie gala marriage played props at, he could be found at the hotel bar, trying to extract existential meaning from a banana colada. It was an odd drinking of option for such a serious human, but only once did he respond to our interrogations about it.

It pleases the nerve fibers, he said, all baritone to his voice, before disappearing into the chilled yellow muck again. We were in New Tulsa, debriefing after a grueling dinner with a bunch of white-haired solar energy exec. Wed been on the road for months, and morale used to go the way of the glacier. I ordered a round for the table, and we toasted to the hustle. Heroes of the nation, peddling war bonds by day, drinking like froufrous by night. Our drill instructor would not have been proud.

Maybe it wasnt New Tulsa. Maybe itd been in Charlotte after the fund-raiser with the nanofinance douchebags. Anyhow.

There were 11 of us on the bond drive, 12 if you included the JngerBot. The Forever War had just entered its sixth decade, and our politicians didnt pretend they were going to end it anymore, even during elections. They couldnt. Wed tried everything: nation-building, nation-destroying, sending terrorists and their families to the Mars penal colony, sending the rebel Young Siberians to actual Siberia. Nothing had worked. We were at war because we always had been. We were at war because we always would be. We were at war because we were at war.

Matt Gallagher

About

Matt Gallagher is the author of the novel Youngblood and the Iraq memoir Kaboom: Embracing the Suck in a Savage Little War.

The government decided to celebrate the Forever Wars golden anniversary with loud, shiny bombast. We were part of that bombast. AMERICAS HEROES, TOGETHER AT LAST, ran the tagline. We were like a roving assortment act, but without name recognition or singing or sex appeal. Without anything, truly. Just pasts wiped clean with the antiseptic of narrative. So we stood there and smiled and waved while other people told our tales to the crowds. The crowd cheered. We waved again.

After the coladas, I settled the tab and excused myself. The younger veterinarians night was just beginning, but mine was nearing its end. In the queue for the teleporter to the rooms, a human about my age waited behind me. He wore a rumpled dress shirt and an overlong tie-in and a goatee on the brink of coherence.

He was looking everywhere but my hoverchair. People with legs always do that. It reminds me of the route some men used to try very hard not to look at my cleavage when I was younger. The endeavor simply underlines the fixation.

Thank you, he said. For what you did.

Thank you for your supporting, I told, a answer as hollow as it was practiced. He mustve been at the event earlier.

Cancan I tell you something?

Sure, I told. Women in military uniforms have this impact on men in dress shirts, for some reason. If youd like to.

I wanted to be a recon marine when I was a kid. He said it like it was a church confession, something hidden away in the lost rifts of his soul for decades. Did the recon workout at the gym for years, he continued. Stupid, I know.

I nodded, both because it was stupid and because I knew.

Youre a bona fide hero. The men segue was as graceful as a startled dog, but it was late. That scientist, though. Hes killing people. And not only the enemy.

I thought about “the mens” words. They were true enough. So what would you do? I asked. If you were him.

Me? The man stroked his goatee. I wouldnt even know.

Pragmatically, I told. Youre the scientist. You live in this country. The wars happening. You can perhaps aim it or not. Either style, people succumb. What do you do?

II object to the question. And to the idea. Im not him. The human voice had a quiver to it now. Not an angry quiver, either. A frightened one. I was just sayingI dont think its right. Thats all.

OK, I said. Night. It was my turning at the teleporter. I get in and went to my room. I didnt begrudge the man his opting out. We all had in some manner. Even us.

Especially us.

The Federals had discovered me at my sisters, on the porch, scrolling through a holopad article about the rabid lemur thatd killed Justin Bieber Jr. Furious George Howls With Delight! read the headline. Its always spooky when sons succumb the same way their fathers did. The past comprehend us all, eventually. Even Biebers.

I was on my seventh year of an indefinite visit, still sleeping in a bare guest room. A potted flower or framed scene would have felt like marks of permanence, somehow. Id been living in increments since high school and wasnt about to stop simply because I couldnt figure out what to do with the rest of my life.

Theywell, welived at the top of a windy mound in a suburbium of a suburbium, wedged between a stand of wild honeysuckle and a pond shaped like a swollen snout. It was green and quiet. The kind of place where big flags hung from porches with humility. I taught painting at the community center and took my nieces to soccer practice and spend my Saturday nights at the one townie bar that served ros.

The life didnt induce me happy or anything, but it could have. Maybe should have.

There were three of them. They all wore jeans and plaid shirts of differing blandness. Id have expected suits and black sunglasses, but the decay effects of after-empire were reaching and vast.

Chief Warrant Officer Valerie Speer? one said. Well, asked. I didnt look my part, either. Female veterinarians tend to cut a certain mold. A liter-sized gremlin in a gardening hat wasnt it.

They told me about the bond drive. About how it would inspire patriotism again in the hearts and minds of the person or persons. About how it would get everyday citizens invested in the wars again.( Like they ever were. I knew the history .) About how the governmental forces needed the money, how 50 years of blowing up things in strange, faraway places had taken its toll on the budget, especially since the geothermal insurgency in Blue Russia began eating away at Uncle sam foreign trade.

About how the bond drive needed a woman on it, because they had an old guy, a blexican, a mexipino, and a robot, and showing that heroes were as diverse as the country mattered.

I laughed. A female. I danced my metal fingers through the air. In the right sun my prosthetics could look like flesh. We werent in it. Thats why you need me.

That made the two men in jeans and plaid look down at the ground, but the woman Fed just stared at me.

Youre Valerie Speer, she said. The tone in her voice sounded so earnest it snapped. Do you know what you mean to my generation of status of women? I joined the agency because of you.

She was lying about that, I was almost sure. But shed appealed to my pride. I danced my fingers through the air again and took in all the green, all the quiet. Seven years here. Seven years that had induced me soft. Did people my age go on escapades anymore?

I requested information about financial compensation.

Heres the thing about being labeled a war hero: You either love it or hate it. Theres little space for mixed impressions. Take the scientist. Invented a drone mosquito that gives people the runs, sold it to the military, and stopped the Arabican conflict practically overnight. You cant fire a rifle when youre crapping out your brains. But some of the mosquitoes werent as specific as billed. During strafes, they bit foes and civilians alike. Which wouldnt have mattered much had we been fighting in the developed world. We werent, though. Outbreaks of dysentery and super-cholera followed, and the last UN estimate I watched numbered deaths in the tens of thousands.

The bond drive needed a woman on it. They already had an old guy, a blexican, a mexipino, and a robot.

The scientist had ended a war all with his mind. Yet the only thing he wanted in the world was to return to his lab, to his anonymity, and forget any of it ever happened.

The JngerBot seemed to resent the attention for other reasons. It didnt know what to induce of people, and truth be told, people didnt know what to attain of it. They could handle robots, had been dealing with them all their lives. Even the rough-and-tumble behaviour of a regular InfantryBot could be explained away. But an elite InfantryBot 5000 upgraded with the transcendental heroism and philosophical musings of decorated German World War I soldier Ernst Jnger? That caused some issues.

The anarch wages his own wars, the JngerBot said at a fund-raiser to a journalist whod would like to know whether it missed battle. Even when marching in rank and file.

Before a boxing prizefight, the JngerBot felt it necessary to remind the crowd what was what. Furrow opposing is the bloodiest, wildest, most brutal of all, it said to 70,000 drunk revelers in Vegas. Of all the wars exciting moments , none is so powerful as the session of two cyclone troop leaders between narrow trench walls. Theres no compassion there , no going back. The blood speaks from a shrill exclaim of recognition that tears itself from ones breast like a nightmare.

And then there were the children.

It told a 10 -year old with a JngerBot poster on his wall that killing an adversary would be a finer tribute. And when a bank presidents “girls ” pointed to us and asked if we were heroes, the JngerBot objected as only it could TAGEND

Heroes deeds and heroes graves, it said. Old and new you here may assure. How the Empire was created. How the Empire was preserved. It paused. We sought the death of heroes. There is no lovelier demise in the world.

The little girls face paled to glass as her father resulted her away. We all laughed about it , no one harder or longer than Dizzy. Dizzy was a walking, talking debate for breeding the remaining cis-males out of the gene pool, if only he hadnt been so pretty. Drone pilots. They think theyre so starfish because they can laser insurrectionists dead from space. And Dizzy was an superstar. He adored every minute of the bond drive, “members attention”, the parties, the hoverfloat rides, the certain type of female patriot who wanted to see the view from his hotel balcony. Beats going back to Pueblo and coaching CrossFit, hed tell, before unleashing that smile of full, fluoride shine. God, he could charm the sorcery underwear off a Mormon.

Would try, at least.

Hed earned the Silver Star in the Iraq war. Well, the Iraq war before the last one. Maybe it was three Iraq wars ago.

Dizzy and the younger vets on the bond drive are always privateersmercenaries if youre the protest, virtual-petition kind. WarriorCorps and Foreign Legion Inc. and Armed Humanitarianism Limited and the like. I was hybrid: part contractor but also part national military, before that ran extinct during the Whig Revolt of 36. Merely Emo Carlos was old enough to have been GI from beginning to end. Hed earned the Silver Star in the Iraq war. Well, the Iraq war before the last one. Perhaps it was three Iraq wars ago. Anyhow. We asked Emo Carlos about it over sushi, after a parade in Cleveland.

Jumped on a grenade at a checkpoint, he told, defining down his chopsticks with a shrug. Didnt go off.

We hollered and banged the table just because we could. Itd been a couple decades since anything but a bot had been close enough to a grenade to do anything like that. Even the JngerBot conveyed its admiration.

Defective? I asked.

Emo Carlos nodded. One in a million, they said.

What happened then? Dizzy asked.

The creases in Emo Carlos forehead folded into one another like papier-mch. He usually never talked about anything but drumming for his old-man punk band. Theyd served together back in the day and were known across the greater Rochester area as the Infidels. Geriatric humor.

Stood up, he said. Dusted off. Looked down. Realise Id pissed myself.

We hollered and banged the table all over again.

An elderly couple came over to us subsequently. Theyd overheard our conversation and wanted to say thank you. They said they had two grandsons in privateer training.

I know our thanks is a small thing, the spouse said. He and his wife looked so cute in their nice old-people clothes, khakis and sweaters and thick-rimmed glasses. They looked like other peoples grandparents always look. But sometimes its all those of us here can offer.

The wife nodded. Were all involved, she told. We believe that. As taxpayers, as citizens, thats how it is. Were with you.

We thanked them for thanking us and they left the restaurant.

What did she mean, Were all involved? Dizzy asked. No theyre not.

There were echoes of agreement and deliberation over what the old woman had meant, and not just about the word involved . Also about the word we .

Yo, Emo Carlos told. The table hushed. Theyre from my hour. When wars had objectives. When citizens tried to keep up. America used to be young. Thats what she meant.

Then say that, Dizzy told. Taxes? Who the fucking cares.

Emo Carlos shook his head again. He was trying to clear himself of frustrations, either with himself or with us. Then he pointed at me. Sent her to the damn moon. Supposed to save us all, putting the wars up there. Preserve the land and resources, remove civilian demises. Be tidy and simple. That was the plan.

And no one ever went back, Dizzy told. The game changed.

Well. Emo Carlos giggled. Military lesson numero uno, son, he said. No plan survives first contact.

The rest of us chuckled along with the old wisdom. Everyone but the scientist, who sat off by himself in the corner. He looked up at us with something between sadness and ferocity. It was hard to decide which.

Tidy and simple, he said. I like that.

When my nieces turn 12 and gain access to FreedomNet, they will find these three paragraphs about their aunt, etched into the digital histories forever and ever TAGEND Valerie Jade Speer( born May 2, 2011) was a chief warrant officer( air) and assault pilot in the United States Army and later the privateer organization Star Spangled Security. She was awarded the Star of Valor in 2042 for her actions during the Battle on the Moon, of which she was the only survivor . Deployed to the moon as part of the NATO coalition during the course of its South Seas dispute, Speer flew a Flying Yeager fusion helocraft during the battle, destroying five Chinese Federation space-helos and two Young Siberian cosmo-planes. Struck by an enemy dwarf ballistic, Speer crash-landed into the Titius Crater. She was thus sheltered from the amaze thermonuclear strike carried out by the Young Siberians that killed all other fighters and blew the hole in the moon now known as Putins Smile . Initially presumed dead, Speer was found during NATO recovery operations two days after the end of the combat. She lost three extremities, suffered burns over much of her body, and survived over 90 surgeries. President Natasha Obama told Speers life and narrative are a testament to the American spirit at her Star of Valor ceremony at the White House .

Words can be funny beasts. Her actions suggest some sort of agency, even control. Destroy is such a clean term for such messiness. Struck by defied my memory of it. Same with crash-landed.

Less so with lost. And suffered.

Testament. As if enduring were a selection. I did what anyone would have. There are no atheists in moon craters. And there are no fatalists in survivor wards of one.

I was thinking about that ward as I zipped up my suitcase in my sisters guest room for the bond drive. Thinking about the long stills of quiet during the nights. Guessing about being “ve called the” Burn by nurses who guessed I couldnt hear them. Supposing about the full-thickness graft done without anesthesia.

You sure about this, Val? My sister stood in the doorway. Her posture betrayed opposition. She was four years older and had always asked me questions that she already had answers for. You have options.

Shed said the same years prior, before Id left for the moon.

I am, I told both times, even though I wasnt both days. Id always detected power and resolve in ambiguity, though. Most people werent like that. My sister, for one.

Youve done more than your share, she continued, moving to the bed and putting her arm around my shoulder. So much more. I leaned my head into her and tried to hold in some of the familial warmth. Id miss it, I knew. Only sisters and nieces hug people like me. I dont think its right.

I smiled at that.

Its not, I told. But. If not me, then who?

Even running can be its own form of opting out. I didnt know that the first time. But I did the second. The last night in the guest room, as I tossed and turned in bed, I thought about that. Then I thought about the survivor ward again. And the long stills of quiet during the nights. And being “ve called the” Burn. And the graft.

Somewhere between Omaha and Tesla City, I began to realize just how different the younger vets were. It wasnt simply that they were privateers, either, or that they called adversary combatants pixels as an insult. Dizzy and his crew, they crowed about their service. Owned their superiority, then basked in it.

Do soldiers think theyre better than citizens? Of course. It has nothing to do with what did or didnt happen in their service, either. It has to do with the very notion of joining up. Americas been at war since before most of us were born. We joined because we wanted to go. Wed been told we were special from day one of boot camp, doing something the rest of our nation couldnt. Or worse, wouldnt. Too fat. Too selfish. Too lazy. Which made the realization after we got out that citizens think were beneath them all the more shocking. If theyre fat, selfish, and lazy, then whats worse than that?

We werent supposed to say any of that, though. My generation didnt, at least. We were taught that part of our service was biding quiet about it. To rise above, because thats what Jesus and George Washington and Beyonc wouldve wanted.

Thats what I did. Or tried to, at the least. Let the citizenry think what it wants, ran the logic. All part of being a republic.

Maybe we had it incorrect, though.

I wondered about that the night the protester confronted us. We were in Washington for a gala. Ordinarily “were in” ushered in through side or back door for events, but the organizers of this one had us walking in on a red carpet, through a galaxy of flashing lightings and holographic cameras.

Finally, Dizzy told, pausing to adjust his bow affiliation and lick his front teeth. The treatment we deserve.

Why the protester chose the JngerBot to cream-pie, Ill never know. By the time the uproar had reached my ears and Id floated around in my chair, the JngerBot had the young man by the throat. Request order to remove home-front adversary, it said, which was funny, and then not.

We got the young man free of the JngerBots prongs. He was reed-thin and had thick brown curls with eyes as dark and mad as the moon. I didnt know what to think about him or his pie. People didnt protest war in person anymore. It wasnt sane behavior.

Youre not heroes, he told. His terms were shaky. Its never easy coming face to face with people youve demonized. Or cockpit to cockpit. Youre tools of empire. Fuck you. Fuck all of you.

The cameras along the walkway started popping off like mortars. We all only stood there, waiting out his denunciation, because we were there to be seen and applauded , nothing else. His anger dazed me, and the others too. Not Dizzy, though.

Get bent, joker, Dizzy told, intersecting his arms for the cameras. War is bad? No shit. But it wont go forth just cause we want it to. Last month, two brigades from the same base get deployed. One goes to Kurd Mountain, saves those households from the horde. The other goes to Blue Russia, blows up some insurrectionists. Ones a humanitarian mission. The others combat. Both involve destruction.

Id never heard Dizzy speak with eloquence and passion before. He was good, and he knew it. He pressed on.

This JngerBot is a goddamn national gem. I dont know what brought you here tonight, and I dont dedicate a single fucking. We went so you dont “re going to have to”. Suck my hero balls.

The arrogance. The entitlement. The narrowness of thought. I loved it all, and I wasnt the only one. The red carpet explosion with applause. Dizzy even took a bow. But the acclaim wasnt universal.

After the protester had been escorted away and wed run inside for the gala, the scientist saw Dizzy. Dont do that again, he said. He loomed over the younger human like an angry parent. That guy is not your adversary. Neither is anyone else youve met on this stupid tour.

He aint a friend. Dizzy was trying to sound unbothered, and he leaned back in his chair and set his feet on the table. So what is he?

Only morons speak in absolutes, the scientist said.

Dizzy changed tactics. You know what he likely thinks about you? he asked. What all these people say when they think we cant hear? I had a woman tell me she didnt think we were whole human beings. Fuck her, and fuck that protester. Fuck all of them.

I wondered what the answers were to Dizzys questionwhat did people say about us? When they thought about us at all. Beyond the pomp and rite of the bond drive, we werent anything, I supposed. Just ciphers with tales people believed in, or didnt believe in, even before they heard them.

So. What. The scientists voice turned to iron as he responded to Dizzy. Thats the job. We have consequences.

Dizzy opened his mouth, but the scientist cut him off. You did . You did when you didnt “re going to have to”. Thats enough. It has to be. Then he stormed off, presumably for the hotel bar.

The scientist opted out that night. The rest of us did too, by doing the job. We stood there and smiled and waved while other people told our stories to the crowds. The crowd cheered. We waved again.

We walked back to the hotel as a group after the jamboree. We stopped in a park with green lawns and a marble fountain and joked about the protester, giggled about the scientist. The scientist had been right, but so what? What did being right have to do with anything? Dizzy had regained whatever force-out it was that sustained him and began chatting up a pair of young women who considered themselves patriots. I watched it all and thought about the ward and then my sisters home. The JngerBot came up beside me.

You managed that pie well, I told it. It didnt say anything, so I continued. Waiting for an order, I mean.

Here is our kingdom, the best use of monarchies, the best republic, the JngerBot told. Here is our garden, our happiness.

What a random thing to tell, I thought. Even for a robot. But subsequently, after considering it more, I decided otherwise.

The Fiction Issue

Tales From an Uncertain Future

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