Noted historian Dafydd ab Hugh, military advisor to the Powerline Boys, whose personal records in that regard are, oh, somewhat lacking? No, I hadn’t heard of him either, I’m proud to say. But somebody Wikied him:
Hugh is most noted for writing fiction in media franchise, including several novels for the Star Trek franchise. He also wrote four novels associated with the game Doom . However he also did some short fiction . His most noted story, “The Coon Rolled Down and Ruptured His Larinks, A Squeezed Novel by Mr. Skunk”, received Hugo Award and Nebula Award nominations. It concerns sentient animals and inter-species sex.
He and his wife Sachi currently run a right-leaning blog, Big Lizards
What comes after insanity? And why aren’t any of these fucks in uniform (other than those spiffy Star Fleet Academy jobs)?
Having spent countless hours (okay, six or seven minutes, tops) searching for any mention of Dafydd ab Hugh in the myriad writings of Victor Davis Captain Picard Was A Pussy Hanson, I finally dug up evidence of Dafydd’s wartime experiences and, quite frankly, he’s got the Full Metal Jacket and Pants to talk the talk. Check this out:
Kefiristan is about as close as you can come to hell on Earth.
I say that with authority: I’ve spent the last eighteen months doing months a tour here, trying to keep the Kefiri People’s Liberation Army, who call themselves the “Scythe of Glory,” from the throats of the rightist Khorastisti, who have the backing of Azeri transplants from the south (who want to keep their enclaves), who are fighting a “dirty war” against the Communist Cuban and Peruvian mercs… Jeez, you get the picture. It’s a snarled skein of a million bloody threads up here on the top of the world, in the northern extension of the Karakoram range, between Afghanistan and Samarkand, Uzbeksistan.
We’d just punched through the craggy pass pleasantly known as the “torn hymen” in the local tongue and come across the small, Muslim city of pik Nizganij, perched on a mountain peak of 2200 meters.
I stared in horror. Even eighteen months of picking up after the Scythe of Glory and their Shining Path buddies didn’t prepare me for what was left of pik Nizganij.
It was a Bosch canvas, severed limbs and hollowed-out trunks – eaten out by animals, I prayed – planted through the fields like stalks of corn, blood painting doors and walls like the first Passover …except it was human blood, not lambs blood.
My. Gawd. The sheer hell that this nerd has been through. The sheer bloody hell.
Would it would be too much to expect Dafydd to go back to that hell-hole in the Middle East? Well, in a time of war, during a clash of civilizations, when our very existence is at stake from the Jihadislamobyterians (who call themselves the “Weedwhacker of Sublimity”) it can’t hurt to ask.
Do it for generations of future nerds unborn.