Post by Juggers on Oct 24, 2006 15:42:36 GMT -5
Language, the Juggernaut had decided, was a waste of time. If people had been meant to communicate via speech the whole planet would speak the same, universal language. It would break down so many barriers. Cain wondered how many wars could have been averted if the people involved could have understood what the hell they were saying.
The crossing to Madagascar had been excruciatingly dull, as had the subsequent crossing to Salaam. At the time he hadn't for-seen such a simple problem as having to communicate, but as a fairly unique looking white man he stood out.
Language had become a barrier very quickly.
Cain didn't really know where he was going, only that it was good to be around people that were not completely mental.
He glanced at one of the other occupants in the back of the truck and grinned. The wrinkled little man in the returned with a mostly toothless grin of his own. Ok, MOSTLY not mental. Cain wasn't too sure about that guy.
The truck bumped its way over a particularly large pot-hole in the road.
"Fuckin' 'ell!" He rumbled, "watch where you're bloody driving Abdul!"
The driver glanced nervously over his shoulder at the big man in the rear of the truck and said something apologetic sounding in his own language.
"Yeah!" Cain said, and went back to looking at the dry but surprisingly verdant surroundings.
He had always imagined Africa as either being a barren wasteland, or full of tigers and giraffes and elephants and monkeys. Right now it was full of rolling savanna, with a poorly made road running through it and a huge plume of dust behind them.
He hadn't the faintest idea where they were going.
He'd tried to ask the guy with the truck when he'd first seen all the people piling into it but had received a quick fire babble of a response that meant absolutely nothing.
He had tried again.
This time he had got a much angrier sounding stream of babble as the driver was in rather a hurry to get away to wherever it was he was going.
Eventually, the Juggernaut had fallen back on the traditional British tourist method of communication. Speak loudly, clearly and in your own language and eventually the strange foreign devils will understand.
This had prompted one of the younger men on the back of the truck to pull a rifle from beneath the seat and wave it in the big mans face. Cain had sighed, shaken his head and then lifted the man out of the truck by the barrel of the gun. Then he had bashed him in the head with it so hard it had broken.
The gun and the head that is.
Things had gone swimmingly after that.
Actions speak louder than words.
The Juggernaut was the living embodiment of the ideal.
The crossing to Madagascar had been excruciatingly dull, as had the subsequent crossing to Salaam. At the time he hadn't for-seen such a simple problem as having to communicate, but as a fairly unique looking white man he stood out.
Language had become a barrier very quickly.
Cain didn't really know where he was going, only that it was good to be around people that were not completely mental.
He glanced at one of the other occupants in the back of the truck and grinned. The wrinkled little man in the returned with a mostly toothless grin of his own. Ok, MOSTLY not mental. Cain wasn't too sure about that guy.
The truck bumped its way over a particularly large pot-hole in the road.
"Fuckin' 'ell!" He rumbled, "watch where you're bloody driving Abdul!"
The driver glanced nervously over his shoulder at the big man in the rear of the truck and said something apologetic sounding in his own language.
"Yeah!" Cain said, and went back to looking at the dry but surprisingly verdant surroundings.
He had always imagined Africa as either being a barren wasteland, or full of tigers and giraffes and elephants and monkeys. Right now it was full of rolling savanna, with a poorly made road running through it and a huge plume of dust behind them.
He hadn't the faintest idea where they were going.
He'd tried to ask the guy with the truck when he'd first seen all the people piling into it but had received a quick fire babble of a response that meant absolutely nothing.
He had tried again.
This time he had got a much angrier sounding stream of babble as the driver was in rather a hurry to get away to wherever it was he was going.
Eventually, the Juggernaut had fallen back on the traditional British tourist method of communication. Speak loudly, clearly and in your own language and eventually the strange foreign devils will understand.
This had prompted one of the younger men on the back of the truck to pull a rifle from beneath the seat and wave it in the big mans face. Cain had sighed, shaken his head and then lifted the man out of the truck by the barrel of the gun. Then he had bashed him in the head with it so hard it had broken.
The gun and the head that is.
Things had gone swimmingly after that.
Actions speak louder than words.
The Juggernaut was the living embodiment of the ideal.
