I’ve been around for a while now. I’ve been employed by various agents to do various things for profit. I’ve bought and sold on the market for profit. I’ve killed others simply to take what was theirs and make it my own, for profit. I’ve even tried smuggling illegal goods across the various borders of the four races, for profit.

Are you sensing a theme here? To survive, you must profit. And I’ve done well so far at both.

Then I got to talking to Sam the other day. Sam’s been around a lot longer than I have, yet he doesn’t do any of the things I’ve listed above. Ironically, his accounts are far more well padded than my own. This begets the question “How?”.

Sam is a garbage hauler. 

I know you’re already going “WTF?!”, as did I. But apparently it’s one of the lesser known ways of making hundreds of millions of ISK for little effort. 

Being the curious sort, and one who enjoys huge rewards for little risk, I insisted he take me with him on his garbage run, and he did.

I was very excited. I figured I didn’t want to involve my crew in this until I saw it with my own eyes, so I booted up my Republic Fleet Firetail, the Renegade. I won’t bore you with the pre-flight inspection and startup sequence details today, as I really want to talk about the garbage!

Sam and I rendezvoused just outside of a station that will remain nameless in this story. He was in a massive hauler, completely dwarfing my little frigate. I have never flown a hauler; to be honest I’ve never had an interest in one. I don’t mine. I don’t transport corporation assets en masse. I’ve never done whatever else people might use haulers for. I’ve never had a need for that much cargo space. 

“Alright, you ready, you arrogant sod?” the incoming transmission stated. “Sure am, bud. You wearing your flannels or the ones with the pink bunny slippers built in?” We both laughed at our banter, knowing each other far too well as to let these jabs pierce our skin.

I angled my small and far more maneuverable ship towards his, extending the docking tube once we were in parallel rotation and velocity. The resounding thud of the tube locking into place, followed by the hiss of pressurization and oxygen flow let me know it was time to go.

After extracting myself from my pod, and wiping clean of as much goo as possible, I made my way to the egress hatch. I hit the release panel, crossing to the far end of the tube, closing and locking the hatch behind me. 

I let Sam know I was ready at his end, and he remotely unlocked the portal. 

Let me tell you some blunt truths at this junction in time. We all shit. We all fart. We all have body odour. We’ve all smelled sewer gas. We’ve all smelled rotten food. We’ve all experienced some pretty nasty olefactory input. 

Nothing, and I mean nothing, can describe the potency of the stench that assailed me when that entry portal opened its iris to let me in. My gag reflex instantly kicked in. My eyes began to burn, tears streaming down my face involuntarily. And it wasn’t just the overwhelming stench alone. The smell seemed to have some kind of heat to it. It was all I could do to not puke then and there, though I did dry heave several times.

“What?” I heard from in front of me. Standing there, eyes alight with joy at my discomfort, stood Sam. I say his eyes were alight with joy because I couldn’t see the ear to ear grin I knew was there under the breathing apparatus. He handed me a rig of my own, which I scrambled desperately to get in place in record time. 

“You’re an arse you know.” I said to him once I was breathing clean filtered air. He chuckled, then turned and walked away, waving me to follow. 

We didn’t go far, stopping at a railing that overlooked the main cargo hold. He spread his arms wide for effect. 

“There it is, Roc. 200,000 metric tons of garbage.” Really I wish I could describe it to you. I have never in my life even imagined such a putrid treasure. It was beyond mountainous. It was like a small continental island all unto itself. But, and I can’t stress that word enough, it was money in the waiting.

“You know, ” I began, a smile creeping onto my face, “It’s hard to tell it apart from the rest of your ship.” He punched me in the shoulder, and we both laughed. He led me to the bridge, where we took off our rebreathers and had a seat. 

He set the course for our delivery. It was only two systems away. Can you believe that? 

Anyway, to make a lengthening story short, we delivered the garbage to the reprocessing plant, verified funds were deposited into his account, and returned to where we started, all in under one hour. 

1 hour = 100,000,000.00 ISK

Brutors aren’t reknowned for our mathematical prowess, but even I can tell you that is PROFIT. Looks like I might have to learn myself how to fly a hauler in the near future … right after a long, hot shower with a scrub brush.

A small grunt escapes me. “Try to stay still please.” the tattoo artist says in his most clinical voice. “We wouldn’t want me to slip.” That’s for certain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pansy when it comes to pain; I’ve endured my fair share. There’s just something about get a tattoo on your face that seems to hurt anew on each clone I need to get it done to. You would think with all our advanced technology they could simply clone me with my tattoos intact, but apparently tattoos aren’t considered part of my genetic makeup. They really don’t understand what it means to be a Minmatar. To be without your markings is worse than being naked in the public square of a market hub. They define who we are. They let others know who we are. They are a form of communication within the Tribes. They are warpaint to strike fear into the heart of our enemies. They are a ritual. They are a birthright. They are a part of me forever.

I bite down as the tattoo artist continues his work. Shut out the pain. That is what we are taught when we first get our markings. The mind controls the body, not the other way around. It is an act of self descipline as much as a rite of passage to manhood. Still, it hurts like hell. I don’t think the ancient ancestors thought ahead far enough to cloning technology to realize that some of us would have to endure this ritual numerous times.

Ah well, it is what it is.

I bite down again as another stab of pain sends tendrils of electricity up and down my spine. Either I’m going soft, or this artist isn’t that good.

“There.” he stands back a foot, admiring his work as only an artist can. “We’re done.” He hands me a mirror. Holding it up to see my face, I must admit he’s done a good job. Looks identical to my last one, which was the goal. I hand him the mirror. “Looks good. Thanks.”

I pay him for the fine work, then head off to the food court. I’m hungry …

“Alright, then we’re agreed. That’ll work.”

I slide myself out from under the engine fuselage, wiping the grease from my brow with an even greasier rag. We’ve been at this for a few hours now, but I think we’ve reached the end. My chief technician harumphs his agreement. “Aye Colonel, she be a fine ship and we’ll be gettin’ more outta ‘er than I e’er seen elsewhere.” My computer techician agrees. “It’s really quite unbelievable actually. These modifications you’ve come up with, Colonel, are nothing short of sheer brilliance. To stabilize the capacitor indefinitely, while maximizing throughput of the systems is remarkable. You are a continual amazement and inspiration, sir.”

There she sits, our new Command Class Claymore, dubbed “Tribal Glory”. It’s a fitting name really; inspiring both our allies while threatening our enemies. Milita command rewarded me with it recently “for service above and beyond the call of duty.” Whatever. I do what needs to be done; nothing more, nothing less.

“Yeah,” I begin. “What were the final numbers again?” There have been so many different setup scenarios, I honestly can’t keep track of what we finally decided to go with. My technician happily refreshes my memory. “91,000 effective hitpoints, sir, with a stable capacitor, and power enough to last you for 32 minutes in the most intense conflict scenario. It’s … awesome.”

I smile at that. For all his brains and wordiness, he’s still a geeky kid at heart, but he knows his stuff. Between their extensive expertise and my own, we’ve worked out a configuration that is simply awe inspiring.

“How long to make the modifications?” I am anxious already to take her out, to let her fulfill her destiny, yet I also understand you can’t just say “do” and it’s done. “It’s going to take approximately …” he punches a few buttons on his keyboard, “Six days, six hours, and 29 minutes, sir.” I smirk at him. “That’s approximate, eh?”

“Let’s get to ‘er then” my chief mechanic declares. “She ain’t be building ‘erself.” I nod my consent. They both scamper away, gathering their teams. It’s going to be a busy week.

Six days.

Only six days and then the Amarr will truly understand what they face. They can bring their battleships, they can open they cyno fields; six days and I will be able to bring more to the fight than just this machine. I will be able to bring hope to our troops, inspiration with tangible results.

It’s going to be fun.

As a capsuleer, I tend to make a lot of ISK compared to the average citizens of the four empires. Sure, it’s well deserved, and this rant is really more about principle than anything else…

So there I was, about a year go now, shopping for hours in Rens during a little downtime, when my stomach reminded me of how very hungry I was. I stopped at a local food court, and got myself some nice ethnic food (it was Caldari, haha). I hadn’t eaten all day and was ravenous. The food looked incredibly delicious, and as I made my way down the service line, they were topping it with all kinds of goodness. Then it was time to pay.

Like I said, I make a lot of ISK, so I generally don’t carry it loose on my person. I prefer to use my iskCard. In fact, I don’t leave home without it. The bill was 5.38 isk. Nothing substantial for the fine looking food I was about to enjoy.

I let them swipe my card, ready to enter my secured PIN to pay for my order. The little display showed my total. I hit OK. Then it showed “Service charge 0.25 ISK”. WTF? I asked what this meant. “Oh, the company that owns that machine charges us every month for its use. That is their fee, not ours.” 

Hmmm, that seemed odd to me then. I mean sure, you have to pay for equipment you are renting, but I am confident a single transaction doesn’t cost 0.25 ISK. That means in addition to blatantly passing this cost through to your customers, you’re also raping them in the process. Basically, it’s a big sign to me that says “I don’t believe enough in my business to cover my own operating expenses.” And in all honesty, if you don’t believe, then why should I?

Screw that. I cancelled my order.

As I began to walk away, the manager chased after me, screaming at the top of his lungs “We made food to you! You must pay now!” I stopped and turned towards him. “I cancelled the order.” I said politely.

He was fuming. “You no cancel after. Food already made. You pay now.” (Now I know my Caldari accent might sound a little strange in my recollection, but to me, they’re all the same anyway). I raised one eyebrow towards him, ready to enter into a debate over morality, business ethics and the like, but decided all I really wanted was to just eat some food. “No” was all I said, throwing him a look that dared him to pursue the matter.

He faltered for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. He looked around for support from who knows where. His shoulders noticeably sagged. “I thought as much” I said, as I turned to walk away.

“You no come back. You no welcome here anymore!” he yelled after me as I increased the distance between us with each stride.

Like I really wanted to go back, but good for him feeling so empowered.

I found another place in the food court, ordered some food and paid for it without any service charge. I politely thanked them, a large smile on my face, and enjoyed some decent food.

Over the last year, this service charge has gotten out of hand. More and more places seem to be doing it, and the charge keeps going up. 0.25 ISK, 0.50 ISK, some even 0.75 ISK!

I did some digging into the companies that issue the rental of these units:

FACT: They do indeed charge a monthly fee for the rental of these machines. I tried to rent one, making up some bogus info just to find out pricing. The cost range was between 50 ISK to 150 ISK per month.

FACT: Given the cost to rent one of these machines, and let’s say an average of only 1000 customers per month (most retail businesses average 300 -700 transactions per day, or an average of 15000 transactions per month), and a service charge of 0.50 isk per transaction, that’s 500 ISK per month. Even at the most extreme rental cost, that’s an extra 350 ISK per month I’d be pocketing as a business owner charging for the use of this machine. I would like to think all my numbers here are very modest, and that actual totals are much higher.

FACT: If you make an average of 100 transactions per month, that’s an average of 50 ISK extra you are paying per month simply for the “privilege” of being able to shop at a given business.

FACT: The reason these businesses think they can get away with this is simply because we, as consumers, allow it. If we simply stop paying it, flat our refusal, then these businesses will have to change the way they conduct business.

Something to think about? I hope you will.

“Alright ladies, all pilots to your jumpgate around Kourmonen. We’ll show those Amarr pigs what being a Minmatar is all about.” There is a chorus of agreement over the comm channel as our fleet begins jumping into Kourmonen from its surrounding systems. 

The Amarr have been stepping up the fight recently. Now it was time to push them back.

We gathered in an unrestricted military complex, sent our technicians to work, and waited. They wouldn’t take long, and we knew they would come in force.

The pilots were well trained. They were Tribal Liberation Force militia after all. Everyone took their designated positions. Morale was high. I was pleased to be commanding them.

That is when the sensory overload occured. I was hit with a massive headache. My vision went dark, then bright blue. I could feel my Vagabond, a ship I hadn’t pulled out of the dock in a long while, slip into warp, destination unknown.

“Aura, what is going on?” I thought, evoking the command to stop the ship. I was deaf. I was blind. Aura didn’t respond. “Aura, status.” I pushed my will against the machine. No response. 

I reached for manual override to my pod. Something was drastically wrong. My mind was reeling at the thoughts of sabotage. The rear of my pod hissed open. I started screaming for assistance.

My crew helped untether me from the network of cables that kept me in touch with the ship. “Status report!” I bellowed across the deck. “All systems unresponsive Colonel! The computers are locked up! We have no control.”

I stormed over to one of the nearby terminals, and smashed it with the meat of my closed fist. “Dammit!” A blue screen was on each and every monitor. “Reboot the system! We need to regain control, and I mean NOW!”

The computer techs quickly initiated a manual override. Everything went blank. The ship eased out of warp. We had no control. We were sitting ducks. We were dead if anyone found us.

“Get me that system back online now!” I could see them scrambling frantically, each of us knowing the perilous situation we had suddenly found ourselves in.

1 minute, nothing.

“Sir, we can’t reboot the system! Diagnostics are showing corruption in the base Aura system!” What was going on, I could not tell you. It is not my area of expertise. All I knew is that I had a fleet depending on me. Sure, my second in command would step up, and Neu Bastian was more than capable, but dammit, it was my fight, and I wanted to be there. 

“And there’s nothing you can do? Is that what you’re really telling me?” I threw a menacing glare at my technicians. “Well, we could do a manual reinstall, wipe the system clean. We would lose everything custom you’ve done, but might be able to get the ship running again.”

Without hesitation, I knew the command as it was coming out of my mouth. “Do it.”

90 minutes later, we were operational. Granted it was a base model, out of the box Vagabond now, but that’s ok. I could work with that.

We quickly opened our intel channel, only to find the battle was over. We had secured a victory against the Amarr, who arrived with a heavy battleship fleet. And we missed it all.

I was going to have to get to the bottom of this. And fast.

LOCATION: UNKNOWN GALLENTE SPACE

It is often said space is like the deep ocean. The weightlessness can make you queasy. Your inability to move in any direction induces panic. There is no oxygen to breathe. There is no “up”. It is easy to panic in the ocean. It is almost a certainty to panic in space. Cold, dark, harsh, unforgiving, space will take your life far more quickly than the ocean.

The ocean is powerful. Gravity, tides, currents all contributing to massive and raw displays of power. The oceans form the landscapes of planets. They can give life. They can completely obliterate it.

Space is even more far reaching in its strength. Stars implode. Planets are crushed. Black holes that devour all within their grasp. Nebulae that can leave you lost forever.

It is difficult with mere words to truly impress upon someone the weight of space; the import of it. It is not to be trifled with. Unlike the ocean, you do not casually swim in space. You do not bathe in it. You treat space as the most unforgiving lover you have ever known, for that is what she is to some, a lover.

Admist a dense cluster of asteroids, suspended in space far from any nearby planets, rests a bunker, carved and built into the very foundations of one of these larger rocks. It slowly spins, controlled by forces of the universe, serving as a very hidden, and very secret, base of operations for a group that dreams of changing the universe as we know it. Yet they seek more than change, for being an agent of change can bring great and wonderful positives to the future. No, this group seeks more than change. They seek control; power; dominance.

Within the darkly lit bunker, in a deeper level so cold that heating units constantly pump out warm air to make it liveable, a man, a former shadow of his self, stands in a dank, poorly lit room. His body trembles and sweats at the same time, his hair matted against his forehead. His clothing clings to his body, emanating the stench of uncleanliness of both mind and body.

This man, whom must remain nameless for now, has stood in this room for nearly a week. He will not eat. He will not sleep. His slow and shallow breathing almost a catatonic state. He is consumed, and conflicted. A pure, untainted hatred eats at him from the inside, like an insatiable disease; unstoppable, unslowable, incurable. His superiors, with concern, attempted to treat him, to move him to the medcenter, to rescue him from himself. His response was that of a cornered animal. He viciously attacked his own, tearing at them with feral savagry. Now, those same superiors have written him off, unfit for duty, and yet still he remains, not a single soul daring to remove him.

“I had you,” he thinks to himself, “Yet you got away.” He is lost amidst the caverns of his mind. He is blinded to the reality unfolding around him, stuck in that one single thought, that critical moment that changed the course of his entire existence. “I had you, yet you got away.”

His heartrate rapidly increases, his breathing becoming laboured and heavy. His chest feels pressured, a great weight against it. Yet he feels clarity for the first time in a long while. His broken mind grasps at it, holding onto this lifeline lest it slip through his fingers, and he fall back into the murky abyss, lost even to himself. A dark epiphany has finally revealed its ugly truth to his demented psyche.

“I am coming for you, Roc Wieler.”

I can already tell from the deafening roar what his response is going to be before he gives me the thumbs down from the entrance of the cave; the dust storm isn’t letting up. We’ve been here for eighteen hours now, trapped by the storm, which seems to be gaining strength, not blowing over as we had hoped. We’re hungry, tired, and a bit demoralized.

It’s the perfect time for a story.

“Did I ever tell you guys the one about the Amarrian priest?” A grin cracks onto my face, and my team immediately gathers round, some with intense interest, others thankful for something to do other than stare at the cavern walls.

“It was before the war, and I was enjoying some downtime in Jita. I’m not a big one for shopping. It’s usually get in, get what you need, get out. But Jita, well, you know, that’s an entirely different experience. I had just spent the entire day shopping…” This brought the expected chuckles from my audience. “And was taking a public shuttle from one of the main hubs back to where I could catch a monorail to the secured hangar levels. Anywho, there I am, minding my own business…” Another round of chuckles. “When the shuttle reaches its next stop on our route. And who should get on but a small Amarrian priest, fully dressed in religious vestments, the quintessential stereotype of that proud and pompous race.” This brought full on laughter, and I stopped for a moment to join in. After catching my breath, and wiping a tear away from my eye, I continued. “Like I said, it was before the war. CONCORD dictated any race could pretty much go anywhere it wanted, and this was Jita afterall. I was sitting at the back of the shuttle, minding my own business, when I happened to notice this priest begin talking with a passenger near the front. Then another. Then another. My ears pricked up, trying to glean information on what was going on. I overheard parts of conversations ‘Your immortal soul’, ‘plan for the afterlife’, ‘come by one of our services’, etc, etc, when I realized this priest was evangelizing the people on the shuttle! I mean, give me a break. I’ve got my own beliefs, we all do…” <insert grunts of agreement> “But I don’t force it down anyone else’s throat, especially on a public transport. Sure enough though, this little Amarrian priest was single mindedly talking to each and every passenger on the shuttle. I wanted to pretend to sleep, or find some other means to avoid an engagement, but at the same time I really hoped he would try to talk to me.” I flashed a wicked, toothy smile which brought raucous laughter from those around.

The priest finally was talking to an older Caldari woman seated in front of me. She did her best to be polite, to deflect his responses to her every statement. The guy was good, I’ll give him that. No matter what she said, he had a way of twisting it around on her. Typical religious nut. He finally turned his attentions on me. ‘Greetings, proud slave.’ he began. This brought a unified chorus of ooooohs from my team. “I know, not the best way he could begin, but it was said with complete sincerity. Not a glimpse of mockery came from this man. He was completely convinced of his views on life. ‘Do you know God’s plan for your life, Matari?’ he began. ‘I do indeed.’ I replied. ‘I plan to live forever, or until the clones run out.’

‘Well perhaps you don’t know his plan for your afterlife then? I am sure there are things I could tell you that you might find…’ he was revving right up into his spiel, just like that. 

‘Listen,’ I interrupted. ‘I respect what you’re doing, really. Takes nads. But you do realize people pay to use this transport, and selling things to passengers on it is illegal, right?’

‘Oh no, misguided one, we are very careful about this type of thing. This is public property as you mentioned, and I am not soliciting anyone, so am not in violation of any CONCORD mandates.’ His toothy smile was starting to annoy me.

‘Really? Let me ask you this then. Do you care about my immortal soul?’ I asked. ‘Why yes, of course. It is the reason for my work here today. I care for all souls.’ I put my hand up to stop him. ‘And don’t you gain rank or something back at the boy scouts club for every soul you bring to salvation?’

‘Well, the brotherhood does smile upon those who tend to the lost.’ Again, I had to stop him with the hand before he went off on a tirade.

‘So then what you are telling me is that you are profiting from me accepting what you are selling, which sounds an awful lot to me like a transaction. And that would mean you are soliciting me to get that sale in the first place. You’re selling religion. And I ain’t buying.’

‘Usually, it’s the pilot of the shuttle that warns us not to do anything illegal. I didn’t realize you were licensed to fly a shuttle, dog.’ A fresh set of ooooohs from my audience. And yes, you heard right, he called me dog. I guess even the humble and meek have their limits. I had apparently reached his, and found which button to push. ‘I wouldn’t expect a slave to understand the things of the Master. I am sorry to have wasted both of our times.’ He turned to walk away, that pretentious smile never leaving his face. Who the hell did he think he was? Did he really think it was ok to be such a condescending prick in the name of God, to talk down to another being with such disdain and self righteous hypocrisy as to completely delude yourself from any sense of wrongdoing? Then to simply dismiss them as if they were some floatsam that was amusing for a moment but really not your job to clean up?

I could feel the blood boiling in my veins. I could see my eyes narrowing, my vision centering on the back of his head. I knew the bloodlust, the rage, that battle state that makes us proud Brutors, coming over me.’ A few cheers from my Brutor brothers. ‘I remember standing up. I remember seeing the look of shock on his face as he turned in response to my meaty hand on the nape of his neck, robes and all. But then, nothing.’ The men on my team looked at me, then to each other, as I left the silence hanging in the air for a moment.

‘I awoke in a medcenter.’ This received some curious looks from my listeners. ‘And one of my boots was missing.’ The curious looks intensified. ‘An attending doctor came to me, flanked on either side by a CONCORD Enforcer.’

‘Ah,’ he began, ‘you’re awake. Good, good. Seems you had a bit of an altercation with a priest. Do you remember anything about that?’ I told him about gathering up the priest by the back of his neck, but anything beyond that was a blank. I then tried to explain the events leading up to that moment. He gestured for me to stop, with a look that said all would be explained.

‘From what the witnesses on the shuttle say,  you gathered up this priest by the collar, then literally put your boot … <wait for it> up his ass.’ This brought a roar of laughter so loud that it threatened to drown out the noise of the storm. After letting them work it out of their systems, I continued.

‘You managed to bury yourself up to mid-shin. The medical team was having difficulty extracting your leg from his posterior; it was up there pretty good, so we decided to detach the boot. You’re fine, but I believe the priest will think twice about saving the lost. I think he just wants to put this behind him.’ Another round of laughter.

One of the burly CONCORD Enforcers stepped forward, as if on cue. ‘Roc Wieler,’ he began, in that typical law enforcement type of voice. ‘You are in violation of CONCORD law, section 11, subsection 24, paragraph 2. Because of your capsuleer status, there will be no criminal or civil prosecution. However, your ship has been impounded, your crew grounded, and you have been fined 15 million ISK.’

‘Well yeah, but what about my boot?’ I replied. From the look on his face, I could tell this grunt didn’t know how to reply. ‘Meh, am I free to leave?’

‘You are free to go about your business, capsuleer. However, in the future I advise…’ I was already out the door, limping slightly, one socked foot mocking me. I looked down at it for a moment, pausing my stride.

‘Dammit, that was a good boot too.'”

Looking around now, seeing my team laughing themselves silly, I realize my objective has been reached. Morale is back. We can continue waiting for this storm to end.

Crazy Kinux, in a continuing effort to bring you the best in EVE blogging, has added Roc’s Ramblings to the Blog Pack. This is very exciting indeed.

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