Vikings were some twisted motherfuckers. According to some of their poems and sagas they used a totally tweaked form of execution they liked to call the “Blood Eagle“. The shape of an eagle would be carved into the back of the condemned and his ribs would be severed close to the spine and pulled back so they resembled wings or feathers. Salt would be rubbed into the wound and finally, the lungs would be pulled out through the opening.

From the Orkneyinga saga:

“There they found Halfdan Long-leg, and Einar made them carve an eagle on his back with a sword, and cut the ribs all from the backbone, and draw the lungs there out, and gave him to Odin for the victory he had won…”

Whether the Blood Eagle was real or not or whether the method described above was the de facto way to do it is not really known for sure. I’d like to think it was real. Vikings rule!

This morning, I’ve been reading a bit about the Battle of Chalons, where of Attila and his army of Huns fought and lost against a combined force of Romans and Visigoths in the year 451. Considered one of the bloodiest battles in history, with one contemporary historian reporting the tally of dead at 165,000 and another recording that it was a whopping 300,000. Romans, barbarians and Huns. Spears, arrows, axes and swords. Blood, guts, dismemberment, grevious wounds and death. A king, trampled under the hooves of his own men’s horses. The field, “piled high with corpses”. They just don’t fight battles like they used to these days. Pussies.

Entirely truthful or not, I absolutely love this description by the historian Jordanes of the sheer volume of gore:

“For, if we may believe our elders, a brook flowing between low banks through the plain was greatly increased by blood of the slain. It was not flooded by showers, as brooks usually rise, but was swollen by a strange stream and turned into a torrent by the increase of blood. Those whose wounds drove them to slake their parching thirst drank water mingled in gore. In their wretched plight they were forced to drink what they thought was the blood they had poured from their own wounds.” [Link]

This one, by Damascius, while fanciful, is kind of cool as well:

“…[The fighting was so severe] that no one survived except only the leaders on either side and a few followers: but the ghosts of those who fell continued the struggle for three whole days and nights as violently as if they had been alive; the clash of their arms was clearly audible.”

I’ve been reading (more like skimming to the juicy parts) the diary of Samuel Pepys, concerning his accounts of the Great Plague of London. Lasting from 1665-1666, the plague killed one-fifth of the population of London (something like 75,000-100,000 people). Today, we’re all pretty sure that the disease was an outbreak of the bubonic fever, with symptoms including fever, headaches, painful aching joints, nausea, vomiting, painful buboes about the groin, armpits and neck that bled and oozed puss and black splotches (a symptom called acral necrosis) covering the body. The disease was generally transmitted by fleas, however the dirty Londoners of the time had no understanding of this, believing that it was spread by unclean air. With a 75% mortality rate, bubonic fever was quite the bitch.

Pepys, who lived in London throughout the plague, described the scene at the time:

“This day, much against my Will, I did in Drury-lane see two or three houses marked with a red cross upon the doors, and “Lord have mercy upon us” writ there which was a sad sight to me, being the first of that kind that to my remembrance I ever saw. It put me into an ill conception of myself and my smell, so that I was forced to buy some roll tobacco to smell and to chaw which took away the apprehension.”

“I to Fox-hall, where to the Spring-garden, but I do not see one guest there the town being so empty of anybody to come thither only, while I was there, a poor woman came to scold with the maister of the house that a kinswoman, I think, of hers, that was newly dead of the plague, might be buried in the church yard; for, for her part, she should not be buried in the Commons [plague pits] as they said she should. … I could observe and the streets mighty thin of people.”

“… Mr. Marr telling me by the way how a maid-servant of Mr. John Wrights (who lives thereabouts) falling sick of the plague, she was removed to an out-house, and a nurse appointed to look to her who being at once absent, the maid got out of the house at the window and run away. The nurse coming and knocking, and having no answer, believed she was dead, and went and told Mr. Wright so; who, and his lady, were in great strait what to do to get her buried. At last resolved to go to Burntwood hard by, being in that parish, and there get people to do it but they would not; so he went home full of trouble, and in the way met the wench walking over the Common, which frighted him worse than before. And was forced to send people to take her; which he did, and they got one of the pest Coaches and put her into it to carry her to a pest-house. And passing in a narrow lane, Sir Anthony Browne, with his brother and some friends in the coach, met this coach with the Curtains drawn close. The brother being a young man, and believing there might be some lady in it that would not be see, and the way being narrow, he thrust his head out of his own into her coach to look, and there saw somebody look very ill, and in a sick dress and stunk mightily; which the coachman also cried out upon. And presently they came up to some people that stood looking after it; and told our gallants that it was a maid of Mr. Wrights carried away sick of the plague which put the young gentleman into a fright had almost cost him his life, but is now well again.”

“… The people die so, that now it seems they are fain to carry the dead to be buried by daylight, the nights not sufficing to do it in. And my Lord Mayor commands people to be within at 9 at night, all (as they say) that the sick may have liberty to go abroad for ayre. There is one also dead out of one of our ships at Deptford, which troubles us mightily the Providence fire-ship, which was just fitted to go to sea. But they tell me today, no more sick on board. And this day W. Bodham tells me that one is dead at Woolwich, not far from the Ropeyard. I am told too, that a wife of one of the groomes at Court is dead at Salsbury, so that the King and Queene are speedily to be all gone to Milton. God preserve us.”

“… I went away and walked to Greenwich, in my way seeing a coffin with a dead body therein, dead of the plague, lying in an open close belonging to Coome farme, which was carried out last night and the parish hath not appointed anybody to bury it but only set a watch there day and night, that nobody should go thither or come thence, which is a most cruel thing this disease making us more cruel to one another then we are [to] dogs.”

“…Thus the month ends, with the plague, everywhere through the Kingdom almost. Every day sadder and sadder news of its encrease. In the City died this week 7496; and of them 6102 of the plague. But it is feared the true number of the dead this week is near 10000 partly from the poor that cannot be taken notice through the greatness of the number, and partly from the Quakers and others that will not have any bell ring for them.”

“… [meeting of the vestry to determine] doing something for the keeping of the plague from growing; but Lord, to consider the madness of people of the town, who will (because they are forbid) come in Crowds along with the dead Corps to see them buried. But we agreed on some orders for the prevention thereof. Among other stories, one was very passionate methought of a complaint brought against a man in the town for taking a child from London from an infected house. Alderman Hooker told us it was the child of a very able citizen in Gracious-street, a saddler, who had buried all the rest of his children of the plague; and himself and wife now being shut up, and in despair of escaping, did desire only to save the life of this little child; and so prevailed to have it received stark-naked into the arms of a friend, who brought it (having put it into new fresh clothes) to Grenwich; where, upon hearing the story, we did agree it should be (permitted to be) received and kept in the town.”

Awesome. Bring out your dead.

I’ve been reading a bit about slow-slicing a.k.a. Ling-chi, Leng T’che, the slow process, the lingering death, or death by a thousand cuts. There’s a lot of hype and bullshit about what this Chinese form of execution entailed, most common being that the process literally had the condemned being strategically sliced anywhere from 1,000-10,000 times, kept alive through careful cutting and drugs. This is more than likely complete and total bullshit. But, Ling-chi was a real method of execution. In fact, there’s a good number of photos out there.

Used for little over a thousand years in China, until it was outlawed in 1905, Leng-Chi was an extreme punishment usually reserved for treason, murder or crimes against one’s parents. Judging from existing photos of Leng-Chi executions that I’ve found, the convicted was brought out into a public area and tied upright to a stake. First, the prisoners breasts were removed, exposing the ribs, then the arms were removed at the bicep. Both legs were cut off at the knees and finally the head was removed. Some existing photos show the victim seeming to be lost in an ecstatic state, eyes cast to the sky and grinning. This could be caused by the prisoner being given a large amount of opium prior to the execution.

If you have the stomach for some old, black and white photos of several Ling-Chi executions as well as a plethora of beheadings, check out this gallery. There’s a ton of images, spanning many pages. Just start sifting through, be patient and you’ll find plenty of stuff.

The method of execution known as scaphism is some sincerely funky and evil shit. Practiced in ancient Persia, the name is a combination of the Greek word skaphe and the Latin word for boats.

A man who had sufficiently fucked the rule of law enough to rate a dispatch by scaphism was stripped of clothing and bound up tightly; secured within a trough or small canoe-like boat. He was then force-fed milk and honey until a situation of extreme diarrhea had been reached. The condemned was then rubbed down with more honey and then set afloat in stagnant water, exposed to the sun.

Insects would be attracted to the honey covering the body, biting and stinging him and as feces accumulated in the boat, the bugs would begin laying eggs and starting a happy little community amongst the shit as well as in the man’s flesh.

Death, from a combination of dehydration, starvation and septic shock probably came a very long time after the prisoner went completely fucking insane (as I know I would).

Cyrus the Younger was supposedly executed this way, taking 17 days to die.

I was reading a Wired article about the statistics of death in the United States compared to the “Politics of Fear” type shit you see on the news left and right. To believe the news, I’d be insane to not flee New York for the hills because Al Qaeda’s going to kill my skinny, white ass any second now and if I was smart enough to head for the mountains, I should probably dig a bunker because they’re going to nuke that shit too. However, Wired points out the actual statistical reality of mortality in the States, complete with a nice little color-coded chart á la Dept. of Homeland Security’s absolutely retarded threat advisory chart.

Sanely speaking, death by terrorism ranks second to lowest (lowest being that radical, extremist, Jihad-freak: Carbon Monoxide). The flu, a hernia, driving and just about everything else you might prefer to die of all rank much, much higher.

What caught my eye, was the fact that you’re more likely to be shot by law enforcement (3949) than killed by a terrorist (3147). I wonder what the numbers might rise to if being killed by the government, such as being shipped off to Iraq or being neglected in New Orleans after Katrina were to be factored in. Who would be the bigger killer of American citizens? Al Qaeda or the Bush administration?

Bang! Zoom! The very first “Ask daveb!” question has arrived!

Totally-Taco-TOnii from Jersey asks:

Q:

Dear daveb,

What happens when you die… and shit like that?

Ps. This is actually from my roomate.

TOnii

A: Well TOnii, that’s quite a brainsqueeze of a question. Mere humans may balk when faced with such a task as answering such a daunting query, but not daveb. Daveb rules!

There’s a fucking fecal cornucopia of cultures, religions and semi-coherent belief systems out there. Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Muslims and so many others all have their opinions. It’s a big place, this Spaceship Earth. So, who’s right and who’s got their head up the cosmic donkey’s ass? Get ready. Are you sitting down? Everyone. They’re all wrong. Seriously. No lie. So where do we go when we die? Does anyone know?

You bet your ass someone knows. Daveb rules! He knows everything and since you asked nicely, he will learn you something big, so stop fucking around, sit straight and pay attention because you’re about to hear the truth, straight from the Pope’s colon polyp.

When you die, your soul doesn’t leave the Earth. In fact, it goes to a really fucking fat guy with clammy hands named Earl who lives in Fort Dick, California and has been doing the whole afterlife thing on the side as a hobby. The rest of the time, he sells rubber industrial O-rings to factories. I told you that you’d be better off sitting down.

Earl (last name withheld for privacy) started collecting the souls of the dead as a young man, fresh from the Korean war. The idea came to him one evening while teaching his four year-old son to catch fireflies with mason jars in the backyard and while originally started as something to pass the time, Earl’s afterlife has grown to quite the cottage industry.

Earl’s first setup was a five gallon paint bucket behind the garage and today has expanded to fill the entire garage, a toolshed and several Hefty trash bins. Most recently, Earl has begun working on an addition to the house which he hopes to house all the souls of the dead and perhaps create Fort Dick’s first and only tourist attraction.

So there you go TOnii, question answered. Keep ‘em coming people!

[Ask daveb anything! Either use this form or send an email to webmaster [at] davebgimp [dot] com with “Ask daveb” as the subject line. Remember, daveb knows all!]

I’m sitting amongst a mass of very loud drunk people. I have to hop a plane back to NYC at the butt-crack of dawn tomorrow, so I’ve been keeping things understated because there’s not much worse then mass transportation with a hangover.

I spent this weekend going a bit crazy, riding out one night with a big bonfire, watching the sun rise and sleeping on the sand. It’s a certain type of morning misery to wake with the sun in your eyes, hungover, with people stepping over you and I fully explored that slice of life this weekend. With this out of the way, I am clear for the rest of the year to spend my time doing boring, geriatric and repetitive things to my heart’s desire.

While getting blotto and devoured by mosquitoes, I was told that my best friend, from way back when, Jakob Ohlsson, a guy I knew and spent all my time with fifteen years ago, had died.

The last time I saw him was about five years ago, shortly before I moved to NYC. We bumped into each other in a bar and he told me that soon, he’d also be relocating to Brooklyn. I gave him my email address and I hoped we’d touch base later, after we’d both settled in to the city.

I never heard from him again. I assumed he was in New York City and once or twice a year, I’d Google his name and see if I could locate a means to get in touch with him. Just last month, I’d tried searching again. Time had gone by and we’d stopped hanging around, but he was someone that I always wanted to keep in touch with. Maybe once a year have a beer and smoke a joint, paying homage to the derelict train-wreck pair of adolescents that we were, then just shake hands and go back to our respective responsibilities with the knowledge that we’d turned out okay, despite what people predicted. We came out on top and yet we were still crazy enough to be cool by our standards. That’s what was supposed to happen anyway.

This morning, someone emailed me his obituary. It had his photo and there’s just no getting around the fact that my friend Jake is gone. He’d died of asthma complications almost two years ago. He was thirty years old and had a baby daughter. I don’t know where he’s buried.

Jake and I were troubled teenagers, bonded together over the fact that collectively, we were pharmaceutically much more reckless than our peers. We shared an interest in music, art, drugs, being punk rock and seeing who could more successfully interpret “fuck it” into a working lifestyle. Jake was a smart kid. He was calm, laid back and when I think of him, the first thing that comes to mind was his seemingly omnipresent smile and laugh that totally belied his aggressive exterior.

We were angry. We were crazy and we had problems. But, above and outside of that, we were friends. We hung out, doing drugs and being reckless, to escape and to distract. I had my problems and many a person might have looked at me and seen a spoiled whiny brat with a big mouth, destined for a career in convenience store management, but with Jake, his issues seemed heavier. He had a lot going for him, but conversely, much against him. He played the cello, was a talented artist and extremely likable and intelligent, but he also had a drug problem. He was adopted and raised by good parents who gave him everything he needed, but he was the only African American in his town, possibly for several towns. I’m sure it must have presented issues, but he never said anything. Vermont was and is still predominantly white. It was more so back then. For many years, he was the first and only black man I knew, not that I ever once thought about it back then. To me, Jake was the coolest shit, always down and always in style.

Jake ran away when I was about seventeen. He’d violated his parole on a drug test and rather than face the music, he took some money and made off for the west coast. Not the best of decisions on his part, but at my age, the guts that it took to do that had me in awe. I received one letter from him, but for the most part, he was M.I.A. When he did finally come back, two years later, he was still Jake, but changed. He told me he’d been addicted to crack, robbed stores and joined the Crips out in L.A. He’d been squeezed through the wringer and lived, but some things had taken a toll and left him different from the kid I knew from before. He told me he found his birth mother, but I didn’t ask what became of it. Things had changed, but he was still my friend.

I saw less and less of Jake as the years went on. I often thought of him, but did not know where to find him and often I thought that if I did track him down, would I have anything to say to him? I was surprised however, when I bumped in to him in the summer of 2000. He had a girlfriend, seemed to be doing okay and was psyched about coming to New York City.

I don’t know anything about Jake’s last moments. I don’t know where I can go to visit his body, if in fact, a place exists, so all I have right now is this blog post.

Jakob Imani Ohlsson was a good kid and I’m sure, despite his troubles, he was a good man. I will sincerely miss him. He was my friend and I will never forget him.

I just read this article about how a Houston family visited a relative’s ashes in a mausoleum, only to find the remains missing and in it’s place, a can of Pringles Sour Cream and Onion potato chips.

How the fuck did that happen, you might ask? I think the better question is, did they eat the chips?