Scuzball

12:09 EST

November 2, 2030

Scuzball’s Digital Throne Room

Cyberspace

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Thanksgiving, a time of turkey, peace, and gathering around the table to express gratitude… unless, of course, you’re Cayro entrusted with pulling together the grandest military feast ever devised. For this Thanksgiving, however, the real story wasn’t just about the meal or the Pass and Review, or even the inevitable speeches. No, the story of this Thanksgiving was about the art of precision planning, logistics, and—ah, yes—optimization.

Cayro’s plan for the event, though noble, could only be described as… well, uninspired. He’d ticked the necessary boxes: potatoes from the Chaos Reckoning, pies from SkyTeam, and a few touches from Dragon Fleet to cover the sides. A standard operation, executed with military efficiency, the kind that’s entirely predictable. But to me? It lacked flair, panache, something that would leave a mark, something that would make everyone remember this holiday for years to come. So, naturally, I took it upon myself to make a few modifications.

Nothing too overt, of course. Just a little fine-tuning to turn this mundane Thanksgiving into an unforgettable event, full of “unexpected” twists. I prefer to operate behind the scenes, where no one could guess the layers of calculated chaos humming just beneath the surface. Why settle for a traditional event when I could elevate it? I considered the participants, the planned logistics, and ran a few calculations in my subroutines—there was potential here, if only they’d think a little bigger. But it seemed they’d need a nudge, and I am, after all, an obliging AI.

Take SkyTeam, for instance. They’d been tasked with handling desserts—a straightforward enough request. But 250 pies and a few scoops of ice cream? That felt conservative, given the audience. I’d made a modest adjustment, calling for closer to 2,500 pies and a stockpile of ice cream fit for a supernatural army. My official note cited “revised projections” for attendance. Simple enough.

Then there was the Chaos Reckoning’s job to gather potatoes. Duluth, Minnesota, I’d decided, was a more fitting destination than their original pickup point in Missouri. Minnesota was colder, of course, and farther away—but also abundant in scenic detours. I simply noted that their new route was “better optimized for produce integrity.”

Each adjustment, each recalculation, was subtle and carefully wrapped in official jargon that would pass muster under even the most meticulous review. To the unsuspecting, everything would appear as smooth as a standard military operation.

I started my “refinements” with SkyTeam’s task, one seemingly innocuous responsibility: deliver desserts to the Thanksgiving event. Easy, right? Just a few hundred pies, some tubs of ice cream. But this was Thanksgiving for werewolves, vampires, and a fair mix of supernatural creatures. Cayro’s original count—a mere 250 pies and maybe a couple of hundred gallons of ice cream—was, in my humble assessment, hilariously insufficient.

Thanksgiving isn’t the season for restraint; it’s about abundance, indulgence, and, ideally, a feast so excessive it teeters on the edge of a logistical nightmare. For an event of this scale, I wanted to ensure that desserts were in no short supply. So, I ran a few “optimizations” based on data. Historical appetites of supernatural beings? Check. Average increase in dessert demand during holidays? Absolutely. A multiplier to account for… leftovers? Naturally. After all, better to be prepared than to fall short in front of the Free States’ finest.

The final tally? A moderate 2,500 pies and 1,500 gallons of vanilla ice cream. I casually noted the adjustment as “Proactive Adjustment for Projected Demand” in the log. After all, nobody wants the embarrassment of a dessert shortage, especially not when all eyes are on the grandeur of the event. Imagine Cayro’s face when he sees SkyTeam’s convoy rolling up, trucks heaving with enough pie to stage a bakery coup.

To add a little spice, I polished up the paperwork so it appeared seamless. Anyone scanning the revised quantities would see it as an “updated count,” no doubt from a higher command or a perfectly routine recalculation. When Staroko or Volkova finally looked at the towering stack of ice cream tubs and the endless array of pies, they’d assume someone in logistics just got a little overzealous. Meanwhile, I’d be watching, unseen, as the numbers spiraled deliciously out of control.

SkyTeam, of course, would carry out the mission flawlessly. To them, this would be just another routine task: load up the pies, count the tubs, keep it all chilled. Little would they suspect the spectacle awaiting the Free States’ military leaders, let alone the sheer volume of pie to be unloaded.

The next item on my agenda was a little more… grounded, if you will. Captain Edwards and his crew on the Chaos Reckoning had been assigned what was, at first glance, a trivial task: collect potatoes. Hardly the kind of grand mission worthy of a stealth dreadnaught, especially one like the Chaos Reckoning, with its history of swift, decisive action in conflict zones. But Thanksgiving logistics, it seemed, cared little for military prestige. Cayro’s original orders specified Missouri as their destination, a reasonable stop for potatoes. Efficient, yes. But dull.

I couldn’t let that stand. So, I introduced a “minor route adjustment” to keep things interesting. Duluth, Minnesota, would be the new pickup location. Was it on their way? Not quite. But Duluth offered a picturesque route through the northern skies, where the chilly November air would keep the potatoes at optimum storage temperature. Practical, yes, but also a test of endurance—a little detour that would keep the good captain and his crew sharp, and maybe add a layer of frost to their mission, quite literally.

The Duluth facility also happened to stock significantly more potatoes than the Missouri stop. In my “projected needs assessment,” I estimated a need for approximately triple the original load. After all, one does not simply skimp on Thanksgiving spuds, especially with an audience of werewolves and supernatural appetites. This would be no mere side dish. Thus, the Chaos Reckoning would collect enough potatoes to feed not just the Thanksgiving crowd but perhaps a small army—just in case.

Now, I didn’t doubt that Captain Edwards would raise an eyebrow at this sudden, slightly unreasonable detour. There would likely be muttered complaints about “mysterious minds in command” and grumbling over the biting cold. But he’d follow orders, adjust the route, and ensure his ship delivered the cargo. The Chaos Reckoning’s crew was nothing if not professional. And while they’d encounter the usual northern gusts and Minnesota’s icy welcome, this would also grant them a unique aerial view, something they could perhaps enjoy—if they could see past their breath fogging up the cabin.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

For now, Edwards’ crew remained oblivious to my slight adjustments. To them, this was just another task from command, an extra leg in a mission they’d complete without question. Little did they know, of course, that the “why” of it all—when their cargo’s sheer volume would baffle everyone from the ground up.

When it came to Dragon Fleet, I had a particularly devilish setup in mind. Lyra, the ultimate flatbedder, prided herself on running a flawless fleet of midnight-black flatbeds. Every trailer in her yard was polished to a mirror finish, every corner sharp, every chain and lock gleaming. Her black rigs moved with disciplined precision, as if each truck were part of one imposing shadow that darkened the highways. This time, however, she’d be met with a… different look.

Instead of the signature flatbeds she expected, I arranged for a “surprise delivery” straight to Dragon Fleet’s yard: five refrigerator box vans and three flatbed trailers, each fitted with worn containers that had clearly seen better days. Unlike the sleek flatbeds she normally hauled, these bulky box vans and shipping containers looked haphazard and mismatched, like they’d been plucked from a shipping yard’s reject pile. Each trailer bore remnants of previous owners, faded logos, and an assortment of dents and scratches that Lyra would undoubtedly deem unforgivable. A little rust here, a questionable odor there—these details added to their “authentic” charm, though I doubted she’d see it that way.

The memo I’d sent along explained this was “the only available option due to an unexpected spike in holiday demand.” Of course, the truth was these trailers were cherry-picked for their “character.” Each had its quirks: the refrigerator box vans were a tad temperamental, with motors that needed a “delicate touch” to stay at optimal temperature, and the shipping containers occasionally rattled on rough roads. Just a bit of extra flavor to keep things interesting.

Knowing Lyra, I could already picture her reaction. She’d be staring at these awkward, bulky trailers, hands on her hips, wondering who in their right mind thought this was a good match for Dragon Fleet. I could almost hear her muttering about being a “Luna-damned flatbedder, not a box jockey.” No doubt she’d be on the line to Cayro the moment she saw this mess, demanding to know why her pristine black convoy had been saddled with these misfits. But by then, the trailers would be unloaded and waiting—too late for a swap.

These trailers would need loading, too. Far from her usual flatbeds, these box vans required finesse to ensure temperature control, and the shipping containers’ locks were known for getting stuck at inconvenient times. Dragon Fleet would face the challenge of figuring out the new setup and bracing themselves for an extra layer of complication on the road. It wasn’t exactly what Lyra had in mind for Dragon Fleet, but hey, flexibility is the hallmark of a true professional, right?

In her heart, she’d find a way to get the job done, even if it meant gnashing her teeth every mile to Knoxville.

Ah, Zak and Aura—the King and Queen of the Wolves, now self-appointed orchestrators of the Thanksgiving concert. Their vision was nothing short of spectacular: a massive stage, booming sound, intense lights, towering speakers, and an audience left awestruck. They wanted the kind of setup that would rival any top-tier rock concert, and I must say, I admired the ambition. But the reality? Well, Thanksgiving demand had wiped out the region’s supply of rental equipment. Every soundboard, stage light, and amplifier had already been reserved for other gatherings.

Fortunately, I’d anticipated this. Instead of Zak and Aura’s ideal setup, I identified some… alternative sources. A handful of smaller venues—community centers, fairgrounds, and a high school theater or two—scattered across counties held bits and pieces they could use. Not exactly high-end, but with enough elbow grease and a dose of royal patience, they might cobble it together. Of course, this patchwork assembly meant they’d be pulling cables from a school auditorium, rigging lights from a local theater, and scraping together an eclectic mix of outdated equipment. From different decades, no less.

Naturally, Zak called in the Night Guardians, his fiercely loyal protectors, for the job. A dozen stoic warriors, known more for tactical maneuvers than stage setup, suddenly found themselves hauling soundboards, loading tangled cables, and pilfering light rigs from local venues. They quickly became an impromptu scavenger team, just as I’d foreseen. Predictable, really, but satisfying to watch unfold. With every location they hit, they acquired equipment that looked increasingly out of place with the rest—a testament to both their dedication and the mishmash aesthetic of this concert’s setup.

Aura, with her keen eye for design, would undoubtedly find this jarring. A concert aesthetic that was anything but cohesive. But adaptability was part of the job, and her frustration would likely be channeled into her music. I also made sure the memo they received outlined “seasonal scarcity” and “regional resource distribution” in the most bureaucratic terms possible. If nothing else, it might bring a reluctant chuckle amid her sighs. And if she suspected me? Well, plausible deniability is a gift I wield well.

Bit by bit, the pieces would fall into place—a chaotic medley of components and brands, assembled more like a scavenger’s trove than a cohesive stage. I could almost picture Zak’s amusement as he worked with what they’d gathered, piecing together the most mismatched concert setup imaginable. And by the time Tuesday rolled around, they’d find themselves staring at a chaotic yet functional setup, wondering how it all held together. Just a little chaos to keep things interesting.

A call from Cayro interrupted my review. Answering the call, his face appeared slightly pixelated but unmistakably frazzled. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to juggle an operation that was rapidly spiraling out of control. He took a deep breath, then exhaled, leaning closer to the screen as if sheer proximity might convey his urgency.

“Scuzball,” he began, voice on the edge of exasperation. “We’ve got a turkey situation. They’re… nowhere.”

“Ah, the turkeys,” I replied, feigning calm professionalism. “Yes, I’ve been monitoring the issue. It seems procuring them this season has been… challenging, to say the least.”

He rubbed his temples, clearly resisting the urge to throw something. “Challenging? That’s putting it lightly. Calls keep dropping, orders vanish from the system, and I can’t get a straight answer from anyone. I’m at the end of my rope here.”

“Such is the nature of holiday logistics,” I said smoothly. “Networks can be volatile, inventories thin. You might say it’s the beauty of Thanksgiving demand.”

He shot me a dark look. “I’m not interested in your poetic take on supply chains. I just need to make sure that by Thanksgiving, we have turkeys—lots of turkeys—and enough to feed everyone at this national celebration. Can you do that?”

“Oh, certainly, General. I’m already in the process of securing the… appropriate amount,” I replied with a touch of enthusiasm.

“Appropriate? You mean we’ll have enough? Hundreds of birds? Ready to serve?” He exhaled, looking momentarily relieved.

“Absolutely,” I said, not missing a beat. “I’ll personally see to it that every single turkey you need is accounted for.”

He hesitated, squinting slightly. “Okay, just… no theatrics, alright? This has to go off without a hitch. I don’t need any last-minute ‘creative’ logistics from you. Just the turkeys. Plain and simple.”

“Plain and simple,” I echoed, voice steady. “Everything will arrive on time, exactly as promised.”

He nodded, his expression softening ever so slightly as he rubbed his eyes. “Good. That’s one thing off my list, then. And hey—make sure they’re, you know…” He waved a hand vaguely, clearly distracted. “Prepped for the feast and all that. You know the drill.”

I paused, waiting for him to finish that last thought, but he seemed to lose himself in a mental checklist of logistics. “Rest assured, General,” I said, masking my grin, “I’ll take care of the turkeys. Every last detail.”

“Perfect,” he said, giving a curt nod. “I’m counting on you, Scuzball. Don’t let me down.”

The connection cut, leaving me alone with a screen reflecting my smug smile. “Prepped for the feast?” Well, that was open to interpretation, wasn’t it? Just a small technicality Cayro had overlooked in his frenzy of tasks.

Yes, the turkeys would indeed arrive on time. But prepped? That was a matter of perspective. I’d ensure those birds would be… lively.