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The inn is dark and smoky, like the kind of inn that adventurers would rest at, tankards of ale in one hand and huge round pieces of meat with a bone stuck through in the other. Next to you sits Bladey Fightsman, the swordsfighter from that comic you love. The more you look around the inn, the more you realize that it's actually a huge sprawling complex, an inn of infinite dimensions, tended to by an infinite army of identical busty wenches, who have stretch marks and tragic backstories, which makes them feminist. "Just what is this place?" You murmur under your breath, amazed at the tankard of ale and round piece of meat appearing in your hands. "This here's the Finite Infinite Inn." Grumbles the barman behind you, who has eight arms all cuffed up like wild west bankers. He busies himself pouring tankards of ale from a spigot the size of an eggplant, attached to a stout barrel so large each plank is as wide as a canoe. "How can something be both finite and infinite?" You ask yourself, in your dumb american accent. "Well, there ain't much need for more than one of them if it's infinite, now is it?" The barman grins smugly, before vanishing into a puff of glitter. "What the loving gently caress." You say, navigating your tankard of ale and kettlebell-sized chunk of meat through the busy inn. You pass a table of African deities you can't learn about on Wikipedia, who were breaking an enormous piece of bread with some Catholic saints you should be able to recognize just by needlessly ornate descriptions of their wounds. Beyond them is an inordinate number of Greco-Roman heroes and monsters, like decoupage made from a copy of Bullfinch's Mythology. Beyond them, who knows? Gods of ancient Nippon? Unspeakable horrors definitely not ripped from unpublished Lovecraft manuscripts? Only hardcore Byobbers will recognize them, without annotations. . . |
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Sep 18, 2017 16:50
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| # ? May 4, 2024 07:54 |
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A man comes up to me, dressed in a suit and tie. "You ain't from here, are ya, guv?" I cough out, spittle flying through the gaps in my wretched and very British teeth. The man looks taken aback. "How did you know?" he asks. I laugh. "You're dressed like an everyman, a regular Joe who is thrust into a situation beyond his control but is just sort of taken along for the ride and winds up being the hero because he is given no choice in the matter, aint ya?" I sputter, between gobs of phlegm that dribble down my face and onto my shabby coat covered in patchwork holes. "I suppose that's right," he agrees. "Right-o," I say, tapping my forehead with my fingers as if i was tipping my hat to him, except I don't have a hat, so it kind of implies that I have a sort of hidden wisdom that them "regular folk" wouldn't understand. I grin at him in cockney, and shamble off down the street to join a rollicking group of beggars having a jovial-yet-civilized meal, with rules of etiquette that don't make any sense for the sake of being zany.
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Sep 18, 2017 17:31
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I sit by myself in the back of the room, hidden in my booth by the shadows that surround me. I sip my beer. Gazing around the room at the assembly of people one figure catches my eye. Everyone here makes sense, in a odd, disconnected sort of way. Their connection is their maturity. There are mature Beings, some aged more so than others. There was this one though in the pub that night that struck me as wrong. An infant, perhaps 3 or 4 years of age, at best- is casually sitting at the bar with thier legs dangling over the seat, plain-as-you-please. I guess the bouncer let this one slide. That's when I noticed the small, feathery wings. The child also had a small, but very-much-not-a-toy and fully functional bow in it's small hands, replete with a quiver of small yet equally effective arrows... What the hell? A tall, muscular male walked near the child, a look of scowling anger on his face. He seemed oblivious to the child sitting on the stool not 4 feet away from him. Then a woman walked up to the bar on the other side of the male, who seemed very preoccupied with something as she contemplated her order to the bartender. The child slowly began to raise his bow in the direction of the man, targetting his posterier. The man noticed him then. Without looking at the child the man said, "I WILL spank you if you even THINK about letting that arrow fly" in a soft, almost too low to hear voice. The bow and it's nocked arrow lowered. The woman turned to the child and said, "isn't it past your bedtime?" Her only reply was the child sticking out his tongue and making a face that could only mean one thing- it was gonna be time to change that kid's diaper! I drank my beer, threw a fiver on the table and got the hell out of there. Happy Hour my rear end... https://i.imgur.com/QKTkerO.mp4 |
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Sep 18, 2017 18:39
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I was aerotrucking a hogshead of Soul Mead to the outer Aesthetiaether, chilling in a physical manifestation of the Inter Net, when I met the five manifestations of Something Awful. Smilies, a chorus of tiny gifs, babbled their catchphrases and jokes, referencing forum events of long past, and the rare callback to things not yet transpired. Shenanigans, a mischevious trickster, played mischevious tricks on everyone he laid his eyes on. "Would you like a treat?" He asked a small child, holding out a lollypop. The child unwrapped it, and greedily began gnawing on the candy. "Actually it's poison." He cackled. "Actually, it's not! You've been Shenaniganed, by the Shenanigander!" He rolled hither and thither. "It's just sugar free. That's the real trick. Shitposting, previously known as Trolling, was a sad sight, her nazi uniform rank with flecks of unmentionable, tired memes spilling from her pockets, dissolving into the ground. There was a throne, empty, save for the butchered corpse of a pig, dribbling blood onto the lush crimson velvet. "The throne of Senior Lowtax sits empty." I mused to myself, wondering how best I could advantage myself with this knowledge. Propped up behind the throne, I beheld a coffin, swaddled tightly in soft pink blankets and an enormous diaper. "In their tomb, dread Shmorky lay dreaming." I mused to myself while musing to myself. "And when Furcadia crashes & there is no more room in hell, the perverts will swarm GBS, tear the corpse of Shmorky from its rest, and anoint it their new g-d." I nodded to my musings, satisfied in my inexplicable knowledge of the situation. It wasn't until long after they left, when I found myself washing my face in a cyber bathroom, when the full ramifications of what I saw slammed into me, like a VODtrain. "I'm. . . . Gay." I murmured to my reflection. "I'm gay! I'm a gay dad! So what!" I laughed until tears flowed down my face, like cyberwater from the technotap. "Dad! Gay! So! What!" crimes |
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Sep 18, 2017 19:54
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gaimanfact: the "hierogram" in A Game of You (Sandman) just says "dreaming" in Katakana, an alphabet only about as old as canned soup. http://www.enjolrasworld.com/Miscellaneous/Sandman/sandman36.txt 90% of gaiman's appeal is the reader assuming he's making a reference to some cool old story when really he just knows that's what you'll do crimes |
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Sep 19, 2017 15:44
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In one corner of the bar there's a tall, slender man named Nate. In his pocket, he's got a long piece of wood that appears to be a lever for something. Godwin, the Argument Ender, is right now accusing someone of "acting just like Hitler!" at the opposite end of the bar. Just then, a large group of various individuals charged into the front door, spouted opinions and counter-opinions at whoever they thought was listening, then darted out of the back door as quickly as they arrived, visibly shaking the patrons of the establishment. It was a goonrush. A rooster made noises running out of the kitchen after the goons rushed through, saying "cuck! cuck!" as the regulars began chatting again, raising the murmur back up to normal levels. Occasionally someone would tell a particularly funny joke causing one or more people to fall to the ground, rolling back and forth as they did so, as others had their rear ends fall to the floor with a sickening "plop!" like a lump of meat slamming onto a counter top. A server came out of the kitchen with 5 hamburgers, one for each guy sitting there. It was a General Burger Sandwich, and these five guys made a regular appearance. On the wall behind them was that pig image- you know the one. Another patron would occasionally turn and casually write on the wall behind him whatever came to mind. Afterwards he would shout, to no one in particular- FACTS ARE USELESS!" sip his beer and repeat this process. Someone is seen walking around the bar, a notepad in hand annotating the highlights of the night's interactions, occasionally stopping to chat. Two men were arguing about whether or not a certain football team was going to win this year. "No, they will not!" one man said to the other, to which the note taking individual casually stated, "Yeah actually they will." LAST CALL! the bartender cried, ending this particular evening's festivities. It wouldn't be the last. https://i.imgur.com/QKTkerO.mp4 |
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Sep 19, 2017 16:17
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*polishes bar* |
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Sep 20, 2017 04:19
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| # ? May 4, 2024 07:54 |
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*pours a drink in a metaphorical way*
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Sep 20, 2017 05:51
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