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sebmojo posted:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0359hSerDeE
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Nov 21, 2013 02:19
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| # ¿ May 15, 2024 19:08 |
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beef should eat a shipping container full of dicks and nothing less
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Nov 22, 2013 05:29
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Space Kitchen 2135 (1181 words) Somewhere in the Kuiper belt, a collection of thermionic valves grew slightly more negative. They pulsed in synchronized sine waves, but were in fact entirely unrelated. ### Captain Jax Starfiend flipped a series of switches and slid the view-scope back into the console. A set of numerical indicator tubes hummed to life, the computer took over. He spun the chair around and addressed the crew. “Fifteen minutes! You slags better get it movin’ or I’m spacin’ ya!” ### Culinary Sergeant First Class McKinsley flipped a series of switches and slid the tray locks into place. A set of numerical indicator tubes hummed to life, the zero-g oven took over. He spun around in his mag-boots and kicked off towards the sanitization toroid. He couldn’t help but feel proud. He knew he was going to win. He’d spent the last year developing a pie filling that stayed earth-like in zero gravity. The long chain polymerization was perfect, the viscosity was determined to three decimal places. When those jerks from the JaneyLane sent their Pie Judge, it was going to be a bloodbath. “Kinsley! How’re the fuckin’ pies? We’re gonna be passing in fifteen minutes!” Culinary Rear Admiral Tonyson roared from the command pod. “They’re done in fourteen,” Kinsley said. “You’re pushing it drat close!” The Admiral diverted one of the robotic arms from the mechanical frenzy of food-plating and used it to flip McKinsley the bird. McKinsley kept his arms at his sides as he floated through the toroid. The sanitization rays returned his clothes to a glowing black. “Don’t let ‘im get to ya,” Culinary Private Second Class Dyson said, pulling himself through the toroid. “You know how he gets. We all know you’ve been workin’ hard on that filling or whatever the gently caress. You almost had ‘em last year, man.” Dyson said. ### “Captain, scanner’s showing a second station in a counter directional orbit to the first,” first mate Fitzblade said. “Can you confirm?” Fitzblade wiped blood off the display and reset the scanning crystals. “Confirmed. It’s an older make, judging by the deutronic waves in the exhaust,” “Leave it. The first will be enough.” Fitzblade nodded silently, but did not approve of the Captain’s ego. Starfiend’s strategy was one of desperation, however. When he’d boarded the RenataViolent he’d done so under the assumption she’d be armed. The enterprising crew of the Renata had however chosen to replace the torpedo tubes with a distillery. Though not entirely a bad capture, Starfiend had doubts as to whether an escape capsule full of moonshine and deutronium cores could breach a station’s hull. ### “Get me those pies, Kinsley!” Tonyson roared through the radio. Kinsley watched the tubes tick down the last few seconds. The station shook so violently his mag boots clipped free and sent him crashing into a bulkhead. Mag-strainers careened across the kitchen pod, flashes of silver in the flickering light. Everything went dark. His ears popped and his helmet slid its glass visor into place. They’d lost atmosphere. “T..Tonyson? Dyson? Anyone?” The silence was deafening. The communication controller was dead. His heart raced, condensation built up on the inside of his helmet. Disjointed words and Technicolor memories from the Culinary Space Academy came flashing back. In the highly unlikely event of a computational failure, your suit is equipped with semaphore indicators. Static exploded in his ears. He grabbed the sides of his helmet, trying to quiet the roar. “This is Captain Starfiend, a Free Man on the Belt and subject to no Admiralty Star Courts. I am taking command of this station and all of its goods and occupants. Any resistance will be suppressed immediately. This is your only warning.” The lights flickered to life and Kinsley felt the atmo-generators kick into gear. He saw Tonyson and Dyson take defensive positions. There were only two entrances to the kitchen: through the mess hall, or through the airlock. He leaned against the oven and stood with his arms out, like he had an electrocoil big iron trained on the airlock door. Lights flashed from kitchen. “Oh yeah, they’re not idiots,” he muttered and pushed himself into a corner. The pirates stormed in, kicking over trays and sending utensils bouncing off the walls. Kinsley grabbed a steak knife that had careened past on an unsteady orbit. “Okay, how many of you rats are in here?” someone roared. “Just…just the two of us,” Tonyson barked back. He didn’t sound scared. “Start filling my space-crates, and don’t drag yer feet. Don’t think I’m soft cause I ain’t killed you yet,” the man spoke. His crew laughed before they started picking the kitchen clean. Kinsley grabbed another knife before it floated past and slid it into his boot straps. Heavy footsteps edged closer. Someone stopped right in front of the oven. A heavy grav-cape billowed to rest. It was the pirate Captain. Kinsley weighed his options. The blade wasn’t big enough to do any serious damage, and the pirate could take him in a fight. Opening the grav oven would vent its positive pressure, but it would cost him the pies. He slid his hand around the back of the oven, fingers feeling for the emergency shutoff. There. The click was like an electro-gunshot. It was already too late when the pirate reacted. The oven doors blew open, the torrent of superheated air melting his skin and igniting his hair. The springs let loose and blasted the pies from their trays. The pirate screamed and slammed his head into the air exchanger, mad with pain when the superheated jelly exploded over his face. He pounded his chest, a rattling wheeze came from his ruined airways. Kinsley flashed his helmet light and sent the knives on a gentle arc across the kitchen. Two flashes in return. He smiled knowing they’d stand a fighting chance. He grabbed the plasma cleaner from its hook near the oven and stepped into the fray. He blew through the back of a pirate who was busy shoving dinner rolls into a space-crate. That’s when he saw it through the mess hall door. The JaneyLane, in perfect synchronous orbit. She was beautiful. An old girl, a latticework of viewing panes and carboluminum. She glowed like a jewel, though the crimson of the central spindle had faded. And they’d never know. They’d never experience his pies. He’d be disqualified and they’d be crowned winners. It filled him with a rage so intense he didn’t realize he’d cut through the floor with the plasma cleaner. They couldn’t win. He grabbed an extinguishing canister and lunged through the door, still holding the plasma cleaner. He aimed it at the viewing-panes. “No! What are you doi-" someone yelled. But he was already free. The Lane was right there, he could make out tables in the mess hall. The pie judging was in full swing. He pressed the canister’s trigger. Everything shot closer. He could make out patterns in the tile now, saw necks craning, finally he could see the scared faces praying to the stars. This year there would be no winners.
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Nov 23, 2013 02:58
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RoeCocoa posted:In. In! Flash rule: your story must include a Chevy truck. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 05:44 on Nov 26, 2013 |
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Nov 26, 2013 05:14
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Nov 30, 2013 20:50
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Carbonoserfatu [990 words] “Colorado, I wanna come home,” Casey said. “You wanna go home, y’mean?” Colorado said without taking his eyes off the frozen prairie. “Naw, man. I wanna come home, y’know? I wanna come back to a place that’s warm, to a big fuckin’ dinner. Someplace like in those pictures,” Casey said. “Dreamin’ gets nothin’ done. I think we’re about good to go, anyway,” Colorado said. Casey walked over to the buggy’s big v-eight and primed each carb. ### The call finally went through. “Is this where I get paid for tips?” Sara asked. A computerized voice replied “This datanet service will issue a reward to any information beneficial to State security.” “I know two guys runnin’ hooch to the ports, should be on the north access road sometime soon,” she said. “Please leave an active address after the tone,” the voice said. She recited the string of sixteen numbers as though they’d been a part of her. Instead of digits, images passed through her head: her sister standing at a train platform. She held a tattered canvas bag; her loose sweater hid an ancient pistol. She nervously checked her bitcoin account through her phone. “Thank you. A State representative will arrive at your residence. You may now hang up.” She smashed the phone into counter. “gently caress!” Tears welled up in her eyes. She thought where Casey was, just then. “But he woulda never made the run, and besides, there wasn’t gonna be enough coin to pay for Tali’s tickets,” she told herself. But she knew that was a lie, just like she knew the cops were gonna stiff her. ### Eight cylinders screamed when the buggy flew off an esker. Casey held onto the rollcage until they hit the ground. Snowy rooster tails shot out from under the tires. Colorado was grinning like a madman. He mouthed words, but they were drowned out by engine roar. White lights and the sound of hornets; Colorado’s chest blew out in a flash of red. He slumped over, the buggy veered left. Casey saw the tie rod snap and everything went head over heels. His face connected with the cage and he blacked out. ### Sara saw the cruiser pull up. Five knocks and she flung the door open, one hand reaching for her belt. Two men lay dead in the snow before she even felt the cold. She slipped her hand under the sergeant’s parka and found the bit-wallet with her reward. She slid the empty pistol into her jeans and went back inside. She took a sledgehammer and swung at a wall. Her brother had hidden a compartment between the closet and furnace. She’d never known until the day he’d sold his organs. “Don’t gently caress with these unless you’re sure it’s all over. It’s a snow-machine with enough gas to get ya to Big Grey,” he’d said. She cleared the sheetrock, revealing a steel bracket and pulleys. She swung the sledge and smashed an eye bolt holding a chain. Half a ton of steel, aluminum and carbon fiber crashed down to the floor. She gasped. A Yokosama 540. The last snow machine ever made before the fuel bans. Five point four litres exactly. The meanest thing winter ever saw. She opened the startup case. Her hands moved quickly, emptying stabilizers and squeezing grease cans, pulling tabs and adjusting set-screws. She flipped the last few switches and set herself into the saddle, mashing the ignition. The machine roared to life. She gunned it, not bothering to aim it for the door. The Yokosama blew through the ramshackle wood and sheetrock shack and landed heavy in the snow. The track dug in and the motor screamed in response. The town disappeared in a cloud of exhaust. ### Everything hurt. He was pinned, his back was searing hot. The smell of burning whiskey filled his lungs. He heard heavy boots crunch over hard packed snow. “No poo poo, figure we shoulda saved some’a this?” someone said. “I wish. Chief woulda killed us. Or worse. You wanna end up like this poor fucker?” A slide clicked into place. He looked up at two men in dark uniforms; one pointed a pistol at his head. He tried to scream, but a gurgle slipped free instead. “Sara’s never going to get the money now” the words burned through his mind. A single shot rang out. *** It was dark before she got close enough to see Big Grey’s sat-lasers through the factory lights. She tried not to look at the fuel gauge and followed the cracked freeway into the Shin-zu Greater Industrial Zone. There was a toll booth up ahead. Cars, more than she’d ever seen waited at the barrier. She split the lane and aimed for first in line, pulling hard on the throttle. The machine stood up on its track and popped the car like a kicker, clearing the barrier. Sirens sounded behind her. She followed the nearest laser to its source and skidded to a stop at a pawn shop. “BITCOIN TRANSFERS” the big yellow sign read. She kicked open the door, threw the bit-wallet on the counter and pointed the pistol at the clerk’s head. “I need this transferred to a wallet. Now!” “But…bu,” the clerk stammered. She put her finger on the trigger. “You can keep the Yokosama. It’s yours. Now do it or I’ll vent your skull,” she said. The clerk nodded and lowered his hands. She saw him hit the silent alarm, but it didn’t matter as long as he sent the coins. Digits spilled out of her again, she watched the clerk’s fingers tap them out at the terminal. The sirens were just outside now. She snatched the confirmation slip from the printer and pored over the numbers. She dropped the gun and walked out into the flashing lights. ### The train screeched to a stop, the station guards were already barking out orders. Tali’s phone lit up green. The bitcoins were in her account.
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Dec 1, 2013 22:19
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in and ima take Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
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Dec 3, 2013 05:46
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Fumblemouse posted:
Crits much appreciated! Snow machine is actually backwoods old-timey dialect for skidoo or snowmobile! If you absolutely need a visual, maybe something like this. As a prairie dweller, using terms like snowmobile or skidoo conjures up images of Arctic Cats and Polaris, which are not cool enough. Also, I wanted the blockade to be a toll road but that's my fault for not being clear enough. ALSO THIS NEW PROMPT IS OKAY BUT THE ONLY PROBLEM IS THAT IT ISN'T "BOOTS OF SPANISH LEATHER" ie: THE BEST SONG BY ROB DILLON
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Dec 5, 2013 01:06
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dangit bobbeh Winter’s mute 1490 words The last embers were dying out and shadows reached across the tiny cabin. Kazan shivered. His sister moved closer to the fire pit. He wanted to scold her, but the hearthstone was hardly warm. She held her last piece of boiled birch bark over the embers. “You should really finish your dinner,” he said, hardly convinced of his own words. She dropped the bark into the fire. “You’ll starve to death, you know,” he said, holding his hands out to the tiny flame. They huddled under the blanket until the fire died. It was too cold to sleep, again. Kazan stood, suddenly, and cleared the hearthstone of ashes. It had already cooled. “What are you doing?” his sister asked. “I’m doing what father would have done,” he said, lifting the hearthstone. He braced himself against the polished rock. “You can’t!” she yelled, and tried to push him away. He struck her across the face. She fell to the floor, sobbing. “I’m sorry!” The starvation haze cleared for a moment, the heaviness of feeling set in. But it was gone almost immediately, carried away on hunger pangs. “What are they going to do? Shun us again? Spring isn’t coming for months. It’d be a mercy if they hung us. Besides, how are they going to find out?” he asked, lifting the stone and pulling it aside. He pulled a tightly wrapped box from the hole. “The…the Obfuscator will know, won’t she?” his sister asked. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? The Gods are the only ones with powers. The Obfuscator is a lie the Elders use to keep us in line,” he said. “Then why haven’t the Gods come?” his sister asked. He didn’t answer, instead he unwrapped the box and straightened the cloth out on the floor. The cloth had markings that lit up in the moonlight. Four circles around a larger one, strange shapes filled the periphery. If he stared too long he’d see figures appear in deeper shades of black. He was sure it was delirium setting in. He ran his hands along the box, it felt warm to his numbed hands. The latches let go with a click and he opened it just as his father had done. He set the candles out in their respective circles and held his hands over the carved idols. He closed his eyes. A humming like that of locusts filled his head, he felt his fingers curl around an idol that radiated warmth. He placed it in the biggest circle. He opened his eyes to a carving of woman, slender and painted white. Crimson ram’s horns grew from her head. He lit one of their last matches and lit each candle, murmuring the words he’d heard his father say. He asked for salvation. Someone knocked at the door. “Who goes!” Kazan yelled, blowing the candles out and frantically putting the idol away. The door flew open, three men stood at the entrance, holding staves. The council. “The Obfuscator grows hungry. We are here to take what you can spare,” one spoke. “You’ve already taken everything,” Kazan stood before them, fists clenched. “We were told you’d have food to spare,” one spoke with a soft aggression, a blade coated in honey. “We have nothing. I’ll collect more bark tomorrow,” Kazan said. One of the men pushed him aside, the other two walked in, surveying his cabin. “What’s this now?” One of the men picked up the cloth, and stared at the symbols. “Following in your father’s footsteps, are we? “Gods take you!” Kazan lunged for the elder, but a staff caught him in the head. He fell to the ground. Everything was spinning around him. Someone spoke “Heresy is a capital offense, as you know. I think we can settle this with a payment, however…” His sister screamed as they grabbed her. He tried lifting himself up, but a boot caught him in the chest. The world faded out. There was searing pain before there was light. Everything tasted like blood. He tried to spit but his mouth wouldn’t open. Something held his hands. It was dark, the smell of incense told him he was in the temple. Slowly, shapes started coming into focus. Gold glittered in faint lantern light, a naked corpse sat atop a throne. The Obfuscator. A great tangle of tubes grew from her like roots from a tree, hair covered her face. Her sunken chest heaved slowly, like she was in great pain. He could see the bones in her arms, her ribcage shone through her flesh. Her fingers were curled around the throne’s armrests in a death grip. The Elders stood before an altar, holding a dagger. Attached, or rather, growing from the hilt was a single clear tube. Something lay atop the polished marble. His sister. He tried to scream, but pain shot through his lips. They’d been stitched shut, they’d taken his tongue too, no doubt. The punishment for heresy was harsh. The plunged the dagger into her chest; her ribs cracked. The tube filled with crimson, he watched her life-blood disappear into the throne. The Obfuscator’s breathing eased. Her eyes opened. He tried to look away but could not. He locked eyes with an endless darkness, a hunger that could never be satiated. The sound of his father’s neck cracking in the noose echoed into infinity. He was alone in the forest. A fierce wind blew snow through the trees and hid the sun. He couldn’t tell where the village was but would offer no salvation anyway. “The penalty for heresy shall be expulsion or execution.” He could hear the words spoken, read from a book when they’d come for his father. The words were carried off on gusts of stinging wind. His fingers were already frozen, there was no way he could knapp a blade, much less build a shelter. Kazan did the only thing that made sense to him. He started walking. The hunger pangs grew until they were they overwhelmed him. Still he pressed on, counting his breaths to keep his mind occupied. His eyes were beginning to freeze, he hadn’t felt his face for hours. The light was fading when he stumbled onto a set of tracks. His heart raced, thoughts of a warm cabin and food and kind strangers filled his head. He steeled himself against fatigue and new strength. He tore free of his jacket and doubled his pace. It was dark now, and he was in his undershirt. His inner heat was fading, but it was no matter. Soon the long moonlit shadows would give way to oil lamps and glowing hearths. He stomped into each foot-fall, peering through the trees looking for a glimmer of light. Suddenly, the tracks forked. His heart sank. He’d been following his own tracks. He fell to the ground, not feeling anything at all and resigned himself to death. A great buzzing like locusts filled the forest. “My child, what are you doing?” A woman spoke. Kazan looked up from the snow, there was a figure half-there, as though carried on moonlight. Crimson ram’s horns grew from her head. He tried to speak, but only tasted blood. She reached out and touched his forehead, the pain disappeared. She looked through him and nodded, she’d taken the words right from his heart. “Though we can’t touch what we cannot know, an Obfuscator is but mortal. Return home Kazan, Winter’s chosen son. Without the burial rites I can’t take you, but do this for me and you shall be free” she said before disappearing. An ivory dagger now hung from his belt. The clouds dissipated, he followed a polestar into the village. Dark save for reflected moonlight, but it didn’t matter. He moved silently to the temple, fresh snow hiding his tracks. Tendrils of frost grew across the door where he pushed it. Each footstep left froze the floorboards under it as he moved towards the Sanctum. The Obfuscator tensed and opened her mouth in a silent scream. Kazan stood before the throne and reached for his dagger. He paused for a moment, dropping the blade to the floor and laying down on the altar instead. He plunged the dagger into his chest, frost ran up the tube. Slowly, frost overtook the Obfuscator’s throne, her fingers snapped as she dug them into the throne. He lay there, unfeeling with the darkness setting in again. The wind outside began to howl. He felt his spirit get carried away on a million sharpened flakes of snow.
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Dec 9, 2013 01:08
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I'm in with Canuckian Backwoods Hickese
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Dec 11, 2013 05:34
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Erogenous Beef posted:You haven't read much Thunderdome, have you? I'm a slav you blathering dolt
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Dec 12, 2013 01:03
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The Leper Colon V posted:Actually, I think I'm gonna withdraw my entry. Dude...Nelson Mandela's ASL interpreter didn't even KNOW ASL. You can't do worse than that, and that was on TV!
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Dec 12, 2013 01:04
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Erogenous Beef posted:Arf. Deadline when? One week from today (i.e. Friday)?
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Dec 14, 2013 03:20
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| # ¿ May 15, 2024 19:08 |
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gently caress I had a story written and everything, it just needed editing...instead of that I spent the last 12 hours at a community center helping build bikes for kids for Christmas. I'm dead tired, so I'm out. I was mostly helping out in the kitchen, but I helped build two sweet retro cruisers (a girls and boys, respectively) BUT even better than that I helped my friend Dave put the finishing touches on this:  It's an ironhorse BMX! Regreased bearings all around, re-packed hubs and new brakes! It was a 24 hour thing, and I think we got like 300 bikes done!
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Dec 16, 2013 02:14
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