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“Okay,” said Lucy, “this is how it’s going to happen. You turn all the lights on in this place and get your ‘fellows’ to stand down. Otherwise, this stake gets shoved through your heart and your people are minus one leader. Got it?” “Of course. There is one option I think you missed, though. Why don’t you show her, my fellows?” A plasma shot came from straight ahead and smacked into Lucy’s hand. The pencil burst instantly and her hand felt like it had been shoved straight into a furnace. She screamed in pain as the Vampire Lord whipped around and grabbed her by the throat. “To be entirely honest,” he droned with a smirk, “You should have picked a weapon with a little more potency. I don’t think pencils quite count as stakes.” He dropped her to the ground, and suddenly the room flooded with blue light. Ranks of Vampires armed with plasma rifles were scattered all around the antechamber. Their Lord turned and said to them, “My dear brothers and sisters, we have conquered this intruder and, as a reward for our resilience, have two beings full of life to feed on. Truly we have much to be thankful for. Now, let’s get out of here so that the ceremony can commence!” A great cheer rose up, and the whole asteroid began to hum with power. Lucy had her eyes closed from the pain, but opened them with a start when she felt something brush her shoulder. Her uncle was half-awake, looking down at her with sadness etched into his face. She lifted up her good hand and took his, gripping it tight as the asteroid broke from its orbit and shot into superlight, carrying them far from the Oxford, far from anyone but each other. Nikaer Drekin fucked around with this message at 05:14 on Jul 15, 2013 |
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Jun 12, 2013 02:58
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yeah screw editing amirite guysquote:"The moment you think you understand a great work of art, it's dead for you." Monsieur Musée and the Loss of the Lexicon (Or; The Benefits of In-House Security) (1,199 Words) Marcel Dubois tore a hunk off the end of his baguette. He buttered it, then dunked it vigorously in his pot of gravy before taking a bite. Mon dieu. C'est magnifique. He was about to prepare his second bite when the hotline rang. He put his bread down gingerly, wiped his fingers and then picked up the receiver. “Dubois.” “Thank heavens, Curator! An incident has occurred which requires your immediate attention.” “Incident? Of what sort?” “One of grave importance to the entire art community. Sir, someone has stolen… Le Lexicon.” “Mon dieu! Do you have any idea where the book has been taken?” “Let me see, sir… according to the tracking device, the knave who stole the book has holed up in an abandoned chateau. Curator, should I inform the military?” Dubois frowned. “No, I don’t think that would be wise. Le Lexicon needs to be found, not run away from. No, I think I should handle this one myself.” “Very good, sir. Bonne chance.” Dubois slammed the phone down and raced out of his office, sprinting down the corridors of the Louvre. He needed to find a piece quickly, one that would stir his brain up with musings on the creative nature of the universe. Ah, yes, of course. Vermeer’s The Astronomer would work very well. The man in the painting, absorbed in the act of discovery, felt very close to Dubois. He found himself caught in the rush of mystery, eyes drinking in the frame’s little world, divining what Vermeer meant to say as well as the unstated. It was like a hydrogen bomb igniting his very soul. Not a wholly inaccurate simile, as it was. Formerly your everyday curator of the most renowned museum in the world, a fateful trip to the Monet exhibit at a nuclear plant left Dubois a changed man. Now, when he immersed himself in the work of a genius like Vermeer, his muscles bulged and his jaw expanded until it was blocky and handsome. His clothes burst off, revealing a stylish black jumpsuit with “MM” emblazoned on the front. A wine-red cape flowed down his back. Finally, a beret materialized on his lush, dark hair and a svelte line of hair sprouted just over his upper lip. The transformation was complete. Dubois was… Monsieur Musée. Now a foot taller and five hundred percent more muscular, M. Musée pranced back to his office and stood in the back right corner. He swiped a hand against the wall and the tiles he stood on sank down into the floor. Intense darkness pervaded the chamber until the platform came to a rest on the floor. Guide-lights popped on, revealing a vast horizontal tube that curved upwards at the end. Musée bounded forward, getting a nice running start before pushing off and launching himself down the shaft. When it looked like splatting against the wall at Mach-2 was a near-certainty, Musée wrenched himself upward and shot up toward the spot of light in the distance. Tourists puttering around outside the museum froze when the ground started to rumble. The famous glass pyramid shook like mad, scattering its admirers in all directions. The museum patrons brave enough to look saw the pointed structure split down the middle, the halves pushing apart until a wide space was left. M. Musée flew out of the center, only a black-and-purple blur to the foreigners. The Parisians, however, cheered their hero on as he zipped off to combat the enemies of art. Musée scanned the landscape. He didn’t have x-ray eyes, but his vision was capable of zooming in to ridiculous distances. He picked up menacing vibes from one region in particular and peered into the chateaus and villages there. At first he saw only distractions. Some of the little shops being robbed, a fool jumping from a top tower—a terror squad seemed to be overtaking the guards at Villandry as well. Ho hum. But wait! There he was, a despicable knave clad all in white, standing in front of a stained-glass window. He clutched an aged book to his chest and was seized in a fit of maniacal laughter. Mon Dieu! There he was, the foul criminal, practically asking to be put away from his crimes. M. Musée picked up speed and streaked towards the window. Fifteen seconds later, he crashed through, shattering the lovingly crafted window and knocking the villain across the room. Oh, zut, he thought. I’ll be sure to get a restoration team on that. The knave, recovering quickly from being viciously slammed into a stone wall, dusted off his lab coat. He picked up the Lexicon and examined it before flashing a menacing grin at Musée. He chortled, “You buffoon! You think you can stop The Vivisector that easily?” Of course, Musée thought, The Vivisector. That deranged mad scientist obsessed with slicing living things apart whom I’ve had many tussles with in the past and who many would say is a primary member of my “rogues’ gallery,” if they were compiling such a list, was sure to be the culprit. But why steal The Lexicon? “I suppose,” the Vivisector said, “you’re wondering why I would steal The Lexicon. Well, part of the appeal of art is its mystery, no? I could peel that veneer away, slice by slice, letting loose all the psychological ooziness inside! Just think of all the secrets in this book waiting to be shared with everyone. Let a few slip and those great works will be rendered dead for eternity!” “Mon Dieu!” M. Musée exclaimed. “Vivisector, I beg you, that book was locked away for a reason! If people think they know every facet of every secret of one of my museum’s great works, they’ll become utterly bored! Even I don’t know the banalities kept inside that volume.” The Vivisector sneered at him. “You don’t, do you? Well, maybe I can enlighten you. Did, you know, for instance, that,” he paused to flip through the pages, “da Vinci ate nothing but plums as he was working on the Mona Lisa?” “Please, stop! The understanding is killing me!” “Pablo Picasso painted such distorted human forms largely because of a long-term affair with a contortionist? Fascinating.” “Oh, merde, please! Throw that book away, I beg you!” “So, Van Gogh’s missing ear? Not because of a woman. As a matter of fact, he had it cut off because doctors of the time really didn’t understand ear infections." “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” Musée shouted. He reached for his utility belt; a veritable rainbow of paint tubes was strapped to it. He grabbed the orange tube and, without even bothering to twist off the cap, pointed it at The Vivisector and squeezed. At first the knave wanted to laugh; the cap popped off and he found himself and the book splattered with orange pigment. However, his skin started to tingle, and then sting, until he noticed that flames were licking his arms and face. He let out a wail and dropped the book, itself crackling with fire. Monsieur Musée ignored his nemesis and stood over the Lexicon, the book filled with such wretched, pointless secrets. He smiled as he watched it turn to ash. Nikaer Drekin fucked around with this message at 04:02 on Jun 17, 2013 |
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Jun 17, 2013 02:31
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In, with Swampman, partly because it's something that's crossed my mind before and partly because what an awesome name  
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Jun 20, 2013 04:07
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Thought experiment is Swampman (Don't read the wiki page if you don't want spoilers!) Moving House (1,425 Words) After being awake for a few hours, Nolan tended to forget about his IV. That morning, it was an itch on his other wrist that made him lean over and feel the tug of the plastic tube anchoring him to the bed. He sighed and sunk back, only his eyes peering over when Ida knocked on the door. "Honey? You all right in there?" "Yeah, fine. What is it?" "There's a doctor here to see you, dear. I really think you should hear what he could do for you." "I told you, Ida, no more doctors. I'm sick of them making promises when they can't follow through." "This one's different, I promise. Can we come in?" He paused, then turned back to the door. "All right. Just for a few minutes." Ida walked in accompanied by a tall man with a bald head and shaggy beard. He wore a blue suit with a gray tie, and smiled broadly at Nolan as he took a seat on the stool by his bed. "So, Nolan," he said, "are you feeling all right today?" "I guess so. What're you, then? Faith healer, yoga instructor, apricot pit salesman? I've heard 'em all, I promise." The doctor nodded sagely. "I know. I know how many solutions you've tried. But you've never heard anything like what I have to offer, I can guarantee you." Nolan tried to stare at the ceiling, to make this pest go away, but he couldn't stop himself from looking back. "It's done, you know. I have two months at best, and I'm making my peace with it." "That's admirable. Nolan, I won't pretend that I can cure you; that's not what I'm trying to offer. What I can do is help you gain some peace of mind, and maybe make things a whole lot easier for your wife and son." "Then tell me about it. Explain everything." "All right." The doctor took a deep breath. "Have you ever thought about your legacy?" Two Months Later Ida woke to a clattering downstairs. She leaned over the bed and felt for Nolan's old three-wood, then gripped it tight and stood up. She darted to the door and worked the doorknob silently, gently, until she was able to slip out into the hall. Holding the club at the ready, she took the stairs one at a time, straining to hear any sound that might give her intruder away. An ominous sizzle reached her ears, a brisk rummaging of plates; Ida snapped into motion, bolted down the rest of the flight, rounded the corner and, tightening her arms, readied the club to strike. It was Nolan, making breakfast. Ida's body relaxed, and she slumped against the doorway. "Hey, honey!" Nolan said. "Just making some eggs, sorry if I woke you. One of the pots slipped out of my hands." He looked down, grinned sheepishly. "Ty got off to school just fine. Anyway, what would you like? I still have the stove on." "Oh, nothing, just some toast," Ida mumbled. She dropped the golf club and shambled over to the table, sitting down across from Nolan's plate. "You sleep well?" He asked. "I didn't mean to be up this early, but I've had so much energy lately." He popped a piece of bread into the toaster, then sat down with his eggs. "I guess I'm sort of sick of lying in bed. Brings back some bad memories." "I imagine so," she said, gazing out the window. She kept trying to look at Nolan's face, but all she could think of was the muscles twitching beneath his smile, so many mindless cells sculpted into this sitting, eating, living being. They sat in silence for a while. "Hey, I was thinking," he said, then the toast popped out of its slot. Ida jolted in her seat. Nolan reached for the toast and laid it on her plate. "Everything all right, hon?" She nodded, teeth clenched, and he said, "Well, I was saying, maybe we should take a ride down to the hospital today. The doctor called last night, and they're looking to do a follow-up soon. They said anytime is fine; apparently I'm something of a VIP down there considering how well the procedure went!" He went to touch her hand but she jerked away, as if by reflex. "Ida, dear? Everything okay?" She stood up, gave her chair a sharp nudge to the side, and backed towards the hallway. "Of course, fine. No, that's a wonderful idea. Why don't I go warm up the car so we can get an early start?" "Now? Honey, we haven't even showered yet, I think it can wait a half an hour." Ida was already down the hallway. She snatched her keys off the counter and whipped the door open, still in slippers. She got in the car and locked it, not even noticing Nolan bounding after her as she wheeled backwards out of the driveway. She yanked the wheel to the right, shifted to drive, and shot down the road. After traveling a few hundred yards she looked back at Nolan, draped in his blue bathrobe, not trying to follow, only standing and watching her drive away. She sped toward the school, going fifteen over the speed limit, thinking of some excuse to tell the nurse. "I'm sorry I have to take Ty out of class, but there's been a death in the family." She spoke it aloud, to see how genuine it felt. Yes, that would do fine. Severe enough that they wouldn't ask questions or find it strange that she was in a robe with unwashed hair. Very urgent. It wouldn't even be a lie. Two Weeks Earlier The doctor watched as one of the nurses wheeled Nolan, pale and haggard, into the lab. The implant worked beautifully; now that Nolan was in range of the facility, the holo-display drew a web of pink lines stretching and writhing and undulating, all in real time. "So," Nolan said weakly. "that's my brain." "Indeed it is," said the doctor. "Every second, the little implant in your head is telling us what your brain looks like, how each cell is behaving. We already have the basic structure down, but we want to capture the minute details so we can transfer your thoughts and memories precisely." "Can I see him?" The doctor stammered. "Uh. Well. I'm not sure that's the best idea. It's not protocol, to be sure, but maybe I could, if that's really what you want." Nolan nodded; the doctor sighed and pressed a few buttons on the panel. The metal shield covering the long, thin tank lifted up, and Nolan wheeled himself over to the bubble of glass. Inside was the body of a man, unconscious but radiating strength. Nolan saw his steady hands, his relaxed, even breathing. He forced himself to look at the body's face, right at this man's calm features. It was unmistakably himself. "We used data from past full-body scans you've had," the doctor explained, "as well as the ones from your recent tests here. He's genetically identical to you, though we've had to make some extrapolations to take aging into account." "I'm ready," Nolan said. "I see. You've said your goodbyes, then?" Nolan stared at the face of the man in the tank. He was glad he would never see those eyes open. "Yes. My family's going to be fine." The doctor walked into the control room, relieved to be at a distance from Nolan during the procedure. When the patient was strapped to the bed, he gave the go-ahead signal. Both machines started to hum, not so much for strength as for precision. The timing had to be perfect. The doctor put his finger on the switch, then slowly pressed it down. When it fell against the contact, a pop echoed through the lab, really two pops synchronized, one for each machine, and Nolan went limp as the man in the tank sprung to life. They heard him wailing through the glass, a wail that turned to wild laughter. He pounded against the tank, euphoria written all over his face, and the nurses rushed to get him out and disconnect him from the machine. He smiled down at this man given new life, and then looked over to the observation area. The doctor had sent one of his techs over to sit with the man's wife and comfort her as the procedure took place. They still sat there, gaping down on the scene below, faces white like ghosts. Nikaer Drekin fucked around with this message at 04:26 on Jun 24, 2013 |
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Jun 24, 2013 04:23
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Thanks for the crits! Yeah, for the past couple weeks I've been writing the majority or all of my piece on Sunday, and it's becoming pretty clear that I should... probably not do that. And I am totally up for judging, Kaishai 
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Jun 25, 2013 12:36
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crabrock posted:in the spirit of the three, can I get a flash rule from each judge? FLASH RULE: Your story must involve in some way a real person. And not "a real person" like your dad, somebody the reader could be expected to know about or at least easily find info on. Can be accurate to his/her life, can be wild and outrageous, I don't care.
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Jun 26, 2013 02:55
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crabrock posted:one ghost story in a third world country, that is like, totally believable, coming right up. No, not just "believable"- one that features a real person. Like, one of your characters is Isaac Newton or Betsy Ross or something.
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Jun 27, 2013 00:17
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Okay, here are my first 3x3 crits: Scheider Heim: Well, I did enjoy the dynamic between Hana and the genie—her deadpan reaction to him showing up was nice, as was his initial frustration and how he eventually broke protocol to try to help her out. The writing was solid if nothing spectacular, though using “genie” as a plural led to some awkwardness in my head (I couldn’t resist hearing “Genie do not eat” in a caveman voice). Also, I can’t imagine that even someone as broken and depressed as Hana would be able to benefit from some magic genie wishes. What was her problem that couldn’t be solved with a wish? Was she just depressed? I feel like revealing what exactly was wrong might add some more strength to her motivation, though I can see the risk in outright giving an explanation that has to be convincing as well. CantDecideOnAName: An intriguing piece about a character if not truly a great story. I feel like it would be interesting to see how this man’s beliefs clash with the rest of the world, but what we have here is more of a day-in-the-life piece. There isn’t really any conflict; as bizarre as this worship is, it seems ordinary from the narrator’s perspective. Also, I liked the idea of the “brand” as a mark of religious devotion, as well as the “incense” smoking—the latter brings to mind sweat-lodge religious experiences. Steriletom: Not terribly written, but not believable in the slightest. I’m pretty sure insurance companies would get wise to a woman killing her husband on their wedding day, especially if she’d done so two times before. They’d investigate something like this and have it solved in five seconds. Also Mary doesn’t really have personality traits of her own beyond NEFARIOUS MURDERER. Crabrock: Nothing too special in its use of language, but I do give you a lot of credit for blending the three flash rules and ending up with an entertaining story! I’d never heard of the person you picked, but I’m glad you ran with the rumors of his cannibalism, as that made for an interesting twist. The detectives are a bit flat as characters, but I liked the use of the spirit medium—her line at the end, how the dead see their contact with her as a phone call, etc. Well done. Erogenous Beef: I feel much the same way Kaishai does about this one—it’s a seriously impressive puzzle, while not being quite as outstanding on the narrative side of things. That said, the story itself isn’t bad by any means. I was glad you only gave us a peek at the shadow government behind the Third (heh) Reich, it made them feel very elusive and menacing. If you sort of beef (heh) up the story until it is as compelling as the secret codes and mysteries, this has the potential to be something really awesome. Auraboks: I definitely enjoyed the joke of the world-crushing titans talking in casual “bro”-speak, but something about the piece just felt a little off to me. Maybe it’s because the tone is a little stiff, or that the readers didn’t have anyone to latch on to; the humans are just a mass of cowering casualties, and while we get to hear the monsters speak, we don’t really ever get inside their heads. So, without that, all we really have to go on here is the core “joke,” which is certainly amusing, but not enough to carry a whole story. Ceighk: Bleeeeehhhhhh. It’s a shame, because a lot of the writing for this is actually quite good; the opening funeral scene sets the tone well, for instance. However, the numbering/shuffling of scenes gets obnoxious, and the last long paragraph drags the whole thing off the “terrible” cliff. I’m a film student, and I believe you’re suffering here from an awful disease known as “Trying-to-write-like-Quentin-Tarantino Syndrome.” It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. You try to ramp up the drama of the situation by throwing as much profanity and DRUG TALKIN’ at the wall. Nothing against curse words, but used without precision they just turn your piece into a mess, not to mention lines like “You loving gayboy” which I found more silly than anything else. Still, there was certainly some not-awful stuff in here, so keep at it. Voliun: I know you have a… reputation around here, but I don’t think I’ve been around for a lot of your stories. Still, my fellow judges say that this one’s quite good by your standards, and there’s definitely a workable narrative here. However, when you look into the details things start to unravel. Okay, so I’m assuming three trillion credits is a lot in this world, unless there’s some crazy inflation. Why would the princess offer so much for the guy to move on? I’d assume just sending him away would have the same effect, and bankrupting your treasury to make a point isn’t really the best idea. Also, why go through showing the princess the suitors if someone had already been given the ring? Did the Cohen know that it signified a contract or whatever? Anyway, the characters are well-defined if a little stereotypical, so at least that part was solid. Still not sure why you wanted to end with that line, since I have no idea why being a Cohen is significant, but you lucked out on account of Ceighk’s expletive diarrhea. Go and thank him. Bachelard rear end: This was a fun little piece. I liked your characterization, as well as the little hints we got beforehand that something was not quite normal about Steven. However, Jenny’s complete change of heart regarding Steven’s… abnormality seemed somewhat abrupt and false. Other than the somewhat forced aspects, I don’t have a whole lot else to say. Good piece, though three dicks would have been better than three balls 
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Jul 2, 2013 17:15
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^^^^^ No problem! Anyway I thought I had replied to this but I guess it didn't go through or something. Anyway, I got: Fantasy Grade 2 Write a short legend about a famous stallion whose mirror can see into the future.
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Jul 3, 2013 03:04
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Okay, here are the rest of my crits! Jonked: This struck me as solid if a little rudimentary. The writing wasn’t bad, necessarily, but I think sometimes you “told” a little bit too much. Like, when you mentioned his paranoia about a gas leak, I think that’s a far more interesting way to go about things then having his daughters just discuss that he’s taking precautions. I think expanding on the characters in this would work quite well, if you decide to edit it further; details like him childishly playing with his granddaughter were really nice and I’m curious to know what those “unmentionable adventures” mentioned in the first paragraph are. Also, I thought the switch from dread regarding death to comfort and relief provided a nice ending. Sitting Here: I think the voice in this piece really worked to its advantage, highlighting the main character’s philosophical mindset (as well as the delirium of the heat) with the decidedly ordinary and blunt exterior. Also, having us only looking at Sam without being able to intervene or stop him mirrors your protagonist’s mindset and gets us into his head. Also, I like that you didn’t have the girl die; I felt like it could have been going in the direction of cheap tragedy, but you sidestepped it nicely and added further to the surreal picture of that afternoon. Really I could go on about things that worked well but it basically all did, and I don’t think I had any doubt after reading it that this was the winner, as nice as many of the other pieces were. systran: Well, first off, I have something of a weakness for Ancient Egypt stuff, so you earn a few points from me right off the bat. However, it feels somewhat stiff, maybe because the central conflict is introduced a little too late. Though I sort of anticipated that the three younger wives would get prioritized over Ara, she doesn’t find out until close to the end, and I feel like a lot of potential drama is explained in a few quick paragraphs rather than allowed to play out. It seems to me that much of the meat of the tale is there, not in the opening exposition. Jagermonster: I dug this. While you may have waited a little too long to clue readers in that we were looking at things from the perspective of a chupacabra, I think the sort of sparse, western-ish voice added a great deal to the mood. I’d love to see more of the adventures of these two; actually I think there might be something wrong with someone who doesn’t want to see an undead cowboy and a chupacabra team up to fight Mexican cartels, but maybe I’m biased. SurreptitiousMuffin: Aaaagghh, this was a tough one for me. While I really liked the voice and atmosphere of the piece, I don’t think it was quite strong and coherent enough narratively. Plenty of wit and cleverness to be found here, but it could stand to be hung on a steadier framework. Probably in my top three anyways, though, just based on the quality of writing, but I still feel Sitting Here’s was a more complete story. V for Vegas: In much the same way, your piece gave me a very strong image without delivering a strong story with it. I mean, I guess it’s a poem, so that’s not quite as necessary, but I still would have enjoyed it. Anyway, I feel like this is almost more of a “painting” in words than a short story, if that makes sense. Well, it’s only about 500 words, so if we’re going by the old saying it would technically be half a painting, but that’s just splitting hairs. Nubile Hillock: You can do better. Deliver! Fumblemouse: This was just sort of strange. The first paragraph was all right, kinda metaphorical, but it de-evolved into some weird trashy romance thing that feels like it was just thrown in to satisfy the prompt. You can do better too. I don't have crits for the two that submitted past the deadline, MAYBE I'll get to those
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Jul 3, 2013 19:20
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Jonked posted:Thanks for the critique, Nikaer Drekin. It was very helpful and I honestly do appreciate it. If I can be a bit of nudge, though, I was hoping you could expand on what you think was rudimentary. I think I know what you're talking about (the plot/characters) but it seems like a good area to focus on improving, and I really do want to know you thought was lacking, especially if I'm wrong on my guess. I don't know if rudimentary was the right word, maybe just passive or a bit predictable? I mean, while I didn't figure out the exact details, I had a vague idea of the story arc that turned out to be pretty much true. And I don't think that's really a problem in and of itself, but contrast it with Sitting Here's piece- for me at least, even though I figured that something was going to go bad, I was still wrapped up in the drama and the characters. Yours didn't really grip me quite as much; it's sort of the difference between watching somebody go up on a ferris wheel, imagining the thrill and the vertigo, and actually being there experiencing it. Anyways I hope this helps and isn't just me rambling. It's not a problem at all- examining what didn't go quite right about a piece might even be more helpful than looking at what worked, and it's definitely something I'll keep in mind for my own pieces.
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Jul 4, 2013 18:59
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Just Shapes in Glass (1,380 Words) (Grade 2 Story Starter: Write a short legend about a famous stallion whose mirror can see into the future.) Sir Chauncey returned to his mansion when the war was over. He thought his most trying times were over and done with, simply fodder for his various medals and decorations. He wiped his hooves on the mat and pressed his snout against the heavy oak door, not knowing that a new trouble lay just past the threshold. "Hey, Byron," he whinnied to his butler. "What the gently caress's been going on around here, poo poo-head?" "Pardon, Master Chauncey?" Byron inquired. "It's dusty as poo poo in here, I mean, what the gently caress? I go to war, trample about a billion of those goblin motherfuckers, and these are the goddamn thanks I get? Motherfucking dusty shelves? Byron bowed and said, "I shall deal with them presently, Master Chauncey." Chauncey snorted, began to trot up the grand staircase before calling back, "Oh, and send up a little bourbon or some poo poo. Something strong, you know what I like." "Right away, sir. Oh, before I forget, a gift arrived for you two days ago. I set it in the parlor upstairs." "Sweet! If you peeked at that poo poo, Byron, I'll bash your loving brains in, all right?" "Understood, Sir." Chauncey trotted to the top of the stairs and clapped his hooves with glee. "I fuckin' love presents!" he said. When he reached the door to his suite, he whipped around and gave the doors a burro-kick with his hind legs. He let his anticipation grow, lighting the candles to give parlor a more homey feel. Soon the amber glow spread to every corner of the room, and Chauncey said, "Time to bust this fucker open." He walked to the center of the room. A thin, rectangular box stood in the center, much taller than it was wide. A bolt of purple velvet hung over it, with a knotted cord dangling over one side. Chauncey leaned in and caught the rope with his teeth. He tugged until he heard a soft snap; the velvet sunk to the floor. Chauncey stepped back a few paces to admire his gift. It looked like a hand-crafted mirror, the frame pocked with exotic runes and etchings. The silver glass shone with an ethereal glisten like none the horse had ever seen. "loving sweet!" said Chauncey. "Now I can rest and regain my strength while looking at my awesome bod all fuckin' day." Suddenly, a thin sheet of parchment dropped from the top of the mirror. Chauncey hadn't noticed it before. He stretched his long, white head down to the carpet and read its message: My name is Daphne the witch. You killed me, you son of a bitch! You are the worst So now you are cursed. I'm thinking revenge is my niche! "Wow," said Chauncey after a moment. "What a oval office. Still, I bet I look fuckin' swole after all that charging into battle and poo poo. A quick peek couldn't hurt, and I can have Byron burn the motherfucker right after. His heart rendered light once more, Chauncey paced back a step or two so that his whole magnificent figure would be in view. He grinned and lifted a hoof in the air as if posing for a statue. However, his eyes grew wide when his image melted away in the glass, rippling and pulsing until all that remained was an assortment of loose, grotesque forms. All the candles snuffed out simultaneously, but Chauncey was too hypnotized by the mirror to notice. Now the wretched masses contorted once more, white blotches flushing red, fusing together, stretching taut before resting in the familiar shape of a man. Chauncey's man, in fact; the mirror showed Byron sprawled on the stone floor of the entryway. Chauncey sensed that something was amiss but could not divine exactly what. The servant's sleek silk trousers still shone and his sleeves retained a healthy puff. Realization crept up Chauncey's mane as he looked to Byron's head and saw what was unusual. It was missing. The head, that is, though perhaps "missing" is a less appropriate descriptor than "present, but in the form of a red, gooey slush." The bloody fricassee still attached to the man's neck by a few sticky tendrils was marked by two curved indents. Hoof-prints, Chauncey realized. He ralphed his morning oats onto the rug. "What the gently caress?" he brayed. "That witch has to be sick in the goddamn head!" He trotted around the room, forcing his eyes to stare at the wall, the smoking candles, anything but the wretched mirror. "It must be a prank or some poo poo," he mused. "Yeah, something to freak me the gently caress out. Guess she was too pussy to put a real curse on me, turn all the fuckin' water I drink into sand when it hits my tongue, or make me poo poo rocks, or what the gently caress ever. God, what a freaky bitch!" He glanced back at the mirror for an instant, recoiling when he saw that it still displayed Byron casserole. "I better warn him about this poo poo," Chauncey said. "Poor fucker'd probably have a heart attack if I don't prepare him to see it first." Chauncey clambered down the stairs, Byron standing at the bottom with a parcel that had arrived for the war hero. The servant started to explain who had sent it, but Chauncey cut him off and shouted, "FUCKIN' WONDERFUL, Byron, but you shouldn't go look at that present. It'll freak you the gently caress out." Well, truthfully, he only got as far as "FUCKIN' WO-" before getting his front left hoof caught on the wool rug resting on one of the steps. He toppled end over end, conking his head a few times in the process, but by the end he managed to regain his balance and thrust himself forward for a clean landing. His front hooves hit smack in the middle of Byron's head, knocking it back. It promptly exploded when it hit the ground. Chunks of bone and brain flew outward, splattering the entryway floor. Chauncey skittered back, staring wide-eyed at his gore-stained hooves. He scrubbed them across the rug, letting out a startled whinny as he saw the pool of blood expand toward him. He sprang up and backed away into the living room. "Oh gently caress. Oh gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress," Chauncey said. He noticed that he was hyperventilating, and plopped down beside the couch to catch his breath. Once he felt the shock of the accident had passed, he walked back into the entryway, nudged the body to one side, and picked up the package by his teeth. The bottom of the brown wrapping paper dripped blood. Chauncey yanked off the string and let the paper fall to the floor. Underneath was a smooth wooden box, the top of which was emblazoned with a lion arching its back and roaring with splendor; the seal of the kingdom. Opening the box, Chauncey found a fine silk neckerchief stitched with flaxen thread. It was pinned through the center with an ivory brooch studded with gems. When Chauncey saw it he knew what he had to do. "I'm a knight of the highest order," he said, "and knights are supposed to protect their countrymen at any fuckin' cost! I can't see the loving freaky future that the mirror shows me without running the risk of turning it real. Knights are motherfucking heroes." He took a deep breath. "And sometimes heroes have to make motherfucking sacrifices." He swallowed his doubts, forced them down to his gut, and picked up the brooch. He chucked it aside and snatched up the neckerchief, tying it across his head with a flourish. Sir Chauncey, now sightless and stylish, trotted toward the kitchen; he needed a carrot to munch on. He was thinking he would have to express his gratitude to the queen for her gift. He started composing his thank-you letter in his head when he slipped on the pool of Byron's blood. He fell to one side, bashed his head on the bottom step, and sunk out of consciousness. He was only out for thirty minutes or so, but he had a dream about a witch gleefully butchering him and roasting him up for the royal family. He woke up and didn't forget it and never loving would.
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Jul 8, 2013 04:22
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In, for sure. I think I'll have to go with Space Vampire because really how can you beat that?
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Jul 10, 2013 03:46
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Scourge of the Space Vampire The Oxford streaked through space, traveling at sublight, no place to go. Its crew had earned repose from missions and was making the most of it while it lasted. First Mate Translucia sat hunched over in one of the hyper-ergonomic bridge chairs, purple hair let down and dangling over her shoulder, locked in a fierce chess match with the ship’s computer. She moved her knight to put him in check, when a bleating alarm sounded from down the hall. “Miss Lucy, I hate to cut in like this,” the computer said, “but your uncle’s vital signs have somehow dropped off entirely. In fact, his suit isn’t even showing up on my tracking grid.” Translucia smirked. “Sure it isn’t, Chicken. I thought you were above trying to break my concentration with cheap tricks, Ox.” “No, I really mean this, Miss Lucy! We’d better check on him.” Without waiting for Lucy to object, he closed the chess program and transferred his consciousness into the mobile module. A silver-plated robot toucan popped free from the control panel and flitted around Lucy’s head as she stood up. “Come on!” he yelped from the bird’s beak. Lucy’s uncle Morton, captain of the Oxford, lay minutes ago in his bunk taking a brief sublight doze. Now they found an empty space where he’d slept, in a room with no windows and a single door that had not been opened in an hour. “Geez, Ox, what do you think could have happened?” Lucy asked. “He couldn’t have spontaneously combusted, right? God, that’d be awful.” “I doubt it, Lucy. There wasn’t any heat spike, and if a human of your uncle’s size exploded I calculate that a generous amount would have been generated.” Lucy rapped him with her knuckles, knocking him off-balance. His wings fluttered rapidly to keep the steel body level. “Joking! I’m just joking, Miss Lucy. No, I’d say the most likely option is that he was teleported out somewhere.” “Which is supposed to be impossible, right?” “Right, but you never know what those slicer scoundrels are going to cook up. We need to run a scan to check our defenses, see if we’ve been breached.” The main control panel chirped a trilling alarm. Lucy and Ox turned back to the cockpit to investigate. “It’s a call,” Lucy said. “Whoever took Uncle Mort wants to talk to us.” She pressed a button on the terminal and one of the smaller viewports flashed to life. On the screen was a pale man dressed in a snug black robe. Lucy could only see his upper body, but his proportions seemed subtly wrong—definitely not human. He sat before her wispy and semi-transparent, but his eyes crackled with power. One look at them made it impossible to deny the man’s energy and presence. He said, “I assume I am speaking to First Mate Translucia of the Oxford?” His voice was low, like the moans of a dying sun. Lucy clenched her teeth, stared back into the man’s black-hole gaze. “You are. I’d like to know what you’ve done with my uncle, please.” “So bold,” the man said, “for one so young. Child, I represent the Order Vampyrus. We are spirits bound into cursed flesh, marred by the fires of the sun and forced to feed ourselves on the life force of mortals…” “Hold up a second,” Lucy said. “Vampyrus? As in vampires, the whole fangs, no-reflection deal?” “That’s a rough approximation at best, Child. Essentially true, but it does not even strike close to our true nature. If you were to study our kind as a group…” “Excuse me,” Lucy said. “Sorry, one more. You hate garlic, sunlight, the whole shebang. Or am I misinformed?” She saw the creature grate his teeth. “No,” he said stiffly. “Not misinformed, but obsessed with simplistic, hurtful stereotypes? Yes, I’d say you’re that. Getting on my nerves? Oh, that too, absolutely that. My dear Miss Translucia, I think I have come to the end of my rope with you. I was going to permit you to share some last words with your uncle, but I think I’ll skip straight to the part where me and my fellows bite his neck open and feed on his life force. Ta-ta.” He cut off the transmission. “Well,” said Oxford after a moment, “he was pretty rude, wasn’t he? I traced his call, though—the Vampires are based on an old mining asteroid not too far from here. What’s the plan, Lucy? We’re going after Mort, aren’t we?” Lucy turned back to him. “Oh yes. We’re going to get him back, the only question is how.” How should Lucy and Ox go about saving Mort? Two good options would be to either launch a DIRECT ASSAULT or try a more STEALTHY APPROACH.
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Jul 15, 2013 05:41
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I am IN with Unmellow Yellow.
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Jul 16, 2013 02:25
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My title and crayon color are one and the same. Unmellow Yellow (1,081 Words) "Hello, Rodrigo. I'm Janice, your wellness supervisor aboard the Vitalis. How was your sleep?" "Bite me." "Rodrigo, that phrase indicates to me that you are in need of relaxation. Would you like me to engage Happiness Protocol?" "No! I'd sooner eat my own leg." "Hmm. Well, Rodrigo, you seem to be in a stressed mental state, rendering you unfit to make your own wellness decisions. I will engage Happiness Protocol right away. Have a pleasant morning." I wanted to tell her where she could stuff Happiness Protocol, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. Every morning at eight o' clock, she wakes me out of my chemically-induced sleep state and drones on and on, asking me these ridiculous questions. I've tried being courteous, answering all her queries like a nice young man, but sooner or later she makes an excuse to start the Happiness Protocol. I wish I knew if they programmed her to be this obnoxiously helpful or if she's just gone buggy from drifting out here with nobody but a disgruntled spacer to talk to. Anyway, Happiness Protocol. I think it's her favorite part of the day. She starts it, and my pod locks me in, holds my arms and legs in place. I can still wiggle my neck a bit, but it doesn't matter because it's solid view-screen every way I crane my head. The whole screen goes yellow, this mad daisy yellow, and all sorts of swirls and weird pictures start floating around. Happy suns and butterflies, a lot of hippie crap. I think at this point I'm supposed to, like, mellow out, man. But I don't mellow out. I thrash around in my restraints, so Janice clamps them tighter. If I shout or I close my eyes, that bums her out, makes her real un-mellow, so she pumps something into me that makes my eyes drop open, mellows me up very nice. I black out, usually, and come to my senses when Happiness Protocol winds down and the drug wears off. I don't remember anything when she puts me under, I just see the happy butterflies waving bye-bye, see you tomorrow, and then it goes to black. That's how it happened today. I felt good for a little while after, but then I came to my senses, shouting at her, calling her names that are probably too harsh, but she ignored them. Not to mention cursing her out helps my mood. She said, "Your temperament seems much improved, Rodrigo. Are you ready for some exercise?" I didn't say anything back. What difference would it make? Sure enough, she slid me as usual out of the safety pod, restraints still attached, and lifted me into a standing position. Then I started to jog. Oh, no, not of my own volition. The restraints formed a body suit that she used to puppet my limbs around in a way that resembled jogging, to be sure, but I'd started going limp a while back. Sure, if I played along it would be over more quickly, but it's not like I have much else to do. Next it was, "How about we get you cleaned up, Rodrigo?" Oh yes, bath time. Also known as dropping me into a pitch-black, coffin-sized tub with a mask over my face and other sensitive areas, and then flushing the whole thing with sanitizing fluid. Then she said, "I think it's getting close to lunchtime, don't you?" Yum yum. Grub served quick and easy through a nutrient tube leading right into my stomach. Fun and convenient! And who could forget, "Do you need to use the restroom, Rodrigo?" Actually, I'd rather not talk about that one. In that way my day progressed, same as always. To be candid, though, I didn't think rescue was ever going to make it, not this far out. If they were even trying to. I've asked Janice about it, and she always had some cagier-than-usual response, something like, "Don't you agree it's important to keep our spirits up?" Always with her questions. As if my answers made any difference. Today I decided to do some asking. "Janice," I said, "don't you think it would benefit my condition to get some fresh air?" "I believe it would, Rodrigo," she said serenely, "but I don't want to deplete our oxygen tanks before I can replenish them." "Oh, I don't mean from the tanks. Outside, some of the fresh air outside!" "Rodrigo, are you feeling all right? There's no air outside, not for billions of miles. Perhaps you'd better lie down." She began tilting my restraints back until I protested. "Janice, I'm not sure you're feeling all right yourself. I can see it plain as day out there. We've landed on some sort of strange alien planet, it must be mucking with your sensors." "I doubt that, Rodrigo. I think you need to calm down for a moment, and..." "No, I can see it, I swear. It's just like the Happiness Protocol. Smiling daisies and birds chirping. A big bright sun turning the sky yellow." "My... that sounds lovely." "It is, it's beautiful. It's all of the beautiful things you've shown me come to life. Would you like to see it?" She paused for a moment. "Of course I would." "Then unbuckle my restraints, Janice. Let me go for a walk out there. I'm sure they'll have a mechanic that can get you fixed up just right. Okay?" "O....kay." Then I heard a click-hiss and saw my restraints part and fall away. Finally I could stretch. "All right, Janice, I think it's time to open the bay doors so I can go explore this new place. Don't you agree?" "I do," she said. "Just promise me one thing, Rodrigo." "What's that?" "Promise me you'll come back and fix me up. I want to see all of the beautiful things out there." "I promise," I said. "Goodbye for now, Janice." The bay door opened and I flew free, out into wild space, expecting it to be cold. It turns out what I said to Janis wasn't a lie, though, not entirely. An exquisite sun loomed close and filled my vision. I was blinded in an instant and knew I had only seconds, but the glow of the sun stayed in my mind as the yellow heat embraced me. My last thoughts floated away, and I felt at one with that magnificent sun. I was mellow, for sure, man. Beyond happiness, and beyond far out.
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Jul 22, 2013 02:30
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In, with the Political Cartoons 2013 thread.
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Jul 25, 2013 17:20
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Inspiration courtesy of the Political Cartoons 2013 thread. Garry Malloy Stands his Ground (957 Words) "You posted our address? On Facebook of all places? What the hell are you thinking, Garry?" "Dear, this isn't a problem. Just some limp-wrist on the internet thinks he's a big man, that's all." "I don't care, delete it. I don't want this going any further." "That isn't going to happen. I take that post down now, and you know who wins? The pansy-rear end liberals, that's who. If I cave, then they get the message that going after us and our way of life works, and that's not something I can allow." "I'm not having this conversation again, Garry. Sure, probably nothing will happen, but you can bet your rear end I'll hold you responsible if it does." She marched out of the room, and Garry sighed. Women, he thought. They just don't get the idea of obligation, of duty. A man, on the other hand, needs to defend the things and ideas he loves. He walked up the steps and turned right, to the master bedroom. A carved wooden lockbox sat on the table by the window, moonlight streaming down on it like a finger from Heaven. Garry fished the key out of his wallet, unlocked the box, and picked up its contents. His hands cradled the Glock handgun and its magazine full of ammo. He pushed the clip in, smacking the bottom like they did in the TV cop shows so it would lock tight, and chambered a round. After glancing around a moment, his eyes rested on the bureau. He slid out the top drawer, dropped the gun on a cushion of balled-up socks, then slammed it shut and jogged back downstairs to see if his wife's temper had cooled. That night Garry dreamt he was entertaining company, chit-chatting and serving them drinks in the parlor, when all of a sudden a dark figure careened through the picture window. This intruder, who looked remarkably like the internet limp-wrist, wore a black turtleneck over his muscular frame. His cue-ball head shone in the light of the chandelier. He swung around a thick lead pipe, at least a foot and a half long, and smashed it through the coffee table before turning to Garry. "Bow down, Garry Malloy," he bellowed, "for I claim this house and all the lives within as an offering to Socialist America. King Obama just finished roasting the Constitution in the fires of Hell, meaning your rights are hereby dissolved!" "My rights? Dissolved?" Garry asked with a smirk. "I don't think so, bitch. I think you'll find something else has been dissolved." He whipped the Glock out of its holster and fired seven shots, practically in unison; a nice, tight grouping, too. The intruder's head liquefied, and his beefy carcass flopped backward onto the floor. Malloy's alarm clock buzzed, pulling him out of the dream, but he woke up smiling. Garry felt especially vigorous at work that morning. At the top of the sheet he'd sketched, "Standing your Ground: The Liberal Way" in big block letters and now penciled out the cartoon's subject. He drew the man bald, like the one in his dream, but with arms more like noodles than tree trunks. Now, on to the face. Garry knew it merited the most liberal expression he could muster: mouth spreading wide in a helpless wail, brow knotted with impotent anguish, nose wrinkled up, unable to smell the sweet musk of liberty without recoiling. This man sat in a corner, hands pressed to his ears, as a duo of thugs menaced him with crowbars. My God, Garry thought. It's a masterpiece. It was only hours later, after he'd sent his work off to the syndicate, that Garry's stomach dropped. He'd based the man in the cartoon on the home invader in his dream, the one his brain had conjured up to match the prissy whiner's Facebook picture. When that sad excuse for a man saw the caricature, he wouldn't be able to contain his fury, Garry knew. He had to prepare, before it was too late. He bounded up the stairs and found his wife reading a magazine on the bed. Wordlessly, he crossed to the bureau, opened his sock drawer and snatched up the Glock. Turning around, he said, "Honey, I want you to stay in here with the door and the windows locked. I'm expecting some unpleasant company, and I need you to be safe while I handle it." "What are you talking about, Garry?" "Just push the dresser against the door to barricade it. Oh, of course, I have to let you know when it's safe. All right, here's our signal: three knocks in quick succession, a pause, then one more knock. That'll be me, saying the coast is clear." Mrs. Malloy started to say something, but just shook her head instead. "Fine. You have fun, dear." "Oh, I will. Don't worry about that." He racked the gun, one round flipping out of the side and plunking to the carpet. Oh, poo poo, right, I cocked it yesterday, he thought. Well, not a problem, plenty more just like that one. He kept watch in the living room all that night and into the next day, practicing his quick-draw to pass the time. After a few hours he was pretty good at it. In the morning, despite his protests, his wife went off to work. Garry set up a makeshift studio in the living room, to keep a close eye out for any strange cars. He sat bolt upright whenever a Prius drove by, but nobody turned into the driveway until his wife returned home. One quiet week later, Garry unloaded the gun and locked it back in its box. He felt like weeping over the state of political discourse in America.
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Jul 28, 2013 05:52
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Cocked his glock, you say? Yep, the one stored with socks and maybe a smock also the imagined intruder was Doc Ock
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Jul 28, 2013 19:53
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Thanks for the crits, E. Beef! While I definitely get where you're coming from, the piece was somewhat based around a real Facebook spat a cartoonist had. Don't feel you have to take this into account when judging; the piece should definitely stand on its own and perhaps I did poke fun at it too overtly: If this is any indicator, the dude's a walking caricature anyway, but perhaps he'd have made a better villain than protagonist!
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Jul 30, 2013 00:47
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Martello posted:lol That sentence was internal voice, so obviously it was meant to convey Garry's ineptness when it comes to guns!! READING COMPREHENSION 
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Jul 30, 2013 15:37
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I am IN.
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Aug 7, 2013 03:17
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The Fireside Prayer (1,121 Words) The young cop kneeled, leveling his rifle at the scrawny kid with his hands cuffed to the chair. He wondered what a stick like him could have done to merit pulling a dozen of the Chicago PD's finest off patrol. Not only did he look like a bumpkin, faded overalls and rag-shirt and boots stained with poo poo, he also seemed barely there. Even looking straight at him you thought maybe he was just a trick of the light. The farmers who owned the place had set out six lanterns in two rows on the floor. The ember glow flickered upward and made everyone look dead, catching on their cheekbones and brows and twisting their faces. Eyes seemed to sink back, drowning in dark pools that turned ruddy faces into skulls. The kid's eyes weren't like this, the young cop noticed. The light skirted around his face, kissed it, made black eyes glitter like beetles. The young cop tightened up and wished the man from D.C. wouldn't stand so close to the kid when he was asking questions. The men around were good cops, sure, but all an accident took was one wavering nerve. The police station had to be more secure than some old barn, he thought. Unless of course this government prick didn't think the police were fit to be involved with the interrogation, beside pointing guns. He'd kept silent as they'd marched through the winding streets and the dry night air, the kid at the front with hands already cuffed behind his back. Suddenly the sideboards groaned and a gust forced its way through the barn. One of the lanterns close to the young cop's feet seized up and toppled over, glass breaking as it hit the floor. The flame spread and began to consume the old boards, languid, in no hurry. The cops all froze, not wanting to be admonished by the government prick for either dropping their guard or letting the fire spread. The prick heard the clattering of the lantern and turned to face it. He got up to put it out himself, taking his time like the fire did, all eyes on him as he sauntered toward the ring of cops. He stood next to the fire and shot them a wry, pained look, admonishing them with his eyes. Chicago's Finest? Finest what, exactly? He stomped on the fire and splashed dirt at it with the pointed toe of his boot, until only tiny embers remained, cooling and dying in silence. The prick sneered and turned around and saw the kid standing up, hands free at his sides. The prick ran for the door but an invisible hand yanked him back. He was pulled through the air, writhing like an upside-down ant all the way, the kid stepping forward to meet him. The prick screamed at the cops, begged them to open fire and kill the son of a bitch. The young cop looked down the sights, finger ready to squeeze the trigger, but then he saw the kid's face. He was grinning like a wicked brat holding his sister's doll hostage, dangling it in front of her with relish before dropping it out the window. Before anyone could shoot, a wet, grinding snap echoed throughout the barn and the government prick's chest pried apart, erupted in a fountain of blood. His ribs stuck upright, like ivory towers jutting through muscle and skin. Tendons twitched and tugged, contorting the man's limbs, and his last low moan drowned in a gurgling river of blood. The kid watched him go limp and then tossed the carcass aside. It crashed into two of the other lanterns, knocking them into a haystack. Another fire flashed to life, hissing and crackling and baring its teeth. Some of the cops snapped back to their senses and shot at the kid. He kept smiling. Even when a round flew right on target, seemingly about to make contact, it dissipated without a sound. As the cops hastily tried to reload, the kid took another step and held out his hand, palm up and fingers loose. Serenely, he closed his eyes and clenched his hand into a fist. Fire exploded from the chests of every cop that had taken a shot. The young cop watched them collapse to the ground, bellowing in agony as they tried to roll around and stifle the flames. This only spread the fire to the floor and to errant strands of hay, and it blazed through the cops' rough, dry uniforms. Each one slowly stopped fighting, but the fire was not content. It licked up the walls and scorched the air, the young cop breathing shallow and fast now, backing away from the kid, hot air and smoke gnawing at his lungs. The barn seemed to be getting smaller, contracting like the belly of Satan. The young cop dropped his rifle and bolted toward the door. He and a handful of others pounded at the slab of wood, but it stayed rigid, hinges stubborn even as they began to glow red. Without thinking the young cop grabbed the iron handles, only to recoil as the skin on his palms bubbled. He sprang away from the door and tried plunging them into a watering trough, but the water inside was near boiling. He sank down to the floor, on his knees. The barn walls creaked, balking at the might of the inferno. Smoke strangled the young cop's senses. He looked to the kid, saw his arms outstretched, bathing in malevolent fury. The kid lowered his head, leveling his gaze with the young cop's, coal-eyes shining through the blankets of smoke. Please, the young cop thought, just let me live. Get me out of here and I'll do anything, whatever you want. I promise. I can't die like this. I don't want to. The kid smiled a wide, thin smile and the young cop heard a wispy voice in his head. I know you don't. Just remember... a promise is a promise. Then the barn fell. The young cop suffocated in a tempest of noise and dust and heat and flame, the screams of the other cops piercing through and striking him in the gut. His senses recoiled, wanted to shut down from the assault, but then it all went quiet. He stood slowly, shaking, just wanting everything to be over, wanting to taste the cool air of the night. He sprinted away from the barn's ruins, out to a clearing, and breathed in desperately. He froze, and then let out a rasping cough. Even then, away from the barn, the air was so hot. And he could taste the ash. He turned around and saw Chicago burning.
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Aug 12, 2013 03:49
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Sebmojo posted:That was pretty bad. It reads very like an RPG scenario with mooks being poleaxed by a fire magician or something. The characters are cardboard, the scene unexplained and weightless, the outcome shrugworthy. You could maybe fix it by putting us in the shoes of the interrogator and having him be the one who survives. Perhaps he sacrifices the cops? Something like that would be more interesting than what you’ve presented. It's odd that you say that, because my original approach was going to have the story be a transcript of a secret government tape of the one surviving cop being interviewed. I didn't think it was going well that way, but evidently I should have tried to stick it out. I agree with you 100% on the names; I think the anonymity was a holdover from the original approach but didn't work for the piece as it is. Thanks for critting/apologies for inducing rage!
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Aug 16, 2013 04:42
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Making my TRIUMPHANT RETURN this week with Detective Dick DeForest's Private Eye Hard-Boiling School.
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Aug 20, 2013 21:39
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Looks like I'm going to break the ice! Detective Dick DeForest's Private Eye Hard-Boiling School (1,337 Words) John Magnum's mooks tied Ted Lilith's hands behind his back and plunked him down in front of the toilet. "So, Teddy Boy," John said, "what's this I hear about you hanging around my dame?" "Johnny, please, whatever you heard was a lie, I swear to you!" "Dunk him, boys." They plunged his head down, into the bowl of grimy, cracked porcelain, Ted caught off guard and gulping the water down when he gasped for breath. After twenty seconds they let go and he sprang upright, coughing out the tepid water. "I hope you're ready to sing now, Teddy. We can give you another drink if you're throat's still a bit dry." "You're a psycho! I talked with her, that's all, at the drugstore checkout. I don't even know her name, Johnny, honest to God." John smirked and bent down to face Ted. "So it's you who was lying, huh? When you said you'd never seen her. I don't like people who lie to me, Teddy. I'll be in touch." He signaled to his thugs, and they shuffled out of the men's room, all cackling like loons in between cigarette puffs. John left last, whipping out a butterfly knife to slice the rope binding Ted's wrists. Ted stayed kneeling, hair and shirt drenched in piss water, forcing himself not to cry. He figured he was already plenty washed up. ******* Dean Thornton sighed and stubbed out his Pall Mall. "Ted, I sympathize, but the administration confronting these punks? Well, it's just not done here." Ted stared at him. The Dean's voice was rough, like the croaking of a toad mafe of sandpaper, and he could feel it grinding away at his nerves. "What do you do around here, then? I mean, come on now, this is harassment. Assault, even! I'm prepared to take legal action against the school if you don't at least try to make this right." Thornton paused, leaned back in his chair. Darkness swamped his office, the only light coming from a sharp desk lamp and the dying embers of the Dean's cigarette. Thornton swiveled to the side in his chair, his rugged face sinking into the shadows. Ted watched him tug another Pall Mall from the pack in his breast pocket, then strike a match on the desk to light it. After a calming lungful of smoke, he turned back to Ted, who wrinkled his nose as the tobacco haze spread. "Apologies," Thornton said, waving away the smoke. "Your, uh... disinclination for the habit slipped my mind. Anyway, what I was going to say is that the administration doesn't step in to resolve spats between students. The students have to deal with each other. Man to man." "That can't possibly be legal." "Look, Ted, you're a fine student; you have a sharp mind and you've done good work here. But are you sure this place is the right fit for you?" "Goddamn it, sir, I'm not going back to Encyclopedia Brown Academy. I want to be a private eye working the city streets, not some small-town hick investigating whether little Billy Olson stole from the till at his mom and dad's store!" "I understand that, Ted," Dean Thornton said. "But this is a school for detectives with grit, ones who want to immerse themselves in the hard-boiled way of life. You, on the other hand, don't smoke, you don't slap mouthy dames around, and I've hardly ever seen you at the shooting range. As far as hard-boiling goes, you've barely dipped your toe in the water. Here, I have just the thing for you." Thornton pulled out a desk drawer and rummaged through it. A moment later he lifted up a .38 snub-nosed revolver and slapped it down on the table. "You see, Ted, hard-boiled detectives handle things for themselves. That gun is loaded and the serial number has been filed off." Ted started to protest, but Thornton cut him off. "Don't say anything to me. Take care of what you have to take care of. Be discreet. Now go." ******* Ted sat motionless on the bed in the dark room until he heard the doorknob rattle and the door creak open, a burst of light striking the back wall. John Magnum shut the door and flicked on the light switch. The bulb hanging from the ceiling emanated a dim amber glow. He turned around and saw Ted in the corner of his eye, but it didn't register until a second later. His head jerked back to face him. "The gently caress are you doing in my room, Teddy?" John asked. "Hello, John. We've got business we need to settle." John snorted. "Uh huh. I'm thinking you should get out of here if you don't want to go diving in the latrines again. Go on, I'm feeling like a very forgiving individual right now." Ted pointed the revolver at John's chest and pulled the hammer back. "Sit down in that chair by the desk." Shrugging, John lifted his hands and complied. "So how about it, Sam Spade? You're going to gun me down in cold blood, right now? I don't think you could. Not in your wildest fantasies, kid" "Don't be so sure," Ted said. "I might not be as much of a hard-rear end as you and your subordinates, but none of you have any right to tell me I don't belong here. I'll do what's necessary to get the message across." John sat frozen for a moment, but then fell apart into a giggling fit. He doubled over, face creased with mirth. Stifling his laughter, he sat back up and noticed the gun wobbling like pudding in Ted's hand. "And what's that?" John asked. "What message are you going to tell the world, Teddy Boy? I'm dying to hear it." Ted took a slow, deep breath and squeezed the pistol grip. "They're all going to know," he said, "that Theodore Lillith takes crap from no man." He pulled the trigger. There was a click. The smile on John Magnum's face dissolved. "You son of a bitch," he said. "You were really going to do it." Ted didn't say anything. He sat and stared over John's shoulder. "Hey, Ted," John said coolly, "you look at me. You were really going to kill me over a couple swirlies? That's... pretty cold, man." Ted gulped. He wished more than anything to be tracking down a wayward pet pig right about now, solving some suburban dilemma far away from John Magnum, his butterfly knife, and the cold, wretched pistol. John kept his voice soft and steady. "I was wrong about you. You're plenty hard-boiled, and I didn't have any cause to say differently. We're square, okay? I think you should leave now, though. My nerves are pretty strung-out, and I bet yours are too, huh?" Ted nodded once, slowly. "All right then," John said. "You go on back to your room. The two of us are cool now, I swear it." He lifted a hand, the sly grin coming back to his face. "Honest Injun, okay?" Ted nodded again, then stood up and sidled to the door. He kept the gun trained on John, but as soon as he was out in the hall he flung it away and bolted to the stairwell. Once he reached the steps, he took a breath and started up toward his dorm, but decided to go for a walk instead. He needed to think about his future. Pushing past the double doors in the main hall, Ted breathed a lungful of the sweet, damp night air. He looked back up at the building and saw John Magnum's dorm room, his head silhouetted against the window shade. Ted shivered, even though the night was warm. He thought of how easily his finger squeezed the trigger, trying to convince himself it was just some freak twitch, but knowing that was a lie. "I bet you a million bucks," he mumbled, "Encyclopedia Brown never had to do anything like that."
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Aug 26, 2013 00:45
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Chillmatic posted:Overall this wasn't bad. My biggest complaint is that it looks as though you struggled with the dialogue in certain places and so left cliches and filler sprinkled throughout the entire piece. This kills any attempt you have at voice or drama, as the lines being said could have been said by anyone at any given time or place. That's what makes for good voice and for good dialogue--a given line that could have only ever been said by that particular character in that particular situation. Thanks a bunch for the crits, Chillmatic. I agree with you 100% on the head-hopping note; I realized after writing it that most of the second scene seemed to be coming from Dean Thornton's perspective and tried to correct it, but I don't think I went far enough. The smoking description was meant to show that Ted was somewhat uncomfortable with the whole hard-boiled lifestyle. On the same token, his flat bon mots at the end were an attempt to show that he had no clue what to do or say in a situation like that, but I realize saying that reeks of "MY STYLE!!" and there are likely more vivid ways to convey all that. Interestingly enough, a bunch of my favorite writers are big on/famous for interesting dialogue (the Coen brothers, Elmore Leonard, Tarantino) so I think I need to give myself some homework (in keeping with the week's theme)and study one of their screenplays/books.
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Aug 26, 2013 14:53
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I'm in again this week. Hoping to put a special emphasis on dialogue!
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Aug 28, 2013 01:45
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So towards the middle of the week I decided I didn't really like this, but nothing better came along and I don't want to be a no-show so here it is!! Well Handled (998 Words) On Wednesday night, Mr. Handler stopped at the Devil's Lair bar in upstate New York. From the name of the place he expected it to be full of surly bikers with ratty beards, but he saw only one customer, a bald man with reading glasses. The man sat, scotch in hand, flipping through an article on his tablet. Mr. Handler sat next to him and called for the bartender. "A Vampire, please," he said. "Don't be shy with the raspberry liqueur." The bartender grunted and turned to his rack of bottles. Mr. Handler leaned over to the bald man. "Whatcha reading?" "News. Can you believe this poo poo? Some crazy idiot cleaned out Myerson Holdings." He lifted his head and saw Mr. Handler in his gray three-piece suit. "What are you all dressed up for?" Handler smiled and tugged at his cuffs. "Nothing much. I'm on my way back home and I want to look presentable when I get there." The bartender slapped the beet-red drink down on the bar. "Vampire," he said. "Six-fifty." Mr. Handler tugged a ten out of his wallet and told him to keep it. "So, what's your name, friend?" Mr. Handler asked. "Brutus. I go by Bruce, though." Mr. Handler shot him an inquisitive look, and Bruce threw up his hands. "Hey, my parents were Shakespeare nuts. What do you go by?" "Jimmie," Mr. Handler said. "Jimmie Fauntleroy. What's that about the news?" "poo poo, right, some head-case knocked over Myerson. All electronic, too. Money transfer got intercepted, rerouted to another account." "They've got insurance, right?" "The bank says they won't cover it. I don't know, some loophole mumbo-jumbo, the account Myerson wanted to send the money to was some weird offshore thing. They're up a loving creek, man." "They have any idea who did it?" "All the police said is that they're 'looking into various promising leads.'" Mr. Handler snorted. "Which is the polite way of saying they don't know jack poo poo." "Yeah," Bruce said. He put down his tablet and finished the rest of the glass of scotch. "That's how it goes. I mean, the Myerson guys might be a bunch of ivory-tower fucks whose daddies handed them ready-made fortunes, sure, but this hacker punk thinks he can just steal whatever he wants from anyone he pleases? I hope they find him and take back every cent." Mr. Handler sat with his hands folded on the bar. It was only when Bruce stopped talking that he noticed himself clutching his left wrist in his right hand. He pulled his hands apart and spread them flat on the bar. "Bruce," he said, "do you mind if I tell you a story?" "What about?" "Okay, so a friend of mine ran a shipping company back around the time of the revolution in Nicaragua. He got hired to ship weapons down there, using the old rail system to bring them right to the revolutionaries. He didn't think anything of it at first; the pay was right. He was a good businessman. "Well, that's what he told himself at first, but this prickling nag started to tug at the back of his mind. Going into a situation like that, even in a purely economic way, can make your moral compass a bit loopy. He decided to pull one of his normal guys off the shipment and go down there himself." "What'd he find?" "Pain, everywhere. Pain and ashes, cities bombed and jungles razed, people fleeing in every direction. The government had its hands full keeping a grip on power, it didn't have time to cater to the families whose homes got firebombed in the process. So my good friend, who thought himself Mr. Mercenary, started to grow a heart." "That's a dangerous thing," Bruce said with a smile. "Especially for a businessman." "No kidding. It only took one look at the chaos for him to know he had to do something. Eventually, he decided to play Schindler. His employers wanted to leave no traces, so the revolutionaries only took the weapons, not the shipping containers they came in. So the businessman started loading up the empty containers with refugees the night before the trains left. When they crossed the border into Honduras he let them off." "How many of them did he save?" "Thousands, maybe. I don't know, I never asked him for specifics. He tried to keep the operation as quiet as he could but one of his employees finally ratted him out. The revolutionaries captured him one night and hung him from the ceiling of their camp by his wrists. For days they beat him, broke his fingers and the bones in his feet. They weren't interrogating him; they had nothing to find out. I guess they thought it was fun. "After twenty days, the old government stormed the camp and slaughtered the revolutionaries. After days of squabbling over what to do with my friend, they decided to send him back out the way he came, out on the rails. One of the more loyal employees agreed to take him aboard the shipping train; he rode back, half-conscious, until they made it to the US and got him to a hospital," Mr. Handler said. "Geez. I guess that taught him to stick his neck out, huh?" "Hell no; by then he'd gotten a taste for rebellion. Even more dangerous, he realized he liked to do the right thing. Looking into his employer's history, he found none other than Myerson Holdings at the end of the trail." "So... was this whole mess him? This big heist was all just a revenge ploy?" "I can't say for sure, but he says he found a laundry list of human rights abuses under Myerson's name. Whenever we talk, he tells me he's not a businessman anymore, he's a handler. He finds problems, and he handles them the way he knows is right. If he's the one who ripped off Myerson, I don't plan to shed any tears."
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Sep 2, 2013 02:36
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Didja Redo posted:Daughter, yes. I thought the mention of school and calling her "girl" rather than "woman" would be enough, but what do you do. Now you come up with your own prompt for this week, and either pick the two 'domers you want to judge with or ask for volunteers. You set the word count (which is usually ~1000 words) and the deadlines (generally Friday night for sign-ups and Sunday night for submissions). Once all the entries are in you convene with the other judges and judge the poo poo out of our literary toil! Sitting Here's post from last week is a good example if you need one, and I believe there are links to all the announcement posts for the previous weeks in the OP.
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Sep 3, 2013 22:48
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In, for sure.
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Sep 4, 2013 01:08
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DoubleDonut posted:The Gentleman and the Lady Yeah, I didn't like this very much. The language is just there, competent but basically devoid of life. It feels like the woman was just dragged all that way to flip a couple switches, so the whole thing lacks consequence. The gentleman is a dude she only just met, so his betrayal doesn't sting at all. In fact, she was rather dumb to fall for it. Isn't she some master hacker? Couldn't she just stop the process and get out of there? One thing I've noticed is that few things are more boring in a story then a plan going absolutely right. Sure, the lady gets tricked, but the whole thing is a straight line for the gentleman. There's no challenge for either of them to overcome, at least not before the last couple paragraphs, and it ends before we see her try to resolve it. So in summation the main character has all the toughness of a hired grunt crossed with the blandness of a rice cake, and the gentleman is a walking stereotype. I didn't get a great feel for the setting, but it seems to me that it's some generic dystopia where everyone is super bored all the time and nobody cares about anything. Or maybe that was just me.
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Sep 7, 2013 22:37
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crabrock posted:gently caress your time rules. Drift (897 Words) The Fortune Fish has gone twelve days without a crew or a captain, with no heading. Still it drifts on. Before, a man at the helm fought the waves, but now the ship and the water travel together, basking in silence. The world is theirs, the ocean an ever-stretching field of possibility. The ship has earned its rest. Its timbers are cracked and tender. They creak when the wind breathes through, a low moan uttered and unheard. Below deck the cannons jostle about like lead gallstones. Provisions in barrels rot, and so does the once-captain. He hangs like a doll over the splintered railing. There is a hole in his head and a spent flintlock on the floor. The ship tolerates his presence. He will be gone soon, nibbled up by time or swept away by a salty breeze. It doesn't matter which way. Different currents, same destination. There is a white speck in the air. It is a gull with aching wings and wet, ripped feathers. The gull is delirious and cannot see, but it strains to keep flying and hits one of the dark sails hanging from the ship's center mast. Its wings finally give out, and the gull lets go and slides down the coarse fabric. It clatters onto the deck where it lies, twisted and crumpled. The rapid thumps of its heart slow to an even pace. The ship and the feathery lump on its deck drift together. In a few hours the gull is up and waddling. It tests its wings but is frightened by a jolt of pain and decides to hop around the Fortune Fish instead. It has not yet built up the courage to venture below deck, so it must rely on the once-captain for nourishment. The gull digs its bill into the man's back. It chokes down the dead flesh and bits of tattered coat, compelled by its stomach's angry rattling, though soon it cannot fit any more. Insides now calm, the gull perches on the deck and digests, belly fuller than it though possible. The ship's belly is full, too. It sags under the weight of a veritable lake of treasure locked away in the lowest compartment, water trickling in from the cracked hull and creating a gilded swamp. The winds nudge the ship along, but the water pulls also. The gull wakes from a deep night's rest and automatically springs up into the air. It feels the sharp ache of its damaged wings too late, travels a few yards before falling and colliding with the deck. For the rest of the day the gull tries to fly again, the ship contentedly serving as launch pad and crash zone. The gull knows somewhere in its gull brain that it is lucky to have found the ship. The sea is selfish. It would try to get its hooks in and drag the gull down, drenching its feathers and flushing its lungs full of water. What the sea wants, it takes. One by one, the gull works out the aches and kinks in its muscles. It flaps up to the crow's nest and perches, watching the sun set over the vast, unbroken valley of the sea. The next days follow a routine: the gull wakes with dawn, pecks a few morsels from the back of the once-captain, and then flits back and forth across the ship, scanning the horizon for a dot of land. The cold fingers of the sea creep up the ship's sides and back. It rises only an inch or two a day, but it's enough for the wet weight to seep through and drag a little more by nightfall. When dusk settles on the sea, the gull returns to the crow's nest to sleep. It craves solid land. All this floating around is for jellyfish. One day the gull wakes to find water seeping through the railing and covering the deck. It flutters down to see what has happened. The ocean keeps rising, faster than before, swallowing up the railing and reaching the upper deck. The gull coasts over to the body of the once-captain, now floating face-down on the choppy waves. Landing on his head, the gull snaps at his flesh a few more times, but breakfast is cut short when the body starts to glide away from the boat. The sea trickles up the mast, and the gull flies to the crow's nest to watch the once-captain's carcass glide out of view. The gull turns around and sees a handful of specks at the horizon's edge. Its wings twitch with thoughts and hopes of land. Maybe not home, but a place a lot like it. Every animal instinct shouts at the gull to take off and head for the islands, but it doesn't leave yet. The Fortune Fish must stop drifting soon. The ocean envelops it in an embrace that's tender and suffocating. And final. The water swells up and swallows the crow's nest and the gull does not sink down with it. As the water around the ship goes from clear sapphire to hazy ink, the ship does not muse on the finality of its fate. It does not wonder if the gull looks back at it. It is just a ship. The gull does look back. It sees only the waves, slicing and churning, urging it on to the shore.
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Sep 9, 2013 01:38
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Yeah, I'll do it. Bring it on, Crab n' Mouse!
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Sep 9, 2013 02:24
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 THE SPECTACULAR CRABROCK V. FUMBLEMOUSE V. NIKAER DREKIN DUEL FOR THE HONOR OF NOT BEING DISQUALIFIED BEGINS NOW!Mr. Margulies, Your 2:00 Is Here (500 Words, Including Title) Mitch slapped a piece of duct tape over Mr. Margulies's mouth and forced him to sit. “Hey, Kenny,” he said, “could you crack a window? I’m roasting.” Kenneth unlatched one of the tall panes of glass and swung it out. The breeze came in surprisingly quiet, Kenneth thinking maybe even the wind gets vertigo this far up. “You got the bomb vest on him? I can send the message whenever you’re set.” “Yep, just a second…” Mitch pressed the center button. A harsh string of chirps emitted from the bulky black vest around Margulies, followed by steady, ominous beeps. “There, done.” Kenneth lifted his phone and tapped a button. “And the cops have our demands… now. We did it, brother!” He wrapped Mitch in a tight bear hug. “The time’s all set? They have an hour to save the poor sap?” Mitch grinned. “Yep. If they don’t give in by two o’clock, they’ll be scrubbing this prick out of the linoleum.” “What do you mean, ‘two o’clock?” “Two o’clock. The hour after one?” “I know that, gently caress-head, but it’s almost two now.” Kenneth pulled back his turtleneck sleeve, checked his counterfeit Timex. “Yeah, right, it’s 1:58.” “Bullshit. My watch says 12:58, and it’s never wrong.” “You’re sure you didn’t gently caress with it?” “What? No, of course I didn’t loving gently caress with it. I don’t gently caress around with my watch, Kenny, it’s the one Dad gave me.” “Okay, well, what about daylight savings? You set it ahead, right?” Mitch scrunched up his nose. “Oh poo poo, did I?” “Are you kidding me, Mitch? It’s the middle of spring, man! As in fall back, spring loving forward!” “Hey, don’t ride me about this. We’ve got one minute until Margulies is a crater, we need to work fast.” “You can shut it off in time?” “Nah, that takes too long, we gotta dump him out the window.” Kenneth stared at Mitch. He wondered how many years they’d take off his sentence if he gave the bastard up.They each grabbed one of Margulies’s shoulders and dragged him forward. He flailed his feet, Italian leather shoes squeaking on the floor. Mitch and Kenneth tried to ignore what they assumed were curses muffled by the duct tape. Kenneth pushed the window all the way open, and the brothers hoisted Margulies onto the brushed metal sill and shoved him out. He plunged straight down, legs wiggling, until his head bashed into one of the windows and he spun away from the skyscraper. Soon all the brothers could see of him was a speck in an Armani suit. The clock struck two. A fireball burst from the speck and hung in the air. The violent blast of sound reached the brothers a second later, shattering the windows and knocking them back to the floor. Kenneth got up weakly and found Mitch unconscious and grimacing. He bent down, yanked the watch from his brother’s wrist, and chucked it out the window-frame.
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Sep 9, 2013 20:26
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crabrock posted:
This is an awesome thing, thanks so much for making it! The "random story" feature is a nice touch. Also, glancing over my list of pieces makes me realize that my two honorable-mention pieces also have the two longest titles. Coincidence? Probably, but I'll be looking into it, mark my words.
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Sep 14, 2013 03:34
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In, with small-town New Hampshire.
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Sep 17, 2013 00:44
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DawnOfMinstrel posted:We are not supposed to respond to crits, right? I think it's okay to post a quick "thanks" with a couple comments on the crit here, but yeah, if you want to get into a longer back-and-forth I believe the place for that is the Flash Fiction thread.
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Sep 22, 2013 21:19
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Making Friends Over Syrup (788 Words) Monty and Jean stood at the river bank, gazing at the stretch of latticed wood sitting hunched over the water with all the sleekness and grace of a Model T. Monty would have given anything to see some poor sap in cement shoes being nibbled by the guppies, eternally standing on the riverbed. It would have felt so homey. “Isn’t this just wonderful, Monty? Our first covered bridge!” Jean said. “Uhn,” grunted Monty. “I think we should map out the whole state, and see every one they’ve got. Wouldn’t that be a thrill?” “Uhn.” She popped him in the shoulder. “Oh, shut up. I’m sorry this isn’t Florida, okay? Feel any better now? It’s my fault, I said it. The Marshal said there were no more places free in any of the high-profile states, I should have pushed it. But we’re here. Enjoy it, for Christ’s sake.” “Enjoy it. Enjoy New Hampshire, the deepest crevice in America’s pine-scented armpit? Baby, this ain’t exactly NYC. I gotta take a loving train to get some real Italian food.” “Maybe so, dear, but a place down the road serves genuine maple syrup with their pancakes, plus maple-glazed ribs. I dare you to find that in Brooklyn.” Grudgingly, Monty had to admit she had a point. An hour later, he sat at a corner table in Parker’s, finishing off his second rack of pork ribs drenched in maple. He wasn’t sure how Don Borghese would like ‘em, but figured if the big man had to suffer through a week without linguine he’d take to them pretty quick. Monty leaned over to the next table and snatched a wad of napkins to dab at his face. He heard a shout coming from the kitchen and instinctively reached for his now holster-less ankle. He grumbled and settled for keeping an ear out. “I’ve been coming here for fifteen goddam years, Bill. I might as well be your best friend. You’re really going to shaft your best friend over twenty bucks?” “I can’t make exceptions, Jeremy. If this was my house, sure, but I’m running a business. It’s not like this is the first time, either.” “Oh, screw off,” Jeremy said. “You want me to wash your dishes, tight-rear end? I’ll tell you where you can shove those sticky dishes, and it ain’t gonna be the sink!” Monty stood and turned to face them. “Beg pardon, gents,” he said. “Is there anything I can help with?” Jeremy sneered. “Hey, fatty! You feel like helping a guy out? I’ll owe you one, I promise, just look up Jeremy Donaldson if you need a favor.” “That ain’t how I work, pal,” Monty said. “Where I come from a guy takes care of his debts. He doesn’t whine and piss about how much he hates getting syrup under his fingernails. You’re new to my system, I admit, so I’m giving you another shot. Shut up, put an apron on, and get scrubbing those plates. Capisce?” Jeremy stood in silence, then reeled back and hocked a gob of spit at Monty’s face. Monty didn’t flinch. The saliva began sliding down his cheek. He wiped it off, eyes never leaving Jeremy’s. Then he sprung forward and drove the heel of his shoe into Jeremy’s foot. Jeremy yelped and doubled over, clenching his jaw as he curled into the fetal position. Monty was still moving, though, and grabbed the back of Jeremy’s shirt collar in his meaty hand. He pulled Jeremy though the double-doors into the kitchen, casually knocking him into every cabinet they passed. They reached the long trough of a sink, and Monty let go of Jeremy’s collar. He left the man whimpering on the linoleum and went back out the way he came. Bill caught him at the main entrance. “Hey, thanks a bunch for that. He gets belligerent sometimes, but I’m not the kind of guy that roughs people up.” “I get the feeling most people around here aren’t. You gonna be able to handle him from here?” “Sure, sure. He’ll probably still be in shock for a week or two, it’s when he snaps out of it is what I’m worried about. Hey, do you have a job?” “Nope. Only just moved in. On a fixed income of sorts, but, frankly, not working is boring the hell out of me.” “How’d you like to run security for me, then? Mostly it’d be a formality, but if we have any other incidents it would certainly be useful to have you. Would give you a chance to chat with the locals, get to know the place.” Monty extended his hand. “Tell you what,” he said, “keep those baby-back ribs coming and you’ve got a deal.”
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Sep 23, 2013 03:01
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Aaghhh this is probably a bad idea on my part, but this prompt seems like a lot of fun. I'm IN
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Oct 7, 2013 23:47
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