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i gave you GOLD sh what the gently caress!!!
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Jan 8, 2020 12:46
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Entenzahn posted:i gave you GOLD sh what the gently caress!!! Okay I mean it's pretty funny that every single Christmas story failed just because of how peak TD it is but I was also really excited to see how my story would go on. But even worse, I could have spent that time getting drunk on eggnog instead, and that I do not forgive. Sitting Here posted:thanks for the crit  Face me you coward. Best of three.
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Jan 14, 2020 14:17
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I love you.
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Jan 18, 2020 01:05
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SlipUp posted:
what time exactly is this due or anytime as long as it's still the 21st somewhere in the world
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Jan 21, 2020 00:32
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sitting here!!! it's bad luck if we see each other so close to our brawl
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Jan 21, 2020 01:16
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A lawless criminal writes into town. Their crime: they're words. Sebmojo's sans-sherif star glints in the aggressive outback sun. "you best mosey on back where you'd moseyed on over here from." "This contest is bullshit," the criminal spits. "It's judging is--" The bullet tears the criminal's hat clean off. The 'jo's gun smokes out of its holster. A split second later the echo comes crashing down. The lone mod ranger slowly lifts a smoke to his unshaven mouth, lights it, drags. In the background, an avalanche. "It's is only ever short for 'it is', kiddo." Once again justice is served. The avalanche is actually a dogpile of domers that buries the village underneath it. Three hundred years later, a house is built on the lot. It gets haunted, but this is a story for another day.
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Jan 21, 2020 14:05
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Shellton Cracks: The Case of the Missing Parsley 1500 words I’d never had to draw my gun in one hundred and eighteen days of service, but this limp piece of dill was really tempting me. Every moment counts in a missing parsleys case and I sure as crack wasn’t up for spending many more of them debating with garnish. “Look man,” the dill said, “we don’t talk to the poleeks.” I looked nothing like a root, so the sogface was either taking the piss out of me or high as a fridge bulb. It tried to shut the plexiglas drawer once again, but my shell was in the way, and he was weak like a glass of vinegar left to marinate in ice cubes on a summer day. I let myself in. Bass washed over me, drowning out the protests that followed me into the grass den. The inside hadn’t seen a wetwipe in decades. Herbs were lying across the floor, some sleeping, some rotting, or worse. I’d seen it before. This was the bottom of the vegetable drawer, where the mold was clawing at you day in and out, and it didn’t matter if you were fresh or spoiled, the sog would get to you all the same eventually. If you were here, you were family. I found the missing parsley up in a corner on the first floor. The leaf pattern matched the sketch: shaggy frame, smooth leaves, one full bunch. Bit of a browning on the stems. Lost some weight, but alive. Chalk one up for the good guys. “Get up,” I said. The parsley gargled something incomprehensible. “...find me… no...” The thump of the bass made him hard to understand. I tried to help him on his stems, but he shied away like I was about to make pesto. “Come on now,” I said. “There are veggies out there who care for you.” The look on his face was pure terror. “No,” he said, “no, no, no, no.” Through the droning noise I didn’t notice the heavy steps thundering up the stairs until it was too late. Just as I turned, something muscled its way into my peripheral, and a tenderizer exploded into my face. I fell backwards, into darkness, and then into the dream. I knew what was coming. I couldn’t stop it. Around me, the world faded. Black. Wet. Hot. Burning. Bubbles rushed past me. I wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come out. My insides did the screaming for me. Scalding hot. Hellwater. Fluids pressed up against my inner membrane, wanting to break out and escape, the melting and the rebonding all the sick chemistry, but my shell had already toughened up, scarred a thousand times over. It was forever. It was hell. Some nights I’m not sure if it's a memory, or a brief glimpse into what awaits me at the end of my shelf-life. All I know is, I don’t deserve otherwise. I woke up in a pool of my own residual dew. My insides burned, somehow, even now. My environment circled me in waves like I was raw again. Somebody had draped me in sogged herb. I shook them off, got up, and fell down. There was a hole in my side. The devil himself was poking a finger into me. “Tabasco,” a voice said. It was mine. I had to get it out of my system before it ate through me. “The Kraft maneuver.” I’d done this once before, during the war. But this time, I’d had to do it sober, no vinegar. There was a crack in my shell where the syringe had been forced through. There was no point doing it slowly. It would just hurt longer. I ripped my shell open. Stale air hit my membrane. I tensed up, grabbed on to the exposed white, and squeezed. Somewhere, off in the distance, someone screamed. A fountain of red spurted out my side. It felt like somebody had glued a paring knife in there and I was slowly pulling it out and everything else with it. Finally, I’d have something else to see in my dreams. When all was said and done, I found myself keeled over in a puddle of my own juices. There were broken-off egg shells everywhere. I picked them up one by one and put them under my hat. As I looked back up, I realized for the first time who else was in the room with me. Parsley. His expired body stared at the ceiling. The realization hit me like a chicken’s rear end in a top hat. He’d been hiding from someone, and I’d led them here. I noticed something else. There was more than egg-shells and rotten herb lying around. Something so similar to my own shell, I hadn’t noticed it at first. Flakes of white bread crust. And they were leading out of the den. -- Mama Mayo’s was the kind of box that looked just pristine enough to fit into the fridge upstate, but if you looked close you noticed the little dents that betrayed its seedy nature. The crumbs had led me all the way here. At this point, I was pretty sure I knew who I’d find. My insides churned as I stepped through the door. It wasn’t the tabasco. The club was mostly empty this time of day. I ignored the staff telling me where I could and could not go and I guess I looked too hosed-up for anyone to want to get in my way. The crumbs led to one of many doors in the dimly lit backstage area. Voices were arguing on the other side. I kicked the door open. “Hello, Waldorf,” I said. “Shellton”, the bread roll said. A hunking mass of wheat glared down on me, blocking the view. “Heard you go by ‘Crispy Roll’ now.” “Things have changed since the war, Shellton. We can’t all stay continental.” “Listen, I have a few--” He jumped at me like a piece of freshly toasted bread. Any other day we’d been a match, but I’d just survived a poisoning. He slammed me against the cardboard, two quick punches to my exposed membrane. I bobbed and weaved out of the way, but he rolled after me with a speed I hadn’t anticipated. I found myself pinned to the ground by a solid ounce of white bread, and all I could think of was, I shouldn’t have come here. Not with my shell still broken. My shell-- I knocked my head back. My hat slipped off. I reached into it and threw a fistful of eggshell into Waldorf’s face. That caught him by surprise. Gave me the break I needed. He flinched away, and I followed it up with a headbutt that almost split my shell open. He slipped off me and stopped moving. Waldorf had always packed a punch, but he’d never gotten around to fixing that glass chin. Slowly, I got up. Caught my breath. I remembered there was someone else in here. "I wonder, eggtective,” a soft voice said. “Do you even remember me?" I did. Two days ago she had turned up in my office with a lost-sheep-act that had been a little hard to swallow, and a wad of dough that had made washing it down easy. "Something about you always seemed fishy, Susi Salmon." She turned around on her lemon wedge. Even through the barrel pointed at me it was hard not to appreciate her looks. A filet of a dame, two hundred fifty grams of prime cut protein. Lean build, rosy skin. She smelled like the sea, if the sea was a chainsmoker. "Shoot, tuts. You don't got the yolks." “I don’t want to kill you.” She got up from her wedge. “But I will. If I have to.” “Why did you do it?” She laughed. “You don’t know? Then, I guess, it was a case of mistaken identity.” She took her time with me, turning back around to the mirror to fawn over herself. “That parsley must have had me confused with someone else. Tried to blackmail me. I guess Crispy Roll got wind of it. You know how protective he is.” “He’s a real darling.” She gave me a glance up and down. I felt like a devilled egg. “You know...” She slowly approached me. The gun poked into me as she planted a kiss on my forehead. “One of these days you need to learn to forgive yourself.” She strutted out the door. I tried my best to keep myself from wobbling. Keep a straight face. “Do I know you?” I said. “Maybe…” She laughed. A faint, sad laugh. The gun looked like a prop on her. She tapped her head with it, looking back at me. “It’s a shame, you know. Tuna and eggs make a nice salad.” She disappeared through the frame like an apparition. There were bottles of rose coloring all over her desk. I didn’t know which ghost of my past had haunted me this time. But now I sure as crack had find out.
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Jan 22, 2020 01:21
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SlipUp posted:resultspost Sitting Here posted:grats, ent, well fought! thanks for judging and gg, dope round. however I have good news for you!!! Entenzahn posted:
we can't close our eyes quite yet, space cowboy who will judge round 2
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Jan 25, 2020 15:55
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Flesnolk posted:Me if SH accepts she already did? it's a three-round brawl. maybe I don't understand how they work. I just didn't want to run away with the victory because nobody noticed the brawl was still going. sh, we can stop here if you like. sometimes you're in over your head and that's okay
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Jan 26, 2020 15:47
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Stickers 497 words Tony had always liked to listen to Mary’s music. At first she’d thought it was flattery. Nice words for first dates, like always. But even as they grew closer, he’d never stopped bopping his head to the rhythm of her guitar. Humming along with her words. Something about her music “touched him”, he said, “in the corniest way possible.” “I think you should audition for USA Superstar,” he said one day. It was a stupid idea, but to her annoyance, he kept bringing it up, and to her even greater annoyance, one day she caught herself daydreaming about it, and well, if you knew her, that was pretty much that. They’d prepared for the audition for weeks. Every night she got home from one of her day jobs, waiting tables at the café down the road, or standing in attendance at Boode’s, the fancy bag store over across the river, where the rich people lived. And her feet always hurt, but her hands were eager to play and Tony was eager to listen to her, no matter how long his day had been. At some point he started handing out stickers to her. “For excellence in kicking rear end at music.” It was one of those stupid things that made her practice even when life sucked some days. She’d stick each one on her guitar, wearing them all like badges. Things changed when Tony got sick. At first he’d just lose a little appetite. Push the plate away a few bites sooner. Then he’d have stomach aches, or fall asleep while she was playing. Then came the vomiting and the fevers. The diagnosis – appendicitis – came two weeks ahead of the audition. The surgery would be the day after. They talked, and Tony’s stance was clear: she had to go. It was their first major argument, and it kept going back and forth for days: her insisting she wouldn’t leave him the night before his surgery, him insisting he would be fine without her for a night, and more importantly: that she would be fine without him. “You got this,” he said, even still from his hospital bed. He won the argument there. Insisted it wasn’t a dangerous surgery. That he’d be fine. He kept saying that even long after he’d convinced her. It was only on the way out that she realized he'd been trying to convince himself. Their cheap ‘93 Ford Escort was waiting for her in the parking lot. She opened the door to the driver’s seat, and then closed it again. Instead, something made her go for the trunk. The guitar inside was polished to perfection, to hide the blemishes, the age. She’d only left the stickers on. In the reflection of the sundown sky, they almost seemed like happy little clouds. She took the guitar out of the trunk and went back inside. “Baby,” Tony said. “Come on. Not tonight.” “Shut up,” she said. She pulled up a chair and started playing.
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Feb 10, 2020 01:01
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Feb 11, 2020 19:47
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in flash
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Jailbreaker, character wants to work with someone difficult Ego 1499 words The bees were loving everywhere. Sam ran like hell, every sting another painful jolt to her cadence. Her only comfort was knowing that with each prick she had vanquished another enemy. The ominous VoidMart™ security employee/apparatus followed her, quaking the surroundings with a buzz so deep it could move bowels to tears. More bees were coming. There was rescue: an idea forming in her head. A small lake. Some reeds. Maybe the cartoons hadn't lied about this one. She turned some dials on her wrist-mounted VoidMart™ Mind's Eye Spectacular and Reasonably Safe Painting Device and color splat against the wall in the scenery she had imagined. She thought the secret creed of the artist, and jumped through the painting. # She came back out of the lake dripping water, and pulsing with pain. The bees had buzzed off. The sun wasn't visible from beneath the drapes of her imagination, but rays fell on her all the same. She found a nice, warm spot in the grass to lie down and hope to die for a while. She had barely dried when a shadow appeared over her. "Where were you?" Sam said. "Ah!" Grand Artist Barnables, said, nay, exclaimed. He threw back his golden hair. "That other reality was a little bit too, mhhh, antophilic for my tastes." He offered her his hand, pulling her up. "Break time's over, apprentice." He went ahead, barely stopping to recognize her wounds, or the fact that he was literally walking into a foggy nothing, but such was the mind of Barnables. Always one step ahead, always on to the next vision. Now, with VoidMart™ in total lockdown, he had the singular purpose of reaching the forbidden roof, as he called it. He usually draped his reasoning in arcane explanations about his brutalist VoidMuse™, but Sam knew better than to humiliate herself in front of such a prodigy by asking for explanations a plebeian mind such as hers could understand. She quickly opened a portal back to VoidMart™ so Barnables had something else to step into than the abyss. Back in the service hallways, the VoidMart™ employee(?) was gone. There was a muffled rumble as faraway explosions rocked the building. Either below them, or above them. The lights flickered. Things had gone pretty crazy in here since the lockdown. "I think we should stop," Sam said. "What if the tower collapses?" "Details," Barnables replied. "You know what I think of those. Marvellous, but first--" He made a gesture with his hands that she didn't understand. "...think of the big picture." "Okay." They went ahead with medium caution, meaning that Sam cautioned very much, while Barnables didn't caution at all, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and picking up things he found on the floor, cigarette boxes and coins and oddly shaped, clearly demonic trinkets, only to discard them noisily after cursory observation and heavy nodding. The next stairway took them up a couple of floors before the stairs randomly stopped, again, and they had to look for another way. Almost as if this building wasn't designed to be accessible. They half-strolled-half-snuck through the service hallway when another set of explosions tore through the building, closer this time. The lights went out. When they came back on, a large, hooded figure stood at the other end. There was no face underneath its cloth, just darkness. Yet, it was cleary watching them. "I don't know that model," Sam said. "Do you have any idea?" She was talking to nobody. Barnables was gone. She turned her head back and looked straight into the void beneath the creature's hood. Somehow it had closed the distance in the blink of an eye. There were a lot of teeth. "Hi," she said. Color shot into the ground, and she remembered the artist's mantra before whatever was about to happen could happen. No time to think happy thoughts for this one. They fell into a deep, dark well. The creature wound through the air alongside her, freefalling like a fat eel. A high-pitched screech drilled itself into her head. She started to miss the bee guy. Teeth cut through her skin with every bizarre movement the VoidMart™ thing made. She pushed it away and instantly, deep cuts burned through her hands. The impact propelled her backwards. Brick tore off the well, falling alongside her. The creature flopped through the air to close the distance. She threw a brick straight in its face. Some of its teeth opened and consumed the brick whole. Welp. There was no way out she could see. No bottom to the well. No space to maneuver. Just darkness, teeth and loose brick. Brick... She kicked at the creature, propelling herself into the wall with force. The teeth cut through her boots, but she ignored the pain. Rock came crashing down alongside her. With her bleeding, bruised hands, she reached out, tore more rock with her, as much as she could. The creature approached again. Closer and closer. Frantic, Sam arranged the crushed rock and brick in freefall. She prayed this would work. She aimed her paintgun at the loose brickwork, and fired. She pulled herself through the portal and closed it to a gnashing of teeth just behind her. # The blood had barely dried when a shadow appeared over her. "What the gently caress man," Sam said. She slapped Barnables's hand away and got up on her own, standing awkwardly on her hosed-up feet. The blood had crusted up in the bottom of her boots. Taking them off would be really cool later. Barnables seemed a bit flustered by her rejection, but quickly regained his composure. He took a demonstrative look around the hotel lobby Sam had constructed. "Bright. Clean. Carmine cotton rug. Very bourgeoise." "Where the gently caress were you?" Sam said. "I almost died back there." "Look, I gotta level with you kid." He moved to lay a hand on her shoulder, but stopped, hovering awkwardly. A deep breath. "I'm just in your imagination." Cogs flew into action in Sam's head. The constant disappearances. The convenient reappearances in safe spots. The regular re-disappearances whenever Barnables could have helped in battle, or with the dishes, or with anything. He never seemed to know any more than Sam knew, at any given time. It all made sense. "I can't believe I didn't see it sooner," she said. "Well, now you--" She punched him in the face. The sheer force of the impact threw Barnables back a few feet, where he crashed into the coffee table and flattened it with a noisy crunch. "You're a deadbeat!" "Fuckkkkkk," Barnables retorted. He tried to get up and immediately fell back into the rubble, wheezing for air. "Do you even know how this works?" She gestured with her painting device as if it was on fire. "Do you just run ahead of me and see what happens? How are you getting into my paintings?" Barnabels made his peace with being on the floor. He rolled on the back and stared at the ceiling in defeat. "Eggshell," he muttered to himself. "Nice." "I don't know anything," he finally admitted. "I guess I'm really good at pissing off and reappearing when everything's done. You could say it's my superpower." "What about the artist's mantra?" "Stole it from a Beatles song." "But--" "You always had this in you. I just saw it and gave you a push in the right direction. That's all." Sam was about to call Barnables an rear end in a top hat in about two dozen different ways, when another rumble interrupted her. Explosions. This was weird. Weren't they in a completely different dimension than VoidMart™? The rumble rose to thunder, from all directions at once. Even Barnables looked concerned. Noise came crashing down on them, like rain, a storm, a tsunami, shaking their bones and clattering their teeth and pounding their heads. Dust poisoned the air. The lamps short-circuited, popping their bulbs. It was carnage, and it came from nowhere, or everywhere at once. "We need to leave," Barnables yelled. But Sam knew, wherever they came from was probably worse right now. She sat down next to Barnables. At this moment, he seemed none of the master she had looked up to. He was a frightened child, and she pitied him. She held his hand until the noise stopped. # They stepped out of the portal, into nothing. Not fog, not black or white, just nothing. A blank page without color, background or dimension. "Oh," Barnables said. "Mh," Sam said. She'd never had any problems returning to the real world. If this was where her portal led, then either the link had been severed, or, by all accounts, this was the real world now. What was left of it. Either way, she had no idea. This was going to be all they had. At least for a while. Barnables looked at Sam like a lost child. "What do we do now?" She turned the dials on her device. "I don't know," she said. "Rebuild." She began to paint.
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Apr 6, 2020 18:37
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In, give me a song
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quote:Contributor Retro 1478 words One day everyone in America woke up and collectively decided that disco was dead. Everyone except for Soren. For you see, Soren was not a normal disco fox, no baby, he was boogie incarnate. He'd come out the womb with his knees bent and his hips twisting to the steady beep-beep of the heart monitor, and there wasn't nothing in the world that could ever stop him from doing the hustle all. Night. Long. So anyway, all the clubs stopped playing disco music so he stopped going. It gave him sleepless nights, freestyling in the confines of his funky San Francisco apartment, you know, back to basics, no big deal. Maybe develop a new dance style, ready to break out on disco's inevitable comeback. With nobody but the roaches watching, it felt less like a party and more like a funeral procession for an unappreciated friend. Fast forward to 1985 and suddenly, there's this inner voice in him. "They really all gonna move on like disco never happened," it said. "Make 'em pay. Make 'em remember." Maybe it was the Lord, angry at the flock who had abandoned his greatest gift. Maybe the voice had always been inside him and he'd finally gone insane enough to hear it. He didn't care all that much. That night Soren went out to the Fillmore, looking for beef. He didn't have to look hard. Sideburns and slacks were out of fashion, the patrons were drunk, and words soon started flying, and then fists. But Soren was a nimble disco fox, he knew how to boogie, and his opponent was drunk and used to standing in place bobbing his head up and down. The fight ended with the rocker convulsing on the ground, bleeding out from a gash in his head where it had hit the curb. Soren peaced out, diving through backalleys back to his disco lair. He slept real good that night. Felt good in the morning, too. In the papers it said the man had died en route to the hospital. His inner voice seemed down with that one. His second victim was no accident. He ambushed a lone girl staggering home from a Mötley Crüe concert through Buena Vista park. The first blow of the crowbar silenced the crickets, and the fourth silenced the body. But something didn't feel right, and as he looked down at the tattered corpse, he realized what it was. He took off his disco glasses, warm golden frames glinting in the moonlight, and put them on her, reclaiming her soul in the name of disco. After his third victim the papers were still putting his killings down to violence in the hard rock scene. They hadn't gotten the point. So he diversified. Stabbed some black dude down behind the Bimbo's 365 and decked him out real nice, high collar jacket, bell-bottom jeans and the works. Made him pose against the wall like he was doing the robot. It took a couple more victims, all neatly arranged, carefully selected from different backgrounds, before the media finally got the hint. They called him the "Haight Disco Maniac". He didn't care for the attention, of course. The people had killed disco, so now disco would kill the people. Was only fair. "You're the harbinger of a forgotten era," his inner voice told him, and he made sure that not a month would go by where he wouldn't make headlines accordingly. Then came his tenth victim, and the bogue taste of failure, like a stale, old piece of Toast Hawaii. There he'd gone and put all the effort of stringing up this blondie dance pop mouse in a derelict building down in Twin Peaks, made her do the Travolta post-morten underneath a self-lighting brightly-colored rig of disco balls that turned her final resting place into a caleidoscope of disco nostalgia, and he hadn't even made page three in the Examiner. A different killer had popped up and supplanted him: they called him the SanFran Synth-Pop Slayer. But Soren didn't despair. Okay maybe, he trashed his apartment a little. After all, so much work for nothing - that was jive as hell. But then he got right back on his horse, and his group panorama of four disco brothers doing the YMCA turned into a smash hit. The Synth-Pop Slayer fired back a month later. Soren considered a group arrangement emulating "Video Killed the Radio Star" quite derivative of his own idea, but what really concerned him was the arrival of a new challenger: the Sacramento Spaghetti Western Psycho, who preferred to kill his victims by entrapping them in recreated scenes from old Sergio Leone films, with multiple gun trigger mechanisms attached to the surroundings in such a way that unwitting passerbys would set them off on entering the scene, shooting the victim dead. He struck back by rigging his next victim into a machine that would make it perform disco moves like a puppet. It wasn't the best comeback, but for now it kept his skin in the game, even as competition grew ever fiercer: The Boston Beatnik Butcher. The Arcade Killer. The Vegan Witch. New murderers kept popping up from coast to coast. It was the newest craze, a bandwagon that you either hopped on or it would churn you through its wheels. It wasn't long before the first fandoms popped up, and the merchandise machine soon followed suit, especially after a serial killer arrived on the scene that exclusively killed journalists who complained about tasteless serial killer merch. Soon enough Soren regularly checked sales reports in the monthly issue of Slaughter Serial and while his own popularity seemed to hold up quite well - he was, after all, a first generation member, an O.G. - he knew he couldn't get complacent, or he would get lost in the mass, and his message along with it. What was his message again? "The disco thing", his inner voice said. "Oh yeah." So Soren kept going. As did everyone else. Even the Europeans joined in on the fun. The Russians. The Indians. The Chinese. Those guys weren't loving around. Nobody was no more. The year was 1989 and approximately one billion people had been murdered. Something woke Soren up in the middle of the night. His inner voice was but a careful whisper. Behind him, somebody took a drag from a cigarette. He could feel the cold presence of a gun before he heard the hammer being cocked back. "Hey dude, no smoking in here," Soren murmured. "I just want to know one thing." The voice was smooth jazz. "What made you start all this?" "What?" "Fine, then I will tell you first." The voice exhaled, filling the room with the thick stench of nicotine. "One day, I just woke up, and something inside me said, 'You know what? gently caress all this serial killer poo poo. Remember when we didn't have so many dudes running around murdering people? That ruled'. So I went and did something about it." "So you're a serial killer that kills serial killers. Very high-concept." "Heard the same story from a lot of the cats I visit. They wake up, and suddenly it's like something's flipped, and they just wanna murder. The reason is always some bullshit. It's like dope to them. Just curious if it's the same for the infamous Disco Maniac. I can already guess." Slowly, Soren sat up. The man leaned on the wall next to his bed, tall, lean, sharp features drenched in soft shadow. His revolver glinted in the moonlight. Soren's custom-made dance floor pads cast a soft glow, and the disco ball over his bed took the faint light and threw it back through the room like confetti shrapnel. Even his pajamas had a popped collar. Yeah, he was busted. "It wasn't me," he said The man pistol whipped him across the face. A crunch. Blood crept down his nostrils. "I just wanna know what's made you start all this," the man said, voice cool as a cucumber. "Is it a feeling? A vision? Do you hear voices?" "You wanna know what the voices tell me? You really wanna know?" Without answering, the man leaned in, just slightly, the fumes from his cigarette dancing through the refleced disco glow like smoke in a cheap heist movie. "They say no smoking in here, rear end in a top hat." The pistol came down again, but this time Soren was ready. Freestyling like he always had, he dodged out of the way of the gun and slammed his heel in the man's face in one graceful motion. An ugly crunch. The intruder yelled and toppled over backwards, his gun scattering to the ground. Soren didn't go for it. This was the performance he'd been training for, his inner voice reminded him. It was, once again, time to boogie. Disco would never die, not today, not ever.
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Aug 24, 2020 01:33
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The Saddest Rhino posted:Hi I did a read and crit here while maybe after consuming some things, I don't know how to embed videos uploaded to google drive but here Pleased to confirm that this is now the official audiobook.
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Aug 27, 2020 12:50
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I'm not going to sift through a triple dozen softball prompts. Give me a week you nerd.
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Everything changed when little Timmy Thomson, age 4, from Arlington, Texas, finally got up his courage and told it to Santa like it was. "They say WHAT alt Walmart?" The jolly had disappeared from Santa's face as quickly as Folger's instant coffee will fill your cup with with the refreshing taste of 80% pure Arabica in the morning. Crumpling Timmy's letter in his fist, he threw spittle at his stunned elven court as he raged. "This means WAR." Santa looked into the camera. "A war... on CHRISTMAS!" Thunderdome presents A Tyrannosaurus production Written & directed by Entenzahn The War on Christmas 994 words sponsored by Folger's Coffee Episode 1: Silent night, DEADLY night "Mom, isn't it a bit late to drink coffee?" Terri Taylor chuckled. Kids said the darndest things. "A cup of Folger's is just what I need to finish grading all these study papers before bedtime." "Study papers? You mean the drawings from your kindergarden group?" The papers laid haphazardly strewn across the kitchen table. The topmost showed a stink monster with stink lines and flies and a big drop of snot coming from the stinkmonster's nose. The headline said 'Mrs. Taylor'. Terri had rated it a frowny face. "Go to your room, Tammy." Her daughter meant to protest with something illogical when the apartment was rocked by a loud explosion that knocked the delicious cup of Folger's coffee out of Terri's hand. It didn't stop there. One impact after another, waves of sound and force shook their walls and rattled their tastefully, yet modestly, arranged decor. From their flat you could only see Mr Krozsarsky, who looked back at them from the opposite building, sitting on his recliner in undies and shrugging his shoulders at them in equal parts confusion and resigned apathy. They did the only reasonable thing and ran to the roof for a better view. Other tenants were already transfixed on the sky in shock and hushed disbelief. Swarming above them were flocks of birds... no, airplanes... no... sleighs. Crawling across the twilight sky like dashed lines marking the point from A to V, for Vengeance. Christmas vengeance. Some of them periodically discarded package-shaped cargo that would drop, drop, go out of view and then... Boom. "Oh my God, are they throwing bombs at us?" "Well it ain't no Folger's coffee, that's for sure." "I can't believe this. Who would do this to our beautiful city?" "Come on now, it's New York." "Tammy," Terri said. She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. "The emergency bags." They both nodded at each other. They were prepared. Terri was an intellectual. They hit the streets about ten minutes into the massive bombing attack. Everything they needed packed away in the duffle bags each had slung across their shoulder. The streets were alive with frenzy, people running like scared chicken, from the bombing, but also from all the cars that had people in them, and the people tried to get out of town and ran over other people to get there. Two blocks down there was an entrance to the subway station. A few scared stragglers were hiding inside. These people were sheep and would eat each other in case of a prolonged siege. Terri and Tammy could only rely on each other. They had to go deeper. Subway traffic had stopped, so they hopped on the rails and went further into the network. "Where are we going, mom?" Tammy said, after the third time they'd almost gotten run over by a homebound train. Explosions were barely audible through the tunnel system. You felt the tremors more than you heard them. "We're looking for a place to shelter. Some abandoned control room, maintenance..." "Abandoned? It's been fifteen minutes." Bored, she opened her duffle bag. Hey! It's just full of coffee." "Well, with the impressive range of the Folger's product lineup--" The elf turned on his warbulbs and jumped at them from his hiding spot like a brightly blinking sewer rat. All Terri knew was that she suddenly had something very bright and loud around her throat. She cried out, stumbled over the tracks and fell over backwards. The elf jumped off her mid-fall, got up and looked at the two women looking back at him, and it was very awkward, like he clearly didn't know how to lead through this situation and just expected the women to do the work for him now that he had started it. He carried what looked like a green-white-red striped toy pistol in one hand, and a candy cane in the other, which he started swinging madly, for lack of a better idea. Tammy punted that little bastard like he was a child in one of America's Funniest Home Videos. When the elf came to, he found himself hogtied, Terri standing above him. "Why are you attacking us?" Terri asked without any introduction. The elf only regarded them with bitter silence. "I see. Tammy, check if we haven't got something to make him talk." A voice came from outside the elf's view: "Mom, you literally only packed rope and coffee." Terri smirked. "Check again." "Oh, ew. There's a bag of Nescafé." "Damnit!" The elf had daggers in his eyes. The vilest substance on earth - if he didn't talk, they would feed him Nescafé, and he would puke, or die. "You have started this," he spat. "You and your happy-holiday-folk. You wanted war? Well buckle up, because we have a saying on the north pole: the non-believers will wish they'd gotten coal." "Oh yeah?" Terri said. "Well, we have a saying here on Earth too: drink Folger's or gently caress off." She knocked him out with a can of coffee. "What do we do now, mom?" Tammy said. The tremors seemed to have stopped, for now. Who knew what it looked like up there. How many people had... "Now?" Terri looked down on the elf. "We get ready for war. The war..." she looked into the camera. "...on Christmas."
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Dec 14, 2020 02:49
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Yoruichi posted:Dear Entenzahn Hi everybody! It's me, Entenzahn. Just stopping by to say, this is canon. Well, bye!
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Dec 22, 2020 15:32
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Speaking for myself but I got the losertar and it's like whatever, I think getting a funny gif under my name actually blunts the impact. The worst result is getting no mention anyway, this is known. <-- this one however stung a little - and I will wear it as a mark of shame until I deem myself fit to remove it!! remember kids: it's okay to lose - but failing is for losers
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Dec 23, 2020 22:16
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