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Dick loving. Okay. So, there's some history to this one. The short version is, we're going after Blonde Josh and his kid, Fabio. Blonde Josh is really goddamn handsome. Chiseled, tanned, wind-blown, sculpted, whatever, and bleach loving blonde. He's also a lazy, lying, sadistic, wife-beating piece of poo poo whose last good idea was packing up and moving somewhere way over south where none of us have to look at his gorgeous rear end in a top hat face. He had a kid with Sue, who lives near here. I don't know her too well - think she's kinda nervous around me, so I don't push to get friendly - but I have it on good authority that she's some kinda sweetheart, and she's current on her tribute. My buddy John Henry, our human fuckin' locomotive, started shacking up with with her a few years ago, immediately before Blonde Josh got wise and bugged out. They've been going steady for a while now. Little Fabio, four years old and with brown hair like his mom, has started calling John Henry 'dad.' It's pretty loving cute. poo poo, J.H is gonna be wrecked when he finds out about this. So; hour or two before dawn, we hear a bunch of gunshots from Sue's place - near the river, downstream from the mill. The sound really carries. I take five guys, we load up and head out to see what the hell. By the time we get there, Sue's pale and half-conscious after getting stabbed in the gut with, I don't know, a big pottery shard or something. The shots were a call for help, she had her gun in a drawer during whatever went down. I didn't stick around for the whole story - she said Blonde Josh took her kid and ran, we went after him. I told Black Dave to stay with her and try to wrap up the wound, but Black Dave ain't a doctor, and I ain't optimistic. My guess is that Blonde Josh didn't come over here with the intention of killing Sue. Maybe he didn't even plan on kidnapping his son. It's real bad timing for that. Maybe he rolled up with the baby-I've-changed spiel, she didn't bite, and he got angry. I hate getting involved in this kind of poo poo... but my buddy's girl, also a tenant in good standing, is probably bleeding out, and the West Shore Khans will not suffer that kind of motherfuckery in their territory. Blonde Josh is on foot and carrying a toddler. We're spread out in a pretty wide fan, riding at low speed, off-road, between trees and thick brush and poo poo. It's a steamy morning and I can feel the dew collecting on my face, cool as it mixes with my sweat. I slow to a halt and hold up my palm. Few seconds later, my buddies notice the signal and all come to a stop, too, motors idling with a sexy fuckin' purr so we can pause and have a good listen for our runaway. Can't hear him, no surprise, but he definitely came this way, through the Thick. If he'd'a started running out in the open or along the shore in any other direction, we'd have run him down half an hour ago. I feel like he's close. Probably hiding. I make a motion, like I'm holding something up to my lips, pinky extended. Chloe takes the hint and pulls out The Conch, gives it a long, low blow. It echoes for miles - if you're hearing that horn, depending on which side of it you're on, it means either 'get pumped' or 'kiss your rear end goodbye' because poo poo is going down in a hurry. I clear my throat while the horn's resonance fades, and shout, "JOSH! Only way you gonna live through this," I take a breath, "Is if you give up NOW! Apologize, take your lashes, and we'll let you visit the kid once in a while." Mario holds up his big-rear end revolver and gives me a cock-eyed look, like, we're not going to waste this rear end in a top hat? I shake my head a little. His kneecaps are forfeit if he doesn't have a drat good story, but I'm not lying. Besides, for John Henry's sake, priority one is getting the kid back in one piece. +Hot, last olive branch you're gonna see: 2d6+1 7 Maybe I'm way off if I think that'll work. Maybe he's got other ideas. Maybe it's too early to roll. Who the gently caress knows? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 17:21 on Apr 3, 2014 |
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Apr 3, 2014 05:26
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Dick poo poo, further away than I thought. I can see Mario get off his bike, crouch down, and start looking for a stealthy way to approach on foot. Not likely he'll pull that off, the thorny-rear end bushes and huge banana leaves over towards Blondie are bring-a-machete thick. Glen tries to scope Josh out with his rifle (an old-rear end bolt-action Russian thing with half a binocular taped on top) but there's no clear line of sight yet. I motion, 'down.' I gesture up high like I'm turning keys, and my buddies follow suit in putting their motors to rest. The dull growl of our wolf-pack of engines gets replaced by the background buzzing of a hundred thousand insects and a handful of birds. It's a little quieter. I shout back, "A, my word is loving golden." He's probably too on-edge to remember how much of a stand-up individual I am. I take a breath and say, "B, I'd feel like an rear end in a top hat if Fabio got caught near crossfire. We ain't heard your side of the story yet. How 'bout y'all come out and tell me what the gently caress happened back there?" I dismount, take my Thompson and its shoulder strap off, and leave it on my handlebars while I walk forward a little. Right out in the open - as open as it gets in the thick - neon orange flak jacket making the point that I ain't trying to hide or pull anything.
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Apr 4, 2014 00:04
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Dick Of course, Mario's got his gently caress that face on. I walk over to him, and the whole way there, he's eyeing me. He asks, "You seriously gonna do what that shitdick says?" I get up to Mario's face, keeping my calm, and put a hand on his revolver. He doesn't let go. And, you know, I get it. I really do. He's asking that Mario pretty much emasculate himself, and me having to make him do it is worse. I say, loud enough for the rest of my buddies to hear, "Man. Not here, not yet. Killing a man in front of his son is a hosed up thing to do. We don't scar kids for life 'less we have to. We play along with that rear end in a top hat for a few more steps, then he's ours." Hard: Pack Alpha, Imposing some Will: 2d6+2 10 He lets go of the revolver. Shakes his head, crosses his arms, mutters something like, "Whatever man," and that's fine. I didn't tell him to like it. I point it at the dirt and start wasting ammo. I know my way around a single-action, and I can fan one of these like you wouldn't believe, but I empty the cylinder slow and steady to make sure everyone has a chance to count all the way up to six. "Alright, Mario," I say, "You're up." And he goes.
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Apr 5, 2014 21:08
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Dick Jesus christ, these people. So angry, so impatient, so bloodthirsty. If you don't immediately gun down an unarmed man in front of his son, they're dismayed. Hobbes had it right, the natural state of people is brutal and lovely. This is why you need an even hand on the keel. The island needs a calm, rational person with some iron to back it up in charge of things. Chloe's all worked up, I'm not letting it get to me. I glance at Fabio. The kid's kind of funny looking, but maybe he'll grow into the looks. He's not loving blonde, thank god. I say, "Did you not hear me earlier? We're not a pack of goddamn animals. Josh here is going to get a chance to explain himself. Whatever we might do after that is going to be a matter of justice rather'n revenge." I split the family up. Glen's pretty chill, and he's a little younger, so Fabio rides back with him. Josh probably doesn't like where that's going, tries to hold us up for some tearful goodbye with his kid, but I pull 'em apart two words in. We dredge some zip ties out from our sacks of collected crap, get Blonde Josh by the wrists and ankles, and loving whatever, I'll take him back to the fort. I don't say anything more to him on the way back, which is my way of giving him a chance to talk. I really doubt he's got an explanation that'll make me happy. We're gonna find out if Sue is still alive. We're gonna give Fabio over to John Henry if she isn't. And we've got that big hole in the ground that Jin and Bear dug out trying to build a cooler-cellar or some poo poo - we can dump Blonde Josh in there until sentencing.
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Apr 8, 2014 16:04
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Dick "Motherfucker!" What more is there to say? You can't fight fire. I come to a stop, lean on my left leg still in the saddle, and watch the smoke rise. I run my hand through my hair, tryin'a think up a plan of action for this. No, I wasn't wearing a helmet; gently caress off, mom. My forehead's a little sweaty. Warm day, but not wildfire-from-nowhere hot. No thunderstorms around, obviously. My first thought is, someone lit that poo poo. "poo poo," I say. Couple of my buddies agree. I was thinking about making a public example of B.J. Little bit of courtoom-style declaring his transgressions, then a proper execution at sunset. That kind of thing makes a bigger impact than mentioning you wasted a motherfucker in the woods - I just wanted to keep the kid from that particular piece of business. Fabio's at a tender goddamn age. Looks like that ain't happening now. I take off B.J.'s blindfold (why'd Mario bother with that? rear end in a top hat knows where we're going) put my foot on his ribcage and shove him off my bike, back on the grass. I put my hand on the iron at my belt and ask, "Got any clues about that?" Whatever he says - and I will deal with him after he answers - everyone else gets some orders. "Glen, take the kid and go meet up with Black Dave. Sue's place." He says, "Sure," and does it. The hill's a-loving-blaze, but there are a bunch of outlying houses, hovels, and cottages that aren't. This thing is likely to spread. Right about now, everyone's starting to think of all the cool poo poo they've built and collected that's going up in smoke right now. I aim to keep them busy and put off the grief. "Rest of you, spread out. In case anyone in the community's slept in, or hasn't looked loving up, warn them. If they've got more useful stuff than they can carry, help them clear it out. No second trips." I don't mention 'and give it back to them later.' We've just lost a huge cache of our poo poo, we'll sort that out on a case-by-case basis. "Do not go down-wind of it. If you're breathing smoke, back the gently caress off. Move as many people and as much poo poo as you can either across the river, or to the beach." Fire's probably not going to cross the river. They don't do that, right? Everyone can cross at the actual mill. Chloe says, "Hey, the radio guy's here." I say, "So loving what?" She looks a little pissed. "He's got a cam-corder and poo poo. Looks like a microphone. Maybe he saw something?" I look where she's pointing, and hey, there's Sethro. He's a weird one. I try to stay on his good side, since he knows how to fix stuff, and that's the kind of favor that comes up weekly when you've got twenty-something bikes. And the radio's good for the community, when it isn't just pointless numbers. Nobody knows what's up with the numbers. Sure enough, he's got a hand-held video a camera thingy and an extra mic, with wires feeding into that big backpack. Probably got his stuff plugged in to a car battery back there. I call out to him, "Hey! Radio guy! You know what's going on here?" Graham says, "Big dang fire." I turn on him, "No poo poo there's a fire," And then back to Sethro, "poo poo. I don't know, you see anyone running from here?" Graham glances over his shoulder, "Dang ol', lot of people runnin'. We should be." I glare, and say, "Like, suspiciously. poo poo. Sethro, you doin' the reporter thing, do us a solid and find out how the gently caress this got started, alright? We got some poo poo to clear out." StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 02:55 on Apr 13, 2014 |
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Apr 12, 2014 22:08
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Dick Eh? I don't remember telling anyone to follow Sethro's lead. I asked them to clear poo poo out from the outlier places that aren't on fire yet, and I asked Sethro if he saw anything. If Seth's doing the same kind of thing at the same time, that's fine. I cock my head at Chloe and say, "What? Not, like, much." Graham points his gun... what, at me? I eye the barrel, then his hand - it better not be on the trigger - then his face. Dark blue eyes on a craggy face with some salt-and-pepper stubble. Graham was a friend of my dad's since smaller times. He's been on board with me since I started the gang as a militia. Part-time at first, most of the time as of recently. Years back, some rear end in a top hat (now wasted) shot him in the leg after shaking him down to make a point. He doesn't limp, but he does wince with every step when he thinks nobody's looking, so he likes to stay on the bike when he can. If he doesn't want to ride with us, he doesn't have to. I ask him, "What?"
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Apr 14, 2014 04:12
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Dick I say, "That's a good drat question. What are you doing here waiting for him? I didn't even loving suggest waiting for him; I told you folks to get moving, then asked him a question. Let's get our goddamn asses in gear, for gently caress's sake." Jesus christ, these people. Gotta lead them by the friggin nose. Blonde Josh hasn't said anything about the fire, I guess? I asked, and he ain't answered. Unless he comes up with some drat good intel immediate-like, I tell him, "I was gonna make an example of you - do you up execution style, once Fabio wasn't watching. Guess you won't get your fifteen seconds of fame after all, mother fucker." He starts saying something about no wait, I've got something or other, blah blah, I knew I shouldn't have trusted you, son of a bitch, but it's all wind. I take my boot off his stomach, cock a round into the chamber of my Thompson, and paint his brains across the grass with a .45 lead brush. I make a spinning motion with my finger. "loving move already - leave the dead weight, help some guys evac." Graham looks a little freaked, so I tell him, "Graham, go on ahead to the Mill house - start helping the old man drag some poo poo to the far side of the river, cut down on clutter." Me and Graham have talked religion before, I guess. I got off on some tangent about how the Wash-Ups we've found - cargo crate full of bikes in pristine condition, guns and ammo enough for everyone - are like some kinda fuckin serendipity. Feels like some spirits or gods or whatever were watching out for us. Putting us in prime position for a righteous take-over. But maybe I'm just imagining a pattern in some insane good luck. Every time he's talked about a god or island-god or whatever getting angry, he's also talked about fire. Maybe he thinks this is some kinda divine-retribution type poo poo? Or maybe he just got burnt by a camp fire as a kid and this is dredging up some old trauma. I'll ask him later. Alright. We're not going in to the blaze, but we're going to hit up some of the outlying cabins. Make sure everyone's cleared out, do some helpful last-minute looting if they've got anything left behind. I've told my buddies to split up, because there's a lot of ground to cover.
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Apr 17, 2014 00:23
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Dick gently caress yeah, 'bout time. My buddies spread out and hop to it. I'm starting to feel the heat from the inferno - hotter than sweaty. Hotter than pain, even from this distance - and it crosses my mind, just now, that maybe doing anything besides getting the gently caress away is a bad idea. Maybe that's just my afraid-of-fire cave-man instinct talking. But maybe it's right. Whatever, already gave some orders, too late to back out now. I throttle up and ride parallel to the wind, and I can see the blaze-line stretching out ever further beside me. It's crazy how fast this is spreading. Little scary. I stop wondering why Graham was on edge, because it's obvious now. I'm nothing to the inferno. Just nothing. I flinch when I hear the big pop, but keep my bike steady enough. I ask, "What the gently caress was that!?" even though nobody's around to listen. It just comes out. I break, and look over my shoulder to see if I can't tell what went off. We had a decent cache of ammo at the clubhouse, and it wouldn't surprise me to hear some pops from the rounds cooking off, but nothing like a gently caress-off explosion. Unless someone was holding out on me. Sharps: Read a sitch?: 2d6 10 A fire's a fire. Obviously. You don't get too close, you don't go into smoke. Is this just a fire? What the gently caress is exploding? What should I be on the lookout for? Okay - for your earlier question, I was headed to Danny Boy's dig-out. He's not a fighter, but we're on pretty good terms, because he knows how to fix poo poo. He's got a bunch of tools, powered and manual. Knows how to work a lathe. He's not an idiot, so he's probably already made it to the beach, but he's got more steel stockpiled than he can carry out at once. Figure I'll gather up whatever screwdrivers he left behind. Be a shame for those to go up. Oh, and a bunch of cameras. And those shake-out instant polaroids. He's into that stuff, but I'd rate it a low priority. Where's my best way in? And I'll hold on to that third question for now.
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Apr 19, 2014 07:34
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Dick drat, that's a great idea! Dick, you are a goddamn genius. Going through the roof would be the obvious smart move for a man on foot, but as anyone who spends a few weeks driving a motorcycle around a hilly, jungle-y, craggy island must learn, the most direct route is not always the fastest. I'm gonna drive right through the tunnel, gather some poo poo, stuff some shiny into my bags (a backpack, a little box-like motorcycle 'trunk,' and a second backpack hanging just behind my rear end on the seat; all of them already half full of junk) and then motor rear end back out. Danny Boy is the kind of stickler who'd give a guest some poo poo if they tracked mud into his house. He probably wouldn't give me poo poo for it, but I'd be able to see the little internal struggle in his eyes, the trade-off between gettin' protective about his flooring and not pissing me off. Sorry, D.B. Let's ride. (And loot) Cool: There is Fire, I am Acting: 2d6+1 6 That's one for being so fuckin' cool, plus another one for being wary, a total of ~7~ Power tools, then screwdrivers, then metallic poo poo I don't recognize immediately, then other scraps. Unless something jumps out at me. Not going to take the time to discriminate too hard. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 18:43 on Apr 21, 2014 |
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Apr 21, 2014 03:08
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Dick Huh. O..okay. I don't remember gettin' picturized. I didn't take Danny Boy for a fruit. Whatever, guess it's not that surprising. Or a big deal. I spend a second admiring the handsome son of a bitch in the photo. Not that big of a guy, but arms like steel cables. Unclear ethnicity, like almost everyone else around here, maybe a big fraction of asian-something, - tanned to a sexy bronze finish. Dark hair, short and greasy enough to spike up in places. Occasionally shaven face, smooth-assed skin in the picture, coarse mess in person right now. Okay, Dick, put it back in your pants, there's a literal loving wildfire coming up on you. He slings a tool bag over his shoulder and picks up a mostly-full red plastic gas can, and he vroom-vroom's the hell back out the way he came. The ground is on fire near the tunnel mouth. Usually a bad idea to drive through something like that - Dick shuts hits eyes for a second and girds himself for a brief scorch. It's not actually that bad, flash of warmth, nice smoky smell, he's riding fast enough for that to not be a big deal. Not a big deal for a wet, inflammable living being is still a big deal for a volatile-rear end can of gasoline. There's a little gout of fire coming from the spigot, the whole thing is heating up, and it's spraying more burning poo poo onto the tools. gently caress, and gently caress alike. I do some arm-flailing acrobatics to untangle myself from all the nice loot I just earned, drop it like it's hot, and still (barely) keep balance on the bike. So it goes, I guess. Seared off a lot of hair on my left arm, but I'm still good to go. Alright, gently caress this noise, I'm headin' over to the mill house to cross the river and put this burning poo poo behind me. // Sethro, you showed up when poo poo got hot at my home. Means somethin', I guess. Have a Hx. Emcee, how about, like, a week? After this thing's burnt itself out, hopefully. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 17:23 on Apr 27, 2014 |
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Apr 27, 2014 17:08
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Captain Foo posted:Dick, who'd Big Sven sell to? Directly to the market, or to Puck? And how do you know? To Puck. We know this because we thought about rolling over her territory now that the Hill is crisped, and we found out she'd traded up from nail bats to a goddamn arsenal. Nobody died, but gently caress that. Captain Foo posted:Dick, Miller's Hill is basically ash. You and your gang are on the road again. If we find the mother fucker who started that fire, I am literally going to burn him alive. Anyone else has a clue about that - you'd best step up now, because if we find out 'bout anyone holding out on us, you're joining him on the burn pile. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 19:42 on May 5, 2014 |
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May 2, 2014 23:42
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Dick is going to open his mind to the Maelstrom. 'But Dick,' anyone in their right mind asked, 'What does that mean?' It's like this; the Island has gods. Not like, capital-G, thou-shalt-not gods. Older than that. Big spirits. Ancient things, older than anything we know, with sway over the Island in subtle ways. They're weird and inhuman and hard to understand. There's a reason that, after we started up the west side militia, we found a cargo container with thirty pristine fuckin' Harleys in it. There's a reason that we keep on winning, even when the odds are against us or someone's got the drop on us. The reason is that someone is looking out for us - for me, in particular. One of them liked what I was doing, or maybe even nudged me toward my path in the first place, and has been watching over us. The obelisks and statues - they were built for the gods. I don't know who made 'em, but I'm sure of that. This little spot on the north shore is, I guess you'd say, sacred. Easier to hear 'em up here. Maybe their Will is the reason the Island is left and the rest of the world isn't, or maybe they're what's cutting us off from another island somewhere else. Beats me. I tell Mario to head off and find us a wild hog or something - we need to eat, he needs to cool off, and I'm positive he'd feel better if he killed something. Then I take a seat next to a big chunky obelisk, and listen to the sound of the waves rolling in. The noise of surf on a beach is holy to them. I let it wash over me, feel it resonate with the stone beside me, tune out from the world and tune in to the other stuff. And - it's all in my head - but it's like I'm standing in ankle-deep sea water, mud underfoot, but there's no shore behind me or anywhere in sight, and the sky is black like a cloudy night. I ask the spirits, who started that fire? Did I piss one of you guys off? Or was it one of us mortals? Because I'm'a hunt that fucker down, if so. And sometimes they don't answer. Sometimes a thirty-foot-tall man rises up from the ocean in front of me, wreathed in fire and steam from the ocean that he's boiling with his fury, brown-skinned, ripped as hell, tattooed with glowing spirals, with four arms, a bloody loin-cloth and a wooden mask that looks like a lion. And sometimes it's someone else - or the same guy, in a different form. I stress that I don't loving know how it works. And it never gives me a straight answer. Sometimes it points to the horizon or up in the sky and shows me some weird-rear end fever-dream scene that's like, a hint. Or roars at me 'til my metaphysical fuckin' eardrums bleed and calls me a fool, and then I'm like, yeah, I know man, that's why I'm asking you! Weird: Who start the fire?: 2d6-1 6 It can be pretty intense. But hey, maybe I'm just schizophrenic as hell. I've read about those, I kinda fit the profile. Ain't like we got a brain doctor around to make sure either way. So I'm sticking with, 'I'm a part-time champion of some primal god.' StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 04:50 on May 9, 2014 |
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May 9, 2014 04:36
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Dick Jesus fuckin' christ, The Maelstrom, you ask a lot of questions, don't ya? Let's try to address those, then. I wouldn't call what I do 'worship' or anything. I don't really think big lion-fire-face would give a poo poo if I praised him or not. If he came down and said, 'hey Dick, why don't you be a pal and cut a few goats open for me?' I'd probably do it. But, he hasn't, so.. whatever. Someone, maybe a long time ago, was in communion with the same spirit-poo poo when they set the freaky stones and statues up. Got some of the same swirly symbols on them as are tattooed on lion-face's swole-rear end god-chest. 'maybe it's really raining fire, a firestorm of hate consuming the Island, maybe that's what happened to Miller's Hill but that's no use as an answer is it? fire doesn't fall from the sky you've been here long enough and there's people that've been here longer and nobody's ever seen that poo poo so it makes no sense for it to happen now, and so what else could burn the fire?' Okay. So if the firestorm's a metaphor for like, human conflict - that's been burning 'long as the world's been turning. And if you're implying that someone started the fire because they're pissed off, that's what I guessed. 'gently caress you you're not finding out the gods say though it's what's consuming you and your gang, the gods, should they exist at all? are capricious but you know that already so instead your thoughts leap unbidden from the fire of consumption to the fire of passion drat hell that wasn't what you wanted but your lover dances across your mind, like they had so many times before, the gods awaken? or awaken in you?' Alright, fine, whatever rear end in a top hat. My guess is, no, they shouldn't exist, but they do, so... shows what the gently caress I know. And, I think about loving someone or something at least once every five minutes of my life, awake or no. Ain't surprising that it creeps into my spirit trance or whatever this poo poo is. If that isn't obvious, it's because I have some basic loving self-control. 'and they ask you to describe your lover, they ask your heart and your brain, maybe they will provide you with answers about the fire you want to know about if you'll answer theirs, maybe?' Huh. Only one you could properly call a lover was Kate. She was my kid crush, we were together for like, four years, we said we were gonna get married which is about as official as it gets, it was all sweet as hell, blah blah blah, soulmates, yadda yadda, true love, then she died in a random, pointless act of violence when were were nineteen. Pretty much swore off all that 'heart' poo poo after that. Ain't doing it again. Call me repressed, I think it's the best thing to do with the kind of life I lead. Lately I've been loving Lara, if that's what you're getting at. She's pretty much everything I'd want in a partner - fuckin, smart, confident, dark-rear end sense of humor, eager to cut through any and all bullshit. The twist is, she's basically a loving sociopath and, after stalking me for a while, custom-tailored all her mannerisms to cater to me. I picked up on that, and called her out on it one night. She looked impressed, then fessed up to it - 'yeah, I liked what you were doing with the place, and wanted to get on board. What are you gonna do about it?' And I said, 'Roll with it, I guess,' because if you can fake being a totally together bad-rear end, you pretty much are. She rides with the rest of us, at present. 'if you're lucky and you could use some luck, nobody would consider you lucky these days, or maybe someone would?' Hell yes I'm feeling lucky today. Any one you can walk away from is a win. We lost a bunch of poo poo and some food, but that's a little setback. Anyone thinks we're screwed from a little goddamn inferno like that, they've got their eyes on their feet. I see a bigger picture. 'the firestorm swirls and while the gods know what a firestorm is they don't know what you think a firestorm is, maybe tell them how it doesn't char or how clear and blinding it is? the firestorm, it IS real, it is NOT real, it IS and will be and has been, and people dip in and out, or do they get stuck? maybe you'll never know, get hosed, the gods don't care, or maybe they do?' You... you lost me. It's either like a rain storm but with fire instead of rain, or a metaphor for people gettin' pissed at each other. The gods care about something, I'll bet, otherwise they wouldn't fuckin' bother with anything on this Island, but it sure as hell isn't our happiness or well-being. ~ I step up in between the shouting assholes and gently push someone's barrel aside. I say, "Holy poo poo, guys. Chill the gently caress out. We're on partial rations for now. Deal with that. Mario killed that..." I lean over, look into the roasting creature in the fire, and sniff at it. "The gently caress is that? Baby llama? Whatever. Mario killed it, and cooked it, so he gets first pick of the cut. You think you're gonna be hungry later, then you help out with dinner next time. Catch a drat fish or something." I turn around - the conversation's over, I said the bottom line - and look out to sea. Gray sky's nice. The sound of rain on the ocean is a good sound. Makes me feel all calm and centered and poo poo. I wish more of these guys would take a moment to get that, but telling someone to shut up and feel one with the Island is not how you make it happen. S' gotta come from within. I announce that, after we eat, we're going to gather our poo poo, mount up, and head along the east coast. Figure it's as good a time as any to check for wash-ups. And then, we do it.
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May 12, 2014 22:52
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Dick, I ride up to them, tilt my bike, and rest a foot on the ground while I try to get a better look at the scene. Fight's already going on. I correct Noodles, "An opportunity. Yo, Glen! Hey, Glen, get up here, gimme that binoc." I wave him up, he comes, and I try to get a better look at who's fighting who. While I'm loving with the focus knob, I say, "We're either going to be the cavalry and someone's gonna owe us the world, or wait this out and pick up the pieces. Let's see here..." It's that self-appointed 'queen' of wrecked poo poo, Sansa and her crew, trying to shake down the marketplace again. They're a little like us, but the W&W crew tries to strangle out trade ('their' marketplace, my rear end) in addition to keeping peace in their territory. And Sansa's an egotistical rear end in a top hat, way more than me. I never tried to make anyone call me 'king.' Not sure 'bout the guys holding out inside - maybe they're taking a righteous stand, maybe they're worse. I'm not crazy about the idea of anyone 'owning' the market. Nobody set it up, it just grew. A thriving market is good for everyone, and trying to stomp down on that is an enormous pain in the rear end, not to mention unwise. Still... out in the open, taking cover but with their backs to us, and sandwiched against a barricade - this might be a great time to deal with those wrack-holes. Or, if the other gang left their back door open, roll in and show her up hard. Sharps: Read a sitch: 2d6 7 Which enemy is the most vulnerable to me? If Sansa's got 'an armory which is sophisticated and extensive,' and her edit: Mis-read, clearly not the entire gang. Much less excited about raiding a fort with anyone guarding it, even if it's understaffed. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 20:42 on May 21, 2014 |
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May 21, 2014 18:13
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Dick See, with a lot of my rear end in a top hat buddies, they let the macho shithead routine get to their heads. They think they love fighting. They think they're invincible conquerors. Then when they get shot and remember the truth of pain, or they see their buddy's head split open from a stray shot and aren't even sure who to blame for it, they get upset. That either leads them to take a think about their life and calm down, or get angry and try to dish it out on someone. I don't want anyone retiring on me, and I don't want a bunch of idiots spoiling for a fight where there's nothing to gain. Charging into that battle... dubious gains. We'll ruin someone else's day sure enough, but it probably won't be worth it for us. My guys are tired and frustrated, they need a solid win. I see Chloe with her hand on the Conch, looking pissed and wondering why we're not blowing the battle-horn yet. I motion her, down girl, and walk my bike over to where she and the rest are gathered. I say, and I put some stank into the word, "The 'Queen' of wrecked stuff has most of her army over here. We need gas, she's got trucks and poo poo, so we're taking hers." I point as I say, "Lara, take three and hang out offside the road. If they decide to come back, suppressing fire. Keep 'em pinned for a while, keep your distance, then bug out when they make a push. That, uh," I turn, and squint through the rain, "That hill looks like a good spot. Buy us a little more time." I wave my hand over the rest of 'em, "Everyone else, this is gonna be a raid. We get in, we get gas and ammo and poo poo, then we get out. Someone surrenders, grab their poo poo and leave 'em. Meet back up further down on the east shore. Questions? No? Good. Let's roll!" And then we do. When we get there, we're going to knock on the door with a couple shotguns. They peek their heads out from 'top ramparts or windows or whatever they've got, we're taking them off. If they're smart, the skeleton crew holding down the fort will keep their heads down. Go Aggro: On the W&W Hold: Give Us Your poo poo: 2d6+3 9
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May 23, 2014 21:00
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Without our birds-eye view, Dick & co. only have a loose grasp of when exactly 'eastern' becomes 'southern.' Trying to use any inland landmark is liable to get people split up. Further down the east shore basically means, 'past W&W land, coast on your left.' The intention is to go in and through, and circle around Sansa's bigger party on the inland side if/when they come straight back from the market.
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May 23, 2014 23:35
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Yeah something like that.
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May 24, 2014 17:01
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The different colors are the raid group and the distraction group splitting up. Then meeting back up further down.
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May 25, 2014 00:29
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Dick Hey, Hey, MC. Sorry 'bout going quiet. I had a really loving busy & exhausting week. It's over now, I'm back up to a normal pace. Black Dave was kind of the 'acting medic,' but that doesn't mean he knew much of anything about anything. He tried, bless his idiot heart, but he didn't know much about health besides A) Eat vegetables, B) Stay hydrated, C) Keep the blood inside the body. Unfortunately, that made him our resident expert. As for other medics we know of, there's Doc Halloween. He's an older dude, tanned to the point of leather, who roams around the island tending to the sick and telling really lovely gallows-humor jokes. He'll work for free if someone can't pay, but he knows we can. But he never stays in one place, which is a horrible fuckin' trait for a doctor to have. I send Graham and Spock upriver to try and find him, but I'm not optimistic. Fortunately, we've got a bitchin' first-aid kit left over. Paco, you were holding on to it, right? Break that mother out. Saddlebags: Something to Treat Bullets: 2d6+2 5 Nevermind, somebody loving stole it. Wonderful. So these idiots who got themselves shot up - from a great distance, at night, in the rain, when I loving said to bug out as soon as they come under fire - probably aren't going to make it. I feel like I should be broken up about Lara - and I am, kind of - but my first impression was to feel relieved. And I feel kind of lovely about feeling that. There's some complicated emotional poo poo to untangle there, but I'm going to avoid addressing it for as long as possible. Paco, you lost the last first-aid kit, get rolling and find us another doctor. Otherwise we're stuck using backup socks for bandages and I feel like that's not a great idea.
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Jun 2, 2014 15:39
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Dick Well, poo poo. I guess I won't have to sort out that emotional crap about Lara after all. I'll just take all that confused grief and relief, ball it up, squash it down hard, and then throw it at the next dumb motherfucker who gets in my way. That usually helps get it out of my system. I should write self-help books. I'll miss the hell out of Jin, dude was funny. Noodles; eh. In the mean time, everyone needs rest, and a few people aren't in a state to move around. We move under the tree line, get some cover from the drizzle. I set everyone up on a rotation - folks keeping watch, folks holding a spare shirt or something over bloody wounds, and folks getting some sleep. We got tarps and sleeping bags. Asking me if I have faith in people calls for a nuanced answer. Do I think they'll just decide to gently caress off? No, I'm pretty sure they won't. Do I think they'll actually find a doctor? Not likely, but they'll give it an honest look. It's not that I think they're gently caress-ups, (Paco totally is) this is just a matter of luck, and recently we haven't had any.
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Jun 3, 2014 22:17
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Dick Things with Dovefeathers are going... a little awkwardly. Now, let's get this out of the way, I think he's a piece of poo poo. There are worse people around, and there are much better; overall, I don't care for him. But we ended up in his territory, and I'm in the uncomfortable situation of needing to make some more friends, so I've been forcing myself to act nice. I'm smiling. Asking him how he's been, how's the... uh, family? He's got a brother, right? But that make-nice poo poo doesn't come naturally, and he can tell it's forced. So he thinks I've got some kind of angle. Which is true, but it's a pretty benign one. Not keeping any secrets from him, though. Raided the wrecks, got shot a little, just passing through. We're not in the mood for starting any poo poo, and he ought'a be glad for that. If he wants to start some poo poo, or try to get some, I don't know, 'gesture of respect' out of us, he's picked a really bad day for it. A lot of my buddies are looking for an excuse to vent their frustrations by ventilating someone, so I'm trying extra hard to be nice. White Dave, in particular - 'pparently he was holding a torch for Lara, and he's way pissed that I sent her to her death. But of course he won't come out and say as much. Never mind the fact that she got picked off from far away, at night, while it was raining, and who the gently caress could've seen that coming? poo poo. Her death's bothering me more than I thought it would. I want to torture the living poo poo out of that Wracks sharpshooter, but I don't even know who it was. Just about everyone is with me, the wounded plus those who're walking their broken bikes. Except Spock; He got his autistic rear end lost somewhere in the wilderness. That happens a lot, actually, but he usually finds us again a couple days later. Island's not that big. Anyways: Dovefeathers. I've got all that stuff on my mind, too, and he's probably picked up on the fact that I'm all, distracted and aggrieved and poo poo. It's awkward. It hasn't been my best showing. I let out a heavy, defeated sigh, cut the small talk, and lean forward onto my handlebars. I say, "Alright, Doves. We're having a bad day, an' we didn't come here with a mind to start anything. Did you, like, want something?"
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Jun 17, 2014 04:57
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Dick I keep my face blank. After the hot smoke passes over my face, I take a deep breath, and count (in my head) to three, to keep calm and prevent myself from feeding that match back to him. I ask, "Hardy? You got somethin' against her, or do you just want a boat? I dunno if you've done much sailing, but in case you haven't, I'll spoil the surprise for you: there's nowhere to go. If you want us to waste our time and ammo on that, you're gonna have to do a lot better than promising some juicy gossip. That don't fill my tanks."
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Jun 21, 2014 11:57
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Dick I'm not a hundred percent on what exactly my face looks like, or what I'm doing with my mouth. I do notice that I have to snap my jaws shut again. Point is, Dovefeathers probably notices that, yeah, he has exactly what I want, and I want that bad. I'm not sure I believe him, though. I tell him, (again keeping myself calm), "Buddy, if you know who started that fire, holding out on me is a knee-cap-level offense. If you don't know poo poo, and you're just tryin'a get me to do you a favor for an empty promise, well, that's a screaming-through-next-week level offense." I (again, very calmly), flip my Thompson's safety off, and tell Dovefeathers, "Yeah, we can do business. We can make Hardy regret whatever it is you have against her. But we don't work on credit, and you're going to tell us about the fire first." Go Aggro: Dovefeathers, speak: 2d6+2 11 Does he need me to elaborate with an 'or else'? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 05:06 on Jun 30, 2014 |
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Jun 28, 2014 05:03
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Dick I don't know who Jeet is, so I ask, "Who or what the hell is Jeet?" My boy Goat-Fucker, the buff white guy with the awesome mountain-man beard, laughs. He can't believe that's really someone's name. He makes a motion like he's jacking himself off, then tosses his imaginary seed out, saying, "Jeet jeet jeet," in time with the pulses. Goat-Fucker does that. Chloe purses her lips when she hears the name, thinks for a sec, then snaps her fingers. "He was on the radio once or twice, right? Ranting about, uh, spiritual leadership 'n poo poo." A couple of my guys say, aaah, oh yeah, right, him. Doesn't ring a bell with me, though. White Dave says, "On that comedy segment, right?" Chloe says, "He seemed pretty serious about it." White Dave shakes his head and says, "No, yeah, I know he was serious about it. It's like a... shoot, there's probably a word for it. When the radio guy brings a crazy jackass on, and they talk to him all straight-faced, but he like," he waves his hand aimlessly, "Encourages him to go further with the crazy. And he plays it straight, but he knows the listeners are laughing." Spock says, "Le Dīner de Cons." His french isn't quite right, but nobody knows enough to call him on it. And anyways, nobody knows what to do with that information, so he just gets a brief moment of silence before we move on with our conversation, and our lives. And I'm like, whatever. I think I am actually going to skin this Jeet guy alive. I say back to Dovefeathers, "Cool," and I do have a few more questions for him before we ride out. I'm gonna, like, let him answer each one before moving on to the next. "How do you know it was him?" I'm not gonna hold Dovefeathers to some strict 'burden of proof,' but I do want at least a convincing story. Wouldn't put it past Doves to just send me after another one of his grudges. "Any idea where he's at now?" And, "Oh, that thing with Hardy; what's your end-game? Do you want Hardy dead, or do you want her boat, or what, exactly?"
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Jul 1, 2014 22:12
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Dick Nah, I'm not surprised. That was a couple days ago - Spock always finds his way back sooner or later. Or he sits down and waits for us to find him. Losing track of him isn't a crisis, it's just daily Spock. I guess from the way he's phrasing it that 'The Wave' is a person, so I've got to ask him, "Who the hell's that?" White Dave breaks in and says, "You're not gonna skin a guy just for selling matches, are you?" I have to think about that for a sec. "Nah, I guess not. Whatever." Mario tells Dovefeathers that he needs to get a dang haircut. I tell Dovefeathers, "Sure thing, man. We got a deal," and I hold my fist out for him to pound. ~ Once we've got a little distance, Chloe, who's looking a little irritated, tells me, "That was a poo poo deal." And she's not wrong. Couple guys nod, agreeing with her. I say, "Yeah. But it's not about the deal. First, we had to know who lit the fire. That can't go unpunished. And, now that the hill's burnt, we gotta be a little more diplomatic. Doves was afraid of meeting Hardy himself; if we do that for him, we show him the gently caress up. And if we do it like it's no big deal, then him, and all his people, and everyone they talk to, gets a solid reminder that we're not to be hosed with. Plan B is like, if Hardy picked up an army while we weren't looking, then we give her Doves'es message, we take her counter-offer, Doves can eat our poo poo, and we still know where to find Jeet. We got this." She shrugs, like, 'yeah, maybe,' which is good enough. It's a dumb-assed and insecure leader who doesn't want his people thinking for themselves. I'm not going for a dictator thing. So, alright- I'm not 100% clear on the spacetime situation. Do I probably have time to ride up to wolf mountain, and then get back to the Delta shore by nighttime? Or, if I want to meet Hardy on time, am I going to have to head that way now? StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 17:18 on Jul 3, 2014 |
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Jul 3, 2014 17:16
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Dick Whoa, whoa, whoa. We still have someone missing? That's no good. I sent 'em to go find a doctor for our folks who were rapidly bleeding out. If they didn't find one within a couple hours - longshot, I know - they should've come back. poo poo. We've got to go find our missing guys, then. I say that, "First thing, we gotta find Graham. If he's not back yet, he might'a run into trouble. Jeet can wait; he won't be expecting us any more tomorrow, and I wanted to take my time with him, anyways." It seems like, lately, loving nobody can handle themselves on their own or in small groups, so I split everyone up into three big groups, of seven or eight. One going straight up-river, one going kinda inland, the other going further inland, fanning out. I'll be in the middle group. If anyone finds him - or runs into something else lovely - the understood signal is to make some noise. Conch if they've got one, biggest caliber shot they've got otherwise. Hopefully we can find Graham before night-ish-time, then still have a chance to go after Hardy.
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Jul 4, 2014 02:57
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Dick God loving drat it. It was a gunshot. I know it's fifty-fifty on that being a bad sign or just a signal, but it gives me a worse feeling. I don't need to do any explaining - we hear the noise, we veer sharp to the side, we gun it towards whoever's making noise, safeties off. Direct approach, no flaking or whatever, nothin' fancy. And, hey, o' great nameless and incomprehensible gods of the Island? I know you guys don't do, like, wish lists, but it'd be fuckin' great if we could get a few walkie talkies. Just prayin'. (And, hey, I re-counted, and I've got up to five exp's. For my advance, I'd like to take a move from another playbook - the Driver's Daredevil: if you go straight into danger without hedging your bets, you get +1armor. If you happen to be leading a gang or convoy, it gets +1armor too.)
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Jul 10, 2014 05:20
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Dick Here's a thing about riding a motorcycle over sand dunes, hills, delta marshes, between big trees and through thick bushes: you get used to it. Folks back on the great kingdoms of Land had glassy-smooth highways to cruise down, and that let 'em get soft. I don't mean to imply that I'm like, better. Necessity is the mother of buckling down and learning how to get good at poo poo, and we had need; the closest thing we've got to a highway is half a straight mile of packed dirt. So me and my people roll down steep hills, break through thickets, and weave between tree-trunks like second nature. We don't come close to maxing out our speedy-needle thingies, but it's still a hell of a lot faster than walking. While I'm riding up, here's my snap-judgement situational awareness: these guys, whoever they are, might be more familiar with this particular patch of nowhere, but they're still in a stand-off with Mario. If it had been a proper ambush, we'd have been bloody or surrendered right away, meaning this is either a random run-in or their plan hosed up. So they're ducking behind trees or taking cover real low, and they're probably not ready for someone to come sideways. Fingers crossed. I rev up to make sure I'm in the lead and the rest of my group can follow, and veer to the right. I start to drive a circle around 'em, and once I'm at two- or three- o'clock from Mario at six, I brace my Thompson against my side and start shooting while I ride by. Go Aggro: on these fuckin' guys in the forest: 2d6+2 8 I've got to divide my attention between driving, keeping balance against the recoil, not running into a tree, and "aiming." If I can spot a guy through the shade, I'll point my bangin' spray cannon at him, but for real, I'll be drat lucky if I, personally, hit anyone. But a Thompson fires a lot of fat caliber shots, it's loving terrifying if they're landing anywhere nearby, they don't know how badly I'm "aiming," and anyways, from a full magazine I've still got greater than zero odds of nailing some shithead. They can't take cover from me and Mario both, and someone close behind me, like White Dave or Goat-Fucker, will maybe be a little more discrete. I trust my guys to take advantage of an opportunity. If these mystery motherfuckers are smart, they'll lay down and play dead. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 20:30 on Jul 14, 2014 |
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Jul 14, 2014 18:32
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Dick The goal here, as stated, is to get Graham out. Best way to do that is make sure nobody's shooting at any one of us. And, hell, they're hunkering down? We've already won this. They're not holed up in a fuckin' alamo, those are just trees and rocks. I drive with my knees for a sec while I thumb the release and roll another magazine in. I make a quick circle-y hand motion to Bung and the other folks behind me. Tarno's gang isn't moving, so we're following through on the wide circle and surrounding 'em. This would be the perfect time to pull out the conch, but Chloe's on the far-side group. I pause for a lull in the shooting, and just shout. I can project real loud when I have to. I say, "Hey! Motherfuckers!" and take a breath while they are giving me their attention, then, "Lay down arms!" Got my aim steadied on the handlebars, this time. Shooting forward's a hell of a lot easier. Here's their chance to clear up any misunderstandings, in case Mario was an imperfect diplomat. If they come back with some attempt at cleverness, or (gods help them) any more shots out of their little hovel, we're gonna charge forth, start the drive-by's 'til there's nobody left peeking out, then get tribal on their sorry asses. Go Aggro: Doubling down on the standoff: 2d6+2 8 StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 06:48 on Jul 17, 2014 |
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Jul 17, 2014 06:37
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Dick Did they just.. did one guy toss his gun out, and then they capped him for it? That's loving messed up. Could be a bluff, but either way, you made your point, Tree Guys; back's to the wall, ready to fight to the last. I can respect that. I bark loud, and I can bite hard, but honestly I'd rather not get ugly with the stand-or-death'ers. I nod hard toward the trees, once the shooting's stopped, then point my man Bung towards Graham. Go get him. I hold my position, and I give the hold it palm to anyone who looks too jumpy. If Bung picks Graham up and rides out of there without an issue, we'll get out of these assholes' hair without another word.
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Jul 29, 2014 05:53
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Dick Huh? Yeah, I didn't want anything more to do with those guys, anyways. We got Graham back, mission accomplished, see y'all fuckers later. I would've slapped Willeh's idiot face for the parting shot, but Chloe beat me to it. Couple pieces of business to take care of. First, we're going to do some first aid on Graham. Figure out where he's bleeding from, and make sure those parts are covered up nice and clean. If he's been shot and there's still a bullet or something inside of him, make a note of it and put 'find that goddamn doctor' back on the to-do list. Then, I'm gonna give Mario some public props for handling that well. He did good, it looked like he kept everyone's poo poo together, and nobody died. Way to go, Mar. I will also ask him, "How the hell did that get started, anyhow?" And I'm gonna ask Bung, "You said you knew one of those guys? What's their deal?" Mostly I'm curious. I want to know if we started poo poo, or they did. If this is going to bite us in the rear end later (it probably is) I'd like to be more informed as to why and from who. Next order of business; I told Dovefeathers I'd do a thing, and I intend to follow through with that. Do we know where Hardy is going to come ashore? Or know someone who would know, so we can ask 'em? My general intent is to set up there and meet Hardy and her people. If we still have enough time when we get there, we're going to spread out, get behind cover, hide our bikes, hide most of ourselves, maybe get a motherfucker or two up in trees... the specifics depend on the terrain, but, y'know, defensible ambush stuff. Plan A is, I have a talk with Hardy and she either agrees to gently caress off from Dovefeathers's territory, or gives us a good reason to reconsider our relationship with him. Plan B is, if she's less agreeable, we do some violence.
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Aug 5, 2014 17:41
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Dick Shoot, guess that was a little much to hope for. What we do next depends a bit on how well Graham's doing. If he's in a real bad way, our very next step is to get him to a proper doctor. Proper-est around, anyways. Helpin' Graham, +cool: 2d6+1 7 If it seems like he can probably sleep it off after we do what we can for him with what little stuff we've got, then our next step'll be to seek out Hardy. If we run into someone on the way to the shore, we'll ask 'em where Hardy comes ashore. If we don't run into anyone, we'll just have to pick a spot at random, then watch the whole open horizon for boat lights and see where they're headed.
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Aug 8, 2014 06:57
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