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uranus posted:Just post it you nerd I will after I decide to change it or not! Meinberg posted:Editing is for people I'm going to vote out. Harsh and unfair.
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Nov 16, 2015 03:52
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don't be a pussy jj write it in second person
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Nov 16, 2015 04:38
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do you all want an extension? *pushes up glasses*
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Nov 16, 2015 21:54
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I mean I wouldn't say no
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Nov 16, 2015 21:55
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Votecount for Day 1 Not Voting (10): Chic Trombone, EccoRaven, GUISSEPPE PIZZAPIE, Hal Incandenza, Little Mac, Look Under The Rock, Meinberg, Quidnose, Tremendous Taste, uranusWith 10 alive, it's 6 votes to lynch. The current deadline is November 20th, 2015 at 10:30 p.m. EST -- that's in about 4 days, 6 hours.
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Nov 16, 2015 21:56
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I have the next two days off. That's when I had always planned to do it. I won't lie; fallout 4 and recent developments regarding ESEA and I are taking up more of my time than I expected them to but I've been thinking on and off about what I'll be writing since I signed up so I'll be good to go. If other people want to extend, though, I'm not opposed. I'm of the view that your writings shouldn't be rushed and the beginning sets the tone for the rest so it would probably be kind to extend it for those who aren't ready.
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Nov 16, 2015 22:04
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GUISSEPPE PIZZAPIE posted:I have the next two days off. That's when I had always planned to do it. I won't lie; fallout 4 and recent developments regarding ESEA and I are taking up more of my time than I expected them to but I've been thinking on and off about what I'll be writing since I signed up so I'll be good to go. If other people want to extend, though, I'm not opposed. I'm of the view that your writings shouldn't be rushed and the beginning sets the tone for the rest so it would probably be kind to extend it for those who aren't ready. This + the reading & voting stage has made me extend to Friday.
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Nov 16, 2015 22:08
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Sweet, I'm still gonna write today and tomorrow but that helps  Thanks BK!
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Nov 16, 2015 22:48
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I think the submission deadline and the reading + voting deadline should be separate.
Emmideer fucked around with this message at 23:25 on Nov 16, 2015 |
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Nov 16, 2015 23:21
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jon joe posted:I think the submission deadline and the reading + voting deadline should be separate. I'll allow it. Submissions by friday night, voting out Monday night?
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Nov 16, 2015 23:43
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BottleKnight posted:I'll allow it. Submissions by friday night, voting out Monday night? That sounds good.
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Nov 16, 2015 23:46
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THUNDERDOOOOOMEEEE Wait which thread am I in? 
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Nov 16, 2015 23:59
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I also blame Fallout 4 for many stuff. I finally got a decent gun and now the game is much more fun.
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Nov 17, 2015 03:24
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I started my story last night!!! 
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Nov 17, 2015 19:14
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BottleKnight posted:This + the reading & voting stage has made me extend to Friday. Thanks, my schedule this week has been haywire from a combination of exams and birthday and trying to get to Detroit because I drunk bought Miley Cyrus tickets and while I have some written, I don't have the music ready.
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Nov 18, 2015 12:28
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PART 1.0 Production notes: The defining factor of One Night Only is its lack of a fourth wall, so to speak. The setting of the show is the date, time, and place in which the show is being staged. All action takes place the moment it happens, and audience interaction is encouraged. This will naturally make the flow of the play unpredictable; on a night where the audience gets into the show, there may be more or less interaction, or on a night where the audience seems to be especially enjoying the music, more breaks for solos and decoration can be easily added. The goal of this show is full audience immersion. Because of the unpredictable, immersive nature of One Night Only, casting decisions should be based on ability for both improvisational acting and music. One Night Only should be staged in small rock clubs -- the dingier the better. Tech elements of the show should be handled as much like a typical rock concert as possible. A lovely PA system is a benefit, not a hazard. Any technical hiccups should be called out by the band. Anything that happens in the venue over the course of the show is fair game for onstage dialogue. Treat this script as loose guidelines; the show will shine when the band adapts it for their specific purposes and talents. The music and script for One Night Only is written for flexibility. The only two characters who need to be able to sing leads are Alison and Damien -- while Smitty and Scrap do sing, it is not necessary that they are able to sing on pitch, merely necessary that they are able to sing loud. The instruments played by individual members of the band are never directly referenced, so the lineup can change from production to production (Alison could play piano, bass, guitar, or simply sing, depending on what the actress cast is able to do). Additionally, the songs should be played in whatever genre the cast is comfortable with. If there is a talented pianist in the cast, for example, the band can play the songs as piano rock. If the actors aren’t able to play very proficiently, playing the songs as a punk band may be a good solution. Chord progressions, melodies, and instrumentation used in demos are a guideline. The band in each production should choose their own band name (for the sake of flow, the band name used in this script is Paradigm Ship). If there is a need to add an additional cast member simply for their instrumental skills, their first name should be used for a character name, and other cast members should improvise references to why they joined the band and occasionally address them with a yes/no question, to which the additional member should only respond by nodding or shaking their head. GET PSYCHED GUYS
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Nov 18, 2015 15:59
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Prologue: Monday, September 21st 7:43 AM Anna swears if she survives this semester she is never taking an 8 am class again. Getting up this early was so not her speed - 9 was pretty much the earliest she could do and still get a full night’s sleep. Still, it wasn’t like she had much of a choice. Professor Stenson was the best teacher for Information Assurance and Cryptography, and 8 was the only time he was teaching this fall. So. She’d just have to suck it up and deal for a couple more months. She sighs to herself. Only choice or not, it still sucked, especially as the weather started getting colder. Brisk winds blow back her brown hair, and she shivers into her hoodie. She’d have to remember to buy hand warmers next time she goes to the grocery. First things first though - a quick trip to the bathroom and then class. Heading into the Computer Sciences building, Anna hurriedly climbs to the fourth floor and marches the long hall, finding the girl’s restroom. She opens the door, before stopping dead in her tracks. It’s the smell she notices first - rusty and a little sickly-sweet, like when her mother had forgotten some steaks left out on the counter years ago. Then it’s the stains, dark red fading into brown arched on the ceiling, the walls, puddled on the floor. Reddish-blonde hair, pale skin - too pale. Anna can’t move, can’t think, but then it clicks. “....Maggie?” The world blurs to black. Posted by @NewsEKU 8:22 AM: “Margaret “Maggie” Harvey found dead in EKU’s Wallace Hall, will update as we know more” Chapter 1 Chic Trombone fucked around with this message at 05:02 on Nov 21, 2015 |
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Nov 18, 2015 17:12
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By the way, I'm gonna occasionally ask for bits to throw into the demo tracks if anyone feels like lending their voice to this -- first one is about a minute or two of conversational speech beginning with the words "I had a dream last night..." pm me for my email address if you want to help out
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Nov 18, 2015 17:20
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Protip: My eyes and the eyes of many readers glaze over at the word "prologue". You can have one, just don't call it a prologue.
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Nov 18, 2015 22:13
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I am not going to post any reactions/criticisms to stories itt and have had to stop myself multiple times lol. It would not be in good taste to do so for the sanctity of the game! If I really need to say something I'll PM you, but I'm probably too lazy for that. edit: IT WOULD ALL BE COMPLIMENTS, I SWEAR! I just don't want to interfere with the game at all.
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Nov 18, 2015 23:33
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there is like a 4% chance I'll produce anything by friday so imo you all should vote me out first. I dunno what's going on with me but it's something stupid I am sure.
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Nov 18, 2015 23:50
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my eyes glaze over at the word 'protip'
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Nov 19, 2015 00:01
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uranus posted:my eyes glaze over at the word 'protip' protip: i don't protip: blame you
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Nov 19, 2015 00:07
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forums are acting up, jj, your post is blank!
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Nov 19, 2015 00:07
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uranus posted:forums are acting up, jj, your post is blank! thanks for the protip
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Nov 19, 2015 00:10
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Seriously if anyone has any reactions or criticisms about anything i post here at any time please PM or skype me about it or something, I love all kinds of feedback
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Nov 19, 2015 03:46
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same except from ecco
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Nov 19, 2015 04:57
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jk jk
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Nov 19, 2015 04:57
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chic i like how you included smells. people always forget to include smells. also ending on a cliffhanger there is a v good strategy. dislike: (subjective opinion) present tense dislike: (objective fact) switching between present and past tense
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Nov 19, 2015 05:02
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God damnit I thought I checked for that this time e: seriously tenseswitching is my biggest weakness I do it every time I write and I hate it
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Nov 19, 2015 05:07
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derp what I liked most about your piece was how personal it felt. I thought you did a super good job of conveying the emotion of what was going on
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Nov 19, 2015 05:13
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UMAS Chapter 1 Pilot Frances Orzart pumped his feet and made his Siege Armor march forward, the pneumatic pads beneath his feet providing just enough resistance to make the action conscious. Instructions flooded in through his headset, orders to be followed and understood, procedures to be followed, that he obeyed readily enough. He gripped the sticks before him and leaned forward to gaze into the viewfinder. The enemy was arrayed before him, a sizable force armed with primitive rifles. They loosed their bullets but the few that hit his, admittedly large, profile at the current distance just bounced uselessly off of the thick plating of his Armor. He pressured the sticks forward and his view swung downwards, locking onto the central mass of the enemy. The order came in. He flipped off the cover of his control sticks and depressed the triggers, starting his gatling guns spinning and spinning and then they spat forth a series of bullets- That flew over the heads of the enemy and hammered into the tree line behind them. “gently caress this piece of poo poo!” said Frances over the comms. “Who the hell calibrated my sights? I can't hit the broadside of a barn like this!” The voice of Pilot Commander Evgenia Thistleton crackled over the comms, her crisp and precise dialect speaking to her Entrepreneurial background. “Pilot Orzart,” she said, “Please remain calm and manually compensate for the calibration error.” Her voice remained perfectly, to the point where Frances could only grit his teeth and comply, pushing his sticks further forward. “Aiming at the blasted ground,” said Frances. He warmed up his guns once more and unleashed another hail of bullets that crashed into the enemy ranks, leaving behind only red mist and bone fragments where the massive shells hit human bodies. The other front line Armors had moved into position and were similarly unleashing hell upon the enemy. But the enemy didn't break. Frances allowed his guns to spin down to keep the barrels from melting, and took the time to scan the surroundings. He spotted movement to his right, up on a bluff and turned his guns onto the position. The bluff was made of limestone, soft in comparison to the hardstone that'd need explosives to tear apart. He spotted seven figures move into position and one, the one in a hat, pointed before Frances managed to open fire. The limestone pulverized under the heavy fire, sending clouds of powder up and obscuring his sight of the targets, until they began to tumble down along the bluff's face. But their bodies were followed shortly by three rockets, which adjusted position mid-air, now heading straight for the front lines. Frances grit his teeth and pulled back on his sticks, angling his fire upwards, but his gatling guns were poor flak guns. He barely made contact with the very last of the rockets, which exploded in a deafening cloud. The first rocket flew over his head, leaving only the middle one to head straight for him. He kicked down into the pedals and pushed his sticks to the side, sending his Armor tilting to the side, out of the line of the rocket. But the rocket adjusted again. He instinctively threw up his arms to try and block the incoming rocket. His Armor lifted its arm in response and the rocked slamming into his left arm. The force of the impact knocked his Armor fully off balance and slammed his body against the side of his cockpit as the explosion rocked through the entire frame. Frances' consciousness blanked out. Frances opened his eyes to see the sunlight streaming into his cockpit. The entire left side had been torn clean off. “Pilot Orzart to command, please advise!” he said into his headset. While he waited for response, he looked to his console and wiped off the soot from the displays. The core had been destabilized by the hit, and even now was moving towards a meltdown. Despite the numbness of his limbs, Frances worked at the straps that held him place, before finally ripping himself free. He climbed out through that hole in the Armor's side and fell over the side, collapsing onto the ground with a heavy cough. Hearing the increasing whine of his Armor's core, and the whistling of rifle rounds thudding into the ground behind him, he put all of his strength into a mad dash, leaving the enemy and his Armor behind him. The core exploded in an expanding blast of blue flames that knocked Frances to the ground once again, singing the back of his uniform and leaving the air overheated and stinging his lungs. He coughed heavily and slowly turned, falling onto his back before settling to watch the battlefield as best as he could. Another of the front line Armors had taken a direct hit to the cockpit and sat as a smoldering monument. The remaining Armors struggled under the increasingly heavy fire as the enemy closed on them. He could make out on the closest small dings from the repeated rifle rounds, structural damage that would only grow worse, but despite their loss in numbers, the Armors were gradually whittling down the enemy force. But then another round of rockets surged up, from the midst of the enemy. The Armors didn't try to dodge, there was no reason to do so when they had tracking capabilities, and focused instead on shooting the rockets down. But there were too many. One by one, the Armors took hits, fiery bursts blossoming on their armored shells, and then one by one, the Armors fell, collapsing on the ground. The long range Armors, still behind him, unleashed their own rockets, but the effort seemed pointless, they didn't have enough ammunition to take on the remaining enemy, but they seemed willing to go down shooting. Frances wasn't nearly so brave. He pushed himself to his feet and resumed running. Perhaps he could report back to headquarters about what happened this day, about the first loss that the Siege Armors had ever faced. And perhaps they'd have some idea of where the enemy had received their shipments of explosives, because Frances certainly didn't.
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Nov 19, 2015 05:34
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I'll try to do some reading and commenting later tonight!
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Nov 19, 2015 05:41
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nice have you read 'armor' by john steakley. you may like it
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Nov 19, 2015 06:12
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uranus posted:nice I have not, but I'll look into it!
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Nov 19, 2015 06:19
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I had been worried that after five years nothing would be the same and I’d get that familiar hollow feeling of loneliness that always seemed to conspire with low-level depression to drag me down in situations that should otherwise be cause for celebration. As I stepped off the street and crossed the threshold into the lobby for the first time in five years I suddenly felt faint and figured a panic attack was around the corner. At that moment I almost turned to walk back outside, but before I gave into the impulse I moved to the corner and leaned against the wall to take stock of the situation. I realized what I was feeling wasn’t panic or fear, it was something often incorrectly labelled as déjà vu or lumped in with the ubiquitous term nostalgia. But this wasn’t a feeling of having been there before or longing for the past, rather it was the feeling that I was back where I belonged, returning to a metaphorical home that I’d never really had throughout my life. My eyes darted about the lobby, picking up little details that hadn’t changed in the preceding half-decade. There was the oil stain on the carpet that we had vainly attempted to cover up with a potted plant, the old battered leather sofa with so many cracks in the upholstery it looked like a fractal nightmare. The horrible poster of Marlene Dietrich and her hairy arms was still just a bit askew. Maybe I didn’t recognize any of the employees or the customers, but I knew their ilk. Merrill hadn’t changed his hiring practices, and the concessionists were still rather… well-endowed teenage girls of the type that didn’t mind that their 55-year old slightly sleazy boss made inappropriate comments towards them. I caught some snippets of a customer who bore a striking resemblance to Moby as he regaled a bored looking female companion with a soliloquy on why early European directors like Ingmar Bergman were so superior to modern ones like Michael Haneke. Some things never change, I thought to myself as I drank in the whole scene, feeling a new spark of energy returning inside me. It had been a long five years. My reverie was rudely interrupted when I felt a stinging slap on my back, but I stifled my annoyance when I turned and saw The Gecko leering at me with what can only be described as a poo poo-eating grin on his face. Christopher Greco, aka The Gecko, aka Topher (I had met him in the heyday of That 70’s Show and in addition to being named Christopher he also shared the same awkward cool-nerdiness of the main character… and he also resembled an actual gecko) was just the person I needed to see. Friends had been hard to come by lately and most of my older acquaintances had drifted apart as we grew older. A familiar refrain to most, but I had never been great at cultivating new relationships so this opportunity to resurrect a past one came as a relief. They say it takes 10 times the resources to create a new customer compared to retaining an existing one, and that same formula seems to hold true for friendships. “I didn’t think you were gonna make it, ya bastard” he said, casually draping an arm around my shoulder, something I suspected he remembered I wasn’t comfortable with and was doing intentionally to gently caress with me. I deftly slid to the side and out of his reach (I’ve never really been too comfortable with casual contact, regardless of the gender of the person who initiated the contact) before replying. “Well, really it seems like it was a very fortuitous coincidence that I logged onto Facebook for the first time in months on the same day Merrill posted about the change. Once I saw that I kinda felt like I had to find a way here.” Chris gave a sardonic chuckle. “Sure, you won’t come back to visit actual people, but you’ll come back to spend a night with 35mm film instead.” I shrugged, not really knowing how else to respond to that. “Well, this is the final show before we rip the film out and put in the digital projector,” Chris continued “and Stanley was your baby for a long time so I suppose I get it. Of course I get it.” Most moviegoers don’t think twice about how the picture gets on the screen in front of them. It’s a fairly opaque process that their only real glimpse into is a beam of light shooting out of the porthole in the back of the theatre. But if you spend your whole life steeped in the industry you learn that film is almost a living thing. Squeeze your thumb and index finger along the edges of film as it passes through the rollers and sprockets of a projector and you’ll feel each individual sprocket hole and splice as it runs past. You can look down from the booth and see the unique film grain and the tiny scratches that inevitably accumulate over dozens of runs. Pay close attention and you’ll see a tiny bit of wobble and focus drift that is like the signature of an individual projector. Yes, a digital projector will get you a perfectly masked image with clean edges and spotless picture that looks the same every time, yet there is no soul at all. Digital images feel cold and lifeless compared with film. Film has a soul. So of course I wanted to be here to experience that for what could be the last time. “Alright buddy,” Chris finally said, as I realized I been daydreaming for a bit “we’ve got about an hour until the show, and I figure you’d want to do the honors of threading Stanley once last time.” “drat right I do!” I said, coming back to life. “But first we gotta perform The Ritual, right? I mean, I feel like that’s a moral imperative!” Chris turned and headed up the stairs to the projection booth. “You are god drat right we are, what kind of half-assed operation do you think this is”? I hurried behind him and up into the booth, pausing by Stanley the 35mm projector. Merrill had managed to get a hold of an archive print of 2001: A Space Odyssey which was pretty much the perfect thing to run as a last show on a projector we had affectionately dubbed Stanley Kubrick. I doubted that it was Merrill’s idea to have that be the final print, he wasn’t that clever or sophisticated. Chris or some other projectionist must have set it up. “Man, there are an awful lot of splices in this print” I said as I ran my hands over the top of the film. “Even for a 50 year old copy.” “Yeah, it was dropped off by some weird guy, not the one who usually delivers the prints. I think maybe this is someone’s personal copy or something. Guy was kinda strange about the whole thing, wanted to make sure we weren’t going to do a test run-through or anything. So I hope I built it up right. Guess we’ll find out along with everyone else.” Chris said in a somewhat worrying tone. We moved to the back of the booth and started scrambling up the ladder that led to the roof hatch. When we were up to the mezzanine/alcove area that was above the booth but below the roof itself I stopped. It was sort of like the ½ floor from Being John Malkovich, only instead of a weird office it was filled with just metal beams and insulation (which I dearly hoped wasn’t asbestos). “Hang on” I said, “if we are going to do The Ritual one last time I gotta check on something” and stepped off the ladder into the alcove. It was dark, but memory guided me past the second vertical beam and I reached up into an open vent and felt around. A warm feeling came over me as I felt the cool touch of a metal cylinder. I pulled it out to reveal a can of compressed air with the top cut off and a piece of soda fountain hose stuck into the side of it with a hollowed-out film core attached to the top of the hose. A bong. A bong made from parts scrounged up in this very projection booth. Chris came up behind me shining the light from his phone across my face. “Holy poo poo dude. I can’t believe that thing is still there. You made that before I ever even came here!” “Not only that,” I said, peering into the bowl “it seems like I left it here loaded and ready to go. Seems only appropriate we give it one last run through also.” I carefully carried it the rest of the way up the ladder and onto the roof. It was a beautiful night, a little cool with a little breeze and almost no clouds or moon so we could perform The Ritual under a brilliant constellation of stars. Unsurprisingly, marijuana that has been sitting exposed in a dirty alcove for five years isn’t really all that great. Chris and I each got a nice lungful of hot, dry and nasty smoke that left us both coughing our lungs up for a minute. Once we had disposed of the ancient herbs Chris pulled out an old plastic 35mm film canister (not from a theatre but from regular old normal cameras) and popped the top to reveal a large nugget of pot stuffed inside. He packed the makeshift bong a few more times as we sat there smoking and talking about the theatre and movies. “Man this is some pretty good stuff” I said a little hesitantly after a few rounds, worried that I was going to lose the dexterity to thread the projector. “Where’d you get it?” “Actually, I got it from Merrill who says HE got if from Trey Anastacio himself. Normally he’d never give me any, but I told him you might come by and he insisted on giving me some of his best. He’d never say it, but I think he really misses you.” Chris punched my arm lightly as he said it. “I’m kind of surprised he’s not here. His family put all the projectors in this state in 50 years ago, I figured he would want to be here for the last show on any of them.” “I think he wanted to be here, but it was too hard on him. His father dying last year and now if feels like film is dying. He’s changed a lot. Still the same old rear end in a top hat, but a bit more introspective now.” We sat in silence for a few minutes, both of us lost in our own thoughts, staring at the stars. The bowl was filled one last time, and we ended The Ritual the way we always did, with a game of “name that movie quote”. We went back and forth dozens of times until I stumped The Gecko with “Living here day by day, you think it’s the center of the world. You believe nothing will ever change. Then you leave; a year, two years. When you come back, everything’s changed. The thread’s broken. What you came to find isn’t there. What was yours is gone. You have to go away for a long time… many years… before you can come back and find your people.” An iconic line from Cinema Paradiso. I was rather pleased with myself for coming up with something so appropriate for the situation, and that I could remember the whole thing. Chris grumbled good-naturedly about the unfairness of picking something from before he was born but took it all in stride as we headed back down the ladder into the booth. “You ready for this buddy?” he said as once again he draped his arm around me. “gently caress yeah I am, let’s get this thing started!”
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Nov 19, 2015 21:06
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Ernie please narrate mine (and others!) in your amazing voice! I love everyone's so far and I'll have lots of comments this weekend. Ecco don't disappoint me!
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Nov 19, 2015 21:07
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Chapter 1.1: Learning Not only was she in manacles, but a long metal chain bound her to the executioner’s stage, as though this thirteen year old girl could escape the many guards dotted throughout the crowd of hundreds. Theodore looked at the girl’s face, her green eyes, and internally declared her innocent. Though he was only twelve, he was the son of viscount Eveningmarch, and swore to do everything in his power to save her. A page cried out, “Adrellia, you have been sentenced to death for crimes against the kingdom, including burglary, theft, insurrection, and association with the League of the People. By law, you are entitled to either last words, or one minute of public prayer. Make your choice and be at peace.” Adrellia opened her mouth, uttering only an “I-” before Theodore ran onto the stage and loudly declared, “I, Theodore Eveningmarch, son of viscount Eveningmarch, do hereby demand Adrellia’s immediate pardon and release into my custody.” He looked at her and gave a smile and a wink. She looked at him and gave neither, obviously too surprised to understand his generosity. Theodore’s generosity was also misunderstood by another. “Boy! Boy, what are you doing?” His father ran to the front of the crowd, but was huffing from the short sprint. “Come down immediately, you are bringing shame to me!” His father was too wrapped up in his own boring social games to appreciate true action, the likes of which Theodore was displaying. “But father, this girl is obviously innocent. I must save her, what would the king think if he saw us making such a mockery of his justice?” Theodore firmly argued, hoping to sway the crowd more than his father. The crowd laughed at Theodore’s words, confusing him. Viscount Eveningmarch simultaneously wiggled and flopped onto stage, bringing more laughter. After hefting himself to stand, he lumbered to Theodore and, with a sweaty grasp, enveloped Theodore’s wrist. He spoke with spittle assaulting, “Are you stupid? It was the king who sentenced her!” Theodore hesitated and looked towards the crowd. The guards hadn’t moved to intervene, yet. Turning back to his father, Theodore puffed his chest and yelled, “Our king is wrong!” He easily slipped away from his father, who had turned purple and started stuttering, defeated by rage. Theodore then faced the headsman, who stood tall and menacingly while wielding a rusty and blunt axe. “Release her!” The headsman gave a simple, “No.” Theodore charged towards him. A mere executioner would never dare to harm a viscount’s son, so instead took the blow. Unfortunately for the headsman, Theodore was the right height to smash this tyrant in his vulnerable area. “Euuugh!” He folded to the floor, dropping his axe in favor of writhing. Some in the crowd gasped. Theodore searched through the headsman’s pockets and found a key. He glanced towards the crowd and confirmed that guards were coming. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you. No matter what,” he promised to Adrellia as he unlocked her from her chains. In response to his gallant nature, she laughed. “What’s funny?” Theodore asked. As though to emphasize the question, several guards climbed onto stage and brandished their swords. “Clownish boy, I don’t need your help. Now!” At her call, half of the guards on stage stabbed the others. The dead ones fell down. The living ones encircled Adrellia. The dead ones bled. The living ones shouted. The dead ones made Theodore dizzy. The living ones knocked him out.
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Nov 19, 2015 23:13
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Nice one JJ
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Nov 19, 2015 23:23
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Hal Incandenza posted:Nice one JJ Is your strategy to avoid being voted out by saying only nice things? It's working.
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Nov 19, 2015 23:38
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