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autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007

by Lowtax

Fun Shoe

I'm an unsung fuckin' genius and y'all juss don't get my massive, engorged intellect. In on whatever dumb baby prompt the WEINER has lined up


Sep 12, 2013

"Kill white people and get paid for it? What's not to like?"

I submit my frail body to the throes of the Thunderdome.

* Chlorine trifluoride.
* A game of pinfinger.

May the blood gods be pleased with the crimson tide to come.

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart

Nubile Hillock posted:

I'm an unsung fuckin' genius and y'all juss don't get my massive, engorged intellect. In on whatever dumb baby prompt the WEINER has lined up

You failed to read the prompt and pick two, so I'm assigning you:

* At least one character is a human cannonball
* Pie fights. Plural.

And since you made me pick these, :siren: flash rule :siren:, no circuses or clowns.

Mar 27, 2010




* A sumptuous buffet of hideous delicacies.
* Big game hunting. For chickens.

Fraction fucked around with this message at 16:01 on Nov 21, 2013

Lazy Beggar
Dec 9, 2011

* Phlogiston. It’s real!
* An icebreaking ship is crucial to your story’s plot. May not be set aboard the ship.

Aug 7, 2013




Alright, I'm in with-

~Big Game Hunting For Chickens
~ The Beard That Grows and Grows

Dec 17, 2003

Stand down, men! It's only smooching!


* A jaunty, yet disturbing, ditty which reveals something about the character(s) who like it - think Psycho Dad
* At least one character is a human cannonball.

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart

Word Bounty!

All right, who wants to win more words for your proper TD story? Here's what you need to do:

Write a strong, attention-grabbing opener for a hard-boiled detective story. The story must not be your TD entry for the main event.

Don't avoid cliches; instead, take the cliches of this genre and twist them around until they're barely recognizable. Contort, don't cut. Remember, we should learn as many of the following as possible: who the main character is, what the main character is like, what the main character wants, what prevents the main character from getting aforementioned desire.

The snappier and more interesting your opening, and the more creative your cliche-twisting, the better your chances!

Bounty: +50 words just for trying, an additional +50 words if I actually want to read the story you've started.
Deadline: 24 hours from this post, which should be around 3 AM Wednesday morning, Pacific time.
Word Limit: 150 words, no more.

You do not need to sign up; just post your words. For my convenience, please preface them with "Word Bounty" in bold.

Note: If you have not yet decided to enter the main event for this week, you may still participate in the Word Bounties for bonus wordcount. However, should you end up failing to enter the main event, your share of the mocking will be proportionate.

Erogenous Beef fucked around with this message at 11:06 on Nov 19, 2013

Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.

I need a few extra days for my brawl. Hard to write when a quarter if the city has no power.

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart

Mercedes posted:

I need a few extra days for my brawl. Hard to write when a quarter if the city has no power.

Talked to Frac, request granted. One week (26th Nov), 23:59:59 Pacific.

God Over Djinn
Jan 17, 2005

onwards and upwards

Okay to enter just for the hell of it, even if we've never posted in CC?

If so, I'm in, and I'll take:

- big game hunting: chickens
- very important icebreaker ship

Feb 13, 2011

The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

God Over Djinn posted:

Okay to enter just for the hell of it, even if we've never posted in CC?

If so, I'm in, and I'll take:

- big game hunting: chickens
- very important icebreaker ship

Sorry friend, 99% of SA can't enter. The banner ads are just to taunt suckers.

Bikini Quilt
Jul 28, 2013

First time for everything. In with a game of Pinfinger and an Icebreaker ship.

Jul 29, 2006


Word Bounty (134 words)

I knew his name was Trouble from the moment I walked into my office. Tall, dark, and handsome, he smouldered like a cheap cigar. I spotted the revolver under his leather jacket and drew mine first.

“Lady, I just killed a woman,” he said, raising his hands.

“That’s United States District Attorney Lady to you,” I replied. “And you’ve got the wrong office.”

“She was a black and white.”

“Then she had it coming. And so do you.”

“I know,” Trouble said. “I’ve got my confession in my jacket pocket.”

I cocked the hammer on my revolver. “Slowly.”

It was a cool pair of clevelands, enough to keep Boss Henry from knocking on my door for a few months at least. I should of known better, but I never could say no to trouble.

Mar 27, 2010



Erogenous Beef posted:

:siren: Mercedes/Fraction T-Dome T-Bone T-Dawg Brawlstravaganza :siren:

Make the following event interesting: Someone goes to buy groceries.

Still expecting a plot arc, character development, all that good poo poo. Write a drat good opening line, too.

One thousand words. Due Friday the 22nd.


A Chance Taken (724 words)


My mum’s walking ahead of me, pushing the trolley. She picks up an apple, turns it this way and that, and my phone buzzes again.

TELL HER!! It buzzes yet again. ITS OK. U CAN DO IT.

Ben just doesn’t understand. I want to text back that it’s not his business, that I’ll do it when I’m ready. But I’ve already said that. He’s been prodding me for weeks now to tell her. Today’s just the first day he’s threatened to do it himself. And he’ll do it. I know he’ll do it. He doesn’t get that it would hurt her, to hear my little brother heard first. She deserves better than that – if only I can bring myself to tell her. He’s right. It’ll be okay. I’m sure it’ll be okay.



She holds up a pineapple. “Are you gonna make a fruit salad this week? It was nice, your last one. Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, Mum.”

My phone buzzes once more. WHAT DID MUM SAY? I picture myself throwing my phone at the floor, watching it smash into a thousand pieces. Knowing my luck, it’d probably just bounce. That’d be embarrassing.


I blink at her. “What?”

“Strawberries? For the salad? Are you okay, sweetheart?”

She puts down the strawberries, comes around the trolley, and presses her palm to my forehead. I stare back at her. I do feel kind of hot. But she shakes her head, smiles her worried smile, and lets her hand fall.

“You feel okay. But what’s up?” She looks down. I look down, too. My fingers are clenched so tightly around my phone they’re almost white. “Annie? Is it boyfriend troubles? You haven’t mentioned anyone...”

I close my eyes. I don’t want to see her sad smile. We used to be so close. I don’t know when I started hiding my life from her. “No,” I say. “It’s not, it’s not boyfriend troubles.”

“It’s too much, isn’t it, A Levels and your job all at once? I knew you should give it up. I said so. It’s okay. Your boss’ll understand.”

“No, Mum. It’s not that.” I open my eyes. I can do this. It’ll be fine. “It’s... I have something to tell you. Okay?”


“I’m—” My phone buzzes. I want to smash it. My mouth’s dry. I lick my lips. Mum just watches me, just waits. She’s patient. She’s always been patient. It’ll be okay. “I’m gay.”

Her lips twitch. She looks away from me, then back. She swallows, licks her lips, swallows again. She turns away, snatches up a pack of oranges and thrusts them into the trolley. She pushes our trolley forward, practically at a run. I shove my phone in my pocket and follow her.


She doesn’t look at me. “Get the shopping list, Annie.”

I just need her to stop. I need her to see me. I grab the furthest end of the trolley and pull it around toward me. It slams into my stomach, and I stagger back. She doesn’t even glance back. She wrenches the trolley away and carries on walking. I wheeze for breath, and she’s getting further away.

I run forward and catch her at the end of the aisle. “Mum? Did you—please, Mum—did you hear me?” I grab the trolley again, but this time I grab the end she’s holding. It stops, and she stops, and she glares at me but that’s okay, at least she’s looking at me, and I whisper, “Mum? Please?”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re not – no. Stay with your dad tonight.”

I step back. I lift my hands and I say, again, “Please?” She pushes the trolley forward. My vision’s all blurry. “Please,” I say to her back. She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t reply. She heads into the next aisle and I can’t see her anymore.

I sink down, crouching on the floor. There are people all around me, but nobody says anything, nobody comes near. I wipe my sleeve over my eyes and pull my phone out of my pocket. Two missed calls, five texts. I stare at the screen and a sixth text comes through.

OI, U OK???

I throw my phone as hard as I can. It strikes the floor and bounces up into the air.

May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch

sebmojo posted:

Edit: this is tight enough that I want to see you fight Noah, king of thunderbrawls. Arrange it.

Oh, just saw this. Whenever it needs to happen.

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o'clock in the morning

I'm in and taking

Erogenous Beef posted:

* A beard that does not stop growing. Ever.
* A sumptuous buffet of hideous delicacies.

Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

You read my mind, Rhino.

I'm likewise in with:

* A sumptuous buffet of hideous delicacies.
* A beard that does not stop growing. Ever.

Jul 18, 2011

Modern worldly poster

145 words

An hour ago, Jack McDonald walked into the Sutton Building and rode the elevator up to the twenty-third floor. He pushed open the door to a particular office and shot the receptionist, a second-year physics student named Derek, right in the throat. He used up two more bullets, and saved bullet number four for himself.

Skip ahead an hour. I pushed my way through the door into that office, full of cops and cameras and dust and yellow tape. No one looked up, no one so much as twitched at me. Just as well, I wasn’t here for them. Murder-suicide wasn’t my usual line, was a big departure from bail jumpers and cheating husbands, but I had a pressing need to find out for myself why Jack McDonald had done such a thing.

Why he'd put bullets two and three into my head and chest.

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart

Tuesday's Word Bounty is now closed.

Roguelike: Unfortunately, one of the first places anyone goes when you ask them to turn a cliche on its head is to swap men for women and vice versa. See also: twisted traditions week. I laughed at "That's United States Attorney General Lady to you" - which I suspect is unintentional humor, as the rest of the thing doesn't have that sort of over-the-top voice. Your patois is too thick in places - I still don't know what "clevelands" are, and I suspect "black and white" means police. Thing is, I really don't know much about either character nor what they want. The one interesting bit is the guy turning himself in, but it's not great.

Swing and a miss. +50 words

Docbeard: My only real complaint is that you could slice down the very first line to "On the twenty-third floor of the Sutton Building" and use that as a preface to your second sentence, which is where things start to move. The walking-in and riding-up is basically the same as an "I woke up" opening sentence. Get on with it, man. That said, the rest is crisp, drops a few nice hints in the second paragraph that not all is well, and then slaps us with your hook in the third. There's some minor cleanup possible, but ~details~.

Well done. I actually do want to read more. +100 words

Erogenous Beef fucked around with this message at 11:20 on Nov 20, 2013

Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.

This is really my favorite video of all time.

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

No chat. Post a story.

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.

Another victory for the Dog Police.

autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007

by Lowtax

Fun Shoe

sebmojo posted:

No chat. Post a story.

Jan 1, 2012

And I understand if you ask
Was this life,
was this all?

gently caress ALL OF YOU

Submission for Outlaw Week that I wrote and never submitted. Taking my DQ like a man.

Infection (643)

Rider pulled the last of the steel shutters closed with a resounding boom and activated the quarantine lock. Then he turned around and headed back to the steps to wait. There was no way that his pursuers hadn’t heard the noise of the shutters being closed one by one.

Sitting down on the cry concrete steps, he imagined the route that Samantha and the others would have to take to get out of the city, and prayed that they would manage it without getting caught. Footsteps from down the tunnel broke his train of thought and he looked up.

“You’re here faster than I thought you would be,” Rider commented dryly.

There were six men in the quarantine suits, five of whom were carrying guns. The sixth stepped forward, his face partially hidden by the mask.

“Which way did they go, Kearny?”

Rider pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the closed tunnels. “That way.”

“Don’t be smart with me,” Agent Adams threatened. “Just tell us where they went and I might be able to get your sentence mitigated.”

Rider laughed hoarsely and made a big show of coughing. “Which one? Breaking out of police custody? Aiding and abetting known fugitives? Breaking quarantine? Or are you going to trump up some kidnapping charges?” Rider coughed again, enjoying watching the men with guns shift nervously.

“You aided in the spread of a disease, Kearny. There’s nothing I can do to help with that charge,” Adams pointed out. “You let potential carriers escape. But if you tell me where they went, I might be able to get the other charges dropped.” He approached and squatted in front of Rider so that they were eye to eye and a couple feet apart. “I don’t know what you said to get Miss Hart to go along with you,” he added quietly, “but rest assured that we will find her and her little entourage. It’s only a matter of time.”

Rider hacked up a gob of phlegm and spat it at the plastic mask of the suit. Adams flinched.

“And if I don’t talk?”

Adams gestured behind him to the other men. “Then they shoot you. Granted, the contamination would be a mess to clean up, but if you’re not going to talk then you’re not much use.” He pulled a tissue out of a large pocket on the suit and wiped the facemask off before putting the tissue in a biohazard baggie and sealing it up.

Rider thought about it. He had to buy them time to get away. He took a deep breath of the musty air in the tunnel and put his head between his legs while he hacked and coughed, flipping Adams the bird while he did.

Adams stood up and moved to the side, nodding. Rider quickly raised his head when he heard the click of safety being taken off.

“Take me in,” he said, throat raw. “I’ll take all the charges. Every single one. Escaping custody, breaking quarantine, kidnapping, aiding and abetting, outright treason, whatever you got. Lock me up in the infected wards or hand me back to the CDC guys. Doesn’t matter to me. But I’m not telling you where they went.”

“You severely underestimate how much political power Miss Hart has when she’s not with her father,” Adams pointed out. “And now that she’s gone, no one’s around to stop the military from sticking needles in you. The strain you’ve got is an impressively nasty one, from what I hear, and everyone’s just dying to know how you’ve survived so long with it.”

Rider laughed. “Dying. I get it. Funny.”

Adams smirked slightly. “Get up, Kearny.”

Rider sighed and got to his feet. “Sure. Where are we heading?”

“Does it matter?”

Rider thought about it. “I guess not,” he said finally. “I’m a dead man walking either way.”

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

Quidnose/Sebmojo Brawl

A story about revenge.

Getting Cut
500 words

The guard swung open the door and Simon stepped round him, walked down the corridor; his jandal-clad feet slapped on the wet concrete. Doggo was already in the gym, towel round his neck. He gave Simon a gaptooth smile.

“Chilson was talking poo poo about you, mate”

“Chilson’s a oval office.” Simon laid back on the bench and gripped the bar. “Ready?”

“One. Two. Three. Foooooour. You can do it. Five. Siiiiiiix. Fucken animal. You can do it… Seven.”

“Christ,” said Simon as he waited for the pain to pass. “That what you were pushing, Dog?”

“You’ll get there. Chilson said that chick? The murder down in the bays he’s on remand for? Says you’re related.”

“She was my cousin. We used to go down there for Christmases before I got my lag.”

“He’s sayin’ you hosed her, mate.”

Simon pulled two weights off the bar, let them drop onto the peeling carpet squares with a muffled clank. “He’s a shitrag. We were in remand together, couple of months back. He found I was related to Ella, from his lawyer, I guess.”

Doggo scratched a tattooed shoulder. “You reckon he did it?”

Simon could feel the Friday breakfast pie sitting heavy in his belly as he lay back again and squared his shoulders for the lift. “I asked him, actually.”

Doggo’s head was crudely shaved, little white caterpillars of scar tissue peeking out from a bristle of black fur. The caterpillars squirmed as he opened his eyes wide. “poo poo, mate. Did ya have it out?”

Simon ran his hands along the grips of the weight bar. “I’d just got into remand and I was keeping away from him. Walking away if he came up, not playing rugby in the yard. So; you know that rapist guy, Johns? One who keeps asking if you’ve got any female friends might want to visit? He took me aside and had a word. Said if I pissed him off too much Chilson might decide another murder wouldn’t change his sentence much.”

Doggo unscrewed his battered Schweppes Duet bottle and took a swig of water. “He’s right.”

Simon shrugged. “It was good advice. So next time I saw Chilson I went up and asked him if he did it. He had his buddies with them, Fatialofa and the little mean one.”

“And?” Doggo was leaning in. Prisons marinate in gossip, and he was soaking it up.

“Said no. But he couldn’t meet my eyes. Liar. oval office.”

“You got any tobacco?”

“Don’t smoke. We gonna do this?”

“Get me two of the big packets and I’ll stab him for ya.”

Simon pulled himself up from the bench. “Jesus Dog. I’m not gonna pay you tobacco to stab
someone. I –“

“I hate that oval office. Forget the tobacco. Just tell me to do it. Tell me. Say ‘stab him’.”

Simon opened his mouth to say something. His tongue ached, like it had been asked to lift more weight than it could handle.

Erogenous Beef
Dec 20, 2006

i know the filthy secrets of your heart

Blah blah time for another Word Bounty!

I harp a lot on vignettes. They irk me, because there's generally no closure, and I like closure. You could say I'm closure-minded. At least, that's what my ex called me.

Anyway, for this Bounty you're going to write a freeform vignette. I want a slice of weirdness from the depths of your brain. Entertaining words, beautiful language - that's what I want here. Pay attention to word choice, sentence lengths and cadences.

For inspiration, you will pick one of these mock writing prompts and execute upon it. Note which prompt you've chosen at the end of your entry.

Bounty: +50 word signup bonus. Additional +50/+100 words for good/exceptional entries.
Deadline: Noon German time on Sunday. That's 6 AM/3 AM Sunday morning, EST/PST.
Wordcount: Between 150 and 400 words, inclusive.

Same procedure as last time, Word Bounty in bold for my convenience, you can enter even if you haven't yet signed up this week, and I'll mock you if you enter and then wimp out on the main event.

Apr 12, 2006

Word Bounty
Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.

It is in my humble opinion that I could not bring you, my wife, to tears sorrowful or otherwise. Perhaps if I rained blows down upon your shapely skull or crushed your ancient, familial China under my boot might some semblance of an emotional response be invoked but even with such barbarous methods I have doubts.

You would undoubtedly disapprove of my daily dalliances to the river as frivolous frolicking but I find do some small measure of joy in spreading the gift of whole-grain loaves to the begging waterfowl. It was on one of these trips that I came across a most unusual sight: a marriage proposal betwixt two gentlemen. It was a peculiar affair, certainly, one large and distinctively African and the other slender, effete, and White. I spied their encounter behind the reeds, unable avert my eyes, and witnessed as the former went down on one knee and the latter burst forth a torrent of tears. There was no communication save for a nodding and a pressing together of lovers lips.

The two made love completely unaware of my presence some twenty feet away. Their impassioned sighs stirred something long dead inside of me and in that moment I realized you have made me as cold as you are. When have you ever shed a tear? I watched a man bawl like a newborn babe at the mere sight of a ring.

One could argue I married you because you were beautiful and I am leaving you because you are not. In truth, you are ugly, frigid, and uncaring and I might just be a homosexual. Our contemporaries at the church have long postulated that such inclinations are a choice and so, in the pursuit of happiness, I will give it the old college try. Perhaps I might find a joy in the hands of man that has for so long has eluded me in yours.

And so, dear, I cordially invite you to “eat a dick”, a phrasing I borrow from our unruly and deplorable offspring. I believe for them it is an insult and I use it as such for you. Personally, however, I must admit I am titillated at the prospect of doing so myself.

Mar 21, 2010

I'm not even entering this week and I don't know what a loving word bounty is you drat kid on my lawn but here's a story or something:

Erogenous Beef can go eat a dick
Write a story that begins with a man throwing handfuls of $100 bills from a speeding car, and ends with a young girl urinating into a tin bucket.

Money is nothing to the man. If his bones were stones they would grind where he walks and flowers would writhe beneath his feet. It is a last hurrah as he throws out the window and the bucket with the bills too, out the window to clonk some poor bastard who was busy picking up litter. The aforementioned Poor Bastard will die of massive cranial trauma, while Benjamin Franklin and the boys in green parachute down around him. They will come too late, as they always do. Hours later, after the faster vultures have taken the money back to their nests, a girl in a torn-pink salmon dress will come by the bucket. She will find a single portrait of dear Benjamin, torn in half, his enigmatic smile twisted by filth into a leer. She will put the bill in the bucket, then piss on it. She knows if she had money, it would bring her nothing but pain, but the half-found greenback taunts her all the more with its half-foundness. Her piss steams in the cold air. She tips the bucket out over the grassy shoulder, then walks whistling into the night.

[230ish words]

Mar 27, 2010



Word Bounty [137 words]
A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom.

There is magic here, so close. He itches for it. He only has to bend, low to the toilet seat, and snort from that thin, that lovely, that little white line. There is music in the air, the scent of urine all around, and the door opens and he hears shouts, he hears screams—

“You’re not taking that.”

“loving stop me, bitch!”

He doesn’t care. He’s past the point of no return. He’s not paid enough for to suffer screams. He laughs, bangs his head, lets the magic roll. It’s in his throat, (in his lungs? is that what he feels?) in his belly, spreading down.

“The TV? You can get to gently caress.”

He twitches his toes. They tingle. They itch. The magic spreads, and he laughs and laughs and lays his head on the toilet seat.

Aug 2, 2002

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

I'm not even entering this week and I don't know what a loving word bounty is you drat kid on my lawn but here's a story or something:

So Many Dicks For EBeef To Eat, But So Little Time

My father walks through the door for the first time in fifteen years. He still recognizes me, he can still make out the eight-year-old boy he once knew. Even beneath the beard, goggles, and facepaint.

“Son!” He half runs over to the table, tripping over an empty chair. It screeches on floor like nails on a chalkboard, and the patrons pause their conversations to look at us. He blushes and sits down across from me.

“I was so happy when you called.”

I take a sip of whiskey.

“It is you, right?” He looks down at my ID badge and nods. “I always knew you’d join. I could see it in your eyes the day you told me.”

Conversation has resumed in the bar, but the silence between us grows. He doesn’t know how to interact with me without a bottle and a belt.

“Why’d you call me here?”

I throw bills on the counter and stand up.

A tear rolls down my father’s cheek. “This isn’t funny anymore, son.”

When I had come home from school, told him I wanted to join the circus, he didn’t hit me. He just left.

“I’m a changed man, I support you now.”

I walk outside and climb into my cannon parked out front.

He falls onto his knees and begs me to crawl back out and talk to him. When I don’t he flops onto the ground like a newborn giraffe.

I slip my hand into my pocket. My fingers trace the single button. It’s red. I can’t see it, of course, but it’s the color of passion. Excitement. Danger. I push it.

His sobs are drown out by the boom of the cannon. The wind smudges my facepaint as I fly, and I don’t care if I ever land again.

[299 words]
Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.

Mar 21, 2010

A serene moment at the lakeside

Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and poo poo. Throw some birds in there, too.

Willard was a dullard, though everybody was too scared to tell him. The man looked like the offspring of a septic tank and a flatbed truck. When Willard said 'jump', you said 'yes', and then you jumped. Otherwise, he might punch you very hard.

“Fuckeen,” said Willard. He stopped, stared out over the lack, flicked his tongue out into the crisp morning air, then smiled. “Fuckeen crack'ead oval office.”

His attendant mass nodded sagely, taking this wisdom from their truckstop Buddha deep into their hearts. Somebody gave a shrill giggle, and was quickly silenced. “Whatever you say, Will,” said somebody; male, whiny, a little too fast. More giggles, then an aggressive bout of silence.

They were gathered at the lakeside. Will had willed it. They had brought the things he asked: several young eucalyptus trees, a bucket of pigshit, a crate of almost-dead doves, and a 24 gauge shotgun. He had been very specific on all four counts.

“Fuckeen, fuckeen put those trees down around here. Pour the fuckeen bucket on 'em so they fuckeen grow faster.”

This order was carried out with all due haste and no small amount of tripping over each other. Apparently satisfied with the result, Willard nodded. “PULL,” he said. A dove was hurled out over the water. The brief moment between leaving the cage and being filled with lead shot was the happiest moment of its imbecile dove life: even better than that time it shat on Vladimir Putin at the UN.

“PULL,” said Willard again. This dove was less cooperative. It had seen the fate that had befallen its imbecile dove friend, and though it didn't fully understand it, it wanted no part of it. Much to the dove's indignation, it had little choice in the matter: a grinning acolyte grabbed it around its fat chest and hurled it through the air. It exploded into a ball of drifting white, like an avalanche in a pillow factory.

Their group looked at the downward drifting feathers, then at Will.

“Fuckeen,” said Willard, nodding, “Fuckeen Erogenous Beef can eat a dick.”

All in all, it was a good day.

[390 words]

Mar 21, 2010

All my friends are chemicals

A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom.

It's the little things. Like, hands are really strange looking when you look at them, but not as strange looking as noses. Does anybody else see this? The mirror-me sees it, but he's also me, so he doesn't count. Man comes into the bathroom and starts going “aaaawooohukhukhuk” in the stall. I served him a steak earlier but he didn't want to eat it because it wasn't cooked enough. loving savage. I bet he burns his house down every night for warmth then dances in the ashes and builds it up again in the day. That's what savages do: I saw it on the TV.

His lady wife comes in and I'm like oooooooh gently caress because she's a lady and this isn't the ladies room and she's shouting about how she wants to jump his bones one last time and he's just going hukhukhuk like a cat about to make a bad on the carpet. What a weirdo. I bet he has hair on his underarms. She kicks down the door to the stall and I'm like oooooooh gently caress because if there's damage it comes outta our wages and she says “I love you,” and he says “I love you,” and they're all crying and it's weird because their noses and eyes get all big and moist. Noses are super weird, like the weirdest part of the body. Mine is all big too and itchy. It goes a hhnnnfffhnnnnffffhnnnfff when I sniff stuff.

“If I finish the steak,” he says, “that's it. It's the last thing we do together. I can't finish the steak, because that means it's really over.”

“You erogenous dick!” she says, “just eat the beef!”

[319 words]

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

The Groats of Starve-acre Farm
288 words

Tess looked up from the damp earth of the groat field and sighed, pushing an errant strand of hair away with one thumbless hand.

"Oh Master D'Urberville. I am fearful tired of workin' these fields, so I am. And I dislike the impingements you made upon my person. Might I come with you to the manor house and begin the life of leisure you have promised me?" In the misty distance a flock of chaffinch helmetshrike warblergrebes took flight over the green rolling downs of nineteenth century England.

Alec D'Urberville, libertine scion of the local manor house, laughed cruelly. "Why Tess," he said with a curl of his moustache. "Hahaha. Now that I have had my way with you I have no further interest in you. Also; you have no thumbs; gross." He leapt upon his gleaming black stallion and galloped away.

Tess collapsed and wept. She only opened her eyes when she heard a man coughing. It was a gentleman holding a telegram. "Madam!" he said. "You have won the England lottery!"

Two months later there was a knock at the door of libertine scion Alec D'Urberville's manor house. His butler opened it and in swept a great lady. Alec gasped at the sight of Tess of the D'Urbervilles, wearing the finest of clothes. "I have bought this manor house," she said, grandly, "and also bankrupted you. So get out or I shall have you arrested." She gestured towards the door and he gasped again at sight of her hand; in place of a thumb, she had a tiny bean made of pure gold with a "avenue value" of one million pounds.

Imagine if your favorite character from 19th-century fiction had been born without thumbs. Then write a short story about them winning the lottery.

sebmojo fucked around with this message at 00:51 on Nov 22, 2013

Nov 13, 2012

Pain is inevitable.
Suffering is optional.
Thunderdome is forever.

So uh I haven't entered this (or any other) week, but this Word Bounty thing sounds fun. Apologies for terrible.

Your Move, I Suppose (347 words)

“I told you about the winter.”

“Yes, Taranis.”

“I told you, didn't I?”

“Yes, Taranis.”

“What did I tell you?”

“You told me,” the man spoke slowly, as if chiselling the words out of ice deep in his oesophagus, “about the winter.” The men were looking at him ever stranger as the march dragged on. His was the last horse. “You've been telling me for the last three months. I think I have grasped the basic thrust of the argument: it centres on the local climate, which – if I recall correctly - you suggested would give us a frosty reception.”

“This isn't funny, you fool! If you had listened to me like you used to,well, let's just say you wouldn't be out here learning all about it first-hand. And maybe the second as well if you don't get a move on. 'Frosty reception', mon Dieu. For that alone I am glad you lost.”


Holding out a hand, some snow lifted off the ground and fell, upwards, into my palm: it boiled silently into gentle steam, the heat brushing his grateful face. “You should know better than to ask.”

“I mean... didn't 'we' lose?”

“Maybe when we get home you tell the people that the First Consul has been seeking my military advice - see where that gets you.”

“I see,” he says. I sigh. They say many body parts are the key to men's hearts, but I have never heard the cochlea mentioned in this regard (except as an entry point). Instead, I have to hear the accusation, its form not contingent on a profile view. I do not like what I hear.

“Shut up and ride,” I tell him, and lightly zap the meat skeleton beneath him for good measure. I know Dažbog for one will never let me forget this embarrassment. The smug bastard, that coward, sneak, hiding behind phenomenae like a thing! Hopefully I'm not the only one with discipline problems right now, because it's still all to play for.


Prompt: Choose your favorite historical figure and imagine if he/she had been led to greatness by the promptings of an invisible imp living behind his or her right ear. Write a story from the point of view of this creature. Where did it come from? What are its goals? Use research to make your story as accurate as possible.

Nov 3, 2010

Scoffing at modernity.

These Fragments
Your main character finds a box of scorched human hair. Whose is it? How did it get there?
(270 words)

It's burning, the Lilly is burning, throwing gouts of smoke from its roof to brown the sky, and I think of Lincoln's life mask melting into a pool of wax across Shakespeare's quarto. Somewhere in all that heat and rage the cylinders of music run. Wire scorches. Tape dissolves to cinders. I listen for the songs, but human voices drown them, and I wake.

I push through the doors, arms covering my eyes. The ash of forty thousand years presses itself to me. I suck it in as Audubon's birds lift themselves from pages on wings of red and gold. My hand reaches for a pelican, touches its beak and screams for the touching. There is the staircase. Down and down. Cool metal shelves, before they were molten. Clean light, before the bulbs shattered.

What history is in the air I breathe?

There is one thing I might save. A box. My hands crack against it. I fight the ghost of James Bond for the right to escape, and he is too busy elsewhere to have much power here. I cannot find the stair.

I am baptized in water filthy with treasures. Hands grab me, raise me up. I forget how to inhale on the way back to life; fists pound me until I remember. It isn't only the fire that sounds angry with me now.

But I have preserved the past. Do they see? I open the box: look, look. All Plath's hair, her mother's gift, scorched and stinking, loss and madness rescued while brilliance dies.

Meanwhile, Erogenous Beef saves diddly squat because he's busy eating dicks.

Mar 21, 2013


Grimey Drawer

In with Phlogiston and a Ditty

399 Words - it was 421 but then I learned to read.


The boat drifted to the shallows, coming to rest on the sparkling shore of the tree-lined lake. Timothy brought in the oars, smoothed his Oxford pants, and stood, his effortless ease and experience barely rocking the vessel. Samantha sat demurely, shaded from the late spring sun by her fringed white parasol, surreptitiously watching Timothy as he turned to step onto the shore, lowering her gaze to his Oxford clad curves while the birds sang dreams of summer.

Timothy braced himself against a gunwale, then lightly leapt to shore. When his foot landed, it slid slightly, curving inward as so to almost twist his ankle. A horrible smell arose as Timothy fought to keep his balance, and for a moment it seemed as if he might. But it was not to be, he carried on, slipping and falling flat to shore.

"Timothy!" said Samantha, aghast. "Are you all right? And what is that terrible odour?"

"Dash it all, " said Timothy. "I've slipped on some poo."

"No!" said Samantha. "Oh, how awful." She covered her mouth with a delicate glove to hide her unladylike smile.

Timothy stood up and began scraping his shoe on a nearby rock while wrinkling his nose. Completing that task as well as he could, he reached out a hand to Samantha. "All sorted. Now, please let me assist you ashore."

"It is safe?" asked Samanatha

"Assuredly," said Timothy, giving her a cheeky grin.

"Well, you're the captain." She rose, unsteadily, and accepted his proffered hand, placing her weight on it as she navigated the boatside in her long, white dress. She placed a single foot on the glistening shore and felt herself slipping. "Oh!" she cried as a rank pong permeated her nostrils. Gripping Timothy's hand even harder she tried to right herself, and he moved to catch her, but he put a foot too close to hers and began to slide in the opposite direction. Still clutching hands they both sprawled in tangled heap. The tree-lined shore that had looked so tantalising from the middle of the lake now seemed to be made primarily of dung, and everything, from Timothy's Oxfords to Samatha's beautiful white dress, was stained a foul light brown.

"Oh, Timothy," said Samantha, "I am covered in poo!"

"As am I," wailed Timothy.

"This is beastly," said Samantha, "I am not having fun."

A passing bird shat on her head.

Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and poo poo. Throw some birds in there, too.

Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 02:58 on Nov 22, 2013

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o'clock in the morning

Self-imposed Caveat: Write everything without editing into the Something Awful quick reply box instead of going through a word processor, in the hopes that people would think I'm relating my real life experiences. Forgo quality, if possible.

Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.

gently caress. He's kneeling down already. We're on high street, Christmas decorations out early in October, ho ho ho girls half my age standing at jewelery stores baring mid-riffs in the middle of a blizzard promoting Swavorski crystal Minnie Mouse skulls, and he has his knees on the loving ground. Slab he's on is some memorial to some old fart who came to town and drank some beer. It's not appropriate. He's not appropriate. What is the time?

"We could be so HAPPY," he was wailing. He's like a child. He's a baby. poo poo, I nearly had a baby with this guy. Is having a baby with a baby some kind of fetish somewhere? I should tweet that. Oh, poo poo. I seriously should tweet that. Gonna do that now.

"Stop using your phone," said baby. He has snot trailing down his nose. Reminder to self: nearly had baby with this guy. "I bought you that stop using it it's mine no it oh, oh god, I can't even look at you."

Speaking of looking, now I'm being looked at. Queen Bitch of gently caress Street. gently caress you, shitlords. Did you have a guy kneeling down in front of you today? Thought so. Oh, this guy is holding up a phone. Can he use his phone? I can't use mine because I'm not allowed to, have you heard. I probably should say something passive aggressive now.


Oh, is he filming this? I hope this goes on youtube. I hope you, baby, go on youtube.

"Why did you do it!" baby screamed. So cute. "Why did you tell everyone I sucked Erogenous Beff's cock!"

Cool, gonna get one million hits. Better blindtweet tv agents now. Oh, guy's still filming.

Smile and make a victory sign. Five million hits.

Why are you still here?

Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and poo poo. Throw some birds in there, too.

"We are birds!" he was yelling, "We are beautiful creatures of nature! Gaze upon this lake and its beautiful clear waters. Look at the mountains and the vista it promises! Look at the trees and the leaves! Look down on this poo poo on the ground! Look at the flies! Look at it! I am a bird! Birds bathe in poo poo! Join me!"

He jumps into the pile of poo poo and takes off his clothes. He's yelling at me. I can't. I'm not joining. The weather is dry and warm but my face is wet. He's my brother and I thought bringing him here camping would make it better. It's not, it's not, it's my fault I'm not stopping him from taking off his clothes and rubbing himself in some week-old animal poo poo. No, no, it's not my fault it's that girl who wrote on facebook he sucked Erogenous Beef's cock. It's my fault. It's not my fault. My eyes are hurting now. Would wiping them with my tears help?

Popular music is often a good source of writing inspiration. Rewrite Bob Dylan’s “Visions of Johanna” as a play.

Male 1: I have never listened to Bob Dylan.

Male 2: You are a philistine.

Male 2: You suck Erogenous Beef's penis.

(Male 1 bursts into tears and breaks guitar over Male 2's head. Male 2 suffers from serious head wounds, and dies in pain over several hours on a veterinarian's surgical table. Male 1 is arrested by the dog police, for hurting Male 2, who is a dog.)

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

Erogenous Beef fanfic will stop now no matter how delicious that meaty gentleman's turgid flesh popsicle might seem.

Suggestions he should eat an ISO standard barrel of penii may continue.


autism ZX spectrum
Feb 7, 2007

by Lowtax

Fun Shoe

beef should eat a shipping container full of dicks and nothing less

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