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As Nero Danced posted:
+5 points for that. Maybe even +10. Okay, so in an unfathomable gesture of generosity, I'm going to give the delinquent writers a grace period until whenever I wake up tomorrow. The forums were down earlier, and I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt that they live in a time zone where being awake right now would be very inconvenient.
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Aug 25, 2012 07:08
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I clicked all the way over to page 11 for some hardass thunderdoming and instead I see...an act of....mercy???? I see the judge's spiked and twisted throne has perhaps grown cushier.
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Aug 25, 2012 07:25
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Edit: I'm sorry for this stupid question I am not thinking Because I found it hilarious I'm reading the story by Wrageowrapper. It's a bit loud, so be careful. 
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Aug 25, 2012 07:35
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Norwegian bi male. Fell asleep while editing.  The Girl and the Sordid Pictures "It's actually kind of beautiful." I shouldn't be surprised, he doesn't know tact. "It's also someone dying, Wemusa." "That does not change the fact that it's beautiful. It's the core of it that matters, isn't it?" I ignore him, adjust the painkillers in my pod. The recording plays again. 30 000 frames for three seconds video. "It's like a flower," he says, "Or a growing tree." I'm forced to agree. The explosion spreads like petals, flames swim through the air, trace the warm gases like branches before they explode outwards. "Could I have done anything, Wemusa?" "What do you think?" I don't. Not much anymore. I haven’t moved a finger in ten years, and everything I see is through other eyes. And somehow I find a way to be the most effective PI in Kampala. But I couldn’t stop this, and I watched it through his eyes, the blast as it happened I watch my partner die once more, turn off the recording. "We've found a new one,” says Wemusa. "That’s quick. What's he like." "She is," the pause is palpable; I can tell he thinks I won't like this, "Interesting." "She?" "New experience, eh? You'll get used to it." "And 'Interesting'?" "She's quite different from, well, anyone in Uganda probably." Sometimes I hate Wemusa. Some times for his strange ideas, and sometimes because he's just too different. He laughed when I told him my father had died. He saw a joke in there, but never explained it. - Mending is like jumping out of a plane. At first, the wind rushes past as every single inch skin is routed to my pod. I can feel for the first time in three weeks, and it's overwhelming. The sound of everything is the roaring; computers, breathing, heartbeats. Then it's the sudden pull back to normal, and the slow descent to the surface. And I'm back where I used to be, where I'll never be. I realize I miss a smoke and a tumbler of something strong. The first words that meet me are "gently caress." "Nice to meet you too." "No, gently caress. I can't get this loving thing to work." I realize she speaks out loud. Through her eyes, I can see Wemusa smile nervously. Any other man would be offended by now, but Wemusa is just too clueless. "You do know how subvocalization works?" "I've never done this before, how should I?" I realize this is one time I hate Wemusa, stiff smile as he stares at a cabinet. "Do you smoke?" "If I have to." "Go outside, take a smoke." She disconnects the USB cable from hi-jack and does as I say. Unsteady, normal for the new ones. God drat it Wemusa. My previous partner refused to smoke, and the vague memory which fills me when she savors the taste, is indescribable. I imagine I lean back and close eyes. Almost feels real. "Quietly, what's your name?" "Namono," she says, startled. No sound escapes her lips. "See? Unconscious, unthinking." I feel a smile. - Wemusa slides an address over to Namono's display. She scoffs, "Nightclub? So cliché." "The computer labs are in the cellar. That's where Cruise is." "And how do propose we get in?" "You're a beautiful woman, I'm sure you'll figure something out." Halfway through the sentence he's started laughing. A short laugh, just a few seconds. Then his expression changes from a goofy smile to a terrified frown, back to goofy and finally an intensely neutral expression. He stares at the cabinet again. Namono shrugs, "I think we can finish this quite quickly." "That depends on Cruise," I say. - Middle of the day is not party time. The bouncer notices Namono when she's fifty feet away, and he yells something. "A what?" she says. "Get closer, I'm not sure he's all there." The bouncer looks like he has downs syndrome, taken from a home and pumped full of behavioral modifications. Immoral and wrong, but that’s not an issue to everyone. "We're closed for you," he says and wags a finger. "Tell hi-" Before I have time to finish, she's on turbo. Lost purses, stupid friends and everything. She has the most annoying voice, and I can see it's tearing at the bouncer. In the end, he practically has to throw her into the club. She blows him a kiss and walks into the darkness. "That's the kind of guys you'd go for?" "I don't go for guys, or girls, for that matter.” "Well see, we have something in common." She continues in. We realize Cruise is not subtle, as dubstep-core blast through a metal door below us. Half a minute with the electronic lock and I've opened the door for us. The music overwhelms her senses, but I'm able to phase it out. "Straight ahead, I can hear a keyboard." "How the hell do you do that?" "Two brains on one pair of ears is an advantage." She opens the next door and walks into the den. Three heads turn as one. The one with the unflattering bare chest, practicing nunchucks at a boxing bag walks over at a brisk pace. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" Teeth so clenched I'm worried they'll break, ample belly almost touches her, and he stares us straight in the eyes. It takes a while before she answers, but she stares right back. "I'm here to discuss business." On the other side of the room, the fat man in a business suit gestures to the last man in the room, a white man surrounded by screens. He gestures back, and I realize its sign language. The businessman looks towards us. "Cruise wishes to talk to you." His voice is high pitched, but perfectly British. I notice no Adam’s apple. She walks over to him, and Cruise looks at her through beady eyes. Albino, not white. "He also wishes to know if you are here on behalf of someone." "Private Eye, representing the Bryson family." Cruise turns away and brings up something on a screen. I can feel Namono recoil. I've seen it before. The businessman smiles. "I assume this is the reason you're here?" "We want every copy of those pictures destroyed." "And why should we?" "The Bryson family is willing to pay you handsomely." We study their faces, "Nope," she subvocalizes. "... But if you decline the payment, the family can make your life a living hell. This is simply the best option for all." We continue watching them, they say nothing. "Nope." After at least a minute's silence, she moves towards Cruise. I can sense something awkward in the movement. She brushes his arm. In her eye's corner, I can see the businessman growing skeptical, and the bare chested one moves closer. "Then again, we can add something to the deal." Cruise smiles. I can sense an object in her hand. She straddles him and brushes a hand on a console behind him. The object is gone. She leans closer to Cruise, and whispers loud enough for the businessman to hear her. "Just tell me what you want." Cruise grins like an idiot; it's obvious what he wants. She feels nothing, and I'm grateful for it. Another movement from her hand and the object is back. The room is silent as Cruise puts a hand on her leg. And then a knife as the scorpion whip pins that hand to a computer cabinet. She manages a headbutt as the bare chested man sprints towards her. I can feel something now; excitement. She slides off Cruise's lap, spins and ducks a swing from the nunchucks. A quick right jab to his testicles precedes a firm grasp and twist with the left hand. She rises, as he is forced down, and an explosive push embeds his head in a screen. Cruise is still screaming silently, but a snap kick to the nose shuts him up. The far man in the suit emits a high-pitched scream and starts running. She rips the knife from Cruise's hand and tosses it on the run, planting it right behind the businessman's left knee. He falls to the ground, and as she reaches him, she drops to smash him with her elbow. I can almost taste the sound as his head rebounds from the floor. - She walks out past the bouncer, wishing him a good day. "Is this something you do often?" I say. "More often than people like." I savor the joy she felt in the fight. "I can get used to it." - The virus does a good job, and the Carson family is pleased. Wemusa is to thank for the virus, he's not all bad. I mend with a skydiver for a day. It's expensive, but they paid well. Afterwards, we hit the town. She smokes three packs and drinks more than she should. I take advantage of our two brains and we use it to figure out just how clueless most people out here are. Kampala is hit with a rare rain, and the streets are dark and wet. Streetlights become fuzzy outlines and people disappear. People always disappear; it's why we get work. She walks down the street and I realize we’re thinking the same thing. Waiting for a new case, a new body. A new reason for a strong drink.
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Aug 25, 2012 11:48
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Fanky Malloons (dramatic reading only) I didn't actually say I would do one for sure, it was merely a possibility that turned out not to be possible because all my free time this week was eaten up by mangy sharks.
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Aug 25, 2012 12:27
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Word count is 1555 by the way, I don't think I should edit the post. Also, volume is low, but I haven't configured my mic for the new computer yet. Charity Case by Sitting Here because it's cool beans. 
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Aug 25, 2012 12:28
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Can I just say that you sound so very chill and the low volume actually adds excellent atmosphere? Because you sound so very chill and the low volume actually adds atmosphere.
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Aug 25, 2012 12:38
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As a judge, I'm disqualified -- but I put in the effort to finish this goddamn thing after three false starts. It won't win any beauty contests. The Last Resort I don’t do cold. That feeling when your toes won’t thaw? When the wind whips across your eyes, dragging tears out the wrong corner, and they freeze on your temples? Yeah, no. My toes are made for the sand and my tears are for the departed. So when I tell you that only one thing could drag a Windward Island gyal like myself up to an English ski resort in the middle of the French Alps, you might want to take my word. You remember Holly Anderson? That low-res shot on the news, cropped to extract her from the rest of her herd of Alabama sorority sisters–-some of whom were with her the night she went missing from the Gold Bar in Marigot, on the island of Saint-Martin. Five-foot-two, blonde and blue; adieu, cherie, adieu, doux-doux. How about Olivia Brooks? Nine years old, green dress, all grin teeth even with the braces? Disappeared on the way home from school on the same island about a month earlier? No bells? I’m not surprised. The media—-American, British, French, Dutch—-they were hunting lost white girls that spring and summer, and Olivia was too dark to mention. My niece wasn’t the story they wanted to sell. My commandant wouldn’t let me work her case and he wouldn’t let me near the press conferences. I tried talking to the news producers. “Such a tragedy, we’re so sorry--anything new on the Anderson case?” They’d long since gone when, four years later, a group of nudists found her half-buried skull in the waters off of Orient Beach, caved in by a blunt instrument. My mother wrapped her VW Golf around a telephone pole on the way home from identifying her granddaughter’s remains. You know who cared? The life insurance company. They wanted to prove she did it on purpose, but the sharp trails of burnt rubber indicated otherwise. Tears, said the M.E.; her collar was soaked with them. She reached for a tissue at the exact wrong moment. I had them interred in the family vault. My mum next to my dad, Olivia next to her mother, Camille. After making a few discrete copies of items in Olivia’s case file, I quietly resigned from the gendarmerie. Kicked my girlfriend out of my condo. Got down to business. I spent a year going over witness statements, casualty ward admissions, airline and cruise passenger lists, Harbor Master’s records, and hotel registries. I pared down my lists, cutting the very young and very old, the hospitalized, the tourists who were running for the docks or waiting in the terminal at Princess Juliana when Olivia vanished. I looked at the neighbors, my former colleagues, my extended family, the dirty old man at the end of the row who stared a bit too long at the schoolgirls. The process of elimination was slow. Spent the next year running skip traces on the likelies. The businessmen, the gamblers, the overnighters. Background checks on the locals-–even the ones I’d known my whole life. Had to freelance for a local P.I. to pay for the work. Got to know some unsavory fellas well enough to ask advice. Then, in October, I got to know Remy Ballieux. Belgian, mid-forties. Tax records showed investment income averaging two hundred thousand euros annually. He rented a villa that spring on Grand Case Bay. He left for St. Thomas the day after Olivia disappeared. I made some calls. Two little girls went missing from Charlotte Amalie that summer. One was abducted by her father after a custody hearing didn’t go his way, but the other was never found. I pieced together his past decade’s adventures as best I could. Curaçao, Santo Domingo, Port-au-Prince, Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, São Paulo, Bangkok, Bali, Jakarta, Manila, Trondheim, Ibiza, Tenerife, Mallorca, Cannes, Monaco, Morocco, Dubai, Banff, Aspen, Disneyworld. I scoured the online archives of the local papers—-the ones I could read, anyway--for mentions of missing kids during his stay. Every single time. The few bodies recovered had heavy cranial damage. Could be a coincidence, sure. But when I found the property title for his Alpine chalet and saw that the utility bills jumped every December, I started saving for a long Christmas abroad. # He’s all the way on the other side of the restaurant, sweating in the fireplace’s glow, tucking into a raclette, scooping up cheese with thin slices of jambon cru. Even if I didn’t know about him and his appetites, watching that fat bastard shovel an avalanche of cholesterol into his mouth would still make me sick to my stomach. But I guess you don’t need to worry about your arteries when you ain’t got a heart. I’ve been tailing him around Méribel for a week. It’s hard being inconspicuous—-I stand out like a lone flake of poivre gris in a salt factory. There’s no issue with keeping up with the mark. He can’t go a block at this altitude without panting like an asthmatic bulldog. He leans over his walking stick, gulping the thin air, sometimes reaching into his boot to rub his leg. The fact that I spent so long chasing a man who can barely walk was only a laugh on the first day. Watching him eat makes me want to scream. I barely keep it together long enough to “l’addition?” the waitress, pay, and get to my rented panel van up the lamp-lit road. It’s deadly cold inside. Beating seven shades of poo poo out of the steering wheel doesn't warm me up at all. I start the engine and turn on the radio while it warms up. A few seconds of blippy techno, then the deejay announces that grand mauvais temps are heading our way. The storm should hit shortly before midnight. I have to approach the chalet from the back. I can’t have Ballieux spotting boot-prints leading up to and through his front door. Getting in is easy. Our man stocks his icebox past capacity and hangs the excess out the kitchen window. Tonight, as usual, he forgot to thumb the lock. I throw my duffel bag through before climbing inside. The place is cozy but impersonal: No photos, no souvenirs, no indication of a personality. No record of kids missing from the area, either, so at least he knows better than to poo poo in his own nest. I wait in the dark living room, squeezing my old collapsible baton. After two hours, I wonder if he had a cardiac arrest on his way home from the restaurant. The wind picks up outside. Midnight isn’t far off when the outer door bangs open and he squeaks “Merde!” over the sound of the tempest. It takes him an age to unwrap himself in the foyer, even longer to remove his boots, and when he finally opens the living room door I pong him hard up the side of his head before he can turn on the lights. He’s too fat to lift onto the kitchen chair, so I slide it under him. I go to peel off his left sock and have a bad moment when the foot comes off with it. I take off his trousers to get a better look; his leg ends mid-shin in a knot of scars, bruised from supporting his weight on the prosthetic foot. Ten minutes later, he’s vertical, naked, plasticuffed, and ratchet-strapped to the stout chair. A straightened wire hanger glows red on the stove’s front burner. Ballieux wakes up when I stuff the sock in his mouth. He tries to spit it out, but I’m faster with my roll of duct tape. The rip-pop-squeal it makes as I wrap it three times around his head is oddly satisfying. His muted protests, doubly so. I lean in close to his red ear, so close that my breath waves the tufts of white hairs inside, and whisper, “Bonjour, ya mudda skunt.” I move around so I can look him in the eye for this next part. Oh, he mad, though. Trying to sell me wolf tickets with his stare. I hold up the first picture: Olivia in her last Christmas pageant, dressed in a white choir robe. He looks, then looks back at me without a flicker of recognition. I wonder for a split-second whether I’ve got the wrong fella. I hold up the next photo: Olivia in her school uniform, flashing her braces at the camera. There. Just a twitch, but something clicked. I pull the last card from my deck: Olivia’s skull in profile on a stainless steel table, cracks spreading from a hole about the size of a guilder, braces with bits of seaweed stuck in them. His eyes bulge. He shakes his head frantically. He’s doing his best impression of an innocent man. But he keeps looking at the picture. “Oh, you like that one, eh?” More head shakes. I hold up the first pic again. Boredom falls like a curtain. Switch to the evidence shot. Sudden interest. Maybe a soupçon of pride? I hold up his cane. “You did it with this?” The head shake no, but the eye say yes. I grab a tea towel from the counter, wrap it around the cool end of the wire hanger, and wave the wisp of red metal before his eyes. He screams through the gag. "You ask her name?" He's not even listening. He's fixated on the wire. I give him a taste right below his eye. He hollers. "Listen good, now," I say. "Her name was Olivia." I tag his forehead with the hanger. "Olivia. Got that?" Eyes squeezed shut, he nods like his neck was a spring. I put the hanger back on the burner and pull the folder out of my bag. His eyes are still closed. I slap him. "You want to pay attention," I say. He opens his eyes. I hold up the next picture, printed from the V.I. Daily News website. "Her name was Gwendolyn. Remember her?" He stares back, the hate trying to edge out his fear. I show him the stack of pictures, almost an inch thick, then reach back for the hanger. “Don’t fret, now,” I say, as he strains against the straps, “we got aaaaall night.”
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Aug 25, 2012 12:43
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Jesus loving christ, the girl was supposed to be otherkin. I'm reading my first draft right now, and I realize I've completely forgotten to add that. Derp.  toanoradian posted:Can I just say that you sound so very chill and the low volume actually adds excellent atmosphere? Because you sound so very chill and the low volume actually adds atmosphere. You can say that, and it makes me quite happy. 
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Aug 25, 2012 16:10
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Black Griffon posted:Word count is 1555 by the way, I don't think I should edit the post.  This is the best. I agree your voice is chill as hell and this is awesome. edit:n I'm also imagining you as very dashing based on your voice, accent, and the fact that you thought my story is cool. Edit edit: wrageowrapper, your story made me laugh and I'm glad someone did a reading of it. You have a really fun writing voice that is really absurd (in the awesome way) and I guess I just wanted to say I've enjoyed reading all of your submissions. But uh, down with careposting, all hail thunderdome etc.
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Aug 25, 2012 18:52
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Okay, so I've been up since 1200 EST, and nobody else has posted anything. Genetic Toaster and Hat Thoughts failed miserably. Then again, so did I. I was going to post my piece in here but it's already almost 2000 words and I'm not cutting it. I'm giving it some more time and work and I'm going to use it as my entry in the August CC Fiction contest because I never bothered to write my original idea for that. And, back to THUNDERDOME talk.  Submissions are officially closed, three and a half hours ago. Erik Shawn-Bohner, budgieinspector, and I will begin reviewing the literary spew and make our judgments. May the God/Goddess have mercy on your immortal double souls.
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Aug 25, 2012 20:33
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Awful quiet around the 'dome... I started MS painting my alt entry, Dragonum PI (a purple non-cis dragonoid pansexual ethno-queer detective) but work keeps happening.
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Aug 26, 2012 04:54
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I had a lot of fun with this prompt, I hope I didn't gently caress it up too badly.
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Aug 26, 2012 06:21
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wish it was next week already
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Aug 26, 2012 11:44
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Zip posted:wish it was next week already Yep. I enjoyed this prompt a lot. Was a bit puzzled by the number of people who ignored the rules and hoped for judge-mercy. What thread have they been reading? The judges of the Thunderdome are fashioned from bile, loathing and rusted razor-wire.
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Aug 27, 2012 00:08
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But in this week there's a tiny amount of mercy, done by extending the deadline. This doesn't bode well for the sake of the future weeks of the 'Dome. Clearly what we need now is an especially cruel prompt with very tight deadline and stricter rules.
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Aug 27, 2012 00:22
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On the contrary, I think their mercy is used up. There's only so much they've got per week and the extension burnt it all away. Be afraid.
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Aug 27, 2012 00:39
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:On the contrary, I think their mercy is used up. There's only so much they've got per week and the extension burnt it all away. Be afraid. Never mistake tactical allowances for mercy.
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Aug 27, 2012 01:38
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Do not mistake kindness for weakness.
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Aug 27, 2012 02:24
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Anyone ready to hear the final outcomes? We've got a big ole tasty result dangling from a string right above you. All you gotta do is jump up and get it.
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Aug 27, 2012 02:25
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Aug 27, 2012 02:38
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Nah, we don't want yer darn results. We just wanna hold hands and sing kumbaya like a buncha pansies. Long live Thunderdome.
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Aug 27, 2012 02:43
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 I'm worried.
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Aug 27, 2012 02:44
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Gimp -> Bumper -> MotherfuckersSitting Here posted:
Well, with the Norwegians in the media recently, I shouldn't be surprised.  Oh, wait. gently caress!
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Aug 27, 2012 02:47
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kangaroojunk posted:Nah, we don't want yer darn results. Results now delayed until the sting from this comment goes away. My feelings are hurt, and I need time for the wound to heal. Feel free to thank your comrade for freeing you from the burden of immediate gratification. Ignorance is bliss, knowledge is burden, obedience is freedom.
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Aug 27, 2012 02:54
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God drat it it's 4AM over here. Someone get a chainsaw or something.
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Aug 27, 2012 02:58
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:My feelings are hurt, and I need time for the wound to heal. How can I sustain my belief that you are all metallic cyborg overlords now? edit: also what happened to the name Nautatrol RX?
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Aug 27, 2012 03:05
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Oh just post the loving things.
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Aug 27, 2012 03:06
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So, first we'll start with the news: Stuporstar is currently ascending Mt. Fuji seeking a higher plane of existence, and she has stated that she has "brought a Pringles can, a 9V battery, and some wire" to attempt contact with her home planet, but it should also work for the occasional post here, so we can look forward to that this week. Coincidentally, Martello was walking down the street and was lured by the scent of Soppressata into a raccoon trap and will be on display at the Children's petting exhibit at the Bronx Zoo for the foreseeable future. We've filed the paperwork to give him limited internet access and get him released, but he will also not be judging this week. That leaves one gap for a judge this coming week besides the winner and myself. According to the dice I've just rolled, HiddenGecko will be the temporary replacement. Now, on to the winners: For exemplary service as a maritime knitter, sebmojo is awarded this week's win. For having urinated in the corner while repeating the phrase, "I'm not drunk, bro" at a house party, Chairchucker shall be doing the walk of shame as this week's loser. sebmojo: Tell us how you'd like to communicate. Chairchucker: Await your doom.
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Aug 27, 2012 03:35
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Is it my fault I love soppressata? 
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Aug 27, 2012 03:42
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These are my comments on all ya'll stories. Enjoy. Bodnoirbabe - "Control Within" I like to imagine what you were doing in week two--downing small cubes of mozzarella cheese as you scrolled down the thread. Over time, your stomach bulged with a lactose pregnancy. By the time Week 3 arrived, your mind shivered with bead-sweat fever dreams, the masticated and acid-worn ball of browning curds pounding at the back door until, finally, you birthed an extruded pipe that coiled (or, at least, I like to think) into the crude facsimile of The Venus de Milo. Looking upon your labors, o-ring whistling in the wind, you knew your work was not done and thus set about carefully sculpting this mass into a more perfect form of that gave true representation to that mental image that brewed from the belly up into your mind. Tirelessly slaving, the work never felt completed, and in a fit of despair, you smashed the fecal wonder with a page, scanned it into your computer, and posted what symbols it had divined from the smears into this thread. Judgment: I hate fanfics. Chairchucker - "I Still Get Paid, Right?" He said "Dame." What a perfect metaphor for the kyriarchy: a gross little white-man Napoleon barking slurs against a real minority, women, and greedily rubbing his tiny, filth-covered paws while he cracks the whip against the back of the unfortunate "low-class" workers of color while shuffling papers and taking all the credit, unabashedly, for their labors in acquiring him more wealth over the death of others. God, I could only be more mad if this was made into a video game. Judgment: I hate small hands. areyoucontagious - "Heart of Darkness" So, you decided as Mr. Mighty Whitey to promote among African men and women smoking and drinking in a region already suffering from lack of education on multiple health issues. I guessing it's because you have money invested in the tobacco and alcohol industries and want to "tap this fresh market" (they're people, you monster) to its fullest extent. Get'm hooked while they're young--yeehaw! I have three pages of tumblr links I will be PMing you shortly that explain how your imperialism is crushing Africa. Judgment: I hate reused titles. Wrageowrapper - "Special Forces: The Case Of Nia'Tufus Head" While I respect your right to use the "R-word" and use special needs characters in your stories, it was specifically mentioned that you should not write about characters that share your personal experience as it's not fair to the other contestants. I've spoken with the judges, and we agreed that this should not be a disqualifying factor as we did not offer assistants to contestants with special needs, and that would have been especially important for this contest. We offer you our most sincere apologies, and we will rectify this situation immediately. Judgment: I hate Wallaby-speak. Seldom Posts - "Gin and Blood" I find it very disturbing that you've found fit to write this blatant hate-piece otherizing an entire class of people. Is it really that difficult for you to realize that alcoholics are people deserving of love and happiness just as much as the rest of humanity? Do you think that alcoholics sit down and make the choice, "Oh, I'm going to be an alcoholic from now on. It sounds great being an ostracized member of society deprived of the same life experiences as others." People don't choose that, and telling them to "just quit" and change themselves because of something they're born with is an awful, cruel answer. Judgment: I hate Rands. As Nero Danced - "No Coming Back" This was a chilling story of how oppressive law enforcement and social pressures force innocent people into lives of crime, but it's telling that you didn't address the Guyanian prison-industrial complex that caused those poor men to be forced into a life of murder. Is this story your way of approving the choices of the upper-crust elites siphoning wealth to the point that they leave the average citizen destitute and incarcerated? Judgment: I hate banks. HiddenGecko - "The Cave Bear and the Lion" What a fantastic animal-gore story you've written here. Your protagonist literally lines his sickening home with the flesh of animals he's murdered, and he does it in excess. This viewpoint on animal rights is, quite frankly, troglodytic. That you could so easily wave flaunt this carnage without even a single thought or by-note regarding the sanctity of life itself is telling of you as a writer and a human being. Judgment: I hate fur. Bad Seafood - "Brittle Butterfly" I just love (irony voice) how your protagonist is too cowardly to come out with xis gender identity to provide a positive example of strength to others who suffer from persecution, thus setting back the rights of everyone. It's really great that you took the time to write all of that out to reinforce in the minds of young people in a troubled region that they should hide their true selves from society. Judgment: I hate smokers. kangaroojunk - "After the Promise" Children are the future, aren't they. That's what everyone says. What about those who can't or won't have children? Do you think they are lesser beings just because they either chose to not reproduce and add to the overpopulation of their species or otherwise can't? I can't see what possessed you to so rabidly push the idea that everyone must produce litters of children. Perhaps you should read into adoption and maybe try encouraging the solution to the problem rather than the cause of it. Namaste. Judgment: I hate maggots. Honey Badger - "Ghost" Carlos Rossi is the very symbol of oppressionist corporatism, slinging vast quantities of cheap ethanol to keep the proletariat drunk and complacent. Your dreams of a future where the poor guzzle gallons of mind-altering dreck while the rich sit atop their towers, looking down on us will not come to pass, and when the revolution comes, you will be the first against the wall. Judgment: I hate Sangria. sebmojo - "Lion, in the rain." Perhaps referring to Thai people as "monkey-footing" is acceptable when you're sitting around with your friends remembering the glory days of the All Blacks, but in civilized conversation, such references are not polite. I've researched your culture extensively through repeated viewings of the documentary Black Sheep, so I don't judge you for the misunderstanding, but I just thought you should be made aware of it. Judgment: I hate uncapitalized titles. Canadian Surf Club - "Inuition" Oh, great. More typical Canadian demonizing of Sikhs as an evil, violent people. Of course it's the Sikh acting as the evil henchman driving a bulldozer over the hopes and dreams of people. You might as well have casted a legion of Sikhs as terrorists looking to detonate a nuclear explosion on the icecaps unless the world ponies up ten billion dollars in gold. Judgment: I hate snow. Noah - "Pineapple Fields" Pro-ana? Really? You decided to write a pro-ana story about your imagined paradise of people starving to death and shooting plumes of feces and vomit until their clothes hang on them "like in a closet"? I expected so much more of you than to encourage people to waste away until they die a painful death, but as we can all clearly see, my expectations and hopes were misplaced. Judgment: I hate trucks. SurreptitiousMuffin - "Bring-your-daughter-to-work day" Sometimes, pauses get pregnant. I bet you think that pause was fat, sweaty, and ugly. You know, you're a total creep. That pause was beautiful and glowing, and if you had just had the presence of mind to use a little protection, maybe that pause wouldn't feel so hurt and abandoned when you freaked out and ran off. Good job, Muffin. REAL good job. Judgment: I hate hyphens. Sitting Here - "Charity Case" I take offense at your obvious bias towards blind people from Veneto. Also, referring to the visually impaired as "blinds" is outlandishly insensitive, and you should feel bad for sinking to those depths. I seem to recall some other people in Italy who only thought about Italy and were rather cruel to people different than them. They were called fascists, Sitting Here. They were fascists. Judgment: I hate pet names. Jonked - "Cracolândia" You mentioned the Gaza Strip in your story, and I think it would be prudent for you to create a thread in GBS so we can discuss this topic in detail. Perhaps through our cooperation on the forum, we can all put our heads together in a reasoned debate to come up with a solution. Please keep us updated on the status of this coming thread. Judgment: I hate accent marks. Autumncomet - "A Newer Generation" Woman on woman violence is a very serious matter that doesn't receive nearly enough attention, and I am very disappointed that you've included it here in such a flippant matter. Statistically, it can happen between women living together as early as the third or fourth date. While you had a platform to address that, you chose not to. Shame. Judgment: I hate fiddling. Capntastic - "Cardboard Wings" Cardboard wings. What a great idea. Not only will they not serve any functional purpose, they'll also rape the poo poo out of some trees condomless (Assange-style) for absolutely no reason except to poo poo on mother earth. Why don't you just pour some toxic waste in the river upstream from an impoverished African village while you're at it. God, you suck. Judgment: I hate busses. toanoradian - "Cord" While you point out that the baby had been burned by the fires of hell, you failed to mention that the very same baby grew up to be Dio. This is a major oversight that I feel cheapens the true emotional impact. Also, umbilical cords in literature are a symbol of the patriarchy anchoring women to their offspring and therefore casting them as a baby factory. Judgment: I hate coffee. bigmcgaffney - "Lionel Messi’s Righteous Left Foot" "Our local teenagers are weak, probably still nursing off their mother’s tits." So what's wrong if a mother wants to breastfeed her teenagers? It's natural, healthy, and it's her body so you shouldn't tell her how to use it. Just because you're the BIG MAN and think you know what's best doesn't mean you should go around judging women based on her choices. Judgment: I hate feet. Black Griffon - "The Girl and the Sordid Pictures" Dubstep is a gateway drug to rape and murder, and you as a writer should never write about it in a positive light in case there are children reading. There's a little thing called social responsibility, Black Griffon, and you would do well to remember that. Judgment: I hate viruses. budgieinspector - "The Last Resort" I hate you. Judgment: I hate you.
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Aug 27, 2012 03:43
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Finally, week III is over! This was the hardest week so far and I've had unusually low expectation of my story. At least I am still among those faceless masses. Also you three judges have different way of telling us your judgement and I appreciate that. Long live Dome.
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Aug 27, 2012 03:51
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This was the best Thunderdome. Would subject myself to again.
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Aug 27, 2012 03:52
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I think he liked my story.
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Aug 27, 2012 04:08
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The Gaza Strip refers to a particularly big shantytown of crack addicts in Rio, not the actual occupied territory. Expect an in-depth GBS post about the issue of addiction involving inner-city communities and marginalized groups that will totally not turn into a pile of poo poo soon!
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Aug 27, 2012 04:39
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:For exemplary service as a maritime knitter, sebmojo is awarded this week's win. That's - surprising and awesome. (reaches down to fresh corpse of fallen foe, daubs blood over bare chest, howls to roaring crowd) ALL HAIL THUNDERDOME
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Aug 27, 2012 05:08
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Did not lose! Woo! Take that, all-those-people-who-said-I-would-lose-at-every-single-competition-I-would-ever-participate-in-ever!
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Aug 27, 2012 05:20
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Well done, sebmojo! For the record, "Gin and Blood" by Seldom Posts was my favorite, with "Lion, in the rain" a close second. However, the gaping plot hole at the beginning of "Gin and Blood" knocked it down a few pegs. How can you smell gin on a corpse but can't tell it's not really a corpse?  I finally finished my entry. It weighs in at a butch 6100 words, so I posted it in the August Creative Fiction Extravagoonza instead. I had originally wanted to call it "Lezzies in Jewland," but I thought that might not be prudent and titled it "Babes, Bulldykes, & Bullets" instead.
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Aug 27, 2012 05:23
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Also, congrats sebmojo! Who's a jolly good fellow which nobody can deny? If you guessed sebmojo, you'd be right.
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Aug 27, 2012 05:24
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Martello posted:Well done, sebmojo! My favourite was 'Take your daughter to work day' by Surreptitious Muffin. Because that pregnant pause line was come the gently caress on, awesome. Behind the scene discussions in dark smokey rooms are being arranged, and I have a a 1.25 litre PET bottle of drained lymphatic fluid and mercy sitting by my side. So expect none from me is what I'm saying. Lymph ... or mercy. Should have the new prompt by this time tomorrow.
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Aug 27, 2012 05:43
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