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Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW
Hey Swinemaster! Good to have you with us. Your pig in high heels story was the first one I critiqued in the old daily writing thread soon after I joined the forum. That was a pretty legit story by the way. I think you'll fit right in here.

Cool AARC story by the way.


May 22, 2004


I'll have a go. Old people are fun.


Oh My Darling - 775 words

The two fossils eyed a sleeping woman through the one way mirror, as they had done for the last eight years. One was dressed in a beige suit, the other in a Nazi uniform.
"Is it time?" wheezed Maximilian, pupils glassy with cataracts.
"Soon." said Sergei, massaging his rough hands. He'd once used them to strangle a rottweiler, now he could barely open a pill bottle. The hundred year old woke up and began to laugh.

Maximilian entered the room, a simulacrum of a nineteen fourties bedroom. A wireless played Django Reinhardt, audio cues for the spy.
"Hello darling. How are you today?" said Maximilian.
"Hello my love. I just had the strangest dream."
"Yes, that the Allies won the war. They drove tanks to the Reichstag and started to shoot. And I was there and could not scream."
"Ha. Then we are lucky it was but a dream." said Maximilian, taking off his captain's hat before kissing her lightly on the forehead.
"How is the fuhrer?"
"Magnificent. In fact he wanted me to ask you something." said Maximilian slowly. This was always the tricky part.
"Yes?" said the woman, moving beneath the off-white sheets.
"He wondered if you could remember any of the account numbers you put the gold in? He wants to commission a statue of Eva you see. As a surprise."
"Oh, I couldn't say dear. Those numbers were so long."
"Try. For your fuhrer." smiled Maximilian. He watched the old woman closed her eyes, as she had done countless of times before, and attempted to remember.
"Well...there was some stored at the Swiss National...let's see now..." she said, rolling her tongue across ancient lips.
" was it an eight or a five?" Behind the one-way mirror Sergei entered the numbers into a database. So far the string was lit green.
"Any more?"
"Five...double zero and...oh I can't remember. Let me check my books." said the woman and made to get out of bed. A look of horror washed over her face and she yanked away the sheets.
"Oh..." said Maximilian, picking up his hat.
"Max! Max! My legs are gone! What has happened to my legs!" she wailed.
"I'm sorry darling, I must be going. I'll be back soon." said Maximilian, kissing her head again before walking out. He went to join Sergei in the observation room and they watched the woman remember her missing limbs.
"You have to keep her in bed Max."
"I know. We'll try again in an hour."

The two old spies ate dumplings and gravy. Maximilian dripped some onto his lapel and cursed under his breath.
"Does it ever bother you?" said Sergei.
"What? The gravy?"
"Interrogating an old flame."
"Not much bothers me comrade, not after Stalingrad."
"But do you still feel anything for her?"
"Yes. But the mission is more important." said Maximilian. He sucked on his inhaler.

The interrogations went on all day and they were no closer to finding any of the account numbers than they had been that morning. The mission had gone on for so long, with no real results. Maximilian wondered if their handlers had forgotten about them, or worse, died off and told nobody of the slow espionage that they were undertaking. Sometimes Maximilian would go in and try to hold a conversation with her in the hopes it might somehow reverse the deterioration though the conversations often went around in circles.
"I want to try something different tomorrow." said Sergei as both men walked to their cars. Max nodded. Different was always good.

"Hello darling. How are you today?" said Maximilian.
"Hello my love. I just had the strangest dream."
"Yes, that the Allies won the war. They drove tanks to the Reichstag and started to shoot. And I was there and could not scream."
"Ha. Then we are lucky it was but a dream." said Maximilian, taking off his captain's hat before kissing her lightly on the forehead.
"How is the fuhrer?" she said. And as if on cue in walked Sergei, dressed from head to toe in the finery of the Nazi dictator. He even had on a fake toothbrush moustache.
"I'm here!" said Sergei.
"Hitler!" she said, saluting.
"Hello darling! I was just wondering if you could remember where you put my gold?"
"Absolutely. I'll just go and check my books, excuse me." she said, pulling back her covers.
"Oh." said Maximilian.
"Meine fuhrer...I can't walk!" she said, shocked. The fake Hitler and the ancient spy looked at each other and shrugged before leaving the woman alone. Maybe Hitler was too exciting.


The Swinemaster
Dec 28, 2005

Martello posted:

Hey Swinemaster! Good to have you with us. Your pig in high heels story was the first one I critiqued in the old daily writing thread soon after I joined the forum. That was a pretty legit story by the way. I think you'll fit right in here.

Cool AARC story by the way.

Thanks! I'll try to avoid getting my rear end roasted in the Thunderdome. But here's the part where I look stupid - what's an AARC story?

Apr 29, 2012

by XyloJW
I just made it up - American Association of Retired Cavemen.

E: :downsrim:

The Swinemaster
Dec 28, 2005

It's the only sensible answer.

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW
We go away, and you put HER in charge?

Erik Shawn-Bohner
Mar 21, 2010

by XyloJW
You brought this on your own heads is all I can say about it.

V for Vegas
Sep 1, 2004

Ever Victorious 832

The sampan rolled under the weight of the man stepping out onto the small jetty. Leaning on his cane he pushed up onto the pier leaving the two men in the small boat hanging on as it rollocked back and forth.

‘Good gods Bertie, how long has it been since we were here man? Forty years hmm? Fifty? This demned malarial deathtrap hasn’t changed a bit. Look over there, I’m sure that’s the river bend where that rat Lao Che tried to ambush us that night we were sneaking up to Sooching. Cunning yellow bastard caught us like a Covent Garden catamite with our pants down, pizzle in hand!’

‘Maybe, George,’ said Bertie, grunting as he used his own cane to climb out of the sampan. He looked out over the turgid brown river, running through a flat landscape of rice paddies holding a labyrinth of canals. ‘It’s a long river and these rice paddies all look identical.’

‘No, no, I’m sure this is the spot. Gods, I’ll never forget that night, wild banshees came screaming out of those reeds, took out my batman with their first shot. What was his name, Tuckman? Buckman? Good man; had played rugby at Oxford with Wolseley.’

‘I think it was Dignam’

‘What? No, Dignam was in India – got himself invalided home after the Patar campaign. Buckman it was, Thomas Buckman I remember, went straight the bottom of the Po over there. Guns going off everywhere, those cursed scythes these heathens use flashing in the moonlight. I don’t know how we survived Bertie.’

George stood leaning on his cane on the end of the pier, staring at the eddying water. Bertie hauled a bag out of the sampan. The boats owner pushed off the bank with the long oar, back into the current and drifted away into the heat haze.

George turned back, limping with his cane. ‘Yes yes, definitely the spot. Know this river like the inside of my pockets. I told the Colonel that. I said you need an old hand in this part of the world, not some drafted cockchafer from Luton with his mothers milk fresh on his lip. You know what he said to me Bertie? ‘I wish I had someone with your wisdom and experience fighting under the colours still’.

‘The Colonel was being polite George’.

George slammed his cane onto the wooden pier. ‘drat your eyes Bertie, I know how brass works, you can’t strip a coolie these days without say so from the BG. No, this is our place. We’ll shufti the demned rebels and be back at HQ for tacks.’

Bertie glanced back over the barren fields. A waterbuffalo stood in a paddy a mile inland. A lone fisherman’s shack sat on the riverbank a few hundred yards downstream. The rest of the landscape was empty. ‘If there’s a rebel army here George, then they’re demned good at hiding.’

‘Bah man, this way.’

George shuffled down the jetty on his cane and turned towards the shack. Sighing, Bertie took up the duffel and slowly made his way after him.

The shack was barely a lean-to, an afterthought of scrap wood and brush designed to provide shelter from the merciless sun now high overhead.

A small cadaverous man was haunched down in the shade, cleaning a fish with a small filleting knife. He had frozen when the two men came into view, a rictus grin on his face.

‘Now here we are Bertie, a coolie who can tell us what we need. You interpret for me’ George turned to the fisherman. ‘Now man, where is Tsung Ha?’

Bertie sighed again: ‘Don’t be afraid, we are your friends. We are looking for Tsung Ha.'

The fisherman’s eyes darted to Bertie and then back to George.

gently caress you old man

‘What did he say?’

‘Uhh, he doesn’t know.’

‘Bullshit Bertie, look, he’s obviously a scout foraging for the men.’ George stepped forward, raising his cane. The fisherman ducked back, still grinning. His eyes darting from the cane to the fish to the cane again. He darted forward, knife extended burying it into George’s mid-riff, grabbed the fish and sprinted out into the fields.

George pressed his hand to the blood spurting from the wound. ‘Oh gods Bertie’, and collapsed. Bertie knelt down, lifting George’s head.

‘I bet that was Lao Che’s grandson, the bastard had the last laugh after all.’

‘I think he was just a fisherman George.’

‘Doesn’t matter now. drat this. How does it look?’

The knife had done its work, one quick blow had shredded the linen shirt and blue ropes bulged from between George’s fingers.

‘You remember Salisbury?’

‘Oh god, that bad.’


‘Oh god.’

Blood pooled into the dirt. Against the drone of crickets in the background a mayfly buzzed though the air.

‘You know Bertie.’

'I know George.’

‘Oh god...’

Herbert leaned forward and gently kissed George on the mouth.

Like a faint drum beat, a cannon fired in the distance.

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.

This week has been a bad massage
I need a happy ending

I think all of you dickholes are channeling your characters, slow rear end, old motherfuckers.

May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch
I'll see you again one day, old spice.

Archie sat in his wheelchair at the top of the grassy hill and slapped his helmet.

“Okay, now just let go,” Archie said.

“I’m really having second thoughts about this,” Douglas said.

“If I crash I won’t feel a thing.”

Douglas knew Archie was smiling. He couldn’t see his face from where he stood behind the wheelchair, but he could hear it in the sound of his voice. Douglas remembered that sound from the first day he heard it, nearly-drowned in mud and muck in a Vietnamese jungle. Ambush, landmines, grenades, bullets, screaming, so much screaming. Archie tackled Douglas. Blood was coming through Archie’s teeth. Archie snapped out of it.

“Are you alright?” He remembered shouting.

“I don’t feel a thing,” Archie laughed. He had tears in his eyes.

“Hey, let go,” Archie said, fighting with his wheels.

“You’re going to flip over and break your neck,” Douglas said.

”No I won’t, I put all the weights I could in the backpack to act as a counterbalance,” he said, reaching behind his back and using his thumb to point at the backpack strapped to the back of the chair.

“You dirty son of a bitch,” Douglas said. Douglas, who had never let go of his Army routine, had stayed in shape throughout his retirement years, but even he had struggled to push Archie to the top of the hill. “I knew I wasn’t out of shape.”

Douglas leaned forward over the back of the wheelchair, using Archie’s shoulders as a rest. Archie’s Old Spice deodorant filled his nose, a mixture of nostalgia and regret wafting about. Archie reached up and stroked the hair on the back of Douglas’s head near his neck. Douglas took two more deep breaths and pushed himself upright.

Douglas stood there behind Archie at a military ball some time after they had been shipped back. They were both dressed in their formals, watching couples slow dance across the floor. Archie drank from a flask, Douglas stayed dry.

“Go and dance,” Archie said. Douglas shook his head. There was no way he was going to go and dance in front of Archie, taunting him and rubbing the question, Why me, in Archie’s face, Douglas thought. Truth be told there was no good reason why Douglas should walk and Archie shouldn’t. Douglas even wondered if the thought plagued himself more so than it did Archie. He would stay up all night with only those thoughts and the smell of Old Spice next to him.

“Come on, you pussy, let go,” Archie said, beginning to sound annoyed.

“I’m trying to enjoy the view just a little longer before the ambulance arrives,” Douglas said.

Douglas loved Archie, there was no doubt about that. But there was a hidden guilt that kept Douglas around, he liked to think. If Archie hadn’t been shot, they wouldn’t be together, he was positive. They would still be friends, write to each other, but they would have moved on and found another, more perfect partner to be with. Douglas wanted to convince himself of that, that there was someone more perfect for Archie, because then he wouldn’t be an imposter.

He would give anything, everything, his legs, medals, to throw off his disguise and tell Archie, I love you, but I’m not in love with you. And then Archie would breath a sigh of relief and laugh and say, that’s okay, I’m not in love with you either. They would shake hands, and even though they were both old and bony, they would have a whole new life left to live.

“Alright, enough monkeying around, are you going to let me go, or not?”

“I’m scared,” Douglas said.

Archie put his hand on Douglas’s and rubbed it softly. Archie turned in his chair and looked up at Douglas.

“Dougie, please, just let me go,” Archie said. He had tears in his eyes. Douglas flashed back to Archie laying on top of him in Vietnam, tears in his eyes. “I don’t feel a thing,” reverberated through Douglas’s head. He let go. Archie’s chair lurched forward slowly before taking a steeper angle.

The chair plunged down the hill, skipping off lumps in the grass and clattering away. Douglas’s stomach fell and he panicked.

“Archie!” He shouted. Douglas took off after him, his knees and shins aching as he raced down the hill. Douglas’s tears streaked the sides of his face, wetting the edges of his mask; it peeled away in strips and floated away into the sky.

Aug 29, 2012
Veterans Day
(496 words)

Arthur snapped awake with one thought: Why had they waited so long? He stared, bleary-eyed, out the window for a while before considering the headline on his knee. Veterans Day, he mused.

Marilyn had left the newspaper there. He slid it into the side pocket of his chair alongside the four prior days. She would put them in the recycling bin on Wednesday, but he wouldn't be taking it to the curb. He wouldn't make their diamond anniversary on Saturday either. Life goes on.

He drew a hand down his face, set his sore wrists on the worn arms of the chair, and rocked to a standing position. His back cracked as he straightened. He turned for his cane and his hat. No point in saying goodbye.


Eighteen years, and Arthur remained bitter that Original Joe's grandson had cashed in the family business. Denny's didn't have real syrup. How could anyone eat pancakes without real syrup?

He pretended to study the menu. He would order the same thing he always did, the menu simply felt right in his hands.

"I need a piece."

Carson turned back from Arthur's reflection in the window. "Like hell you do." Arthur hadn't changed much, or twenty years of weekly breakfasts meant Carson couldn't see it. "Besides, don't you keep that old thirty-eight in your trunk?"

"Nah, Mars did away with that years ago."

Carson leaned in with a grin. "You know, old man, when you go first, I'm comin' after her." He openly coveted Marilyn, well past the point where the humor had worn out.

Arthur's eyes darted to Carson and back to the menu. That momentary contact spoke more than any words. "I'm not joking Carson. I need it today."

Carson sighed and leaned back in the booth. "Alright, we can get it after..."

"Not after," Arthur interrupted, "Before."

Neither of them spoke again, and Carson didn't enjoy his pancakes. It wasn't the syrup.


Arthur sat beside Carson on the stage, decked out in their uniforms, left-of-center, behind the podium. Fifty years waiting for activation because nobody would bother to check his sock or notice his cap on his lap. His finger slipped over the trigger. Not even a second glance.

The Senator spoke inelegantly about Truman's war and the sacrifices the nation had made. He conflated concepts and facts, but his true crime had nothing to do with his awful speeches. Arthur knew that some other idiot would just replace him. And ten years from now, two younger vets would sit where he and Carson sat. Life goes on.

Arthur waited for applause--waited for motion. The Senator gestured to the two soldiers behind him, and turned his back. Nobody recognized the shot at first. The Senator tripped into the podium, and for an instant it seemed he might just straighten up and clap with them. Then he toppled to the stage before his security could respond.

Arthur smiled. Perfect cover. That's why he had waited.


Condensed (to fit the guidelines for this: and submitted:

ed: Remove stray apostrophe's

Aug 19, 2012

World War II? Come on, Jacksonian Era or bust. :smug:

The Era of Good Feelings Word Count: 986

Thomas Jefferson woke from his sleep with a gentle nudge. "Sir." It was the voice of one of his slaves. "Sir, you have a visitor." Jefferson opened his eyes and pulled himself up from his covers. The ornate wood of his bed and beside table danced in the light of the flickering handle being held by Joe, an amiable slave, almost as old as he was, assigned to handle any issues that arose in the night.

"What an odd hour to be receiving a guest." Jefferson waved his hand and Joe lead the way, opening the door for his master.

As Jefferson passed him, he replied, "Well, sir, it's Mr. Adams."

"Ah, always a pleasure to talk to Mr. Adams, even if it is in the dead of night.." Jefferson repeated to himself. Joe simply nodded and lead him down the ornate hallways of Monticello. Shadows played in the corners of the hallway, an effect that still unnerved Jefferson, even in his old age. Strangely, Joe passed passed the guest parlor. "Ah, Joe. The guest parlor is right here."

Joe explained, "Mr. Adams has retreated to his library."


"Yes, sir, I certainly think so as well." Joe lead him to the door to the guest room, and bowed before opening the door.

"Thank you, Joe." Jefferson waved his hand to dismiss Joe before stepping into the library. It was a well built and sturdy library, filled wall-to-wall with books on every subject, and two finely built chairs, on one of which an old man sat. He had hardly changed since Jefferson had met him, aside from the fact that a few more grey hairs had vacated the top of his head for the sides. He was dressed in a typical suit and tie, and had a small brown pistol on his lap. He picked the pistol with one of his wart-crusted hands and aimed it directly at Jefferson.

"Sit," He ordered, and motioned with the gun to the other chair in the library.

Jefferson did as he was ordered. "What is the meaning of this? I thought you were a civilized man, Adams!"

Adams stood and pointed his pistol at Jefferson's forehead. "I had thought you a decent man, Jefferson!"

"What in God's name are you talking about?"

Adams paced around the room. His limp was evident every time his right foot took a step. "None other than the most despicable crime itself, the theft of love, and adultery of the highest extent!"

Jefferson turned to the door. "Joe, Sam, escort this man from the presmises!"

Adams quickly turned and placed the muzzle of the pistol to Jefferson's head. "Sorry, Mr. Jefferson, but you'll find your slave is on my side."

"Why are you threatening me with my life, Adams? Damnit, I always thought you were a blunt man, but you keep speaking in riddles!"

Adams replied, "I'm talking about Sally Hemmings, the woman you stole from me."

"I thought we had talked this over. You know as well as I do that those allegations were a load of poppycock. Sally Hemmings never existed."

Adams jammed the gun against his head ever so slightly harder. "Then who is buried at the unmarked grave on your land?"

Jefferson answered indifferently. "A slave."

"Oh, really? Because I found an interesting letter, hidden in a book you had sent me." Adams threw a letter in front of Jefferson, which he slowly picked up and read. "It was written from one of her children, one of your children. Telling the whole story, with incriminating evidence. You had children by this woman!" He had told the truth. The letter detailed in extensive detail Jefferson's relations with his mistress. It had been Sally's 80th birthday when she had sent this.

"Perhaps the most interesting thing about this letter," Jefferson quipped, "is not the news of my infidelity, but the confession of her love for you. How did you meet Sally?"

Jefferson felt Adams loosen his grip ever so slightly. "I was a young man, filled to the brim with revolution, as were all men of that era, and I had seen her in line for being auctioned. But they had closed early, and lead the slaves to a prison underneath the auction house. It was there I met her for the first time."

Jefferson finished the story. "But I had bought her the next day, and took her off in a cart."

"Yes, and I've spent most of my retirement looking for her, and finally found her," His grip on the gun tightened.

"Please, think this through rationally, Mr. Adams." Jefferson regained his composure. "Murdering me will not bring her back."

"You think this pistol is loaded, Mr. Jefferson? I'm not the one who will be killing you, no. You shall die by the hand of your own slave!"

The door opened, and Joe entered with a fully loaded rifle. Adams offered a final quip, "I always knew I'd outlast you. My legacy, my notoriety, and now my life. Goodbye, Mr. Jefferson."

Jefferson turned his attention to Joe. "Joe, I've treated you well. Please, don't be irrational."

Joe levelled his gun, and replied, "I know, sir." Jefferson could see Adams peering down the hallway in the corner of his eye. Joe's eyes flicked back towards the hallway.

He turned around and fired a potshot into the hallway. The wooden interior directly next to Adam's head splintered into pieces. The recoil from the gun knocked him backwards on to the floor. "With all due respect, sir, I think I may be getting a little too old for this kind of work. Spying isn't getting any easier. And I don't think you understand how giddy Adams got when he saw the letter. He acted as though he had been drinking for hours."

Jefferson stood from his chair. "Regardless, a job well done. Era of good feelings, indeed! Some politicians just don't know when to fold them."

May 31, 2011

The happiest waffligator
Goddamn, condensing from 1600 words to 1000 is painful.

drat Cleaning Lady
As my 73th birthday approached, all I want for my present is that old lady’s head. I want to split it open and reveal all its secrets.

I know she’s a spy. Her full name is Susan Pey, for god’s sake.

It all started two years ago. When I left the office for a meeting with CEO of DeckWarst regarding confidential rabbit-related business, my secretary Jen found her entering the office in the brief when he went to the toilets. The cleaning lady claimed she was checking if there are enough sugar bags in the office. I hadn’t suspected her back then, because, well, I was stupid. Also there were enough sugar bags.

She then grew more suspicious. I saw her cleaning out the entrance to a human-sized pipes located on the floor where I have my meetings. She didn’t enter it, of course, because “she’s too old for that”. Jen also saw her cleaning toilets in a rather absurd manner; she cleaned the male toilets in floor 1, 5, 13, 23, 49, and female toilets in floor 3, 7, 11, 39 and 61. I already suspected her a bit, but not enough that I actually asked her why. She apparently left other toilets to junior janitors. As I found out one year later after the incident, it was actually a code for ‘Zorbox go Blaghrey’.

Those are just the two events I remembered clearly, as they deal with toilets. I like to think about toilets. There were many other events. She had appeared outside meeting rooms just as it finishes, doing suspicious things like carrying a tray of empty mugs, mopping the floor or disembowelling two chickens. Who disembowelled two nowadays? Suspicious people.

I turned around to face the door as somebody entered. It was Jen.

“What are you doing, Lis?”

“Trying to calm my nerves,” I said. “Why are you here?”

He handed me a white envelope. “It’s from the spy,” he said. “Or just a poor old cleaning lady.”

I opened the envelope. It was a single piece of paper. The cleaning lady wrote that she had ‘lots of fun’ working for Zorbox, alongside the evidence for this ‘fun’: boring anecdotes. Her calligraphy will not soothe me.

Her last line was ‘I resigned.’

My paranoia exploded. She’s finished and now she’s leaving. I wracked my brains. What kind of secrets could she find? It’s not like I just lay any documents on the open, there were multiple forms of defense!

Most of them are people, which she can charm easily.

I shouted, “Phone!” A blue board made of light appeared in front of me. “Call security. She’s getting away, Jen. When did you get this letter?”

“Just this morning, before your meeting.”

That was three hours ago! She could be anywhere by now.

“Yes, sir?” I heard the voice of the security commander from the board.

“I want you to arrest Susan Pey at 121 Jeans street. Blooming Men apartment, 17th floor, room 12. Code to enter the house: PHLEGMING. I want you to get there are soon as possible and put her in jail.”

“Why, sir?”

“She’s a spy! Put her in jail! Our jail!”

“Yes, sir!” I dismissed the board. This amount of stress isn’t good for my 72-year-old heart.

“Lis, she’s been here for twelve years! You can’t do this.”

“Of course I can, Jen! I’m Elise McNellis, the CEO of Zorbox! I can do anything.”

The blue board appeared again. It was the security commander. “We’ve found Mrs. Pey in the nearby Zoormarket, sir. She was also found carrying several confidential documents, sir!”

I laughed. This is far too easy. I thought I’d need to go down and face her. She’s such a stupid spy. I can just sue her and land her in prison until she die.

“Lis, that’s an evil smile,” Jen said.

In my moment of happiness, I went at Jen and hugged him. This hug wasn’t enough. I put my hands on his cheeks and pulled his face closer. Just before our lips touch, he pushed me away.

“Jen, I have just received the second-best birthday present.”

“It vindicated years-long paranoia is second, what’s the first?”

“If you’d accept my invitation for dinner.”

Jen looked taken aback. He looked at his fingers before tapping his wrist with his right thumb. He always did that when he’s confused or embarrassed. Then he stopped and looked at me with those beautiful red eyes.



Perhaps I’ve dominated the conversation with just how right I am in regards to the cleaning lady, but it didn’t change the fact that I was right. Jen looked rather handsome with his suit and the black vest under the suit was also nice. We drank fantastic wine, we ate brilliant meals and we had a magnificent time. I proposed to him again to no avail.


“Can you take this, Lis?” Jen hand me a white envelope just as I was about to fall asleep in the limo.

“What’s this for? Love letters are rather middle-school.”

Jen giggled. “It’s your birthday present. Open it then.”

“Why can’t you come?”

“I have business in London.”

“More important than my birthday?”

“Yes. Driver, can you stop here?” Jen asked. The limo stopped just in front of a train station. Before I could say anything, he said, “I’ll pick the most expensive train seat.”


As I waited in the traffic, I could see Jen throwing his suit to the bin. A bit too much for a stain, if you ask me. He also reversed his black vest, revealing two white vertical stripes on it.

It took me two hours to fight my drunkenness to realize what those stripes meant. By then I was already in Lis Island and about to sleep. I hastily open Jen’s envelope. A birthday card, with the words:

Your paranoia was always just delusions
I’m the spy

I have no idea why I’m not exploding from anger. Alcohol?

{submission ends here}

If I showed my proof that I posted it to a Duotrope journal later, (probably after the deadline) will it count?

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.

toanoradian posted:

If I showed my proof that I posted it to a Duotrope journal later, (probably after the deadline) will it count?

Depends on how drunk we are around deadline, I would guess.

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

One hour to go, yes?

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's DIE!"
The Diplomat's Wife (994 words)

The old woman on the roof raised the binoculars again. Mr. Whiskers yawned and stretched one white-tipped paw across her battered copy of “Rare and Unusual Birds of Europe,” present in case the nosy-old-biddy gag flopped. Luxembourg, global retirement home for washed up diplomats, proved so dull that she’d actually memorized most it.

Joy of joys, here was that scoundrel Nesbit, former attaché to the Ambassador to Jordon, rounding the corner. Probably coming to give poor Albert congratulations on his promotion. The old Ambassador to Luxembourg died, and the knuckle-heads back in Washington gave the post to her idiot husband. Ridiculous. Couldn’t trust him with the dry cleaning, much less national security.

She watched Nesbit polling his way up the street on his polished cane. In his left hand, which usually sported a scar-laden briefcase befitting his hunched and tweeded countenance, he carried a sleek new laptop bag. He looked up and wiped his face with a handkerchief. Interesting, thought Katherine, waving cheerfully at him before heading inside.

She greeted Mr. Nesbit at the door with all the charm and grace she’d learned at Bronning’s Institute of Espionage. She led him straight to the couch in the parlor, and had him sitting down before he knew what was happening.

“Albert’s on the phone at the moment, why don’t I make some tea while you wait?” She bustled off immediately, preventing all protest. Albert never dreamed of setting foot in the kitchen—in fact, he seemed to believe that food simply appeared at certain times of day, with no preparation whatsoever—so it was the perfect place for her base of operations.

Not that she’d had any real operations lately. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, Washington decided Europe was no longer “priority.” Albert received the transfer to Luxembourg, and Charles directed her to follow him. “In case we need you.” Or “so I’ll know you’re safe.” He gave her so many reasons she wanted to believe, none of them true. But she went anyway, out of some twisted sense of loyalty to him or country. And apparently he’d never needed her after all.

Katherine gave a little toss of her head to shake off those useless thoughts and started the tea. She still kept some of her special brew, guaranteed to make a man piss for at least two minutes straight.

While the water boiled, she considered her resources. She never carried a cell phone and she’d told Albert the laptop was a gift from her niece, to send pictures of the kids, but she’d always secretly kept up with the cutting edge of technology. She pushed aside her old hidden-camera glasses, slipped a thumb-drive loaded with a key-logger into her pocket, grabbed the tea tray, and tottered into the parlor.

Nesbit had left the couch and was examining her library. He stopped at the complete James Bond collection.

“You like spy novels?” he asked.

“Oh yes, they’re just so exciting! I wish I could do that!”

He bestowed her with the superior little smile that meant 007 did his job again.
The intelligence community despised spy novels, and refused to seriously consider anyone who read them. It was one of her best disguises.

She corralled him back onto the couch, pressing a mug into his hand. She watched out of the corner of her eye to make sure he was drinking it before slipping down the hall to check on Albert. He was sound asleep, just as she’d left him hours ago.

Putting on her best apologetic expression, she returned once again to Mr. Nesbit.

“I’m so sorry, he’s still on the phone.”

Nesbit wiped his face with the handkerchief again. Either the tea was working or he was nervous. Probably both.

“I saw the most magnificent spotted robin this morning,” she started in enthusiastically. Bird-watching cleared a room faster than yelling fire. “It was about 10am and I was…”

“Um, excuse me,” interrupted Nesbit, his face taking on the sheen of a cornered animal, “may I use your restroom?”

“But of course,” she said, rising at exactly the same moment he did, leaning so close that reaching his bag would have meant knocking her over. He left it, but looked back over his shoulder nervously. She sank back down into a perfect impression of frailty.

As soon as he was out of the room, she opened the bag and plugged in the thumb-drive. It was programmed to work automatically—anything typed on Nesbit’s computer would stream directly to her laptop in the kitchen. Depending on the encryption levels, she might be able to see what was on the screen. She started counting deliberately to thirty, the approximate install time. She heard the bathroom door open at twenty-eight. She quickly grabbed the lap top bag and ran for the door, right past a shocked Mr. Nesbit.

“What are you doing?” he shouted, running after her. As she hit thirty, Katherine yanked out the thumb-drive and turned to Mr. Nesbit, letting all her real fear show through.

“It’s a bomb! I heard it ringing!” She continued to move towards the door until he yanked the bag from her, relief plain on his face.

“That’s just my cell phone!” he said, pushing his way back into Albert’s office. Katherine chuckled and went to make herself a real pot of tea. The numbers started streaming across her screen before the kettle even whistled.

48098343820943078…she recognized them at once: Albert’s top secret decryption code. She’d found them in his promotion papers, left scattered on his desk, and memorized it immediately. Her program kicked into full gear and text and images filled her screen: American troop locations, assets, names. Blast. That slimeball Nesbit had got his hands on some high level information and Albert had just unlocked it all. She pulled the satellite phone from her drawer, switched the tea for gin on the rocks, and placed a call. At least now Charles would have to come.

Oct 23, 2010

Legit Cyberpunk

Old Friends

"I saw Hippo the other day," said Miss Albert.

I put down my tea cup with a clink, riffled through my options for a next move. I could feel Miss Albert staring at me across the table of the greasy spoon cafe, her own tea sending up coiling tendrils of steam in front of her.

"Thought the Russians caught up to the old bugger after the Estonian job?" I raised an eyebrow and gave her my best roguish smirk. "Always was a sloppy fellow, hey?"

Miss Albert smiled in return, a faint quirk of her lips. Her eyes narrowed.

"I thought so too, Jack. That's the funny thing. I assumed, if he was alive, he'd be in some nasty little KGB safehouse in Novosibirsk. Or something. But no, there he was large as life. Gave me quite a start."

Novosibirsk, 82b Kamenskaya was where I'd spent a nasty six months being squeezed dry of everything I knew about Polaris deployments in the Baltic. If Miss Albert knew about that then a quick exit might be in order.

I sighed, shrugged. "I do find, Evangeline, that when one reaches our age every second person one passes in the street starts to look terribly familiar. If you see him again, do ask him how to survive getting into a car with twenty pounds of TNT strapped to the starter. Could come in handy, don't you know."

Miss Albert inclined her head with a smile, sipped her tea. I felt a sudden, palpable wave of regret for what might have been. She wasn't the beauty she'd been during the war, but drat if she didn't still have it in her to set a chap's heart a-flutter. Ice blue eyes, fine high cheekbones. There was that night in the cold apartment above the Potsdamerplatz, back in '65...

She glanced out the window to my left. I followed her eyes, froze. A white Bedford was backing into a park across the road. At the wheel; Geoffry Theophilus Walmsley-Shelmsford. "Hippo".

I looked back at her. Her hand was inside her elegant little bag, which she'd placed on the table when we sat down. She had a wistful expression. She spoke, quietly but clearly.

"Jack, there's a needler in this, and I've got you covered. Don't move or I'm afraid I'll have to use it. It's silent and very deadly. Stonefish toxin, nasty stuff."

I let my shoulders slump. "I see. To be honest, it's something of a relief. It's been so long. If I might ask, what tipped you off?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Hippo open the van door, step out. He was using a cane these days, it seemed.

"We turned Hippo. His wife - "

I saw her eyes flicker to the side and I hurled my cup of tea at her face, pushing my chair back and over as I did. There was a subdued 'thwip' as a needle passed over me and buried itself in the wall, followed by a crash that knocked the wind out of me and probably cracked a couple of ribs as I hit the floor hard. I pulled my bony knees up to my chest and shoved the table with all my strength. It slammed Evangeline into the wall behind her and her handbag fell to the floor.

I rolled over, every joint protesting and cracked ribs sending shards of agony through my chest. Some woman screamed as I stood up, breathing heavily, stumbled towards the lavatory door I'd scouted before our meeting. I glanced back. Miss Albert wasn't moving. Someone pointed at me and yelled and I pushed through the door, shut and locked it behind me.

The fire door to the alley out back was locked, but I'd put a few drops of concentrated vitriol on the padlock before Evangeline arrived, and it fractured when I rammed it with my shoulder. I was seeing spots and it was hard to breathe. I had a sudden vivid memory of Evangeline and I fleeing Berlin when the Stasi rolled up the Azure network. We'd done the acid trick then, too.

I could see my Bentley at the end of the alley. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, pulling at the door. The door opened and I jammed the keys into the ignition, wincing as I pulled the door shut with the other hand. The starter motor turned over, with an odd clicking noise.

I had a moment to think "But I locked the car when I left it" before it exploded.

The Saddest Rhino
Apr 29, 2009

Put it all together.
Solve the world.
One conversation at a time.

Operation Barnes: Post-Mission Interview Transcript of Agent P. Wrayburn (890++ words)

Why are we doing this? We failed.

For future reference purposes, so we can be the wiser in the next operation. Surely you approve.

I bloody well do not surely approve. You only want this put down so you can feel better about...

Agent Wrayburn, kindly set aside your emotions for this interview. Describe the mission, please.

Oh, gently caress you.


Operation Barnes was a solo mission and I was assigned as field ops. Nurse Landis has confiscated all walkie talkies. Control's operations were put on hold and therefore radio silence was maintained.

The package was in the hands of Raj Singh. Nurse Redwood was under the impression that Singh was an Admiral of the Sikh Regiment of the British Indian Army, and assumed him to be a dusk-skinned, tropical safe house of veiled maidens and moorish palaces. However, Singh is a nacroleptic and sleeps with his eyes wide open.

As far as the entire Ward was concerned, the package was wide in the open and anyone's game.

Operation Barnes field action was initiated at 2215, fifteen minutes after curfew.

Describe the situation.

Singh was transported by the nurses to the receptionist's desk at the ground floor. Singh was seated before a desktop which only has solitaire, and he was asleep at 2210 after relocation. Singh was before a hallway and accessible from two directions. The hallway also served as a chokepoint which the nurses had installed monitoring devices. We previously outsourced our surveillance disablement operations to the great-granddaughter of Agent Goldberg (17), and the nurses only received still iamges.

Singh was also facing the storage room for light prescription drug supply and diapers, falsely assumed to be locked.

So they were unlocked?


The dead drop zone was before the storage room. I had retrieved Nurse Landis's fountain pen. I discovered the room door ajar.

I entered and found Agent Wu. Wu is of the Red faction of the Ward and still holds communist ideals from his Red Army days. As you are aware, the Red faction of the Ward, like us, had recently suffered from loss of members to the Pinks. Theirs arose due to the Dragon.

Describe the Dragon.

The heated wading pool with black tiles in the garden. The disagreement was a matter of moral borders. To be specific, it was over whether both genders could use the Dragon at the same time.

Continue describing the field operation.

Wu was equipped with a pair of nightvision goggles. It was presumed Wu persuaded his grandnephew to make online purchases for him.

It was also presumed the grandnephew was too young to buy prescription drugs. Wu was unconscious and surrounded by Demerol tablets. He was alive and well and muttered what I could only assume were anti-democracy curses in Mandarin.

What happened next?

I exited into the hall and Singh was in my sights. I removed the package from his lap without hesitation.

It was at this point where I was compromised.

Please describe.

Please go gently caress yourself.

Agent Wrayburn...

(Sighs) I was approached by Olenka Petrova. She was dressed in nothing but a light sleeveless nightdress. I queried her on her presence after curfew, and she asked the same of me.


Do I really have to go... oh, of course I have to, do I? She told me she was very... satisfied with how our relationship has been heading, and that at our advanced age and despite her being Russian, she found the British very much in line with her needs. She also... pointed out that her satisfaction of our previous encounter and expected future encounters to imporve.


Olenka described to me how our encounter should be and was successful in distracting me from Operation Barnes. That's it.

No. Goldberg's great-granddaughter may have replaced the nurse's footage with a still picture, but she had also managed to transfer the live feed of the video to Goldberg's oversized mobile telephone device.

Are you loving...

Please describe how you were compromised.

We had an encounter.

Would you like more? Olenka _______________ and I said ____________ then ________________. She took ___________________ and thrust ______________________ opened _______________________________ mouth ______________________ she licked _______________________ finally ________________________ . Then we ___________ and panted and ________________ started over ________________________ _______________________________ so _______________________________________ but __________________________________ then ____________________________ next ___________________________ we ________________________________ down ____________________________ screamed __________________________ again ________________________ again _____________________________ lastly __________________________.

To summarise, we had a great, wonderful, lovely gently caress as you sexless pricks watched, and we loved it. P.S. gently caress you.

And then you were compromised.

Yes, I was! After the loving, which may I once again describe was loving incredible, shall I say that again? loving incredible! She snatched the package and to my horror, wrote on it! She gave me a grand loving and betrayed me, the little she-wolf!

I believe we have not described the package. Could you?

It was Nurse Landis's notepad turned to the page for the Ward's next book-reading circle on Sunday. The page was missing the title of the book to be read.

Operation Barnes was for us to write "The Sum of All Fears" on the page. We were compromised by the new player of the Ward, the all-female Pinks. Olenka, that vile, cunning, sex machine of all proportions, is in fact Agent Petrova!

What did she write?

"Fifty Shades of Grey".

And may God help us all.

gently caress off.

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.
The Birdhouse (678 words)

“Oh God, oh god.”

Goose seized up, blood on his breath, his eyes sweeping hazily over the room for something he would never find.

Stork did his best to prop him up, but at his age the strain was too great.

“Goose! Goose!”

“Goose? Really now?”

Evening had settled in, the Caribbean Sea shifting gently against the bead of the shore. The paper lanterns clashed something dreadful with the rest of the décor of the resort, but even Stork had to admit there was a certain charm about them.

But Goose could only complain about the card he’d pulled, the ace of spades, his new code name scrawled across the surface in red ink.

“Goose is a fine animal. A proud animal.”

“In what country?”

“In any country.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Don’t have to like it. Just have to get used to it.”

Nightingale reshuffled the cards, the arthritis in his hands making the task a bit difficult. Stork offered to take them, but Nightingale shook his head, his jowls, finally pocketing the deck.

“Goose. Mother Goose. Christmas goose. Duck, duck, goose. I don’t like it.”

“Oh, well, I do think you’re being a bit harsh there.”

Owl spoke soft and clear, but could do little to hide her Minnesotan accent, born and raised. She’d come down here to die, she joked, but with the mission what it was she wasn’t too far off the mark.

Nightingale tapped the pink tablecloth. Stork thought it called for attention, but it soon revealed itself little more than a nervous tic.

“Alright, now. We all have our names. We all have our jobs. The file is supposed to be-”

Nightingale halted, a terrible coughing fit overtaking him. Owl patted him on the back.

“Thank you, thank you kindly. The file is supposed to be moved tomorrow, tomorrow night. So sleep well, for tomorrow we die.”

Owl chuckled. Goose and Stork sat apart, unimpressed.

“That’s not funny,” Goose said, the ice clinking together as he refilled his glass.

“That’s…that’s…not funny…at all,” Goose wheezed, his breath harsh, and then gone. Stork had done all he could to stem the blood flow from the bullet wounds, but it wasn’t enough.

“You. I trusted you.”

Stork hobbled to his feet, his finger shaking, pointing towards Owl. Owl stood back against the polished oak door, the gun still smoking.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m trying to say I like you.”

“I don’t understand.”

Nightingale and Goose had already left. Stork mustered his best smile, to Owl’s confusion.

“Oh really now, Stork, we’ll too old for that sort of nonsense.”

“Nonsense knows no age, my dear Owl.”

Owl spread her fingers against her glass, her gaze hesitant. Stork leaned in, and placed a single kiss on her wrinkled brow. Owl blushed, her hand to her cheek.

“Oh, you dog.”

“Not a dog. A stork. And you know what they say about storks.”

Again Stork smiled, his eyes disappearing in the fold.

He wasn’t smiling now.

“You shot him. Why did you shoot him?”

“You heard Nightingale this morning. Said there was a turncoat among us. Well, put two and two together, it had to be Goose, didn’t it?”

“Really? Well, I think it’s you.”

Stork reached for Goose’s gun, and collapsed to the floor. Owl rushed over, concerned, her own gun fumbling in her grip. As she reached him, Stork rolled over and pulled the gun on her.

“…I’m sorry…Owl.”

Owl didn’t cry. She simply smiled.

“It’s Madeline, dear.”


Stork pulled the trigger.

“It’s a nasty business, this.”

Nightingale shook his dead, the files Stork handed him now tucked under his arm.

“Did you know her long?”

“Long enough.”

“Really. But who has the time for that, in this day and age.”

Nightingale lifted himself from his seat, his clockwise rotation towards the door nearly finished, when Stork raised a hand to stop him.

“Nightingale. Who was the turncoat?”

Nightingale’s eyebrows softened.

“I’m glad you asked.”

Stork reached to fiddle for his hearing aide, not realizing he had heard the cock of the gun just fine.

Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010

If you must blink, do it now.
Misread the time, rushed to finish, submitted late, and I already found a typo.

Thanks in advance for the new avatar.

Mar 24, 2006

According to my research,
these would appear to be

Right! As of two hours ago, Week IX's submissions deadline has passed!

The following have brought shame upon themselves and their families for signing up and then loving off:

Sitting Here

May 31, 2011

The happiest waffligator

Black Griffon posted:

Depends on how drunk we are around deadline, I would guess.

Well then I expect the great judges of Week IX would give me their fairest judgment.

Sent here

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.

budgieinspector posted:

Sitting Here

This is sad. Just loving sad.

Engaging Judge Mode.

Debbie Metallica
Jun 7, 2001

Only registered members can see post attachments!

Jan 13, 2005

A dog begins eating a dusty old coil of rope but there's a nail in it.

I screwed up

Judges on the left, Me on the right

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

Black Griffon posted:

This is sad. Just loving sad.

Engaging Judge Mode.

Yeah, it was my birthday this week. And I was all excited for this surprise party that everyone kept conspicuously not talking about. I was SO ready to be fake surprised. But the surprise was that everyone bailed the day of the party. So my boyfriend had to explain that he had this whole plan (and it was an awesome one), but that because my friends are all apathetic flakes, there was in fact no plan and no party.

So we got on the 1st ferry we could and spent the day in some small island town ignoring the endless texts of "hey sorry are we still cool?".

So not only did I bail on thunderdome this week, but also my daily writing. I am such a baby, I guess.

Mar 21, 2010
With so few entries, one would almost expect the results to come out sooner rather than later.

Feb 19, 2012


Mar 24, 2006

According to my research,
these would appear to be

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

With so few entries, one would almost expect the results to come out sooner rather than later.

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.

You're a weirdo, but I kind of like it. Still, there's not much too the story, in fact, there's nothing. You've established so many funny and interesting things, and then it just ends. Total anticlimax.
Super bonus for submitting!

Canadian Surf Club
I don't like the word "for" in a sentence like "He poured under the light of the small desk lamp they sat by for it was past the sleeping hour and all the lights in the Berlin home were dark". It's dumb and archaic and you shouldn't. Too many run-on sentences. Other than that, I really like the dialogue.
Happy points in plenty for submitting!

God, this is boring. It's formulaic, the dialogue is cheesy and yeah. Bleh.
Horse with a horn on its forehead happy points for submitting!

The Swinemaster
Holy crap, this was unexpected. It's weird, maybe a little bit too obscure, but I really like it.

Disturbing and funny at the same time. Flow could be improved, but this is good.
Happy happy happy for submitting!

V for Vegas
Bonus points for a gay couple, but then again I might be biased. Minus points for terrible exposition laden dialogue and weird formatting.

It's a gay bonanza! This is a very pretty story, but it doesn't feel like there's much espionage of any kind.

The story is fine enough, but it feels kind of empty and the ending is dull and abrupt.
Happy man am I for wonderful submitting!

Language is ruddy, and the plot is weak, but bonus points for some originality.

God drat it toanoradian we're gonna have to Clockwork Orange your rear end with a ten volume work about tenses. This is way worse than usual too. Do something about it!
Joy of many suns for submitting!

Dr. Kloctopussy
It's a strong story, and I like the Bond angle, but it feels like there should be more to it. I want you to continue this one if you're up for it.

Short, strong and wonderful. Nothing more to say.

The Saddest Rhino
The sex scene is hilarious, but other than that the story feels gimmicky, and you haven't got the old man language down.

Bad Seafood
The story is too tangled, but it's sweet, and that last line quite honestly amazing. Might be my favorite line in the Thunderdome so far.

May 31, 2011

The happiest waffligator

Black Griffon posted:

God drat it toanoradian we're gonna have to Clockwork Orange your rear end with a ten volume work about tenses. This is way worse than usual too. Do something about it!
Joy of many suns for submitting! now I probably deserve to be hit on the head with each of those volumes. I'll be more careful next time. What's a good book/resource on tenses?

Mar 24, 2006

According to my research,
these would appear to be

toanoradian posted:

...I probably deserve to be hit on the head with each of those volumes. I'll be more careful next time. What's a good book/resource on tenses?

Are you writing directly into the Reply field? Because MS Word has a grammar check built-in, and I believe it's possible to switch languages.

Otherwise, take your pick. Verb tenses will be covered in each of these, I guarantee.

May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch

Black Griffon posted:

It's a gay bonanza! This is a very pretty story, but it doesn't feel like there's much espionage of any kind.

I was trying to go for a less literal sense of espionage, and more for living as a fake persona, but I definitely understand I was taking a risk going that way.

May 31, 2011

The happiest waffligator

budgieinspector posted:

Are you writing directly into the Reply field? Because MS Word has a grammar check built-in, and I believe it's possible to switch languages.

I use MS Word 2007, and all the grammar mistakes that appear are just fragments, contractions and misspellings. Nothing about the tenses. The closest thing to it is when it says I should use 'is' instead of 'are'.

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.

Winner is unanimous, we're still considering the loser.

sebmojo, for an excellent story and a wonderful demonstration in how to make a whole lot out of a few words, you are the victor. Grind the bones of your enemies, take a cup of their blood and sit back and relax.

If any of the veteran judges wish to return, say so. Otherwise, we'll figure out who sebmojo replaces.

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.

And we are all agreed that areyoucontagious is the loser this round, for a boring bunch of bad words. Boo this man. Boo.

sephiRoth IRA
Jun 13, 2007

"Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality."

-Carl Sagan

I shame my family. I shame myself. I shame the thunderdome.

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.

Also, bud is stepping away this week, so the judges are me, Ozma and sebmojo (unless a veteran claims a spot). And apparently I'm unable to say several things in one post today.

May 31, 2011

Come at me baby bitch
Congrats Sebmojo, but bad Sebmojo bad! Stories in past tense, first person with the narrator dying at the end is a slap on the wrist!


Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's DIE!"
Stories can be narrated from Heaven.