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And also, to repeat from last thread since apparently we have to now: any fanfic of any type is punishable by shunning. This rule goes on forever and ever. You post fanfic, you get ignored. Not even a whiff of fanfic.
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Feb 19, 2013 04:47
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| # ? Apr 19, 2024 21:02 |
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Yeah, slot me down. Libra (missed out on my actual sign by 2 days, tch).
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Feb 19, 2013 04:52
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Virgo.quote:The constellation of Virgo is representative of many identities, all related to maidens, purity and fertility. 'sup 
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Feb 19, 2013 04:58
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In, with Capricorn.
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Feb 19, 2013 05:26
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In, Libra.
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Feb 19, 2013 05:56
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Sitting Here posted:
The Shadow over Islamorada 619 words She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and she was offering Bronco top dollar for what he did best. Only she wasn't strictly a woman. Serene Azure had been born Jeffrey Stoltz, thirty years ago up in Miami Beach. And she hadn't been born with those feathered gills on her slender neck, those huge violet eyes. Or those impossibly perfect breasts. She crossed her legs and pointed a toe, calves flexing like coconuts under glistening ebony skin. “Mr. Halligan, good to meet you.” Serene leaned forward in her lounge chair and offered a hand. Bronco shook it, felt the slickness of her altered skin. “You come highly recommended,” Serene said. Her voice was lovely, finishing school dipped in honey and palm oil. She snapped her fingers and a butler drone rolled over to her chair. “They always say that.” Bronco scowled like he’d bitten rancid sopressata and dropped into the chair across from her. “What’s the job?” He scratched a fresh muscle-graft scar on his left shoulder. He shouldn’t want to gently caress this creature, but he did. “Straight to the point, I like that.” Serene smiled, a curving of her Cupid-bow lips. “How much do you know about me?” She took a Cuba Libre from the drone’s platter-arm but didn’t offer Bronco anything. Bronco looked out, past the yacht’s rail, two miles of Caribbean to Islamorada’s white sand beaches. Clear blue water, white sails, gleaming hydrofoils, bikini babes. He missed the Jersey Shore. “You’re a trust-fund baby.” He took a flask of El Espolon out of his pocket but didn’t open it. “You were on your high school diving team and always wanted to be a lady. Apparently a black alien fish-lady. When your parents went down in a boat crash near Key Biscayne, you bought yourself the most bleeding-edge genetweaks and biosculpts on the market.” Bronco opened the flask and took a sip. He turned back to Serene and met those violet eyes. “Now you tool around the Keys diving for oysters and crashing yacht parties.” “Pretty accurate, except for the boating accident.” Serene reached her Libre across the little cocktail table to toast Bronco’s flask. “And you never wear clothes,” Bronco said after swallowing tequila. “What do you mean, ‘except for the boating accident?’ “ “That’s the job.” Serene tapped her thick, blunt fingernails against the rim of her glass. “I’ve found my parents’ murderers, and I want you to kill them for me.” “Okay.” Bronco swished his flask. “You know my usual fee, right?” “Yes, plus fifty percent for this job.” Serene leaned forward, narrowed her eyes. “You don’t want to know how I know they murdered my parents?” “No. In fact, I don’t want to know, at all. Just give me photos, addresses, whatever you have.” Serene smiled again. Bronco knew women who could smile and make his stomach feel funny. This was the first merman who could do the same. “I’ll send everything to your phone.” “Good. I’ll come back here when I’m done. Give me two weeks.” They stood and shook hands, and Bronco couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Off of him. Whatever. He thought about the oilslick curves of Serene’s body the whole hour-long flight back to Miami in his rented rotor-drone. * Ten days later, the job was done. Six bodies in very small pieces were feeding alligators in the Southern Glades. Another rented drone carried Bronco to Serene’s yacht, this time anchored off Key Largo. She could have transferred the fee to Bronco’s account without ever seeing him again, but that’s not how either of them wanted it. She really was the most beautiful woman Bronco had ever seen. Or man. Or mermaid. Or whatever.
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Feb 19, 2013 06:01
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Guess I should make this official
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In honor of Jeza, Blackfrost, and our theme of the week, this is the new TD theme song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dStp5hq294
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Feb 19, 2013 06:01
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horrific bind, this might be what you meant to postHereticMIND posted:As Y Kant Ozma Post groggily lifted her head, she came to the conclusion that last night was either a very good dream or had actually happened. How much beer did she have? It was as if her head was a drum, continuously pounded by some invisible mallet... Mermaid Shelly is definitely post-human (she's a mermaid) and Ozma is, no question. And this is definitely vividly erotic. Sitting Here, and Nubile Hillock, you guys are the judges, you decide.
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Feb 19, 2013 06:08
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 The chicken bones say Martello, and I'm inclined to agree. herniaGRIME's entry is somehow worse than his fanfic. It's like some sort of reverse-miracle. All we do now is wait for Sitting Here.
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Feb 19, 2013 06:37
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Bah, my zodiac is Gemini, for both my reg and my birth dates. I don't like Gemini. A question: Are we only allowed to use Ask/Tell as research? For example, can I complement my knowledge on spoons of Early Middle Ages from Spoons.com with several posts from the Spooner thread? Also, are the sub-forums of Ask/Tell fair game? My 'lousy student going to Laos to start a spoonfucking business' may need some more specific information.
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Feb 19, 2013 07:24
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Well I wanted to deliberate and be all impartial and that, but Martello's story didn't include this line:quote:Now, all that mattered was that she was a woman, and by God did she ever feel like one! And the gratitude I feel toward him for that reason is overwhelming my judgely objectivity. Therefor, by executive decree, I do declare judgement in favor of Martello, by the power vested in me by myself. Edit: Heretic, I want to see a legitimate story that isn't cribbed from a video game, that you spend more than thirty seconds on. I mean, you don't have to. This has been amusing and all, but if we never see a sincere effort, I have to assume that you're not really here to try to contribute in a meaningful way. And that's kinda just wasting everyone's time. A lot of us are actually here to write better fiction, so I hope you decide to start submitting things that are more in the spirit of what Thunderdome is meant to be. Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 08:41 on Feb 19, 2013 |
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Feb 19, 2013 08:24
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I'm in. I'll let Harvey Sid Fisher dish on the astrological nonsense: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CWnp5wOz6c
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Feb 19, 2013 08:40
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In. Leo, for my sins.
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Feb 19, 2013 11:50
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In. Capricorn.
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Feb 19, 2013 12:10
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In without properly considering it, like an Aries would be.
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Feb 19, 2013 12:41
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In. Don't know poo poo 'bout no Aquarius though. Guess I'll find out.
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Feb 19, 2013 14:44
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Hey, this sounds like a fun prompt! Fewer dead babies this time, I promise. (Also, thanks for the feedback, Echo Cian & Cancercakes.) In, as a Sagittarius.
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Feb 19, 2013 15:41
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In. Virgo.
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Feb 19, 2013 17:00
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Haven't done this since I moved across the country. In, Aquarius. Honey Badger fucked around with this message at 17:58 on Feb 19, 2013 |
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Feb 19, 2013 17:48
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Honey Badger posted:Haven't done this since I moved across the country. Step off - your reg date sure as hell ain't Aquarius brother. Go hang with your loser Capricorn buddies.
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Feb 19, 2013 18:10
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Jeza posted:Step off - your reg date sure as hell ain't Aquarius brother. Go hang with your loser Capricorn buddies. Edit: Hah nevermind, I looked at my post date and though it was my reg date. Now I feel dumb. Capricorn it is! (thanks for the assist)
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Feb 19, 2013 18:16
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That's your post date, dingus. Look over your avatar.
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Feb 19, 2013 18:17
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toanoradian posted:A question: Are we only allowed to use Ask/Tell as research? For example, can I complement my knowledge on spoons of Early Middle Ages from Spoons.com with several posts from the Spooner thread? Ask/Tell is mandatory, but you can supplement what you learn there with whatever lore your spoonpimp heart desires. A/T subforums are acceptable unless Martello says otherwise.
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Feb 19, 2013 18:35
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Man, Ask/Tell has gotten pretty heavy these days. Also - rejection! Now I feel like a real writer. 
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Feb 19, 2013 21:29
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In, Virgo. Also I posted in the A/T parenting thread already with specific questions about parenting that will go into my story. I have no kids and very little experience with parenting. I hope that will fly.
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Feb 19, 2013 22:20
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V for Vegas posted:Also - rejection! Now I feel like a real writer. Congrats on the pain! Got two rejections within an hour of each other on Sunday. Neither from Bound Off, though. Has anyone else heard back from them? EDIT: VV Looks like the Rejection Fairy's starting to make her rounds, then. budgieinspector fucked around with this message at 22:53 on Feb 19, 2013 |
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Feb 19, 2013 22:32
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budgieinspector posted:Has anyone else heard back from them? I submitted on February 3rd and received a Bound Off rejection today; the same form-letter rejection as V for Vegas.
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Feb 19, 2013 22:49
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budgieinspector posted:Looks like the Rejection Fairy's starting to make her rounds, then. She sure is, rejection high five everybody! 
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Feb 20, 2013 01:23
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I am Virgo and went off this description, which is the first one I saw. I know nothing about astrological signs and noticed that descriptions of personality types vary wildly: http://www.astrology.com.au/astrology/12-signs-of-the-zodiac/virgo.html Here are my posts in the parenting forum of A/T. Parenting is specialized knowledge and I definitely don't know anything about it. http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?noseen=0&threadid=3508127&perpage=40&pagenumber=22#post412688131 http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?noseen=0&threadid=3508127&perpage=40&pagenumber=22#post412680098 Middleman - 1325 Words Dirk had no patience for people who couldn’t motivate themselves. Dirk was a self-starter. How did Yanina think he had reached the highest level of middle-management at a BBB+ rated insurance company? Certainly not by leaving work at 4:59 pm. What message does it send to clients if they see the secretary, the face of the company, pack up her things and death stare the clock at ten ‘till five? Dirk held an empty picture frame as he walked toward Yanina’s desk. Yanina had told Dirk that she couldn't stay late yesterday because of “family”. Dirk had family too, and so did many of Yanina’s co-workers, like Suresh. Dirk planned to give the spare picture frame to Yanina so that Yanina could give it to Suresh, who had just transferred-in from India. Or was it Pakistan? Either way, Suresh did not have any photos of his family on his desk. Were they even allowed to have personal photos on their desks in other countries? Dirk’s thoughtful gesture would make it clear that Suresh could indeed treat his cubicle as a personal space. It would be a rookie mistake to directly lecture Yanina and then separately give Suresh the picture frame. After he gave Yanina the frame, she would think “I can’t believe I told Dirk I had to leave because of my family. He has a kid too and he's always arriving early and leaving late. Now he’s even thinking about Suresh’s family and trying to make the guy feel welcome.” This foresight and planning is what made Dirk a self-starter. This is how he reached the highest level of middle-management at a BBB+ rated insurance company. On the drive home, Dirk struggled to purge Yanina’s transgressions from his thoughts. Here he was, leaving work forty-five minutes late, with the picture frame in his car because Yanina had already left well before 5:00. Dirk should not have been re-evaluating his strategy with Yanina—she had left at 4:43 this time—when he should have been thinking of his son. Dirk down-shifted as he approached a stop sign. “Shifting literal gears in my car, while attempting to shift metaphorical gears in my mind from work to family," Dirk whispered. "I need to re-purpose this idea into a business metaphor for this year's NASACT presentation,” Dirk mused, satisfied with the thought. “Shifting Gears from Clients to Co-Workers: Navigating the Road of Middle Management,” he said to himself, just loud enough to hear over the radio. Dirk was close to home now and still hadn't solidified how he would help Jayen with his backhand. The kid was fast, but his racket preparation was lagging behind his footwork. Dirk had succeeded in having Jayen hit up to five solid backhands in a row, but only when he served directly to Jayen and only when Jayen was mentally prepared to do a backhand. Maybe they needed to play some matches so Jayen could have more chances to use his backhand in a match? Dirk came home as Jayen was saying something which Dirk could not hear over the sound of boiling water, a knife tapping on the cutting board, and the TV in the background. Dirk set his briefcase down and walked toward the kitchen. Jayen intercepted him. "Dad! Look what I drew in class today. We had a paper that the teacher folded into three, then she said we can go with two of our friends so I went with Danny and Bret. Then--Dad look! See I drew the head it's like the bad guy from the book I am reading he has all this cool armor." Dirk glanced at the drawing and then up at his wife. She was making some kind of casserole. "Dad! You're not looking! So then the feet they are like Danny's Warcraft character. That's the game we play when I go over there. His mom lets him play it all the time and it's so cool." Dirk briefly considered the drawing: A man standing in a rigid pose, flexing both arms at perfect ninety degree angles. In each hand was a sword pointing almost straight up despite the width of the hands being parallel to the floor. Jayen's helmet was poorly rendered and really didn't measure up to the feet Danny had made, or even really to the uninspired pose Brett had put the torso into. The head was mostly just a grey mass with yellow spikes popping out everywhere. The eyes were red blobs. Jayen didn't need to waste his time with drawing; Tennis was his thing. "Nice Jayen. Cool stuff! I hope you're ready to work on that backhand, I know some of the ones you hit me with yesterday almost made me fall over trying to catch up to them". "O, okay. Can you do a drawing with me after? I can do the head again, then Mom can do the feet I guess. You should do the middle though because I don't think Bret is very good at drawing swords." Dirk eyed the clock in the kitchen. If they finished eating by 7:30, Jayen would be able to get in a solid hour and a half of practice. Dirk calculated that after a few more sessions like this, Jayen would stand a chance against that Chinese kid who shows up at the court on Saturdays. "Yeah, sure thing Jay. I'm going to go to change and we can talk more about your backhand during dinner." They had arrived on the court shortly after 7:30 and had been playing matches for close to an hour. No successful backhands yet despite Dirk's encouragement. Jayen served, "Love fifteen!" Dirk processed where the ball was going to arrive and darted a few steps right. Dirk nudged the ball back toward Jayen so that it would land several feet to Jayen's left, which would force him to backhand. The ball slowly passed over the net and Jayen still had not stepped at all to the left. The ball now seemed to be moving slightly closer to Jayen than Dirk's initial projection, but still quite a few feet to his left. At an excruciatingly late moment Jayen sprinted left and held the racket out with his right hand as if he were cooking a smore. He then flailed his wrist toward the ball. The ball hit the throat of the racket and bounced a few times on the ground near Jayen's feet. Jayen laughed, ran toward the ball which was rolling under the net, and said, "Nice return, Dad!" "God drat it, Jay! You're not even trying to plan ahead," Dirk grunted as Jayen jumped over the net. Jayen's face contorted and his shoulders tensed up. He slid the racket across the court. It screeched until it hit the fence. Dirk noted that Jayen had tossed the racket using a backhand motion. Tears. "I don't even want to play tennis! Bret and Danny's dads don't make them play tennis! You don't even let me play Warcraft or do any fun stuff. We always just are playing stupid tennis and none of my friends even think tennis is cool. Even Yangyang doesn't like to play; his mom is just crazy and I hate it." Jayen pushed his arms against his body so that his bunched fists flared out. He hunched his head over and scrunched up his eyebrows, trying not to cry more than he already had. Dirk came closer and Jayen backed up. Dirk tried to reason with him but was met only with "I don't care", "whatever", and "fine". Dirk started a monologue on the drive home but gave up when Jayen refused to stop looking at the interior of the car, his gaze fixated an inch or so under the passenger side window pane. The next morning, Dirk passed by Yanina's desk after saying good morning. He then went to Suresh's cubicle and gave the picture frame to Suresh himself. angel opportunity fucked around with this message at 03:12 on Feb 20, 2013 |
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Feb 20, 2013 03:05
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I just got mine today! It's a BoundOff rejection party 
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Feb 20, 2013 04:08
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You guys are losers, I got rejected weeks ago
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Feb 20, 2013 04:18
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Stop bragging.
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Feb 20, 2013 04:22
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Not in this week because UGH RESEARCH, so instead I've decided to make Martello and HereticMIND's little tryst a menage-a-trois. Oh and I may have slightly bent your little rule about fanfic, ESB, whatevs... Undome my heart Marty strutted into the break room looking all manly and military and stuff. "Oh hey Erik, what's up?" "Oh hey Marty, not much. Just finished lunch, and still have like half an hour left in my break." "Oh sweet, me too, wanna have sex?" "Hmm I dunno, I was thinking of watching Survivor: Chernobyl." Marty stroked his square, chiselled jaw. "That's quite the conundrum. How about we do both?" "Yeah OK. I'll turn it on, you grab the... the circuits." "Sorry, what?" Marty looked confused. "You know. Circuits. Don't ask questions, just get 'em! Oh and make sure they're the whirring kind. Nothing worse than a non-whirring circuit." Marty returned shortly with circuits. So many circuits, you don't even know. It was pretty crazy. "All right," said Marty "I hope you understand that I'm always the big spoon." "Whatevs, long as you leave me satisfied." They totally got naked then got on the couch and started doing it. It was super hot. They'd been watching TV in the coital position (that means while they were having sex. Which is what they were doing while they watched TV. Lots of sex.) for a little while when Sebastian walked in. "Uh. Hey guys. What... what are you doing?" "Just watching Survivor," said Marty, "there's room for one more on this couch." "Right," said Sebastian, "I do kind of like that show, but I'll just watch it from over here." "Hey," said Erik, "so what's your take on this Malone chick on Survivor? Bit of a strange strategy IMO." "Yeah, I haven't been following this season that closely," said Sebastian, "could you just give me some clumsy exposition?" "Well basically she's refusing to make alliances," said Marty. "The first time this muffin maker or whatever he is tried to get her to make an alliance she just told him to bugger off." "The first time?" asked Sebastian. "Well yeah," said Erik, "then when he tried it again after he thought he was in danger of being voted out, she killed him with a stick. On the bright side, that means the Drevlyan tribe will eat well for a week or so." Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting short term strategy. Can't imagine it would work that well in the long term." "Yeah," said Marty, "that's more or less the way I see it. Like, no one will vote her out right away because she's not in an alliance and therefore not an immediate threat, but after that it's her against the final two allied guys." "Can't she just kill and eat one of them?" asked Sebastian. "Apparently the producers have stated that killing someone when they're down to the final three will be an instant disqualification," said Eric. "Even if it got down to the final four and she started killing people, she can only kill one of them without being disqualified. She'd need to kill two people at exactly the same time, and that's when the numbers starts to work against her." "It's a tough one, all right," said Sebastian. "Still, it's nice to see different strategies tried." He pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket, out of which he pulled a sandwich and started chowing down." "Yo, what the hell?" asked Erik. "Is that a tuna sandwich? I can smell that all the way over here, even over Marty's sweat! It's disgusting!" "Yeah, come on!" said Marty. "Who the hell pulls something like that out in public? Get out of here with your tuna sandwich eating you jackass!" Sebastian left without finding out who got voted out in that week's tribal council. "Almost there!" said Marty. "Oorah! Oorah! Oorah! Yep that does it." "I'd ask you to finish me off," said Erik, "but after that tuna sandwich nonsense, I don't think I'm in the mood anymore." "Good," said Marty, "I've gotta get back to work." Aaaaaaaaand SCENE.
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Feb 20, 2013 09:22
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budgieinspector posted:Harvey Sid Fisher dish on the astrological nonsense: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CWnp5wOz6c WHAT IS THIS?!> my brain melted oh, and in i guess. what the gently caress is an astrology?
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Feb 20, 2013 15:09
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 Oh and for everyone, the OP is updated.
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Feb 20, 2013 16:36
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In as Gemini
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Feb 20, 2013 22:41
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There are now under 24 hours left for sign-ups. The stars shine bright upon the bold, but those who shy from combat will never become constellations in heaven. Well, unless they bang Zeus and he throws them into the sky in the shapes of bears. Zeus is weird like that.
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Feb 22, 2013 06:31
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Sign-ups are now CLOSED! Competitors have two days left. Per Ask/Tell ad astra!
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Feb 23, 2013 06:08
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I don't have the energy to finish last week's critiques thoroughly, so here's an overview of the things that stood out for the rest of you. Nubile Hillock: Little Mesa Enjoyable, but this was the beginning of the string of deaths in the love prompt, for one thing, and it fell apart for me at the ending. I don't know  ) who was supposed to be speaking. I can make guesses, but I prefer not to have to guess.Also, STONE OF MADNESS posted:"Dialogue This will continue to be quoted until we stop seeing this mistake.  Steriletom: Remembrance This relies on cliche to draw a response, and that doesn't get a response. Not badly written, but it's been done to death. Fell Fire: Waking You wrote 375 words but forgot to do something with them. It's an okay lead-up to a longer piece, but on its own it's a non-story. You also managed repetition in those few words ("breast" twice in the same paragraph, for example). Benagain: Revolutionary Love I liked this, a bit too expository though maybe. Chairchucker: Pick One Person I liked this too. Maybe a bit too much on the humor, but it made me chuckle anyway so I won't count too much against it. It was also the first lighthearted entry that addressed the prompt by showing a relationship with both parties alive and mentally intact. toanoradian: How the Legendary Hero Got a Legendary Wife This had its amusing moments but for the most part I had no idea what was going on. You didn't lose because Horrible Butts ignored the prompt more thoroughly and I like your current avatar. LJHalfbreed: Embrace Another one where I wasn't sure what was happening. I got that he was a ghost, eventually, but did she kill herself? Did they kill each other? Heart attacks? Why are they both dead? Too vague. Down With People: Brunch I don't know why someone in his fifties who's been with his wife for ten lovely, wonderful years (blech) would be acting like a shy schoolboy with his first crush. Not enough characterization to make it look like this was a fitting trait. Kaishai: Heart and Soul The best use of the prompt with one of the lowest wordcounts, and MUSIC.  Braggy_Brad: Rescue There are these things called "linebreaks." Use them. This felt flat. Repeating dialogue felt more stilted than endearing. There was a description of events, but no look into these characters' heads and not much personality from them as a result. DivisionPost: The Great Escape A solid story, even if my eyes glazed over at the names and close descriptions of the game, but what I read was a good friendship, not a romantic relationship. Missed the prompt. Horrible Butts: RV You know what you've done. budgieinspector: Bess Over the wordcount, and yet again more telling than showing. A yeti transformation was just...odd, besides. twinkle cave: Hank the Petulant Vibrator Echo Cian fucked around with this message at 17:22 on Feb 24, 2013 |
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Feb 24, 2013 02:55
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attribution."
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| # ? Apr 19, 2024 21:02 |
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Thunderdome Week XXIX: Written in the Stars A: What is an A/T? 2: Didn’t we just do an astrowhat thing 2 months ago. Next I know moms going to show up with her power crystals and perimeter my house with salt. Whatever: Vagtitarius is the sign of fire, and this story contains the fire from the gods of particle physics that human curiosity unleashed to their merriment. Having fun yet sentient monkeys? #: Research: Stood in club and smoked cigs non-stop while leering at a DJ and shoving kids when they danced near my state of musical catharsis. ------- In a time of ever evolving technology driven fears, no one thought the biggest threat of all would be a dance party. DOOM BOX(1200 words) Handwritten words. A folded letter. Ink bleeding through the back in heavy black. The result of something awful. When a text or email just won’t do. “Thanks for the party yo,” it began. DJ Clydematic read on, recognizing Fre$h Fr3dd^7’s handwriting. It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way Clyde thought. In the beginning it was just a cool idea. The world’s baddassiest mobile dance party. They had the tech, the know-how. Why not? Why the hell not? We can make whatever the gently caress we want and this is what. The first DOOM BOX was little more than a Winnibego with speakers bracketed to pale yellow siding. They’d slow roll the city slamming tracks, vibrating windows, giving the people their need. A soundtrack for the streets. A radical beat. People danced, cheered, flipped bottles and the bird. “What, what?” Fre$h yelled, pointing at the side-view mirror. The cops. Again. It was hard to hear their own music much less a siren. The generator running in the back providing power to the amps, the music shaking bolts from holes daily. They wore sound dampening helmets with implanted headphones. Fre$h in the plus-1 swivel seat working the boards, DJ Clydematic easing down the street picking a trail through traffic. The DJ’s felt more than heard. The bass like a deep massage in a compound under ballistics barrage. It didn’t even have a name yet. People called it the MBB; Mobile Boom Box. DOOM BOX came after the baby-nuke. After the auto-destruct installation, the self-driving computer, the armored plating and glass, the off-road chassis, the dread, fame, and seclusion. After ICBM-1 showed up on their doorstep. ICBM-1 was a polyglot gangster wannabe DJ. A Hatian, Puerto Rican, Russian, angry bullshit artist with bullshittier connections but cash in hand. And cash they did need. “We ain’t about to co-opt our bad poo poo,” Fre$h told him quietly looking at the ground. Fre$h was like that, always thinking. Somewhere else, hearing the music, laying down the next thing. He didn’t look people in the eyes much, just off in his own world. The beats man, that’s how he let them know. “No track vote,” Fre$h continued, “we got jurisdiction on that.” “Don’t want to mess up a good thing,” IC said, “You guys are the master blasters. I just want in the game. This poo poo is going to change the world.” “You think,” Clydematic said. It was a statement not a question. But he had no idea how much truth ICBM-1 spoke. Despite the website donations and the momentary fame that comes from the unique, they kept running out of money. RV’s impounded. Larger and larger tickets. Playing cat-n-mouse with the police. They could barely make the block without being shut down. Finally the powers banned them outright. Next stop jail if they continued their hijinks. But ICBM-1 came up with a plan. Him and his connections. He’d been scratching around. Working that addled brain. Then someone called him out on his schemes to resurrect their jolly ear bombing. A Brazilian cohort showed up in a tactical vehicle that came with a surprise. They were wearing business suits under power armor, made them look silly, but the guns where no joke. Uzis with mags a foot long and enough next-gen tech mods to trick out a guerrilla coup. “You will keep the party going or everyone dies,” the lead guy said in perfect English. After a briefing by his lackeys they folded out of the room as quietly as they came leaving behind a support team of geek radicals. The DOOM BOX was born. Nuke-ette attached, armed, and trip ready. Most the city vacated in the first month. No sane person wanted to live in the shadow of particle annihilation. At the same time squatter hedonists flooded in, taking up residence in the abandoned office buildings and stripped brownstones. A government subsidized sybarite ecosystem evolved complete with military drones buzzing the skies, public announcements to party, and street vendors proffering meth, X, and power drinks. Washington was impotent. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists, we just melt our faces to the music,” read a spray-painted over mural. No one knew the rules exactly. How many people had to dance, how many people had to cheer. The DOOM BOX rolled slow 24/7 receiving fuel and maintenance en route. Death tourists flocked from around the world, woke early for scheduled partying, stayed up countless days under the throes of bombastic bass and synthetic energy enhancers. “Everyday I wake up and forget for a second,” Fre$h said. “This ain’t a party, it’s a prison sentence.” He and Clyde hotfooted out to the street where they traded places with team Brazil for their shift, hoping on the DOOM BOX while it crept along. Cluster crowds let out yells as the progenitors took the tables. “Yo yo pleb wondercrats of the world, this ain’t your grandma’s jams. Let’s hear some noise!” Maintaining enthusiasm under duress night-in night-out was a challenge for Clyde. Fre$h barely ever got on the mic except to snarl or cuss. The devils loved Fre$h because of it. “At least we’re making sounds,” Clydematic said to Fre$h. They could regulate the volume with ease inside the new rig with its heavily insulated sheathing. “Yeah, the ones right before you hear boom.” Fre$h kept sinking in further and further. His mixes and makes delved the disturbing and dark. Critics were comparing his stuff to everyone from Wagner to Kafka to Bosh. They said it was the art of the dark future-present. But like many genius artists he was destined to die young. Destruction outlined by the letter in Clydmatics hand. “I slipped out,” the letter said. “told the guys you were sick. Play along and then get out while you can. Spreading the word though. Try to give denizens time.” Clyde figured there had to be an end game. That Fre$h would pull the trigger when no one else would. No one else could. Destroy a city or let an unstable nuke sleep at your doorstep. “People might be saved.” Clyde burned the letter with a lighter, didn’t waste time, did his part. Soon DJ Clydematic was out of sight by way of boosted beater. He told a few people to tell others. Maybe the terrorists were button nodding. By the time Clyde hit the Brooklyn bridge, people were terror in the streets. By the time he hit the countryside headed north, the city was ashes. Fre$h Fr3dd^7 had driven DOOM BOX into the bay, towards the Statue of Liberty, hoping it might sink before exploding, buffer the explosion, short a circuit. Clyde imagined his friend pulling over the edge, jumping out at the last minute, standing in silence as the instrument submerged, ending the music. Then looking back over the city they loved before everything went white then black. twinkle cave fucked around with this message at 06:49 on Feb 24, 2013 |
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Feb 24, 2013 06:38
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