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Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


gently caress it dude I'm in. Let's see if I can't get something done before my date with alcoholism this weekend.

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Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


This is a reminder I should finish this poo poo before I drink and not shortly after. Anyways, story:
Internet Relationship (WC: 381)

“We're the only ones left.”

Murphy sipped his cup of Mountain Dew and stared at the screen as he sent those words into The Collective IRC chatroom. “The only ones?” he wrote back. There were ten of them, spread out in two different countries, brought together by a common purpose. Now “Colonel_KFC” was confirming what he'd read online, that the feds had raided all the others. “Can't we find someone new?” he asked.

“We can't, we have to keep going.” The Colonel wrote back.

“Are you insane? We need to get off the grid and lay low.” Murphy wrote back. “If they found the others it's only a matter of time before they find us.” Murphy tossed the now-empty cup in a nearby overflowing trashcan, not watching it tumble to the floor and roll around a bit.

“No, we still have some doxxing to do.” The Colonel responded. “Just hit the server I told you to, then we can release the data.”

“But what if they find us? What if this is a setup.”

“Trust me on this. I gave you the tools after all.”

Murphy wanted to believe the Colonel so badly. He actually knew his poo poo, The Collective had stirred up He opened up the browser and the “Colonel_KFC Eyedropper” program, and prepared to do this. Just one last job, then he would go dark.

Just as he was about to capture the passwords to the secure private network, several armed FBI agents broke down the door and stormed into the room. They came in so fast he didn't have time to destroy the hard drive before they demanded to see his hands above his head. With the programs on his computer, he expected they wouldn't have a hard time slapping whatever charge they wanted.

He prayed that the last remaining member of The Collective would somehow hack into his computer and blank the Hard Drive for him, but Colonel_KFC posted one final message in the chatroom. “Sorry bro, but we had to smoke you out.”

And in that moment before he was cuffed and dragged away from his room, his face twisted into some strangled crying expression, Murphy realized how foolish he'd been to place his trust in someone he'd never met.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


Ah well, there will be another time.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


In from The Third-Floor Bedroom. Let's see if I can improve over my "second-worst" performance from last time.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


Can't resist the theme this time around. Let's do this, preferably before I go drinking on the weekend and forget again or turn in something half-assed.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


poo poo, I almost forgot I entered this one. Well, too late to turn back now.
-------------------------
What the Good Book Says (WC: 685)

The man stalked through the warehouse, trying to make his footsteps hit the floor as quietly as possible. It was more a force of habit than a fear of anyone actually finding him in this naturally-lit building, but it never hurt to be careful. The Lord had a way of bringing down those who became too enamored of their own skill, and other skilled Inquisitors who took their own skills for granted had a way of being taken down by the heathens that were normally beneath them.

Taking out a tactical folding knife from a belt sheath, he crept closer to his target, and then stabbed down until he cut a long gash through the top of a large cardboard box marked “TEXTBOOKS” in big red letters. Then he used his own strength to rip open the box and view its contents. Plenty of textbooks lay inside, their covers full of sinful knowledge with innocuous-sounding titles: Biology, the Science of Life. Introduction to the World of Physics. Geology: The Story of Earth.

With their calming blue and green colored covers and pictures of smiling children they invited impure thoughts, they invited young minds to grow prideful on things that The Lord had never revealed to them, to drag them into sin. the man wondered if it wouldn't be easier to simply burn the whole place to the ground. But any idiot with a match could do that, and the heathens would simply find another place to set up shop. No, the reason they would call for a Textbook Inquisitor in the first place was to gain evidence of heresy to righteously and lawfully put the ringleaders to the stake.

Yanking the Geology book out of its box, the Inquisitor flipped through its thin pages to reach the index. The cheap paper began tearing near the spine in protest to the speed with which he turned the pages, but as long as it was still readable, he didn't care. The Inquisitor finally reached the index and found the entry he was looking for. Flipping back to the page, he carefully searched through it until he found the passage containing the heretical words. This was the evidence he needed!

After dog-earing the page, the Inquisitor put the book under his arm. He was already thinking of how the Republic would be another step closer to ridding itself of these heathens when he returned to his office with the evidence. Before he could leave the warehouse, he heard heavy footsteps. The Inquisitor cursed himself. There must have been an alarm he missed, or some sort of trap that the heathens set for him beforehand.

“Sir, what are you doing with those books?” A man in tan-colored clothes and a shiny badge on his chest approached, a puzzled look on his face. “Not sure you'd get more than forty bucks on Amazon for that one.”

“So the Sons of Tyson think they can blind innocent schoolchildren to the truth that the Lord has granted us?” The Textbook Inquisitor furrowed his brow as he turned to face the jackbooted thug before him. “I have been empowered by none other than the Board of Education to bring them evidence of heresy contained within these heathen materials!”

“Sir, I don't know what you're doing, but I need you to step away from that box and come with me. This is your only warning.”

“You cannot stop the work of the Lord! For we are his hands on this Earth, and as his hands our work becomes sacred.”

The Inquisitor rushed forward with his folding knife, but the guard hit him with a long-range taser that pumped out several thousand volts of electricity into his body. The Inquisitor hit the ground, paralyzed and twitching involuntarily.

The guard shook his head and reached for his cuffs. “When you get out of jail, please tell the Board of Education to stop sending people to steal our books.” As he cuffed the Inquisitor's arms behind his back, the guard continued, “It's people like you that make Tyson's job correcting your books harder.”

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


Oh god I am going to be in so much pain for this one.

In.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

Kleptobot: What the Good Book Says

Let me guess, you're an atheist?
[...]
What is the point of this story?

Tried to write something satirical, but if this is the impression you got then it looks like I hosed up big time. Ah well, on to the next challenge...

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


quote:

Jagermonster vs. Kleptobot
A game of some kind must be significant to the plot.

This one came out extra pulpy. Hope you like some pulp in your word juice. And an ancient version of chess.

-----------
An introduction to Shatranj (WC: 808)

I remember that when I first opened my eyes that evening, I half-expected I had shuffled from this mortal coil and into the Heavens. After all, there was nothing but sand when I closed my eyes and made peace with my Lord, and when I awoke I felt myself on top of a heavy rug. And yet I was not dead, for I saw a large, swarthy savage draped in light-colored garments and his young charge draped in smaller clothing of similar comfort sitting across from each other. They were moving carved figures across a small wooden board.

Looking back, I suppose if that man wanted me dead, then he could have simply left me to the whims of the desert instead of offering me shelter. However, at the time, I was quite afraid of this savage. What was he doing, and involving such a young boy in his ritual? Was it some sort of witchcraft? A malicious plan? I was unsure. I tried to locate a weapon with which to defend myself. Unfortunately, the only weapons within my reach at that moment were my two fists, and I had no idea if I could properly defend myself against this savage with those alone.

Strangely enough, the man never did attack me, but instead poured a glass of some dark, thick, bitter liquid he called “caghwa.” He took a sip of it himself, as if to show me it was not poisonous, then refilled the cup and handed it to me. After a moment of hesitation, I closed my eyes and downed the liquid in one gulp. Dreadful stuff, really, but whatever it took for that savage to look upon me as a friend instead of an intruder that necessitated overly brutal measures.

Shortly after I sipped that concoction, this savage—the larger one named Mubarak, I learned after struggling early on to understand his words—returned to his board and continued conversing with the child. I rose to my feet, quicker than I expected, wondering what was so appealing about this board compared to a civilized person such as myself. Mubarak might not have understood my language, but he did understand my gestures, and said, “Shatranj.”

I'm not sure what that was supposed to mean, but he gestured to different figures on the board, naming them as he did. “Shah,” he pointed at the tallest one, then to a few more pieces in decreasing size. “Firz,” “Rukh,” “Alfil,” “Faras” and “Baidaq.” All laid out on the table, all with different amounts of value, much like a general of a miniature wooden army. Perhaps this was Mubarak's way of planning an attack on an enemy of his own, but then why invite the boy to help him plan strategy? I chuckled at the thought.

Mubarak stared at me for a moment with that dark face and haunting eyes, and I feared that his patience had finally run its course. But instead he turned back to his board and moved a piece forward several spaces, the one he called Firz. The boy muttered something and knocked down his piece, the one called Shah. I would later learn that was the most important piece on the board, the equivalent to the King riding into battle with His Army. Without the Shah, there was no Army and thus no battle left to fight. After the two of them exchanged some words, the boy ran away to another tent nearby. It was just me and Mubarak left in the tent.

Mubarak picked up the fallen pieces of his wooden army and arranged them into two rows, one full of Baidaq, the other an assortment of the pieces. He gestured me to sit down at the spot where the boy had sat earlier. I assumed he meant for me to play a round with him. My first attempt at playing this game of Shatranj with Mubarak was mostly mirroring his movements while we tried—and failed—to make small talk between moves.

With our wildly different languages it was as though neither of us were human, but at least we managed to trade our names with each other. Perhaps this would lead to an amicable relationship of sorts down the line, but for now, I had to endure the embarrassment of being in this man's debt. With the sun setting on that endless desert for the night and no immediate means of returning home, learning Shatranj was the least I could do.

I look back on that day and wonder if it was real, being the sole survivor of that expedition and winding up in the care of some wandering tribe of noble savages. It all seems so distant now, but then I remember the gift I acquired from them—the man's Shatranj set—and know that at some point in the future I shall venture that way again.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


So do I have to resubmit my story to fit the edited prompt now or is it grandfathered in under the old one?

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009



quote:

The Something Awful Forums > The Finer Arts > Creative Convention > Thunderdome '13 - If this were any other thread we'd all be banned by now

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


Nothing like taking away my pain of the past few days by submitting myself to another verbal whipping, this time in Thunderdome.

In.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


Oh hey I almost forgot this thing was happening. Guess I'll just have to quuuuuuickly come up with a story then!
--------------------

Flaming Karma (WC:367)

Emanuel rushed up to the second floor, keeping a handkerchief wrapped around his nose and mouth in a feeble attempt to ward off death by smoke inhalation. The crackling of flames demanded he turn back, let the fire finish consuming his home, but Emanuel could not leave just yet.

He rushed through the unlocked door to his study, looked past the bags of white powder on his desk, and saw it in the frame on the wall behind his chair: A single American Dollar. He ripped the small frame off of the wall and tucked it under his arm. After mumbling a small prayer to the Lord, he ran back out of the office, trying to beat the flames as they began eating into more of the house around him

The heat suddenly caused a section of the house to collapse onto the stairwell, trapping him on the upper floor. There was a window to the outside to his right. It would be a long fall, but Emanuel was running low on options. He backed up a couple of steps, took a running start, then threw his weight through the window. The glass itself held, but the surrounding pane broke loose.

Emanuel felt something crunch as he hit the ground. He couldn't stand up, as his leg was bending in a very awkward and painful position. Was this some sort of message, a divine ultimatum about the nature of his work finally catching up with him?

As the flames consumed the house behind him, he picked up the shattered frame and read the note hidden behind it. It was a folded letter from his nephew several years ago, written in their native tongue, telling him that this was the first dollar he had earned working up North. It came from an honest job, not like the work Emanuel had gotten with the cartel.

Emanuel crawled forward slowly on his arms towards the shouting of the men with the guns. Probably the same ones who had decided to set his home on fire. He wondered if maybe he could buy them off with an honest dollar, considering that his dishonest ones apparently had a much smaller shelf life.

Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


Huzzah, I fell somewhere around the median. Yay.

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Kleptobot
Nov 6, 2009


In because prize on the table even though there is a minimal chance I'm walking out alive with this competition.

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