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PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


V for Vegas posted:

:frogsiren: Week 49 - You Have Chosen... Poorly :frogsiren:

I'm in with THE ROARING TWENTIES

ah poo poo snipe, have some cool gifs: http://technoir.nl/

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PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


It's coming but I'm going to be late! Having severe connectivity issues this week. I'll probably be a day or so late. Sorry. :(

PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


my cyberpunk blaxploitation story will be about a man with no neck defending his ironic racism on reddit.

our future is the dumbest future

PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:

If anyone GBSes this up by mentioning reddit or any other arbitrary thing I declare too GBS, it's a disqualify.

Okay what about Slashdot.

PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


How the gently caress you jive-rear end muppets can even think to name anything less than Sweet Sweetback's Badasssss Song is beyond me.

PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


The Funkulatrix 976 words

“We learn the sacred mathematics not so that we may call upon it when we will.. . .”

He counted the breathless seconds between footsteps, willed his body to absolute stillness, like stone in tempest, and waited.

“But so that we may be ready when it calls upon us.”

The guard tossed another small bag of white crystals in his lap, joining an array of powders dyed every hue in the rainbow. Some of them slipped off his loose-fitting trousers and fell to the floor in a shower of plastic. The guard gestured with his foot, and muttered something in Russian.

Slowly, he raised his arm, our man, our hero man, trapped in the gullet of the Enemy and reaching out, and the guard reaches out as well, another baggy of some drat honky poison, and he lunges, our hero man, and grabs the guard by the wrist, and yanks him forward, the guard bounces off of the bars, until our hero grabs him by the head, and pulls his head through the bars until it's stuck. Honky screams like a stuck pig. Long pork, you know.

He reaches down to the heavy ring of keys hanging on the guard's belt, he unlocks the door and smirks to see this Russian bastard shuffling in small, agonized steps.

The hallway is the yellow of old concrete, industrial spaces created at a speed where aesthetics were always a secondary concern. He hears the electromagnetic hum of computer banks in the open doors he passes, the clatter of distant keyboards. He feels the floors shake a bit, a hum less heard than felt passes out and he knows he's above the loading bay, imagines the crates full to bursting of their witchcraft sent out to an unsuspecting world, party kids gripped with a sudden fever, as the nanomachines rewrite their genetics, some will be reduced to soup as the machines judge them unworthy in their unknowable, alien math.

The door on his left was locked, window barred with the wire-mesh security glass we all associate with cold empty rooms and secretly fear, so he broke the knob off, and kicked it in, found banks of cages lined up against one wall, white children, none hardly older than sixteen, all haunted, many bruised, all naked, clutching scraps of cloth and threadbare towels as best they might, arms riddled with puncture wounds, our man, our hero man, trapped in the gullet of the enemy though he was, confronted with the worst debasement possible, feeding upon their own children, our hero man was righteous in his actions as he freed those alabaster children, those lotus-eaters, the test rabbits, and they fled, winding down hallways, away.

His path took him past a tall window, overlooking the command chamber, circled around an enormous hologram of the planet, white lines traced across the surface illustrating deliveries, so our hero, knowing the wisdom of corporate decranialization, kicked out the safety glass and lept into the room. The white servitors of this concrete gullet did scream, and flee, and there was an atmosphere of panic that swirled around our hero man like a tempest swirls round a rock, and he looked across the chamber to the president, the scar-eyed villain who beat him senseless and locked him in a chamber to rot, he took a breath from a strange metal tube, like an inhaler, and he pointed at our hero, and the meat on his arm unfolded, and a bone shard the size of a thumb launched itself into our hero man, and he dove behind the computer banks, screaming.

Our hero man, he winces, he winces and he pulls the fell missile out, and he peers over these computers, trying to find the president. There's an explosion, this white bastard shooting more of his own flesh at our hero, and the computers start to explode, there's sparks and smoke filling the chamber, our hero steps out into the open.

This general, this white villain, he breathes from that same metal tube again, and you can see the clouds of machines coming out his nose, and his flesh starts to bubble, he points the bloody stump of his arm at our hero again, and something red and white and sharp, like a half-ate candy cane, comes launching at our hero.

"It calls upon us."

Our hero finds that he is moving without being conscious of it. He feels the vibrations of the sacred mathmatics, this eternal equation, knows that this is history creating itself, he leaps sideways through time, knows that this drat spear is headed straight for his heart, but he catches it, for a split moment everything is still, and grunting with effort, he spins the spear around, launches it back at this villain, and there is a static burst in time as the sacred arithmetic is counted, the sum verified, the president found wanting, the spear jutted out of the back of his skull, pierced his bad eye in the very center of the scar, he screamed and there was no blood, but a grey puddle forming at his feet, rejected, rejected.

Now our hero man, he has had enough of this alabaster stupidity, so after seeing to it that every scrap of technology these Russians had was set to blaze, he strode out from this concrete bunker, headed out over the icy plains of this ice-blown emptyness, till he found himself a road, jet black in the dark night. Our hero man, he sees himself a pair of headlights bearing down on his position, he knows that Providence does not forsake a righteous brother in his hour of need, so he puts his life in the hands of the mathematics and he sticks his thumb out, knowing the limitlessness of the white devil's trickery, knowing the limitlessness of his own strength.

PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


CURSE THE JUDGES AND THE DEAD GODS THEY WORSHIP! I SHALL REVENGE etc etc whatever. History shall, in time, exonerate me.

PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


If I win a round, does the shame avatar get taken off?

PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


i'm a huge idiot who can't follow instructions, durr durr durr

PHIZ KALIFA fucked around with this message at 21:42 on Nov 13, 2013

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PHIZ KALIFA
Dec 21, 2011

#mood


That's what I get for letting this thread accumulate a thousand unread posts. My bad.

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