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Lord Windy posted:I want to give this a go. I guess the worst that can happen is I get a new avatar. The worst that could happen is the post above yours, I think you'll come out clean.
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Feb 7, 2013 04:57
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Lord Windy posted:What about if I write some hardcore pornography? I'm sure that will look good next to some fisting action. Take a chance. Ars Longa, Vita Brevis. Capntastic fucked around with this message at 05:04 on Feb 7, 2013 |
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Feb 7, 2013 05:02
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The Gravity of the Situation Word Count: 797 Darren's ears picked up the clattering noise of AK-47 fire growing closer. He pulled his hands away from his ears, and began considering how to ensure the next five minutes weren't his last. He was hunkered down next to Cody's truck, with all of the expensive surveying equipment in the back. Cody had ran off with the keys, meaning Darren couldn't just try to drive up to the military checkpoint and explain that he wasn't part of the spontaneous uprising. Darren didn't even have an AK-47. Outside of the geological equipment in the truck, he had a box of grenades Cody had found before taking off to find help. Might as well use them. Knowing his pocket protector wouldn't do much to stop a bullet, Darren knew that hiding behind the truck was the best bet. He took his hardhat off, since bright orange would just draw attention. Even handling the grenade made him nervous, turning it over in his hands, feeling its weight through his gloves. He was certain that anyone, even a crazed rebel with a big old gun would run from it. The noises grew closer, and in the alleys on the other side of the truck he heard fences getting kicked down and windows being broken. Greasy smoke from cordite and molotovs was mixed on the breeze. He heard spent casings hitting the ground now, after the occasional bursts of fire. He had to move. There was a tall chainlink fence behind him, at the bottom of a grassy embankment. Beyond it was an abandoned construction site. That's where he'd hide. He put his finger through the ring pin of the grenade and tossed it out into the street, slipping the pin into his chest pocket. There were shouts of surprise that were quickly blasted out as the thing exploded all noise into a gentle ringing. Darren slid down the hill towards the fence and began cutting away with his multitool's clippers. The clippers had trouble biting through the fence, and the gloves Darren wore made his grip awkward on them. Looking over his shoulder, he saw men with guns approaching the truck. He tossed another grenade and looped the pin onto another one of the pens in his pocket. With a thunk it landed in the bed of the truck, bouncing against the hammers and measurement tools strapped down against crates of computerized data logging equipment. He winced, knowing precisely how valuable all of that was. He winced again when the grenade went off, causing hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage, and blowing out the windows of the truck. The men had given him some room to continue working in. He tore a small flap of fence away, and as the gunfire started back up, this time directed at him, he pulled himself under the fence. Driving his fingers down into gravel and dragging himself underneath the clawing bits of fence, tearing at the back of his legs. He forced himself to ignore it. His dress shirt was absolutely wrecked, so anything less than a bullet was fine at this point. Putting distance between himself and the pursuers, if they even decided to try to follow, Darren began charging across nail-filled planks and cracked panes of glass left out in heaps next to concrete skeletons. The firing had died down, so he slowed his pace to prevent any footsteps echoing outwards and giving away his location. There was a paved walkway, full of shadow from tarps tied up all around. A good place to catch one's breath, Darren decided, sliding behind a blue tarp stained with rust trails from the rain. Within moments Darren realized that Cody would have a hard time finding him here, which might be alright given how Cody had left the truck's valuables in his care. Oh well. Without the truck's GPS, finding a route to the military checkpoint would be rough and take hours. Might be best to wait until night. Darren slipped along the blank concrete hallways looking for a place to sit down and wait. He heard a tinkling noise inside one of the unfinished apartments. He slowly peeked his head inside to see one of the rebels in the middle of the room urinating into a bathtub, AK held aloft in one hand. Darren reached into his pocket and retrieved his last grenade. He pulled the pin and waited for the man to finish relieving himself, holding the lever down. In a few tense seconds, the man turned around to zip himself up. "Drop the gun and get in the tub, or I'm taking you to Hell with me." The AK-47 thudded onto the half carpeted floor. Darren added another ring to his pocket as his captive curled up into the fouled tub.
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Feb 11, 2013 01:05
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They can lose, they just won't win. And you won't instant-lose if you throw something out there. At least, that's what makes sense to me.
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Feb 11, 2013 06:20
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It's a matter of Honor to at least make an attempt.
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Feb 11, 2013 07:37
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Their zeal and bloodlust is certainly admirable, but it's the screeching avatar that lends it that special Thunderdome flair.
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Feb 11, 2013 22:07
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LJHalfbreed posted:
Nice, diggin' this preemptive Stockholm's syndrome. Go get 'em.
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Feb 13, 2013 19:49
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"Writers" who don't produce don't get to conjure flash rules.
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Feb 18, 2013 23:42
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The transhumanist Hellfuture marred by an unthinking cyberbeing composed entirely of secondhand kayfabe.
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Feb 19, 2013 00:51
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In, from my phone, while travelling. I am a roaming spirit.
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Feb 26, 2013 17:11
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Primary Concern (819 words, mostly on a phone) Maurice dipped a wide brush into a despairing can of red paint up to the wood of the handle. Drawing it out carefully, and shifting his weight from his free hand to his knees, he reared back and ground the brush back and forth in overlapping rows on the sidewalk. With this square of the concrete complete, he walked backwards on hands and knees with his brush and can until he was staring down a new, bare slab. Looking past the speckled face of his wristwatch, he saw it was less than one hour until the town council meeting. He would have enough time to go home, shower, change out of his work clothes and get to the town hall if he left now. Maurice dipped the fraying brush into the can up to the wood of the handle, and drew it out carefully. The town of Rainbow Hollow had a problem lurking the corners of its four streets. One would glide past a sign stating the town's name when coming down Main Street, and within moments, would similarly glide past signs indicating Main's intersections with Red Street, Blue Street, and Green Street. The town prided itself on its simple theme of color, never quite seeing what could make someone like Maurice so disappointed. Having been a dilettante of the arts, Maurice had dabbled in song, sculpture, sketches, and his favored watercolor paints. To him, the town was in a state of grave error, brought on by some awful blending of shortsightedness and ignorance. He would voice himself at town meetings. "Would it be right to have a Scale Town, named for a generous love of music, and only have E, G, and B street? We are surely the laughing stock of the county." he would say. "We can't be a town so calcified and decrepit as to do nothing about this issue once we are made aware of it. We must restore our town's virtue." The town hall was swept like wind across the prairie. Many saw the problem as Maurice did, now that so clear a portrait was presented. Others were unconcerned, or saw problems in fixing the problem. The bricklayer suggested that more cross-streets should be built. The town's banker argued that such an expenditure would put the town's funding into the red. A schoolteacher put forth the idea of splitting each of the cross-streets that existed already into two, thereby increasing the number of streets to the required seven, thus completing the spectrum. This simple act of division was shot down by the postman, who was adamant that such a disruption of the town geography would lead to chaos. Taking the podium again, Maurice himself suggested simply changing the town's name to something less misleading. The oldest member of the town council, a revered historian of the area, shuffled up to the podium to voice his concerns, leaning very close to the microphone to be heard. "The founder of our fine town, may his grave be dry and warm, is said to have settled the area after running his ship aground and following the colors in the sea's mists inland. Any scholar can simply dismiss such a fantasy as false, given the records stating him to be a less than adventurous man merely seeking a valley to raise livestock and ship their produce to the neighboring counties. Laurence Rainbow, the hero of our tale, was a man of pragmatism and business sense, and we would do him dishonor to desecrate the signs bearing his name. I won't allow it." Though he had no authority without a vote, he punctuated his final words with such force that his nose banged the microphone, imitating the decree of the gavel, as the town council had used in more rowdy times. With no other rebuttals to follow, and the water glasses of the council members being drained, the meeting was adjourned. In the week that followed, Maurice had labored on bent knee and calloused hand to perform his almost prayer-like ritual. He had ruined his brushes with coarse pigments and even those he paid for with money drawn from his starving artist pension. He had, in that week, succeeded in painting the sidewalks of each street one of the colors that were emblazoned on the signs about town. He had painted Red Street green, Blue Street red, and Green Street blue. His work done, Maurice swore to never attend another town meeting. In the years that followed, as cognitive dissonance spread and the town of Rainbow began to fear its reputation as being either dishonest, ignorant, or cheapskates, a simple change in thought occurred. The pronunciations of the street names shifted gradually towards the titles of the hues their sidewalks bore. Even better, within a year, even tourists had started to correctly pronounce the town's name in the proper way, so that it sounded something like "Primary". EDIT: FORMATTING PHONE gently caress UP FIXED Capntastic fucked around with this message at 06:11 on Mar 3, 2013 |
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Mar 3, 2013 06:06
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In with Baggy_Brad's "The Fourth Temptation", which was a Loser in its Time.
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Apr 9, 2013 05:34
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Come on people, do your own legwork. Show some pride. Hahahaha.
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Apr 9, 2013 10:01
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Basic literacy, mainly:Sitting Here posted:
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Apr 11, 2013 03:32
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I'm in the same boat as Martello more or less, so I'm gonna fry up some fish and then leisurely finish this up.
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Apr 15, 2013 22:10
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For those that care, Scrivener is half off today on Amazon's direct download service.
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Apr 25, 2013 07:51
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In, and I will be using the next thread one of my SA buddies randomly links me. It'll feel good to be back in the saddle.
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Jul 24, 2013 05:59
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The New Stuff (500 Words, thread is Gargantia on the Verdurous Planet) "It's totally amazing. Check out the architecture." Dan typed. He'd sent the link to his friend whose name appeared as "CriminalInTense" on the screen. The link, once clicked, would show CriminalIntense the bright screenshots, and, further along, a brief synopsis of the show. Dan was content that he'd done his due diligence in showing this new treasure to his friend. He smiled as the chat window indicated an oncoming reply was in the works. The response was heralded by two chirpy tones. "Fuuuuck that guy." Criminal had typed. "This looks just as bad as his other poo poo. Look at that quarter-skirt or whatever." Dan slid his hands off of his keyboard, considered the trajectory of his counter-argument, and then went to get reinforcements. Using Wikipedia, he quickly acquired a list of the artist's last productions. Some boring slice-of-life trash; not at all the genre-mating carnival this new show was going to be like. "I dunno man, the last stuff may have been bad but he was just playing to his audience, you know? This looks totally different, and if you look at the character designs, it seems sort of self aware." Criminal didn't respond immediately. Dan was looking up screenshots on Google Image Search to bolster his credibility; any awful image of the old stuff he could find and snag a favorable comparison for would do. The grid of pastels and skin tones was dire, and he found something particularly risque to link. Following it up with something relatively tame from the new show, Dan felt confident to press his attack. Dan typed. "See? It seems like he's got his head on straight, this time." Criminal responded within a handful of heavy seconds. "Yeah, that old poo poo just proves my point. Their design guy is lovely as gently caress. Why give the show the benefit of the doubt? There's always better stuff." "We could watch the first episode; I can torrent the sub and stream it for you so you don't have to download anything." Dan typed. "It's what, like twenty-four minutes? You can spare that." Dan scrolled up and down the page as he waited for the olive-branch he'd offered to be gripped. Not a big fan of the hard sell, this sort of mollification was almost always required. It was a good deal, all around, for sure. "You haven't even seen it? I thought it was your new favorite or whatever. I dunno, I think I'll sit this one out." "When was the last time there was something as unique as this? Did you see the ships? They're like concrete housing blocks, it's awesome. Sea slums. That's cool as heck and you know it." Criminal responded. "I can look at those pictures and imagine a lot cooler stuff than whatever the show has, and it won't have hosed up costumes." Dan began typing, thought better of his current trajectory, and let it sit for a few minutes. Then one more try. "Wanna just watch an episode of Anthony Bourdain?"
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Jul 29, 2013 04:21
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I think if you edit within a minute or so it doesn't show up. 14 minutes, like Jagermonster, is sort of pushing it.
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Jul 29, 2013 23:36
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Sebmojo is scum for sticking me with such a dire thread to draw from and scampering away from this week.
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Jul 29, 2013 23:56
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Gary McCoy loving loves/hates gas station pickles
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Jul 30, 2013 00:53
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I am in.
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Jul 30, 2013 22:55
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sebmojo posted:Capntastic can flash rule me if he wants. All character descriptions must reference a cartoon character.
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Aug 3, 2013 21:50
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Ahahaha nicely done.
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Aug 4, 2013 06:18
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Youngblood's Sizzlin' Hard Disk (995 Words) Two gold eyes peered at a pair of moving neon tritium specks. Sophia could barely make out the time her watch was giving her, and her nav module was scrambled in this section of the city. Was this the right warehouse? With the risk of feral dogs or abandoned security systems hiding amongst the shadows and crates, to say nothing of the man she was here to meet, she felt safer waiting by the door. The noise of capacitors energizing and a motor churning gave her a start, sending her hand into her gold lamé purse. At the opposite end of the warehouse, a loading bay door was grinding open. Lights beamed in, filtering through the spaces between the boxes. A dark red Cadillac turned in and the engine nestled to a halt. Youngblood had arrived. ~ A ring of card tables and stacked crates formed Youngblood's base of operations. Piled with guns, tools, and computer equipment, Sophia found herself realizing how many of Youngblood's life-risking stunts started here. He wasn't, as she'd previously thought, some handsome spirit who did what needed to be done when it needed doing and then vanished. He put in the work. And here he was cleaning his trademark revolver, sitting on a crate, and humming. She watched his prosthetic fingers slide the bullets into the gun. Two at a time, with grace that must have been granted from both mechanical precision and practice. His cowboy styled duster was draped across a table, obscuring whatever was underneath it, but not the cables leading from them. He turned his dark green eyes to her gold ones. "You bring what I asked?" Sophia nodded. She held up the block of plastic explosive hidden in her purse. Its flat beige was heavy against the brilliant gold of the material. "I gotta ask you though; what do you need it for? Why does Freemark want you dead?" Youngblood snagged the block with his mechanical hand and pocketed it, grinning. "Girl, Freemark wants every streetwise brother dead. You know that." "Sisters too," she added. "But why did he send his goons after you? Why did he trash The Dojo?" Youngblood winced, and flexed his hands, inspecting the joints. "I've got something Freemark wants. An encrypted disk. Bank data. Proof of all his shady deals. If he gets it, there's nothing stopping him from running for mayor. And so long as he doesn't get it, he can't foreclose on half of the city. Now I appreciate what you did for me back there, and for bringing me the C-4, but you really best take off before poo poo gets real drat ugly." "Youngblood, Freemark wants me dead just as much as he wants you. And I want him dead twice as much as that. You know what he did to my father." Youngblood ran his carbon tipped fingers through his beard. "I can dig it. I'm gonna be busy here for a while, but there's a couch over there if you want to get comfortable." He pulled his duster off of the table, revealing a dented laptop, progress bar slowly stretching as it compiled something. He led Sophia over to a worn orange couch, and handed her his duster to use as a blanket. With a judo move, she caught his arm up in it and pulled him on top of her. "How about you get busy over here for a while first?" ~ After some smooth romancing, the laptop emitted a series of beeps. Youngblood had been soldering something, fitting connectors together, and double checking his revolver. As daylight sprung up through the broken windows of the warehouse, the red Cadillac carried Sophia and Youngblood to the handoff with Freemark. They pulled up into a freshly paved parking lot, the signage indicating it to be constructed by Freemark Industries. There were six white men in identical business suits standing around a limo. One of them was Freemark. The five bodyguards revealed their pieces. Matching carbon fiber autos with silencers and neon tritium sights. Sophia thoguht of her watch, but kept her golden eyes on Youngblood as he approached them. "Drop your weapon, Youngblood. We want this to go nice and easy, kid," Freemark snarled. Youngblood's chromed revolver dropped to the asphalt, and he kicked it aside sending up sparks. The bodyguards kept their guns on him. He pulled the hard drive out of his duster and held it up slowly. "I've got what you want Freemark. Just let Sensei keep The Dojo open." A bodyguard slinked up and retrieved the disk, hustling it back to Freemark. A slim little personal computer slid out of Freemark's sleeve and he began connecting it to the drive. "You've done well Youngblood. I'd applaud your honesty, if I didn't think it would be disrespectful, considering the unfortunate accident that befell your hands. How long ago was that?" The man's computer beeped as it finished decrypting the information. "It's all here. Excellent. Now, tell the construction crew to destroy The Dojo." Youngblood grinned. There was an enormous gushing of heat and noise and debris from the general direction of Freemark. Moments later, a lone red Cadillac rolled out of the parking lot, which was empty save for a flaming wreck of a limo. ~ Sophia was overjoyed. "I can't believe it. You took out that bastard Freemark once and for all!" "It's true, I did." "That means that the city can finally belong to people that care about it. How did you think to put the explosive inside of the hard drive?" "Sensei taught me that if you fight with your mind, you have a weapon even if your hands are empty." "But what about the encrypted data? What will happen to all of the bank intel? What will happen to The Dojo?" Youngblood reached his arm around her and into her purse, pulling out a hard drive identical to the one he had just exploded. "Baby, you should know that Youngblood always has a back-up plan."
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Aug 4, 2013 08:50
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Missin' the days when not submitting was judged more harshly than writing a bad story.
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Aug 6, 2013 03:17
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I await the crits like scorching stones from a hateful god. For real though, Jagermonster's entry was unfortunate as heck and I'm surprised stuff like "laser sites" and "flazer canons" got through editing, especially when so much attention was lavished on coming up with ways to shout friend of the family at the bland and inexplicably messianic "Heroy Brotagonist".
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Aug 6, 2013 03:38
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Also congratulations to all gladiators who have been with us for the past year.
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Aug 6, 2013 09:53
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In with blood on my smile.
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Aug 6, 2013 10:55
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Jagermonster posted:Whoops. In infrared 20/20 hindsight, those are all intentional cyberpunk terms. I think you mean sights and cannons, and I think I've already won. THUNDERDUEL: Nubile "Canadian Rage" Hillock vs Capn "Hard Disk" Tastic Awright.
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Aug 6, 2013 22:29
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Professionalism (800 words) Colaman was someone you could get to do things you don't tell your parents about. Too scrawny to be hired muscle, and not detail oriented enough to be trusted with anything technical, he was left with the sort of jobs you could pay anyone desperate enough to do. What made him good at what he did is that he was always ready to take someone's money. No secret meetings, codes, signs, or introductions needed. Broad daylight or underneath a neon sign, you'd walk up to him with an envelope, he'd shake your hand and wouldn't even count the credits then and there. You can't look back and blame a no-talent brother for trying to pay his rent any way he could. Colaman was posted up by the pawn shop watching shows on the busted-rear end digiscreens there, waiting for that night's employer. What pulls up next to him is this big black person carrier, shiny as Hell. A real rare sight to see in that corner of town where Colaman worked, but that just meant the money had to be that much more exotic. He's right next to the mirrored window when it rolls down, and he's face to face with this chick with her eye makeup done up in metallics to hide the implants themselves. Fashion conscious lady, he had to guess. Rich too. So she offers him a job. Two thou in wired creds up front, and double that when the job is done. How could a hungry bastard like Colaman say no? He climbs his rear end up in there, sinking into the big plush seats and getting a good look at the client and her associates. Easy enough to look past the chick's eyes, but her friends are two beefed up white guys with the neck veins and chrome look down solid. Wristbands sticking out underneath their suit sleeves hiding the scars, but not the clicks the motors were making. Colaman knew he was pretty outclassed, since the only metal he had back then was in his teeth. They're giving him the eyes too, filling up the back seat with a whole lot of that uncomfortable silence poo poo. The woman tapped something into her PDA and the driver pulls off onto the freeway. Colaman was riding on the adrenaline of starting to realize he might've been over his head on this one, and it was the only thing keeping him awake. The ride was just that comfortable, at least in the cushion sense of things. They're riding past industrial wreckage and all of that where the old factories were, and Colaman finally pipes up. "So, are we meeting someone? I mean, I'm ready for whatever, but this seems a bit far out of the way." The woman shot him a look, not entirely harsh, and gathered her words. "You come highly recommended. This job shouldn't be a problem. People speak highly of your professionalism." Colaman nodded and straightened his spine out, because when someone touts your professionalism you gotta look the part. "I dig on that, but I'm used to less grandiose affairs. Apartments, motel jobs, cars, that sort of thing. Even some of the old warehouses, for kicks." "This will be more intricate," she said. "We're going to an office complex. It is, ostensibly, a midware development firm for low-end cybernetic prostheses, but in reality it is a front for a sort of...chop shop. Last week they made the mistake of subduing one of my men when he was off duty. His wrist implant had some valuable data of mine on it." Colaman exhaled, doing all he could to maintain his posture. This wasn't quite the job he'd had in mind. She continued with the details, about how his delicate hands and ability to maintain calm under any amount of pressure were legendary, and just the qualities that'd be needed for this. And then she talked up his street cred. "We drove around for several hours, chasing up rumors as to who the best around was. You're practically a ghost. Most anyone would say about you was that you were up for anything, and that you never talked afterwards. I appreciate that integrity." Hearing the word integrity Colaman slunk down in his seat. He was rolling the word around on his dried up tongue. They'd already pulled up next to the offices, and within seconds he was handed a duffel bag with a prybar sticking out of it, told he had one hour to meet them down the street. He saw them drive off in the reflection of the office's front window. He couldn't, at this point, just say "Look lady, I thought you just wanted me to gently caress you." After all, she'd paid half up front, and our boy Colaman was nothing if not professional.
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Aug 10, 2013 04:54
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Nubile Hillock posted:Ima just pretend that the brawl is due friday cos I got work and life stuff to do so y'all can suck it. So did you mean Friday, Next Friday, or Friday After Next?
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Aug 10, 2013 21:33
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Nubile Hillock got a multiple day extension on the Thunderduel they challenged me to because I ragged on them not submitting, and then didn't submit. I'll be posting my story tomorrow.
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Aug 12, 2013 10:08
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So glad I could slide this in under the wire! Cultivating de Clieu (Word count: 1011) On some God-forsaken ship headed for Martinique, Gabriel de Clieu glared at a glass box for the glory of France. The soil inside was dark, and its moisture was fogging up the interior. One could hardly see the small green eyelash of a plant living inside. De Clieu tugged at his collars, and retrieved a small brass key secreted within them. He unlocked the box, and began draining this day's water ration into it. Feeding this thing was taking its toll on his humours, but the headaches and fevers were insubstantial at this point. His mission was clearer than the last few drops sliding out of the decanter. The previous year had been a procession of rich food and drink exciting discussions at the salons, brilliant maneuvers that increased his social status, and every other good tiding that a series of promotions could bring. A handsome and intelligent man in loyal service to the navy would need the Devil's own luck to do better. To these ends, he celebrated often, and after one overlong discussion concerning, chiefly, the best ages and grapes for brandy, he failed to find himself blindly and madly rampaging through the streets until dawn. He awoke struggling to make out the glare of sunlight in his sleeve buttons. The freshly scuffed brass would be replaced without second thought; though as he made to stand he began contemplating the source of the hundreds of hand-sized shards of glass surrounding him. Beyond that ring of destroyed glazing, there were numerous rows of plants arranged upon squat wooden shelves. Swaggering down one of the aisles presently was an older man in simple linen garments accompanied by a densely muscled black dog. Though the latter had spittle glistening teeth and flaps of tar-like torn lips, it was the man who had the sterner look of the two by some measure. "I welcome you to the Jardin des Plantes botanical sanctuary, sir. I pray that you've found the greenhouse to your liking on this fine Summer's day?" he said. No outrageous snarl or despair was issued, Gabriel noted to some displeasure. He had wronged the man, and they both knew it fully. "I apologize, of course, and I will make reparations of course," de Clieu stammered. "Simply allow me to compose myself, and I will send for a check to be cut without delay." The man did not react, being more wary of his hound snuffling at a pile of glass than the plaintive drunkard before him. Seeing that, for the moment, the situation was fairly neutral, Gabriel pressed his luck. "Might I trouble you, sir, for a cup of water?" At this, the gardener raised his eye to the man before him before turning away and calling out over his shoulder. "See about piling up all of the glass you've destroyed and I will see about getting you something." Surveying the task before him, Gabriel removed his coat. It was hellishly hot in the greenhouse. He shook the coat out, noting it to be covered in debris and sweat, before unceremoniously tossing it to the ground. He set to work, on hands and knees, flinging the costly mistakes of last night into a heap on his jacket. His head, pounding as it was, felt as if it was at the receiving end of each of the gleaming fragments' arcs. His honor was at stake, as a man of the navy, but what's more, he felt some displeasure at being responsible for causing harm to this place. Overly warm and humid as it was, in a way that Gabriel had never quite experienced, it was somewhat calming, despite his current case of nerves. Gabriel continued his task with steady progress until the man returned, heralded by his dog. He held a stout clay mug, steaming with some dark elixir. "Drink up," the man said. "It will help relieve the current imbalance of your humours." Gabriel narrowed his eyes at the proffered beverage. "Coffee? I've sampled that before, and I cannot help but feel you're adding to my punishment here. Though I do deserve it." "No, I doubt you have had coffee such as this. What you've had, almost certainly, is a putrefied sludge scraped from the bottom of a barrel, brewed in Araby, and boiled down for transport. It is like comparing turning down a fresh loaf of bread, for fear of recieving hard tack." The man folded his arms and waited, and Gabriel chanced a small sip. He burnt his tongue, though the taste itself was sweet and perhaps reminiscent of fruit. Compared to his memories of the stuff, which was like coal dust mixed with the ashes of the stove that heated it, it was remarkable. "I assume, then, that this is your produce, sir?" The gardener in linen smiled. "And from there, I further assume the need to meticulously regulate the environment within this place?" The gardener nodded. "Then I have truly done you, and perhaps the world, a great disservice this morning." The gardener whistled to his dog, grinning, and then gestured for Gabriel to follow. "Come; I've called for a banker to arrange for the check. Though I know from the insignia on your buttons that you might have a better form of payment. You see, only so many of the plants can be cultivated within this artificial biome I have constructed..." Gabriel knotted up his coat into a bundle of broken glass and followed the man. Already his head was clearing and the day began to seem much brighter, even as he left the greenhouse. En route to Martinique, with his precious glass cargo, Gabriel de Clieu beamed at the glory of his mission. The fertile soil, warmed by the sun and moistened by tender rains, would serve wondrously well for the cultivation of coffee plants. France would, with Gabriel's assistance, secure a source of coffee of its very own. Placing the key back underneath his shirt, he noticed that the scuffed buttons upon his sleeves had developed a golden patina in the salty sea air.
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Aug 14, 2013 08:11
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Martello posted:Hillock, if you don't submit or tell me when yer gonna submit, I'll just settle the score between Capntastic and Jagermonster. Hillock has been posting in other threads; they care not for their loss.
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Aug 17, 2013 06:02
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sebmojo posted:Yeah, settle up. Hillock might need a toxx if he wants to show his face here again. They've not responded to the PM I sent. Castigate them forever. And bring on the judgment for the duel, when time allows.
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Aug 20, 2013 02:04
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Still waiting on judgment for the thunderbrawl me and that other guy had from a month ago.
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Sep 5, 2013 04:35
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sebmojo posted:Is that the Nubile Hillock no-show? About the coffee plant? Can't get it up?
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Sep 10, 2013 03:42
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sebmojo posted:Pshaw. I'll give you erectile dysfunction! Thanks for this. As much as I'd like to soak up the easy win, the actual duel that Hillock dropped from was Cyberpunk Blaxploitation 2.0. It'd be unfair to Jagermonster to not have this three-way settled proper, even if it's not you stepping up to judgement. Entries were this from Jagermonster and this from me.
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Sep 10, 2013 06:17
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CAPNTASTIC IS WINNER!!!!
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| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 03:28 |
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Nice work! Surprised to see I'm tied for 6th on Most Submissions. And here I thought I was a slacker!
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Sep 14, 2013 08:40
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