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Capntastic posted: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". Whoops. In infrared 20/20 hindsight, those are all intentional cyberpunk terms. Seems like you really have it out for me, tastic. LET'S DUEL, BITCH. Chairchucker posted:Whoa now, Jagermonster's story was amazing, you jive turkey. This is all I wanted. Thank you.
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Aug 6, 2013 13:42
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Martello posted:
I am participating in this.
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Aug 6, 2013 17:51
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THUNDERDUEL: Nubile "Canadian Rage" Hillock vs Capn "Hard Disk" Tastic
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Martello posted:Chill's right, was gonna jump in and say the same. Thanks for the rule/inclusion. I didn't like Snow Crash either, that's why I used it in my ridiculous piece. I find writing one of these the second time around less fun since I'm not trying to be as absurd/over the top. But I asked for it.
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Aug 7, 2013 17:47
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HillockXCapntasticXJagermonster Duel Cyborg Systa Settles a Score Flash rule: Story must be cyberpunk in the vein of Ghost in the Shell Stand Alone Complex, and blaxploitation in the vein of Foxy Brown Word Count: 788 Teddy Montag stroked his pencil-thin mustache as he stared at the six translucent human forms surrounding him. A blonde woman in a smart pantsuit materialized to his right. He maneuvered the glowing control sphere hovering in front of him and a leather wingback chair rose from the floor to seat him. The woman’s ghostly visage solidified. “What happened, Gretchen? I thought you were right behind me.” “Sorry, Mr. Montag. A customer came by just as you left and I had to get rid of him.” He tossed the control sphere to her. “Let our guests in.” He straightened his suit and pocket square. A newly opaque black man in purple velour stormed up to Montag. “The gently caress up with that stasis-hold poo poo, man? I got poo poo to do.” “I require everyone to be present before entering my encrypted meetings, especially with the security breaches of late. If you don’t like it, you can find new business partners, Jealor.” Frankie Jealor. Gretchen traced his coordinates. “Maybe I will, ya bitch rear end poser. You better have called this meeting to reimburse me for that crack-octane you lost.” Angry grumbles from the other guests joined Jealor. Gretchen felt the hungry gaze of a predator fixed on her. She looked up and locked eyes with a dainty bespectacled man. The corner of his mouth twitched as he stared through her. V. Viscone. Location untraceable. “True, there was an incident,” Montag said, “But my safe houses and storage facilities, real and virtual, are still the most secure sites in the city. We can renegotiate rates, but we share the losses in these joint ventures.” “I heard some robot bitch is after you,” Big Boris Bobrov said. “Word on the street is she torched a brothel of yours and set the whores free.” “Just some augmented oval office with a chip on her shoulder,” Montag said. “Don’t worry about that poo poo.” Viscone giggled. “You have no idea how thoroughly hosed you are, Teddy. Tell me, why is your ‘assistant’ over there tracing all of our locations and downloading the coordinates of your safe houses?” Gretchen severed the guests’ connections. They froze, then vanished. Viscone remained. He plucked a lit cigarette out of empty space. “What’s the rush, Systa?” He took a long drag. “So you survived the hit? At least partially. More than I can say for the other officers. I told you that was a sloppy job, Montag.” He flicked the ashes at Gretchen. Her veneer flickered, darkened, and then restored itself. “Who?” Montag started. Gretchen hit a key on the sphere. He stopped, paralyzed, mouth agape. Viscone flicked the cigarette at Gretchen. Her façade burned away. Her skin pigments darkened. Her golden hair turned to ash and flaked away. A bushy black afro sprouted from her scalp. Her shoulders broadened. Her thin demure lips twisted into a full cocky smile. “An’ who the gently caress are you, Viscone?” “Mmmm, its funny what the mind’s eye preserves.” Viscone’s image slowly disintegrated. “Have fun with Teddy, but trust me, you don’t want to gently caress with me.” A muffled voice floated up from Montag’s throat. “Emergency disengage Tango Alpha.” He collapsed into a white speck. Montag opened his eyes and saw the fuzzy outline of black woman. He shut them again to banish the hazy virtual after-image burned into his mind. When he opened them again she was still looming over him. Metal plating covered the right side of her head and face. A cable snaked from the back of her head to Montag’s. Another one attached to the real Gretchen laid sprawled out on the floor in a stained undershirt. Two armed guards lay dead in pools of blood at the door. The cables retracted. Systa opened her eyes. One deep brown iris and one red beam bored into him. She grabbed him by the wife-beater and throat and ripped him from the wires attaching him to the mainframe. Plaster rained down as she smashed him against the wall. “Who is Viscone? Where can I find him?” A fat bead of sweat slithered along his wispy mustache. “I don’t know! The guy’s a ghost! You saw what he can do. I’ve never even met his employers.” She slammed him to the ground. “I can give you the names and locations of all my other clients!” “I already have the ones that matter, Teddy.” She spit a burning glob of saliva and battery acid in his face. “You’re just another has-been cracker with blood on his hands.” “Wait!” She slit his throat with the jagged shard of metal that was once her husband’s Federal Drug Enforcement badge. She kissed it. “One down, baby. But poo poo just got a whole lot more complicated.”
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Aug 10, 2013 03:44
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In.
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Aug 14, 2013 17:37
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Closed Meeting Flash Rule: Post-Apocalyptic Word Count: 1147 “Mr. Vice Mayor,” Lawrence said to the bald man warming his hands by the fire, “Please call the meeting to order.” Barry stamped his foot twice in the soft ashy dirt. “The council meeting is commencing!” Lawrence cleared his throat. “First order of business: Quartermaster, please give us an update on rations and pertinent supplies.” “We still have an abundance of canned meats, vegetables, and fruits,” Jennifer said, consulting her notes. “However, we are dangerously low on carbohydrates.” “Scribe, write that down,” Lawrence said, “Priority one tomorrow is carbohydrate foraging.” Susan nodded. “Yes, Mr. Mayor.” “Please proceed, Quartermaster.” A branch snapped beyond the campfire’s glow. Lawrence turned to the large muscled man to his right. “Defense Minister, please investigate.” “Yo!” Roland barked. “Who’s out there?” He leveled his shotgun at the darkness. A wiry man stumbled out of the woods with his hands up. “Whoa! Hey man, don’t shoot! I just wanna be a part of the meeting!” “Dammit, Earl,” Roland said, “I almost shot you, man.” Lawrence stamped his foot. “Order! Earl, this is official business. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” “Man, gently caress that. I’m the only one without some dumbass office.” “I’m sorry, Earl,” Lawrence said, “But these meetings are closed to the public. Maybe next election you will get a place on the council.” Earl threw his baseball cap on the ground. “No! I am the goddamn public! That means I’m the boss of all ya’ll. You’re gonna let me participate.” Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Earl you’re supposed to be on guard duty. Why don’t you make yourself useful.” Earl bounded up to the fire. “Alright, guard duty. Let’s get proactive and put this stupid loving fire out. It’s a liability.” He kicked dirt on the fire. “Some band of cannibals or some poo poo might see it and come eat our asses.” Susan jumped up. “Goddammit, Earl! I need it to write!” Lawrence nodded to Roland. “Defense Minister.” Earl leapt back as Roland took a step toward him. “Write this down!” Earl waved his middle finger at Susan and sprinted into the night. Lawrence sighed. “I loving hate that guy.” “We all do, Mr. Mayor,” Martin said. “But it’s our tolerance of the lesser citizenry that separates us from the barbarians who’ve taken over the cities.” “I know, Mr. Chief Justice,” Lawrence said. “I know. Let’s get back to business. Where were we?” “Carbohydrates,” Barry said. “Right. Defense Minister, are we deep enough into this forest that we could start some sort of sustenance farming?” “I’m not sure. Some of the weaker militias could be driven to make expeditions out here. We’re not as far from the old populated areas as I’d like to be.” “Don’t plant no fuckin carbs, man!” Earl yelled from the trees. “We should be growin’ weed!” Lawrence wheeled around. “Goddammit, Earl, go guard the loving perimeter!” “gently caress you! We could trade that dank poo poo we grow with the barbarians!” Earl crept back into the firelight. “Plus we could smoke it! Just ‘cause it’s the aponkalypse or whatever don’t mean we got to live like assholes. Susan, write that poo poo down.” “Scribe, do not write that down!” “I wasn’t going to, Mr. Mayor.” Earl spit. “Man, I got better ideas than all ya’ll. Put me on the drat council.” “He can have my job,” Barry said. Lawrence wheeled back around. “Shut up, Barry!” Barry cringed. “I mean, I don’t even really have any responsibilities as Vice Mayor.” “Shut it, Barry,” Lawrence said through clenched teeth, “This isn’t the time.” “There’s really no procedure for abdication of our elected positions,” Martin said. “You’d be violating a sacred trust with the voters if you were to just quit, Barry.” Barry lowered his head. “I’m sorry guys. I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to help out Earl.” “If Earl doesn’t leave this instant, he’s going to be beyond help, because the Defense Minister is going to put a loving bullet in him.” “I’d rather save the ammo for the real threats, Mr. Mayor.” Lawrence threw his hands up. “Dammit, Roland, do your job.” “Earl, get out of here before I snap your scrawny neck.” Earl slunk away muttering. Lawrence rubbed his temples. “History is going to remember moments like these as our true tests of maintaining civilized governance when everything came crashing down.” Martin put a wrinkled hand on Lawrence’s shoulder. “Without your leadership, we’d truly be lost, Mr. Mayor. Everyone here appreciates your efforts in keeping this group going in an orderly manner.” “I’d like to second that sentiment,” Jennifer said. “Third,” Susan said. “Thank you, esteemed council members,” Lawrence said. He drew a long, calming breath. “I really needed to hear that.” Earl marched back up to the group waving a piece of paper. “Oh look what I found. If it ain’t our con’titution. Says here the Mayor can appoint people to office. Don’t everyone need to be voted in.” Lawrence locked eyes with Earl, tried to maintain his composure. “I want an office, Lawrence. Ain’t fair I’m the only one that don’t have one. Just give me something, rear end in a top hat.” “You want an office? You want a loving office? Fine! I, Lawrence Winthrop, Mayor of this camp of free peoples of the former United States of America, hereby name you, uh, loving, Dog Catcher! Yeah, Dog Catcher! You are now Head Dog Catcher of our Dog Catching Department. Go catch some loving dogs.” “What the gently caress, man.” Earl crossed his arms. “Ain’t no dogs around. Most probably been eaten. Nuh uh. That’s bullshit.” Lawrence laughed a hoarse maniacal bark. “Tough poo poo, Mr. Head Dog Catcher. The Mayor has spoken. Oh, also, if you had bothered to keep reading our ‘con’titution’ you would have seen that only elected officials are allowed to attend council meetings. So go take your new office and gently caress off!” Earl clenched his jaw. “You know what. gently caress it. gently caress all ya’ll. I’m done. I’m leaving and founding my own drat free country. You all can go to hell.” Earl stormed off raising both middle fingers to the sky.” Lawrence grinned. “Good riddance! Sheesh!” “Wait!” Barry called after Earl. “I’m coming with you!” Barry jogged to catch up with him. “Welcome aboard, buddy,” Earl said shaking Barry’s hand. Earl and Barry collected their ragged backpacks and set up camp a few yards away. In the morning they’d set out on their own. “I’m gonna run poo poo way different than those assholes,” Earl said, staring up at the stars. “In fact, I ain’t even going to run poo poo. Everyone’ll pick their own office. No stupid voting. Plus, we’re going to grow a ton of weed.” “That sounds awesome,” Barry said from deep within his sleeping bag. “What do you want your office to be, bud?” “Fishing. I want to be Head Fisherman.” Barry yawned. “I love fishing.” “You got it, man.”
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Aug 19, 2013 02:15
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In. Martello, call that Thunderbrawl between captaintastic and me.
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Aug 27, 2013 20:07
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Discretion Ben checked the time on his cell phone again. Another two hours to go. At least. His thumb brushed his work Blackberry as he pocketed the phone. He considered checking his email, but resisted the impulse. Ben scanned a headline on the unread New York Times in his lap. His right eye twitched with strain and exhaustion. Ben’s father sat next to Ben in the DeBakey Heart Center waiting room. He stared at the floor, his expression unreadable. “You got in so late. You must be tired, Ben.” Fatigue and frustration tempted Ben to vent. He wanted to tell his father how incompetent, demanding, and insensitive his bosses were. Three nights ago he was up all night revising PowerPoints for the partners arguing a summary judgment motion. He spent the next night revising them further and making copies for the Court. All he said was, “Work’s been killer, barely got any sleep the last few nights.” “Well thank you for coming, Ben. I know it’s not easy for you to get away.” “Of course. I should have come sooner.” Ben still couldn’t believe his rear end in a top hat bosses had made him stay to help during the argument He caught himself, reflected that no one had physically coerced him to do anything. His roiling anger inverted, evaporated into shame. “I should have visited more.” “It’s rough for young associates. More so than when I started out.” A throng of people crowded around the television on the other side of the room, snacking on cookies and shoveling ice cream from gallon cartons as their loved ones underwent, or recovered from, heart surgery. Muffled cheers and applause emanated from the television as a reality show star and dance partner finished their routine on Dancing with the Stars. Ben had no idea who was who. Ben resolved he would exercise more. Come hell or high water he’d find a way to the gym. He backpedaled. He’d walk more, take the stairs. He bargained with himself, knowing he didn’t have the time. He’d eat healthier. The compulsion to check his Blackberry tugged at Ben again. Not here, not now, he told himself. He felt like a junkie, only unsure of what the addiction was to – work, or being pissed off about work. There was only the pull of the fix. Ben’s father stood. “I’m going for a walk. Please call me if there’s any news regarding your mother.” Ben gave in. His Blackberry’s blinking red light beckoned him to check his unread emails. Routine junk cluttered his inbox. One email stood out, adorned with a red exclamation mark impressing its high importance. Ben clenched his jaw when he saw he was the lone recipient. An indignant rage started boiling as he read the string of inane garbage. A senior partner on the case forwarded an expert witness’s invoice to a junior partner and asked, “23k? Can’t be right.” The junior partner kicked it to a senior associate. The senior associate dumped the chain on her junior associate Ben and demanded he review the invoice ASAP to figure out what was going on. Ben tossed his Blackberry aside as it struggled to load the pdf file. He tore his laptop from his backpack. His bosses knew where he was. They knew what he was doing. As he remotely logged into his work email he fantasized telling each and every one of them to gently caress off, that he knew they would harass him during his mother’s heart surgery and they had all lived up to their legendary shitheadedess. Ben’s mouth dropped open. They had topped themselves. The bill wasn’t for $23k, it was only 11k and change, a reasonable price considering all the deposition preparation and two days of grueling questioning. Earl must have shot off a typo. Kevin and Bianca hadn’t even opened the invoice, just sent it down the line. His astonishment drained, leaving the bar at an all-time low. Rage once again swelled. Ben mused how much the client would pay for these jackasses to kick around erroneous figures of an already overpriced expert. He rationalized his own anger as being on behalf of the client. Only for lawyers were gently caress-ups so profitable. Ben imagined his imbecilic bosses seated Indian-style on the floor, playing telephone in their pinstripe and pant suits, charging the client upwards of $600 an hour. Now the egg toss. Ben had to answer them, reveal their blunder without calling it a blunder, without damaging their delicate egos, or suffer their wrath. He felt dizzy from the cycle. He came down from his fix. His anger dissipated, leaving him hollow. He shut his laptop. “Doing some work?” “No. I should have never checked my email. That was a short walk.” “I wanted to stay close in case we heard something.” Ben’s father sighed, deflated into his chair. Ben told his father about the email. “Your bosses sound like assholes.” His father’s disapproval of his enemies soothed him. “I was very fortunate to have good bosses. I am very fortunate now not to have to work with assholes.” “I should quit.” It was a plea. Pull me back from the ledge, dad. “Do you regret going to law school?” Not the rebuke he expected. “I don’t know what else I would have done.” Ben waited for the usual jab at his liberal arts degree. “Do you resent that we pressured you to become a lawyer?” Ben had been bracing for the usual talk of perseverance and dedication and making partner. He fiddled with his blackberry turning it over in his hands. He glared at the blinking red light. “Put it away, Ben.” Ben found he could. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
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Sep 2, 2013 02:57
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In.
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Oct 9, 2013 00:04
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Children on Leashes 646 Words A cable snapped - the stunt coordinator still doesn’t know exactly what went wrong - and the wire rigs whipped two tweenage Broadway stars across the set of Children on Leashes: The Musical. One soared over the orchestra pit and skipped across the theater seats, shattering his prepubescent body as he bounced along. The other young thespian smashed into the wall, then plummeted to the stage below. Three hours later and four avenues east, Miles Breckenridge, renowned author of Children on Leashes, smoked his fifth straight cigarette down the street from a Barnes and Noble. Throngs of fans waited within to hear him talk about the new edition of the book that inspired a parenting revolution, an award winning movie, and now the next Broadway hit. His manager’s breathless news repeated on endless loop. “Something went wrong with the wires during rehearsal. Two of the stars were just rushed to the hospital. Word’s already gotten around. I’m canceling the book signing.” Miles considered calling him back to fight the decision. Instead he charged down the street. He ran right into the crowd who had come to see him as they shuffled downtrodden out of the bookstore. Gasps, squeals and outstretched, open copies of his memoir greeted him. “Miles! Miles! Any comment on the accident?” Journalists with notepads and tape recorders pushed their way out of the crowd, circling around behind Miles, cutting off any retreat. “Is the show still going ahead?” “Why such dangerous stunts for a show starring children?” “One boy broke his neck, same as your brother. Do you feel responsible?” Miles gave them the same cocky grin he gave the accusers and pot stirrers who came after him when children were injured shortly after his memoir inspired parents across the country to be more lax with their kids, to leave them unattended at parks, malls, and stores, less coddled and less smothered. “My brother died, crushed between floors in a department store, when those elevator doors closed on his leash, trapping him and dragging him up. My mother leashed him like an animal to protect him from the world. Parents in this country caused increasing and immeasurable harm to American children for decades before my memoir sounded the wakeup call and served as a rallying point to end the madness. True, kids are still injured daily because the world is a dangerous place. But countless needless accidents due to overprotection and the stunted growth and arrested development that come with over-parenting are becoming a thing of the past.” Miles silently cursed the asinine direction of the Broadway show with all its wire work. “This show’s going to be huge!” the producers had assured him. “The social prescience of Billy Elliot, music on par with Annie, and stunts that will upstage Spiderman!” But Miles wasn’t going to give an inch to these goddamn gadflies. “The investigation is ongoing,” Miles continued, bluffing, before the reporters could get back to their questioning. “But I’ll tell you this much we know: the so-called safety harnesses attached to the stars of Children on Leashes is what did them in. If the actors had been trusted to perform their own stunts, trained in the appropriate acrobatics of course, none of this would have happened. The onerous safety regulations of the nanny state injured those kids.” Miles knew it was garbage. The wires were attached to the actors to represent leashes. The leash-wires swung and dragged the performers around in choreographed routines to illustrate their danger. But Miles was forming his own convincing narrative, as he had years before. So what if Miles had pushed his brother the day he died. If the leash hadn’t been attached to him, he would have fallen harmlessly out of the elevator. It was the leash’s fault. Millions of people agreed. After years of peddling his story, Miles did too.
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Oct 14, 2013 01:50
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Locking myself in the Thunderdome cage like that insane guy who just wanted to pet the tigers
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Nov 12, 2013 16:17
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In with "I saw a white ladder all covered with water." We don't have to use the line verbatim right?
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Dec 4, 2013 16:49
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I'm not going to make the deadline tomorrow. Short-notice road trips to winterize in-laws's beach houses and general personal short comings/disorganization/procrastination, etc. etc. This is embarrassing. Definitely going to have tox or whatever its called to show my face around here again.
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Dec 8, 2013 03:27
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