- Oct 23, 2010
Business - 994 words Boring title. The best titles mean one thing when you start and something subtly different when you finish reading the story. This is just bland.
My spine itched. Of course it itched, this job just wouldn't have been quite perfect without that as well - only the best for me and Jones, as always. These two sentences are an even mix of pointless detail and dull who-gives-a-crap. The spine is never mentioned again, the clunky phrasing of 'this job just wouldn't etc', Jones (his partner?) never gets mentioned again. Plus it's never entertaining listening to people grumbling about their work. Words at the front of your story are gold dust - use them accordingly.Still, better to have it than to get dumped at sea by some rear end in a top hat with two brain cells to rub together. They never said how many had been stashed with Davey Jones before they put the system in place, and I was probably happier not knowing. See last comment, though I guess it's okay worldbuilding.
“Homicide?” That same tone of voice everyone used when they saw the badge, somewhere between surprise and amusement. Wait for it...
“Can't imagine you get much work these days?”
I muttered my way through the usual banter, shut her down when the questions cut too close to the bone. No need to let on that we just as big a joke to Them Upstairs. Maybe I pissed the lady off, or maybe Toombs was just that big of a prick, but it was near half an hour before I got to see the big man. I passed the time using a glossy pamphlet to pick dog poo poo out of my shoe. While i like the dogshit detail, why the gently caress do you have this nameless lady and their meaningless conversation? What do these paragraphs add? I know you're going for a gritty Homicide Life on the Streets vibe, but you can do that and convey a lot more than you are.
Toombs' 'office' turned out to be the whole top floor, a hell of a long way up, and it was fitted out just as nicely as you'd expect, though possibly with a bit less elegance. What is this vague bullshit. Give me details. The man himself was taller than he looked on TV, thinner, and the suit just made him look like a crow. yes to the crow observation though it's a little cliche.Old, but who isn't? Once people hit their late 80s it was hard to tell. He didn't get up from his seat. And yes. This last bit is an example of the sort of action conveying character that you should have started doing a lot earlier.
“Officer. What can I do for you today? Interested in dying, perhaps?”
“Sure. Who isn't?” He caught the sarcasm, seemed to take it as criticism of his work.
“Well, true, it's not death per se, but it's the finest substitute human minds can create, and improving by the year. I should know, I spend most of my time dead. I... Well, I was dead until your appointment, but Sharon thought I'd want to talk to a colleague in person. Both in the death business, you see?”
It was the same logic that'd got me put on the investigation. Didn't see it myself, but I let him prattle on. Never know when something important might slip into his sales pitch, and it gave me a chance to check the place out in more detail. Seems people would pay pretty well to not exist, and Toombs (“It's actually from the Aramaic for 'twin'”) just happened to have the right death wish and the cash to make it happen. Years of scientific research, near-total suppression of brain activity, yada yada.
“So, does it work?” I hadn't really meant to interrupt him, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious.
“Or your money back.” He grinned at that one. Practised, I could tell. “We offer the option of coming back after a set time, so you can decide whether to continue. You'd be surprised how few people take that option.”
No, I wouldn't. I'd done my homework, spent far too long digging through excruciatingly tasteful black-bordered leaflets looking for hard facts. It had surprised me the first time, though. He carries on with his spiel, and eventually offers to show me around. More like it.
As the elevatore spelling doors peel open, first thing I notice is the cold - nothing too bad, but enough to be noticable. spelling It's from the cryogenics, he says, shows me the long row of heavy doors like you see on meat fridges. I yank one open, mostly because he wasn't going to, and there's a slight pull to the action, like on your freezer.
Inside, it's the size of a shipping container. Three rows of 'corpses' about twenty deep each, hung like suits on a rack. Tubes and wires stick out of them, nothing I can make much sense of beyond 'medical'. It's real cold in here, somewhere about freezing. Toombs confirms it, reeling off figures about how cold slows the regeneration, nothing that'd be news to a school-kid. I poke at a few tubes, but my heart's not in it: I wouldn't be able to spot anything unusual here, and the cold was getting into my old bones. Still, it confirms one thing – pricey. But the cost of dying... Well, I could afford it. I question him on it. Honestly: who cares? You haven't given me anything to give a stuff about yet.
“Economies of scale”, he claims, and goes off into science again. Smart move if he's hiding something, I'm too out of my depth to tell if he's bullshitting me. We go back to his planned tour, but he's too smooth to let anything slip. It's an hour after I arrived before we go back to his office. I pretend to be satisfied, and see myself out.
Well, that's I tell him. I don't buy any of this poo poo, and I'm prickled by the way he treated me more like a potential customer than the law. I kill the elevator somewhere in the mid-teens, step into another corridor full of heavy doors.
Huh. Could be this floor's not in use, but it's more than just 'not cold', it's actively hot in here. I pull open one of the doors, and the temperature hits me like a blast furnace. Not just that, the smell too.
They don't hear me over the sound of their powertools, so I get a good long look at the real 'death' Toombs is selling. The rows of bodies are the same, hanging from rails, but there's bags over their heads. The rest of them, it's fresh raw meat, being stripped off the bones by the workers. I do quite like this image, it's properly gross and vivid. Doesn't make any sense, mind, why wouldn't they just burn them or w/e?
I stumble retching back into the corridor, throw up on Toombs' shoes. Two goons grab me, hold me as he brags how easy I've made this for him.
Later, as the needles go in, he plays me the footage:
“Interested in dying, perhaps?”
“Sure. Who isn't?” Weak, weak ending. So people are being put to 'death', but they're actually being put to death to save money? who knows. Cliche investigator investigates, get put to allegedly reversible death, but actually real death. This is mostly competent in prose, but next time work on telling an actual story.
Eh, this is a try.
Fascinating (1033 words)
Today was the 109,589th day of Lyell-43's life, and it began, much like any other day, with maintenance. It was a dull procedure to Lyell, involving scans, poking and prodding, and the automated daily self-test of his memcording unit (working just fine, as usual), but it was important, although Lyell had forgotten why some time ago. After all, if it never went seriously wrong, and the procedure was important, why waste space on something as trivial as why these things kept him safe? Still, wasn't 300 years of life worth a little boredom each day? Don't talk about things being incredibly dull in the first para of your 1000 word story. You are a fisherman, standing on the shore, casting your line. Do not bait it with soggy newspaper.
And today, not even maintenance could dull his enthusiasm. A ship was coming to Earth, the first in some time. It had a berth free, and Lyell was first on the recruitment list.
“Lucky, really,” Lyell chuckled to himself “It's not often a spacer gets bored and leaves their ship.” A: still dull B: pointless C: no one talks to themselves like this
Having finished his maintennance, he took one last look around his home. The mementoes of his own life jostled for room with those of previous tenants, and the gardens... Well, Lyell had never been very interested in gardens. Rocks, mechanisms, astronomy... But never really gardens, or gardening. He hoisted up a carrysack with some small trinkets, jokingly saluted his place of residence, and left it.
The air was clean, and the wind was bracing. It was no more than an hour's walk to the spaceport, and the ship that would take him to the stars he'd so enjoyed this past 50 years or so. What was its name again? Lyell struggled to remember, as he'd never saved it in the memcording device (why waste space?), and as he did so, he felt a weak shove against his ankle. OMG SOMETHING HAPPENED STOP THE loving PRESS
Curiously, he looked down. It was... Some sort of animal? He'd seen animals, but never really looked at them closely. This one was breathing shallowly, barely moving, and furred. Its long tongue lolled from its mouth, and its eyes looked strangely calm for an animal. Perhaps it was tame.
In any case, it didn't really matter, because very shortly after Lyell noted this, the animal took one last breath, slumped down, and stopped moving. ok start the press again, it wasn't very interesting
Lyell-43 was fascinated. He knelt down, and examined the animal a little further. Its teeth were sharp, but its fur was greying in places. It wasn't breathing, it wasn't moving. Lyell rubbed his forehead, and scratched at his chin in confusion. No buzzing, so it didn't have a memcorder, like most tame animals on Earth. No movement, either, which was the puzzling part.
Shrugging, he picked the animal up, slung it over his shoulder, and continued walking toward the spaceport. It was the nearest building, after all, and he could ask the captain all about it. i cant wait
* * *
Marek-21, captain of the Iron Lady, stared at the person his manifest stated was a new crew member. More specifically, he stared at his left shoulder, where an animal was hanging, dead. Do you see how you could have started your story here and it would be better in every way? You've got characters, weird situations that the reader wants explained, conflict?
“Lyell-43, correct? You mind telling me why you've got a dead dog over your shoulder?”
Lyell looked blankly at the captain for a moment.
Marek sighed. “The animal. Over your shoulder. It's dead.”
“So it's a dog, is it? I've never really seen one before. But, terribly sorry, you used a word I've not really heard before. Er... Dead?” Boring dialogue. We know all this.
Marek scratched his chin. He looked Lyell up and down, mild distaste on his face. “Dead.” he grumped “As in, it is no longer living. Must have been someone's pet, us oldsters tend to keep pets without memcorders, breed them and the like. I didn't really look at your file too hard beyond your skills, so-” he paused, as if the subject was odd “-You're one of the younger ones? The ones who don't remember death?”
Lyell set down the animal carefullly, and shrugged. “Honestly, I've never even heard the word. And how can something... Well, not live?”
Marek grunted. “Let me put it like this: Have you ever done cliffdiving, or anything else the training manuals mark as dangerous?”
“Certainly, I used to spelunk a lot!”
Another grunt. “And do you ever remember having an accident?”
Lyell simply looked blank. Marek sighed “It's the 'ah' word, isn't it?”
Lyell nodded. Marek shook his head. “Different tack. Do you have any gaps in your memcording?”
Immediately, Lyell's face brightened up “Why yes, I do! I was always taught these weren't worth bothering myself about. After all, I'm always safe, and with the memcorder, I always get more experiences!”
Marek chuckled. “Well, it's going to be an interesting trip then. You say you're a geologist? And have some knowledge of astronomy?” Lyell nodded.
Marek's grin was somehow mocking, which confused Lyell. “Oh, don't worry, young one. You're definitely joining the crew, and our library's sure to be instructive!”
Lyell had a feeling this was a joke. Shame he didn't understand it. But you squander it with soggy newsprint dialogue. Don't write like people talk, write like people talk in good books.
* * *
The journey had been long to Alpha Centauri, and, as Captain Marek had stated, the library had been most instructive. Furthermore, it had given Lyell a whole new subject to research. How had he missed such a fascinating field of history, and biology, and other fresh material to experience?
A light tap on his shoulder made him jump in surprise. Turning, Lyell came face to face with Captain Marek. His grin was open, obviously delighted at the atavistic reaction of Lyell's.
Lyell grinned right back. “Ready?”
Marek stopped grinning, and stared Lyell hard in the eyes. “Ready. Your memcorder's been upgraded, everything else checks out... But I have to ask, are you ready for this?”
Lyell's face flushed. His breathing changed, and his throat felt tight. Seeing this, Marek simply nodded. Somehow, Lyell managed to nod back.
“No fear, then, Lyell-43?”
“No fear, captain Marek. Why should I fear something that will only hurt temporarily, and teach me something new?”
Marek smiled, stepped back, and levelled his boarding shotgun at Lyell's head. “I'll ask one more time before you become an oldster like me... Are you afraid, or in any way unsure?”
Lyell's smile was radiant. “It's a new experience, captain, and new experiences are valuable to those who never die. I'm sure it will be... Fascinating.” Unf. We harp on tell and show in here, and it's for a reason. You had the potential for a good story and a good change from start to finish, but you pretty much squander it on GUY IS BORED AND DUMB, GUY READS BOOKS. Why not have an actual conflict on (say) alpha centauri? challenge your protagonist, make their life difficult. Show us how he changes don't just tell us about it.
Marian planted the morning glories around her brother's body herself. She arranged their tendrils to drape across his chest, cloaking the sunken cavity there. She twined thin vines around his shattered fingers. And as his eyes opened, pinprick pupils asking her all the unanswerable questions, she laid a band of green across his brow. Okay this is how you do an opening para. Observe how much subtle showing and suggestion about the world and the characters is going on in this one, and how many interesting questions are being raised.
A tap sounded against a tree behind her.
Marian turned; Suriya stood on the edge of the clearing where Niall would possibly, improbably recover. The short, narrow woman interesting description met Marian's eyes and bent her neck to precisely the proper degree. good use of adverb; the sentence would mean something different without it. Marian mirrored the nod automatically. ditto "Come see him if you wish," she said, rising.
Suriya walked forward three steps. She stopped ten feet from Marian and Niall, the respectful distance. Surely she couldn't see him well from there. Marian nearly said it aloud. But she settled for inviting Suriya closer with a gesture that was, perhaps, more curt than politeness demanded.
"I mean no offense," Suriya said.
"No. I know you don't."
Niall's mouth twitched under their joined regards. Marian looked away, to Suriya, and considered the scars twisting her friend's visage: the thin, pale worm of tissue on her jaw, the cleft in her nostril that never had healed. Under her jacket would be worse. How many pins kept her arms together now? How many rods did she have in place of bone?
Meanwhile Suriya studied her too. Neither of them could bear to watch Niall breathe, it seemed. The other woman reached out, almost touching; Marian gave a tiny nod, and Suriya gripped her shoulder. Suriya said, "It could end here. Paul doesn't have a grudge against you--no one does."
Marian ran a hand down her face, forehead to chin, all of it as smooth as on the day of her birth. She kept her answer to herself. Suriya could guess it anyway.
What had happened to her brother was no proper ending.
Paul greeted her appearance at his door with claims of pleasure. He led her to an outside table, where they drank chilled cider without speaking until their cups were empty. "I don't want bad blood between us," Paul said then. "My conflict with Niall doesn't need to go any further."
"That's why I thought we should talk," Marian said.
"You're the most reasonable person I know."
At least he wasn't smiling. She breathed in the humid summer air and listened to the wind. "Why did you do that to him?"
Paul clasped his hands tightly enough to pale his knuckles, so the healing cuts across them stood out in lurid red; stitches tracked a black line along the one thumb he had left; his left arm was shorter than its partner by several inches. I am loving all the precise description of healed wounds, and the implication that each one leaves a memory"Liss. Mostly Liss."
Marian remembered Paul's former lover, remembered the lesser fights over her; but Niall's relationship with Liss had ended two hundred years before.
"I've hated him since she left me for him. Year after year since, centuries of hearing him hum to himself when he's happy and seeing his smug loving smile when he looks at me. Protocol didn't help. I went too far." Paul poured himself more cider and took a long drink. "It happens. But I'm sorry I hurt you. What do you want from me to make things even?"
Marian settled for a lesser truth. "I could use help with his healing."
"His heart could beat again, someday," she said. "Maybe. He could be in less pain. Will you pay for that? I would bear you no ill will." She'd try to forget. She would try very hard.
She thought Paul might consent. He spread out his mangled hands and turned them over to look at whatever damage his angers had done to the palms. He looked at her, and his eyes were old.
But they narrowed. His lips thinned. Only for a moment; a moment was enough. "No ill will," he agreed, and she heard a polite lie.
Marian stood and seized her chair and smashed it into his head.
Paul thudded onto the grass. She brought the chair down again with the strength in her still-whole body, and the arm he raised to ward it off gave way. She bashed his hip, his ribs. All fragile. All mended too many times after fights. The chair broke eventually and drove splinters deep into her skin.
When he had paid in true kind for her brother, she stopped.
Suriya came to help her get Paul's body to the clearing, where they made a bed for him ten feet away from Niall--a respectful distance. Marian pulled the fragments of wood from her hands before she gathered new morning glories. Dots of her blood stained a few of the stems. There would, she supposed, be scars.
"He has family of his own," Suriya told her. "This won't be the end either."
Marian framed Paul's wild eyes with flowers. "Nothing ever is." Awwwwww poo poo, nice end punch. So it's basically an ultra civilised Sartrean hellscape. So good. This is a great example of how important well deployed details are. The title is clever in that it evokes vampires but then at the end you realise that it's a spiritual night they are living in.
Assuming Erogenous Beef is correct, I'm still #19. But I stuck with 750 anyway.
Man After Man (749 words)
Grug was different after his head grew back. Things always came back shaped a bit different. That was how Ax had three arms even if two of them swung loose more often than not. That was why Jur had those four legs that opened and shut and made Grug dizzy and grabby from looking at her. Haha, good opening para. Wacky cavemen are basically the best.
The first problem was the botched hunt. Not that they needed food beyond the craving for something warm and fleshy in their mouths. Grug had been chasing the cow (an antler-cow, a harder kind to hunt) when a feeling came over him. He had been here, in these woods, for as long as he could remember. He'd filled every space between the roots with private moments and the smell of his own body.
He wanted right then to be somewhere else.
In that moment, he'd fallen out of the group. The antler-cow dashed through the opening and gave Ax a good chest-gore on the way. They still sung and danced around the trees and chewed mushrooms until their heads grew fuzzy, and Ax didn't even get upset. Everything was forgotten as the next day came, same as millions of forgotten yesterdays before.
The new man in Grug's head didn't forgive him, though. He twisted a knot in Grug's stomach so tight he lay on his bed of furs, burying his nose in the smell of his own drool until afternoon.
The man thought just like Grug, but unlike Grug's thoughts, which were always about the things he saw and heard and smelled, the man's thoughts were about Grug.
For a while, the voice grew dim and didn't say much if his thoughts were loud. He threw himself into every kind of fun there was. He went on hunts and threw himself in front of cows so he'd get tossed. He ate mushrooms enough to kill a cow, and rode the waves of toxicity i was going to say this broke style, but I'm wondering if you're going from clumsy > elaborate language deliberately, in which case it's ok with a grin. All the feasts and races and all the eating and mating couldn't quiet the man in his head forever.
A chill set around Grug as he left one morning. No more fun. Why weren't things fun? Because the man in his head kept thinking, worrying, reflecting.
Overlapping memories slid away from Grug the further he walked. Millenia of life in the valley had ingrained the shapes of everything in his mind deep down to the soles of his feet. For the first time he knew, he stood on new ground. Yeah, you're totally doing that. Smooth.
The trees thinned. The ground didn't shift beneath his feet. The softness of earth had given over to a light smoothness that felt unreal, but the man in his head wanted more. Broken shapes clouded with moss and dirt surrounded him. This was a place where earth and stone had died, and that frightened Grug, but the lines intrigued him--lines in the broken stone, reaching further out of the forests, calling to something he couldn't remember.
He left the trees where the lines gathered. They met along the ground, then rose into the sky, shadow-black against a granite facade. Some of the stone panels had broken over the ages, exposing the skeletal abyss inside. Grug had to raise his eyes to follow the lines of the pyramid, dwarfing every thought he had, larger than the world in his eyes, to the apex where the sun gleamed like cool water.
Between his mind and the man in his head, from a point equidistant from both, images spun themselves out of impossibly thin thoughts. Grug panicked. He'd never thought of something he couldn't see. He grasped at the ground. A sliver of stone fit his palm. He knelt and took his stone stylus to the granite ground.
He drew the pyramid first. Its straight lines were a shape of intention, of higher thought than he could consider. A faceless figure beside the pyramid. In these lines he made he could see the divine order passed down.
Grug couldn't see the fang-cow sneaking up on him.
The next moment, he was flung, his neck torn, his body thrown against the hard ground. Everything whirled into darkness.
Grug's skull burbled back together with a couple more lumps and a vestigial third eye on the right. He sat, then stood, whole again. Grug looked between the etching on the ground and the pyramid behind him. The man in his head was gone. The etching was just shapes. He retraced his steps back into the wild, back to what was left of humanity. Huh. That was very cool. This is a rare example of a very high concept idea done well; you evoke a lot of abstract strangeness, but because it is grounded in your party-hard regenerating cavebros it works a lot better than it otherwise would, and leaves a lingering anticipation about what might have been. Nice work.
Felicia Goes South
"Hi, welcome to Hell!"
Felicia woke up, and opened her eyes, but everything was blurry and all she knew was that, wherever she was, it was a very sanitary bright. She felt an aching in her arms, near her wrists, but felt nothing unusual when she reached for them. She was lying on her back on something hard and cold, like a sidewalk. "I woke up and didn't know where I was" is a classic bad opening. You're going to tell us where she is, so get on with it.
The voice repeated, "Welcome to Hell!"
As Felicia blinked, the scene slowly came into focus and in front of her she could make out a store, Hel-Mart, LOL and a frail, small-framed redundant elderly woman in a firetruck red vest. She turned and looked to her rear. Nothing. Not void or emptiness. Nothing.
"Where am I?" Felicia asked, looking away as she realized she just asked the only question she had already been told the answer to.
Not seeming to mind, the woman said, "You're in Hell, MORE LIKE IN TELL, AMIRITE seriously, this is dead words. if you find yourself having characters repeat themselves that is a secret sign from you to you that you didn't write it properly the first time. sweetie. I don’t know what you did - they never tell me. I just know that what you’re looking for is in Aisle 10, in housewares.”
“What? Why am I in Hell? I don’t even remember what I-”
“No one does. But you’re going to pay for it all the same. Now, come inside and get started. Might as well not put it off any longer.”
“Get started on what?” Felicia asked, feeling surprised at how little she was curious about how she would spend what was presumably to be the rest of eternity.
The old woman stared for a moment. “You’ll know what to do.” BLAH BLAH BLAH
With a shrug that came not entirely of her own volition, Felicia made her way through the store. She passed the grocery section, where gluttons were endlessly gorging themselves on still-frozen corndogs and cake frosting, pouring maple syrup directly into their overextended maws. She continued toward her destination, housewares, where she saw the vain standing in front of mirrors, posing their flawless bodies but seeing only wasted, decrepit versions of themselves, often with super saggy tits and beanbags.
Felicia found herself in Aisle 10, which housed garden tools. She found herself drawn towards a water hose, and struck with the immediate realization of just how long eternity would be if she were stuck in this infernal big-box store for its duration, and began mindlessly tying a looped knot at the end. The other end she weighted with a trowel and threw over a rafter, over which it was held, once she had adjusted the height and and tied the end. Satisfied, she climbed the shelf, put her head in the loop and jumped.
And landed on the ground, no worse for the wear. Her neck was fine, as was the hose noose, dangling undamaged above her head.
Frustrated by her failure, Felicia scoured the area, trying to find a way to end her shopping experience, to no longer be stuck in Hel-Mart, to no longer be mysteriously compelled by the store manager to take her own life. And lo! Like a lighthouse guiding drunk Portuguese fisherman safely back to shore, she saw the beacon of her salvation. In the lighting section, its colors swirled with a majestic beauty that could only be described as, “groovy.” OH, FFS.
She grasped the bottle, burning her hands, and smashed the narrow top against a shelf. She drank, the searing liquid burned Felicia’s throat on its way to her stomach. Once at its destination, she fared no better and began writhing in terrible agony, moaning and burping up gross little bits of orange goo or whatever. chairchucker and Mercedes mostly get away with this kind of stuff because they are funny, and they don't waste our time. If you want to get away with this: don't waste our time with dead words and bullshit dialogue.
And then, it passed. Still standing, she looked down to see that she had a rather dark spot on her pants, and was now standing in a puddle of yellow and orange liquid. Daunted, she put face in her hands and wept. She wept. She wept and she wept and she wept. then she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept and she wept. She wept because she knew that this was only the beginning. Felicia knew that there would be no end to her compulsion, nor of her failures. All she wanted to do was to be free of this burdensome afterlife, and yet it was denied her. And also she slipped, like an idiot. this is not even a sledgehammer point it is the Creusot Steam Hammer of points, built in 1877 and able to deliver a painfully obvious point with a force of more than 125 tons. We know it's going to be like this forever because she is in hell. you have told us that about a dozen times already.
She clambered her way to a display of brightly colored dorm mini-couches (somehow she knew it was August) and sat. Curled up in a ball, wrapped tightly in an unicorn blanket, she tried to think of a solution. So far, at least, she had been unable to kill herself because her body couldn’t be damaged. Wait, that wasn’t right. It could be damaged. It was just able to let things pass through if they were quick enough, like with the hose, or the lava lamp. What she needed was slow, and complete.
With a huff, she was on her feet, galloping back to to the grocery section. Felicia looked in the farthest corner and found it - the butcher shop. Pushing past the gluttons, she entered the back room and looked for the switch to turn on the meat grinder. Once it was on, she took a moment to steel herself. This was it. She would finally be free.
She took a step onto a nearby table. Looking at the intake she saw that it would fit her almost entirely. This would be over quickly, of that she was glad. She closed her eyes and, for no good reason, pinched her nose this is a good detail, btw and jumped.
Agony. Numb. Black. Nothing.
“Hi, welcome to Double Hell!” okay that is a quarterteaspoon worth of clever which I will add to the sprinkle of nice details and the gallon of faux breezy bibble bobble bullshit to make a revolting hobo stew that would be rejected by 80% of self-respecting bums. Still, 20% is something to work on.
XXX ORGY OF THE DEAD XXX
Somewhere in Romania...
Vlad Blackdickula held Suzy McHugetits' hand tightly, passionately. Sweatily.
"You're really going to enjoy this party, I think, my dear," he intoned, looking deeply and passionately and sexily into her big beautiful, voluptuous, sexy, round, eyes. Then he stared down at her generous, pillowy cleavage.
"I certainly hope so!" Suzy McFunbags tittered. "I do so love parties." She opened her full, red lips in a pant of passionate anticipation. Sexy anticipation.
Vlad leaned in for a kiss. His thin, manly lips met her full, red, pillowy womanly lips. They kissed passionately, like two people in deep lust. Sexy, passionate lust.
The limousine came to a stop outside a magnificent, incredible castle. The kind of castle where they make movies about muscular, brooding knights and beautiful, lusty ladies. And vampires.
"Is this all yours?" Suzy McLargebreasts shrieked. "It's so magnificent! It's incredible!"
"It certainly is," Vlad returned. "All mine. Please, my dear, come inside, and see the wonderful party we have waiting for you." He held out a long-fingered hand. Suzy took it and they climbed out of the long, black, long limousine together. They walked along a path paved with old, stately, impressive stones. Huge, oaken, iron-bound gates opened for their entry. Inside was a party like Suzy McBigjuggs had never seen! Men and women in amazing, fantastic, horror-movie costumes made love on every couch, chair, table, and even the hard, cold, stone floors! Suzy McBusty's hands flew to her face.
"It's a costume party!" she wondered. "Why didn't you tell me? All I have is this skimpy little sexy red dress and sexy red heels," she burst out.
It was true. She saw on a couch in front of her, a very large, muscular man wrapped completely in mummy bandages. He was thrusting his very large, muscular penis between the enormous breasts of a woman painted up like the Bride of Frankenstein, from the movie Bride of Frankenstein. On the floor to her left, another very large, even more muscular black (very black) man dressed up as a Haitian voodoo zombie was double-teaming another woman (with enormous breasts) dressed up as one of the Brides of Dracula (from the Bride of Dracula movie) along with a large, muscular man wearing the best ghost costume she had ever seen! It looked like he really was transparent, see-through. They also both had very large penises.
"Why," Vlad ejaculated. "Those aren't costumes, my dear."
"What do you mean?" Suzy McJumboknockers gasped.
Vlad threw back his head and laughed, a long, loud, deep, rich laugh. Suzy O'Balloonboobs suddenly noticed, for the first time, how long, sharp, and scary his teeth were. "My dear," he chuckled, "I mean that this party is an orgy...of the DEAD! MWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" lol
sebmojo fucked around with this message at Dec 24, 2014 around 12:41