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God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


I too want to write the big funny words.

In.

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God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.




Most excellent.

God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


Ah, I didn't see the word count, and I'm already at six pages. I'm writing a short of a meatier length.

How important is following that instruction?

God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


Out

Don't feel like writing something else. Also as a person who writes professionally for a living, the possible publishing issues bother me.

God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


Ironic Twist posted:

Just edit the story out of the post when you want to publish it. Also, nut up.

Fair enough.

I'll post the longer piece and get disqualified. Criticism's not a bad thing.

God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


blue squares posted:

Lol
Let me guess you're a technical writer

I'm a stupid reporter.

I'm a pretty good stupid reporter too. I've won a couple of stupid awards being a stupid reporter.

Whether I am a bad poster has no relevance on my stupid job. I would rather shoot myself than be a technical writer.

God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


Echo Cian posted:

Either follow the ONE RULE THAT MATTERS and write something new or get out quietly, defending yourself is just making GBS threads up the thread.

Right, right.

I'll pull something else out of my rear end and post it. I feel we should move on before I get myself lynched.

God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


Over the word limit. Longer short story. Second attempt at writing a 1200 vignette, but it didn't work as one. So I wrote this short story instead. Disregard it due to length if you'd like.

Friendly Takeover
Prompt: Wouldn't It Be Nice


August 24 2009 – Diary of Cooper Bragg Esquire. (National Phosphate Medical Center)

The dying president of the world’s smallest nation lay in a hospital bed, his brown face striped in Venetian shadows. Green felt and dead button eyes stare up to me. He clutches the weighted bear to the incision over his broken sternum, wincing. I stood bedside, briefcase dangling. Sepia and claustrophobic is the atmosphere of this third world hospital. Antiseptic odors make a statement through absence. Electrocardiogram beeps punctuate the phlegm in the president’s larynx as he speaks.
“I regret, being too hard on my son. He was special, different, innocent. My beautiful son. Everything goes to him.”
“I’ll do all the legal work necessary to ensure that everything will go to Donny. Once the living trust and estate proceedings are over, do you foresee any problems after the estate is handed down?”
He nods gravely, then waives his finger at a fat brown woman in a wicker chair. She puts a CDR into a small portable DVD player. Onscreen a preteen wearing a grin and a shark tooth necklace sits in sand, wet from the ocean tide.
“What do you want to be when you grow up Donny?”
“I want to be just like you.”
“Just like me?”
“Uh huh. I want to run a big business, live from our land, and give to the people. I want everyone to have what they need, and everyone to love one another. I want to make everyone happy, just like you.”
Then the frothy current washes over the boy as the video file ends.
The dying man cries softly, saying, “My beautiful son, and such a special boy. He will continue the Roneau legacy of this business. He will ensure our people remain prosperous. Make sure he is protected.”
It’s so incredibly awkward for me, so I just nod, and reassure the dying man, “I’ll handle the legal end, your special boy will be taken care of. I’ll arrange it in a way to be instantaneous. It will avoid probate altogether.”
He didn’t understand what probate was, or half the words I was saying. I don’t mention the inevitable likelihood that Donny will sell his stock. Leaving the people of Roneau bereft of the one trade-good that keeps their island afloat. They have no stratified economy. They are sure to become indentured by the colonizing armies of the 21st century pirates. I want to, but it’s not my place as an estate lawyer.
Fat men in feather-plumed hats and ceremonial military jackets walked me out. Then I was driven to a charter plane and flown off the island.
Donny Lonny, a drug addict former musician with zero education is to be made the owner of a sinking, bankrupt island made of bird poo poo, which happens to be at odds with the United Nations. That accursed legacy is what the boy will inherit.

June 3 2010 – Diary of Cooper Bragg Esquire – (Brisbane Marriott)

The Isle of Roneau government set me up with hotel lodgings on the seventh floor of the Brisbane Marriott. Tomorrow I fly back there. It’ll be even smaller. Every time I see it they’ve drowned another chunk of the island due to mining the land itself.
Flocks of Gulls departing from Australia or South East Asia, fly to Hawaii. They need a pit stop to eat, poo poo, sleep. Bird poo poo petrifies into phosphate. Phosphate is a highly sought commodity, so, the Isle of Roneau was one of immense wealth.
The Roneau National Phosphate Corporation is the single entity responsible for 85 percent of the Isle of Roneau’s annual GDP. The will names President Lonny’s son, Donny, a morbidly obese novelty rap artist, as the sole heir to his stock portfolio. This would be fine. Except recently, the United Nations intervention forced National Phosphate to evolve into a publicly traded company.
Since the second smallest country in the world is so symbiotically linked to the phosphate company, a nation risks erasure via Wall Street. Donny’s coronation makes what would already be easy pickings for vultures of international trade, a complete non-issue.
I’m trying to glimpse the sun from the sunken deck of the Titanic, but it’s so far over my head. I took my laptop onto the balcony. Finished my wine.
Lexus Nexus search: Donny “Lonny, Prince Donny, Roneau, Tasmania, Papua New.”
Headlines:
“Donny Cites Exhaustion—Ends Concert Tour with Maori Billionaire’s Club,” – October 12 2001.
“Hermit Heir Caught Busking At Carnival Cruise Port,” – April 18 2003.
“Prince Donny Comeback Stopped By Oxycontin OD,” – June 30 2008.
“Maid Staff Call Donny Lonny The Prince of Piss,” – January 9 2010.

A YouTube of a decade old Prince Donny music video plays. Donny’s smile is infectious as his black maned head surfaces from water, probably to hide his freakish weight. He starts rhyming. Paraphrasing, he says he is a mountain, huge, beautiful, and good, just like the aboriginal lands and aboriginal peoples of this region, then he lists regional mountains. Then he says he spits flames and starts listing volcanoes. The beat track is highly melodic, impressive, even to Oxford snobs like me who listen to composers and instrumental rock.
An image search of his name plucks a decades old photo. He’s plumped on the floor in a pool house converted into a recording studio. He’s grinning, playing a xylophone, surrounded by drum machines, dat recorders, mixers. In the background is a gaunt Russian with dark eyes, gargoyle perched on a bar stool. A Fila tracksuit I.D’s him as a probable drug dealer. Another figure, an attractive Island girl, too young for my tastes, is in the distance, smoking a cigarette.
There are no images of Donny from the past five years. I finish my wine and start looking up intel on the hordes of possible plaintiffs who will be filing suit after tomorrow, after five minutes it depresses me too greatly and I resign to uncomfortable sleep.

June 4 2012 – Diary of Cooper Bragg Esquire. (Brisbane Archerfield Airport)

Earlier today as I passively glazed over brochures in the passenger lobby for private flights, three men approached me. Two were obviously former soldiers, now private sector security. They conformed to crew cuts, black suits, blue tooth ear buds, the whole nine yards. Betwixt the muscle stood an ectomorphic spectacled white man wearing the flowing robes of a Tibetan monk.
“Are you Bragg?” He asked.
“Why yes. Is there a security problem or something?”
“No. I’m Dr. Grolic. The psychiatrist assigned by the Board as per your request.”
“Well, great.”
They pivot away from me in unison. One of the corporate security goons buzzed, “The target has been notified. Affirmative. Over and out.”

As a child I watched Gregory Peck star as Atticus Finch on the Saturday matinee. I wanted to do nothing except question authority, and get away with it. So I bode away eight years of my life studying, just to be in a position to question authority and win, hopefully without eating a backhand. Problem was, I wasn't the best attorney, so now I handle estate law. This task, today, is the oddest case I've handled.
Estate lawyers never follow a president’s inaugural address. Estate lawyers rarely give televised press conferences. But my client Willifred Lonny, the President of Roneu is still prone to narcissistic gestures even with eyes staring up to a coffin lid.
The independent pilot hit a bump in the sky. My Styrofoam cup of boxed Chardonnay sloshed onto my suit jacket. I fruitlessly dabbed tiny napkins against the stains.
I am to read a fifteen page document the President wrote in between his third and final quadruple bypass.
Airplane windows frame an endless vista of the Pacific. The image impregnates me with rising anxiety and indigestion.
Dr. Grolic, the only other passenger, isn’t talkative. He’s still stuck in transcendental meditation, leaving him so corpse-like that I double check his breathing. Dr. Grolic is hairless and svelte. The few words he spoke identified his business on Roneau as a psychiatric matter involving the Lonny family. When I asked who was employing him, his answers were evasive and nebulous, as was the lack of identifiable accent in his English.
“Sorry to bother you doctor, but where did you say you were from again?”
“I live in a suburb of Detroit,” he said, opening one manic eye.
He obviously didn’t want to be bothered. I’d awoken him from whatever grand Buddhist apex of enlightenment he’d climbed to. Grolic popped out an I-phone and began texting.
As the single engine Cessna began its swift descent towards the sinking island, I watched the exterior rows of trees erode into gray cracked rock. Behind the plated veneer of greenery, their topography reminded me of staring into a pot hole on a country road.
Immediately after touching down, the airfield was vacant save for two white limousines. A fat native liaison from the Corporation holds out a luxuriously tailored suit at the bottom of the plane’s retractable ladder.
“Thought you might need that,” smiled Grolic, as he climbs down.
“You the lawyer?” Asks the brown skinned fat man.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Seventeen inseam?” He asks. I take the plastic wrapped suit jacket.
“Why, yes. Yes, indeed. Are you a tailor as well as a psychologist Dr. Grolic?”
“I’m… just a nobody.” With that he ducked behind tinted glass, shutting the door.
“Aren’t we all?”

Addendum - June 4 2012 - Diary of Cooper Bragg Esquire (Roneau Parliament Building)

I’m standing on the veranda of Parliament eating the tray of sushi a tuxedoed man brought to me. Their Parliament building’s exterior is identical to the office building of a city zoo, or a national park gift shop. Strange woodwinds and drums play a floor below. The small audience clapped signaling the end of the Vice President’s inauguration.
“Cooper Bragg,” yelled a woman from the stairwell.
I rushed downstairs, took the podium, shuffled my papers, and looked out to the small crowd of reporters. Rows of local politicians and businessmen sat outside in steel folding chairs. From my angle onstage they transformed from an audience into a lynch mob. In the back I saw two white men in black suits with blue tooth earpieces. They stood with folded arms. The men in black flanked the two other white men present, one the psychiatrist Dr. Grolic, the other a former Secretary Treasurer of the American government.
“Hello, I’m Cooper Bragg, attorney for the deceased. Um… Well… As executor of the estate of President Willifred Lonny, I stand here to read his last will and testament. Being of sound mind and body at the time of this dictation, I choose to divide up my estate as follows…”
What it said was perfunctory and irrelevant, except for one line.
“The entirety of my stock portfolio, including my majority share of the National Phosphate Corporation, and chairman position will be passed down to my son, Donny Lonny. An agreement was made by the NPC board of trustees on the condition that he lives under the care and supervision of a psychologist decided by the NPC Board of Trustees.”
The reporters gasped at the name Donny Lonny. I finished and joined the audience, and I gasped at another name.
“Secondary shareholder Colonel Ronald W. Geth,” the former Secretary Treasurer of the United States, former Supervising General Counsel in the C.I.A. Geth’s a gray eminence whose presence leaves rotten shadows, blow back and blood. He wasn’t listed as a stockholder in my week-old reports, meaning he bought in during the past month.
Now he’s private sector. Now he’s my problem.
Call me crazy if you want, but I’ve often frequented conspiracy forums and exchanged correspondence with several public interest law-firms on matters involving America’s shady international affairs. In college I protested my prime minister’s devoted participation in America’s wars, and in general hold a great odium of their international policies. Whether it is an official Trilateral Commission document detailing unconstitutional transactions, alternative news photographs of Bilderberg meetings, or insane pirate radio ramblings of a hobo, Geth’s name is usually attached somewhere. His military and intelligence career is now one giant black Sharpie.
After Geth addresses the crowd, I hail a bicycle-taxi, and retire to my air conditioned bungalow in self-disgust.



June 5 2014 - Diary of Cooper Bragg Esquire (Lonny Estate; Naorki, Isle of Roneau)

When I arrived at the former president’s private home, police were loading three cuffed Russians, two women, one man, into a cruiser.
The dead president’s son lived in the pool house behind a modest suburb mansion. Painted on their mail box was the Miami Heat logo. I’m more of a Manchester United man myself. At the front door, Geth’s two spooks nod to me behind mirrored shades.
I hear screams.
“What’s going on here?” I ask the porch. The Brian Bozworth stunt double to my left answers.
“He’s withdrawaling in his father’s bed. Dip poo poo just called the ooga-booga police saying we’re kidnappers and got his friends busted for coke it looks like. You’re cleared to go up,” he says. As he opens the door I spot a 45 caliber semi-automatic handgun with a silencer attachment. Acrid turpentine and Lysol accosts my sinus, and the unnatural chill of being in the presence of death drops my stomach.
A native maid’s worried face confirms it for me, some terrible act commences. Here. Now. She skitters out of the corridor into a side chamber. I rush upstairs, gripping my briefcase.
In the upper-hallway Grolic is scolding a nurse I recognize from my hospital visit the year prior. Her eyes say it too, “Help.”
“I told you. He is to be isolated, completely isolated for the next 24 hours as he withdrawals. All interactions are to be made by me, with the assistance of the two orderlies stationed downstairs. Do you understand?”
“Excuse me, Grolic. I have a legal meeting scheduled with Donny.”
Grolic turns, twisting his face into a manikin of white collar politeness.
“It… I’m sorry Mr. Bragg, it is not a good time. Medically speaking, Donny is not of a mentally sound mind for such proceedings. When we arrived we learned his addiction…”
I cut him off.
“All well and good chap. But you don’t have authority to stop me. This is a fact, you are just a consultant, hired on the clause I authored.”
“One moment please, while I verify that,” he said, pulling out an I-phone. I brushed him aside and opened the door.
The room reeked. A cocoon of old milk jugs filled with piss surrounded a California king bed, muted television aglow in the blizzard of dead channels. At the far end, Donny sat on the bed, his arms spread eagle in restraints, a nurse applying peroxide and gauze to a wound on his abdomen, puss yellow fat oozed out.
“Help me! Blood spider. Mind spider. Police!” Screaming, excruciation, eyes wild, a blackness had enveloped Lonny’s features. I’d seen similar phenomena in pictures of long term methamphetamine abusers, but this was different.
“What? Spiders?”
Grolic’s hand tapped my shoulder. I flinched, dropped my attaché case and raised my fists into Southpaw stance, waiting on the slimy Rice King pacifist to give me an excuse.
“Relax Mr. Bragg. Delusions and psychosis are not entirely uncommon during withdrawal in long term heroin addicts,” he said, his face a wall.
“Sir, I demand you allow me private consultation with my client’s inheritor, and I don’t care if you don’t like it, or if Richard Geth doesn’t like it. Unless you have it in writing from a hospital’s chief physician that this man is not allowed visitors, lawyers or otherwise, leave. Shut the door. Good day.”
He smirked, but left. I locked the door.
The nurse thanked me, and raced to fill a syringe, which she injected into Donny’s massive arm, darting her head around as a loop of pleas and spiders were barked.
As she injected him, I checked the bottle. Hydromorphone.
“Donny, are you a heroin addict?”
Donny hyperventilated, pupils rolling back momentarily, a flash of the whites showed me a swirl of soft black liquid squirming across his sclera and dissipating towards the bridge of his nose.
I repeated the question.
“No. Not heroin. No heroin. That man not human. Spiders in blood. Untie me.”
“Don’t have a key son,” I said. I scanned his body and found no needle marks, however three syringes lay at my feet. I thought about tasting one like Joe Friday, but thankfully reason got the better of me. The nurse began stitching up his wound. His flesh was serrated, like a steak knife had made the incision. Though I’m no forensics buff, I guessed the angle, and location—the topside of his protruding belly, pointed towards the stab wound being self-inflicted.
“Why’d you cut yourself? Blood spiders?
“I tried to cut it from me whenever I woke up. Man put it in me. Drugged me. Please help me.”
“All I can really do is file a suit against the National Phosphate Board of Trustees. The board of trustees do not have the same chair members now that originally signed off on this legal agreement. But it could be months before a judge sees it.”
“Yes, do that. But call police, now. Black swims in me. Tear it out.”
Under her surgical mask, the nurse spoke, “Police already here Donny. They just left. Mister, if you need to use the bathroom please feel free to go to the bathroom.”
“What?”
“Yes,” Donny’s voice became a whisper. “Don’t stand there in pain, go head, go. Go head take poo poo.”
They both made a silent shushing gesture.
I went to the connecting bathroom, it was spacious and unremarkable. I flicked on the lights, and stood by the toilet.
“Be sure to flush,” the nurse quietly said.
I peeked my head from the door to give her a look of indignation.
She flips a peace sign, mouthing “two, two,” breathlessly.
I nod, move, lock the door and stand by the stall as ordered. Push down the lever. Flush twice.
A thin native teenaged girl in an oversized brown t-shirt slid through an opened window from a tree limb, a rectangle of black plastic in her mouth. She landed, cat like, behind the smoked paned sliding door of the shower. It slowly opened wide enough for her face to stick out. I took the object from her teeth. An obsolete camcorder tape, the kind only playable by antiques. She shushed me, touched my hand and scurried back up out the bathroom window. When she leaped to the tree limb I heard a foreign curse, a break, and a thud below.
I peaked my head out the window and watched the pack of security encroach with their zip-ties and Tasers. A fractured tibia peaked from her smooth skin as she writhed in pain on a ground the color of thunder clouds, her pubic hair exposed.
I retreat before they look towards me. A camcorder tape isn’t the easiest thing to stuff between your shaft and scrotum, it chaffed on the first step.
“I’ll do everything I possibly can legally. God be with you on your road to recovery Donny,” I said, fleeing as far from there as possible.

Attached Documents: Two police reports
Police Report – Complaints filed at Roneau Parliamentary Courthouse 6-6-2012.
Petitioner - Cooper Bragg Esquire and The Estate of Lonny Donny.
Accused Parties – 1st Report) Ronald Walter Geth. 2nd Report)
Accusation: Corporate Shareholder Fraud.
Cases dismissed by Judge Gorbechjway Bildong, “No Offense Committed According To National Statutes.”

Journal of Cooper Bragg Esquire - June 9 – 2012 (Ipswich, Australia) – Photo Attached.

Last night I was in a Brisbane motel watching my United Red Devils trounce Hull on satellite TV. I sat sipping Jameson and Seven, while eating a room service sandwich. During an advert, I left my motel room to head for the ice vending machine. In the corner of my eye I saw them. Two different mercenaries, just night-gaunt shadows behind a dusked-out windshield. They shared traits, hardened expressions of whip-trained ferality, with sunglasses at night, blue tooth headsets, military hair. Stopping mid-stride, I pulled out a camera phone and ran towards their tinted Crown Victoria mashing the capture button. They reversed and sped off out of the parking lot, license-plate covered by electrical tape.
I scurried back to my room, packed in two minutes flat, and floored my rental sedan in the opposite direction. I reached a well-lit 24 hour parking garage. There I scoured every inch of the car, and my personal belongings. Under the hood, a thin magnetized square silently transmitted data. I removed it, drove to a McDonalds with free Wi-Fi, and confirmed my suspicions. It was a GPS tracking device.
I affixed it to the teeth of a rusty aluminum jungle gym in the play-area.
Then I left in the opposite direction, taking evasive turns until I wound up in a bogan diner outside of Ipswich. Every customer and employee appeared genuinely disinterested in me. All that mattered was safety.
All international cellular phone calls to the Isle of Roneau have gone dark. An article from a Papua New Guinea paper reports that as of yesterday the country is without satellite coverage. Years ago they lost satellite television coverage, and now phone coverage, save one service provider, an Australian based company called Teslac Mobile. Tomorrow I am buying a second phone.


Journal of Cooper Bragg Esquire – June 14, 2012 (Paris France)

I’d set an appointment to file petition at the International Chamber of Commerce against NPC, and Ronald W. Geth for Corporate Shareholder Fraud.
When the secretary called my name and I walked into the office of Mrs. Simone Deluesse, the “dispute resolutions department” arbiter in charge of my potential case, I was ready for war. She allowed me to launch into a litany of injustices against the Lonny estate perpetrated by the NPC board of trustees and Ronald Geth. Strewing my documents across her desk, I noticed she was trying hard to not look bemused. For her, this show was like watching a toddler fall in a rain puddle mid tantrum.
Then the hammer struck down.
“That is well and good Mr. Bragg, but I have to tell you, your case is moot.”
“Moot? What?”
“Yesterday the majority shareholder of the National Phosphate Corporation, Donny Lonny, stepped down from his position of CEO, and sold off all of his stock to an American finance company. Kenoma & Craftsman Finance”
“Is Ronald Geth a chairman there?”
“No. Kenoma & Craftsman is a small firm, a market unknown. They’ve already traded their stock to a single person. The investor’s name was David Pritchard LLC. Pritchard works for Pickmark-Mars. It happened this morning.”
I scanned the room for something alcoholic, or something sharp, nothing. Standing there, fists by my side, next to Cedarwood rows of leather bound books and a finely chiseled stone bust of David Rockefeller, I wanted to. When I took a deep breath, my elevated blood pressure formed cigarette burns across my field of vision, forcing me to sit down.
“Arbitrage?”
“Not likely given the stature of the stock buyer.”
“I’m going to hazard a guess that bastard Geth has an office in Pickmark-Mars where Third Worlders like the people on Roneau feed him grapes giving him the energy to finance the bombings of other third world men, women and children, weaponizing the soil of their sinking island itself. Am I wrong? And I’m sorry that I yelled there, but…”
“Don’t blame me Monsieur Bragg, I don’t support America’s wars.”
“Yes, but you can initiate a probe into this acquisition, can't you?”
“Of course Mr. Bragg. Right now, there no evidence that this was anything other than a regular friendly takeover.”
I scoff, “Friendly takeover?”
I scrape my papers back into the briefcase and power-walk to the elevators.
So in a day, basically, the entire country of Roneau sold itself to the all-time winner in the history of the military industrial complex.
Their land will be turned into weapons, white phosphorous, bombs. These will shipped to national armed forces and private military companies across the globe.
I left the building and sit on the patio furniture on the veranda of a riverside bistro. I dial Donny Lonny.
“Hello? Donny? It’s Bragg, your father’s attorney.”
“This is Donny Lonny speaking.”
The broken English. The Islander accent. Even the gurgled interference that characterizes the voices of the massively obese, all of those, gone. All that was left was a tinny, hollow voice, which sounded like a shell-shock patient reciting the yellow pages from the bottom of a well.
“Who is this?”
"I said, this is Donny Lonny. You are fired Mr. Bragg.”
“Fine. Okay. Fine. Why did you sell your stock Donny?”
“That is none of your concern Mr. Bragg. Please do not contact me again, thank you.”
I call him back as I pace along the foreshoreway of the Seine.
“Donny, if this is even Donny, listen to me.”
For a moment I hear a few non-words, groans, whimpers, and then a low inhuman bass tone, so slowed down it almost serves as a series of clicks. The pitch rises until it gives way to a deafening mechanical roar. Harmonized on top of this is a multi-frequency tone which raises from shrill to an inaudible sharp drilling pain in my inner ear. I hit the red end call button, no response.
I stare at the receiver as this noise continues. Shrieks, black-box recordings from crashed Japanese aircraft, alien beats dying en masse, the layered final yelps of thousands of holocaust victims, galaxies demolished, red dwarfs exploding, chthonic creatures of myth siphoning brain matter from my ears with this oppressive noise. Ending the call. No service. An angry father’s fists, boxing your ears, popping the drums, punching you as you're powerless. My vision grew bleary, swirling with a shiny black viscosity. I’m punching end call. There is no active call. Lungs constrict. I throw the phone down and collapse to my knees over it. For a moment it seemed like it finally stopped. Then a bubbling low end rumble began throbbing as my tiny smart phone speakers pulsated. Pounding the ground from below, a frequency lower than any top of the line amplifier could reproduce beat. The tiny holes in the plastic, they throbbed, shook like rattled prison bars. Then from the audio receiver a shimmering black tendril or antennae poked out.
I threw the phone into the river Seine and collapsed. Pulling myself up the white barricade, can feel the stares of street vendors, cappuccino sippers, and Eiffel tower tourists. They gawk as I race into the nearest alley.

June 18, 2012. – Journal of Cooper Brag Esquire (Manchester United Kingdom)
Video attached.

Amazon shipped my converter for VHS-C video cassettes, and I am simply at a loss for words.
I plugged in the converter into the necessary adapters and cables. The transferred over to my lap top, I converted it and hit play..

Donny Lonny is lounging in pajamas next to the legs of a teenaged girl—the videographer’s POV. A sack of burgers and an acoustic guitar sit beside him on rippling sheets. A nurse is applying something to the fissures in Donny’s feet at the foot of the California king mattress, her cart holding a plate of peas. A television in the backdrop flickers dead channel static.
“Karunga go,” says Donny. The camera wobbles in chaos and then points at the worried heir.
“I want you to hide in the closet and watch this man. I do not trust this man. Please Karunga, I love you. Just tape. Hide and tape. Go.”
Springy bounces, swaying shots of carpet, until it goes dark. The camcorder wobbles and adjusts as it’s pushed up to the vertical framing of the crack. Rhythmic panting of a young girl can be heard, barely audible over the image.
The flowing robes of Dr. Grolic arrive at the bedroom entrance. He swivels to stare blankly at the fat prince.
“Peas? You want me eat sixteen peas? Are you crazy? I’ll call my lawyer on you,” Donny says.
The psychiatrist motions for the nurse to leave. She does.
“You can’t control my life like this. Who are you? Why you think you can do that?” Donny asks.
Grolic, in slow motion, shuts and locks the door behind him, as the heir questions what he’s doing.
Grolic approaches the foot of the bed, breathes in, and an opalescent blackness, shimmering a dark light swells under his darkening flesh. Monstrous features of unnatural morphing begin as Grolic’s jaw distends past his chest, rows of jagged teeth sat perpendicular, and his features sliding backwards into reptilian eyes. Skeletal black wings jut out, eclipsing the soft lamplight, as ghostly orbs tendril out and pop from the core of the creature. As Donny screams a negative image glow emits from the cavernous oval mouth. The distending stomach of a mollusk gurgles out from Grolic’s mouth as he regurgitates a dry black tendril that comes to a point with a prolapsed orifice. From the holes center, the legs of a spider-like creature of shadow crawl forth, birthing itself.
The arachnid lands on the carpet as the monk’s features retract, shifting back into a humanoid form.
Donny is yelling in non-language of animal terror. It’s at this point the girl filming holds her breath.
The camera pans to capture this negative dimensional creature, plucked into our reality from a nether realm beyond comprehension. It climbs up the brass foot-board and then makes a b-line for Donny, charging directly into the frowning mound of his navel.
Donny thrashes against hit, hands frenetic, trying to wrench the creature out of his body. It disappears, slithering into his stomach, as Donny’s body thrusts towards the ceiling, like a spasm one receives from electric shock.
The insidious Doctor calmly shifts back into human form. He smiles, and without a word exits the room.
Covered in squished peas, Donny stares towards his closet at the teenaged girl filming the ritual. In between stilted breaths he pleads, “Help. Me.”
Then the two mercenaries in black suits rush in wielding Uzi-like jet injectors. They restrain him, press their barrels to his flesh, and with a pneumatic hiss pump him full of god knows what chemical. He tries to wrestle free as a wave of chemical sedation drowns his consciousness.
End of video.

I spend the next hour dry heaving into my waste-paper basket. Then I caught a taxi and headed to a private investigators office.
United played Arsenal that night. My eyes couldn't focus, I just stared into the middle distance as red dots of jerseys swirled across turf.

July 21 2012 - Forum Post – Invisible-Warfare.com Forums – Atty Cooper Bragg.

Though I disagree heavily with most of the political beliefs expressed on these forums, I feel we share a common enemy in Ronald W. Geth. So that is why I come to you here with this story.
They, whomever they may be, already know of my involvement, so there is no point in hiding from them.
I attest that there are no libelous statements made in my recounting of these events. The film I have provided was not doctored or edited in any way by myself, or any other party, after I received the tape.
As I post this, private-sector enforcers are parked on the roadside next to my property. They’ve followed my every action since I arrived back home.
All that I ask is that some brave soul who reads this message furthers investigations into these matters, as I am certain my death could come at any time. I am under no delusion that I am anything but a speck of dust on a counter-top to the people, creatures, or forces puppeteering this whole affair.
When my obituary is published, please find it and post it underneath for the sake of building evidence.
Though I abhor violence, I’ve acquired a modified bobby-pistol from a dealer who shall remain nameless. My only question now is whether to use it upon myself, or fire pointlessly upon the foul creeping shadows.
Soon, the strike to erase me is coming, of this I am certain.
I hope my face is pressed to the floor and I'm quietly executed, not something far more hideous.


September 16 2012 – Invisible-Warfare.com forums - Moderator –

Invisible Warfare received an encrypted email today from [url]http:///akwldorzd.onion,[/url] the Tor Mail service.

A source has located a man believed to be the former heir to the National Phosphate empire of the Isle of Roneau.
A John Doe was interned at a state funded assisted living center in San Diego California.
Oceanside Police Department Officer Jose Araujo, badge number 1742, arrested a six hundred pound transient for loitering near the marinas of Solana Beach. His report indicates the subject was mute, deaf and blind.
After visiting the Goldwater Center where the John Doe was housed, I can confirm his identity as Donny Lonny of Roneau.
He was a rich and vibrant man.
Nothing is left. A shell.
Soon that's all that we be left of our homeland as they relocate us.
Best of luck.

- K.

God Of Paradise fucked around with this message at 02:36 on Dec 1, 2014

God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


Djeser posted:

Since the judges were going to disregard it, I prepared a line-by-line crit of your story. You can find it here.

Thank you very much.

But I must apologize to you. Since I didn't edit it myself, you shouldn't have had to either.

My attempt at a satirizing modernized Lovecraftian fiction was a total botch.

My problem here was I didn't take any time to craft the language of the story. I just sat down and wrote whatever blurted into my head, as quickly as possible, half of it in an altered state. I didn't take the process seriously. If I had treated writing the story like my job... Well... I'm not sure it would've been good, as I'm not good at writing fiction, but it would've been better. A nerdy academic narrator making a post on loving Info Wars Dot Com about how a supernatural entity helped Lockheed Martin acquire a small island made of bird poo poo might be too ridiculous a story no matter who writes it. I meant it to straddle the line between weird fiction and humor, like something Warren Ellis would do. What came out was totally inept and insane, like something Uwe Boll would have done were he an author. Then I made it worse by not editing it beyond spell check and not cutting anything from it. When there are so many mistakes, not even basic poo poo like the racism of the narrator comes off as intentional. loving Hell I'm a jackass.

God Of Paradise fucked around with this message at 08:50 on Dec 2, 2014

God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


Anyways, my apologies to the editor.

I would've written "No," in red marker if someone sent me this.

God Of Paradise fucked around with this message at 09:07 on Dec 2, 2014

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God Of Paradise
Jan 23, 2012
You know, I'd be less worried about my 16 year old daughter dating a successful 40 year old cartoonist than dating a 16 year old loser.

I mean, Jesus, kid, at least date a motherfucker with abortion money and house to have sex at where your mother and I don't have to hear it. Also, if he treats her poorly, boom, that asshole's gonna catch a statch charge.

Please, John K. Date my daughter... Save her from dating smelly dropouts who wanna-be Soundcloud rappers.


blue squares posted:

My drink is only found in Ronaeu island. The main ingredient is phosphate. Also its the smallest drink in the world.

The smallest nation in the world really is a sinking island made primarily of bird poo poo. It's located between Australia and Hawaii. It has the world's fattest populace. And it had the highest GDP of all third world countries, due to the mining of phosphate.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nauru

Nauru's former president was also the CEO of their phosphate company. Here he is performing the novelty rap song "Fat Boys Make Me Cry."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRl5ctx-S1M

Here's an episode from Australia's version of Front Line. It tells the ridiculous story of how they lost all of their money. Their government squandered a ton of it on bullshit, then their remaining assets got ripped off by a predatory finance company. Australia's former secretary treasurer was an employee at the finance company at the time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wit3P2MqFeM

Nauru: The Silliest Place On The Planet.

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