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Bad Seafood posted:You can answer as many requests and include as many characters as you find feasible, judge characters are just a limited quantity. SWM Seeks Femme Fatale for backstabbing, subterfuge, and good old fashioned seduction Hello, ladies. My name is Todd Templeton and I'm a fortune hunter looking for lady luck. I need a Carmen Sternwood to my Philip Marlowe, a Tatiana Romanova to my James Bond, a Catwoman to my Batman. If interested, please respond.
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# ¿ Feb 15, 2025 23:41 |
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So I've set my entry up as a cliffhanger. Anybody who's interested in spiking my serve drop me a line.
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Schneider Heim posted:Benny's crit
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The Gambler 955 words My name is Todd Templeton, age 43. My profession is professional gambler--which is just a euphemism for “Compulsive gambler with enough skill to keep himself out of bankruptcy”. Bankruptcy doesn't sound so bad now that the dealer has a soft 20. I'm so absorbed with the cards in front of me that I don't notice anybody else but the dealer. He's a short, wrinkled man with a head so bald and polished that it's reflecting the florescent lighting. I'm 5'11'' myself--under different circumstances, I'd use the gnome bastard for punting practice. I get a nine and a seven--sixteen is the kiss of death in blackjack. Against my better judgment, I tap my finger against the green felt and I get a suicide king for my troubles. Sticking a blade in my temple looks appealing now that I'm down to my last few chips. I rub a couple of them between my fingers as the rear end in a top hat deals me another 16. “You keep rubbing those chips like they’re going to multiply,” a female voice says next to me. I grit my teeth so hard, I feel and taste my enamel turning into a coarse powder. I whip my face towards her to say something nasty and instead I find myself speechless. She’s a head shorter than me with platinum hair--definitely a wig. Every part of her gymnast physique, from her face to her shoulders to her gorgeous long legs, are in perfect symmetry. Sure, it’s uncanny how she has no apparent imperfection--I didn’t mind because she exudes this aura of pure, unapologetic seduction. My common sense says stay. My inner gambler screams hit. “I presume you’re lady luck?” She let out a girlish giggle that was all wrong for her. “Good guess,” she says as she’s dealt a hard 21. She takes her chips and puts them into a second case she's already filling. “My name's Goldie.” “That’s a pretty name,” I say while my eyes jump up and down. It wasn’t so much because her red dress perfectly compliments the contours of her body or how the hemline reaches up to her waist. But it was more because ofI her eyes. They’re an off-yellow, most likely contacts. They make her look inhuman, like a predatory animal ready to strike. “My name’s Todd,” I introduce myself. “Well Todd,” she says and picks up her chips, “I'm done for today. But I have faith that yours is just beginning.” She gives me a knowing wink and leaves. Just like the laugh, the word “faith” is all wrong for her. After staring at her rear end for a bit, I check my watch and notice something. It's a black suitcase right next to my foot. I look up to where she was and she's disappeared. I'm about to bend down to grab it but what stops me are the two sweetest words in the English language--“21 blackjack!” I look down and gape. There it is, a perfect blackjack--an ace of spades and his jack brother looking me straight in the eye. I immediately double my bet and he deals me a pair of aces. I split them and I get an eight and nine as the dealer stands on a soft 17. Caught in an adrenaline rush, I keep playing hands and I keep winning. It's too good to be true and what snaps me out of it is when I notice that the pit boss is giving the death glare. Putting two and two together, I figure out that the briefcase is a lucky charm. It's why Goldie was on her winning streak. Now she’s passed it to me and the worst person possible sees it too. Luckily enough, I'm able to cash my chips in right before a pair of security guards zero in on me. The one on the left has a cleft chin and the other has a widow's peak. “Sir, we'd like to speak with you,” Clefty says. “What's this about?” I ask. Clefty responds by whipping out a baton and swinging it towards my face. I block with the briefcase and follow up by smashing it down on his head. He's not getting up. Peaky swings at me with a wild haymaker. I block again with the case and with an underhand swing I connect with his jaw. Pretty sure I dislodged it. “gently caress!” I shout in pain as my shoulder pops out. I see a whole wolf pack of rent-a-cops bearing down on me. Luckily enough, I'm standing next to a table with a dealer setting up. Thinking fast, I grab a case of chips and throw it in the air, staring a stampede which blocks the wolf pack off. I run as fast as I can, ramming the doorman with the case before popping my shoulder back in and taking off. Inside my hotel room, I sit on the bed and stare at the briefcase for about an hour while my head pounds away like a snare drum. Whatever's in that case it's heavy and it's too much trouble for what it's worth. Either I find out what's inside or I pass it on. I hear a knock at the door and the air escapes from my lungs. As quietly as possible, I grab my pistol from my nightstand and sneak into the bathroom. As the toilet flushes, I load my pistol and pull back the slide. I look through the keyhole and my eyes gape as I realize who's on the other side. With my gun in my right hand, I put my back against the wall, turn the knob, and let the door swing open.
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I'd like to offer a crit for week 100 and I'd like to request a crit for my week 100 submission
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Hey Phobia, took the liberty of providing criticism for your week 100 entry here. Tell me what you think, and I look forward to your criticism of mine! Now, is the loop around or below in a hangman's noose?
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systran posted:Hello, Benny. I have critiqued your story The Gambler ![]()
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Don't see a "Submissions closed" post yet, so I'm in as well.
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Burn the Witch 1165 words Outside my office is the following written in neat typeface lettering: Rosa Flores, Private Investigations Discrete and Professional Reasonable Rates Private investigation sounds exciting, but really it's as tedious as coding. Most of my business isn't anything as interesting as murder investigations or even corporate espionage. Mostly it's domestic disputes. Spouses hiring me to tail their deadbeat partners to find if they have someone on the side. Parents hiring me to keep tabs on their flunky kids making sure they're not squandering their precious college fund. Kids hiring me to track their parents in order so they don't escape from the expensive home they put them in. I can't imagine how my competition puts up with the tedium. I do, however, have one major advantage over them. Outside it's an unbearable 100 degrees but inside it's a nice, air-conditioned seventy-five. I can't' stand to be outside for more than five minutes in that kind of heat since my naturally fair skin burns very easy. Inside I have the lights off and my laptop hooked up to my projector. Holding my wand in my left hand, I shoot my hands up in the air as the projector lights up. I lower my arms slowly as my desktop appears on the projector screen. I make motions with my right hand as if I was manipulating a giant, invisible touchscreen and my computer responds accordingly. For today's case, I'm hacking into the computer of one Arthur Robles. Arthur Robles is a successful accountant whose wife came to me under extreme duress earlier today. Apparent after taking on an unknown new client, Artie-Boy is now verbally and emotionally abusive towards his wife and their two kids--making threats of unspeakable violence and saying vicious, hurtful things towards them. With her signature on the discretionary note, I can now begin my work. Hacking isn't typing rapidly on a keyboard, it's a lot more subtle than that. It's essentially spinning a dial over and over again until you get the combination right. Most hackers use programs to spin the dial while I have other, more effective, means. It takes a little finagling with my wand, but I finally pry myself into his computer. “My, my, Arthur. You've been a naughty boy, haven't you?” Never mind the requisite internet porn--there's scores and scores of ledgers, spreadsheets, and other such motorized documents with obscene amounts on them. But not a single incriminating word to be found. He's smart enough to encrypt his documents individually. Fortunately for me, hacking through even advanced encryption is like picking a single-tumbler lock. The screen flashes red. I just tripped an alarm somewhere. “gently caress!” I shout as I throw both arms down and shut my computer and projector down. There's no way that should've happened. Unless... I suddenly think of Lisa. I flick my wand towards the light switch, turning the lights on. I grab my phone and dial her number. “Lisa!” I shouted. “Hello? Who is this?” A confused voice responds. “Lisa! Get your kids and get someplace safe!” “Wh-who is this? I don't recognize you,” she says. I hear an angry voice scream her name and then she hangs up. I need to move fast. After putting my wand into my bag, I go into my desk and grab my pistol. After loading the magazine and pulling back the slide, I grab my keys and take off. poo poo was about to go down. I finally get to Lisa's home, only to see her and her children getting into someone's car. That someone is an inch short of six feet even, wearing casual Friday clothes and smiling like he just got done screwing over a hapless client. “Lisa!” I call out. “Lisa, are you okay?” “She's fine,” the man says in a quiet voice. “Isn't that right, Lisa?” “Yes, I'm fine,” she whimpers. “Say again, Lisa?” “I'm fine!” She says louder as I can hear the fear in her voice making it crack. I see the the same fear in in the eyes of her two boys who take after their mama in her dark skin and brilliant brown eyes. You ever see someone giving the thousand-yard stare? The kind of trauma-induced catatonia that makes someone look like they're staring not at you but at something really loving scary behind you? It's even worse when you see it in a kid. “Good,” he says smugly. “Get in the car, I have words with her,” he says, spitting the last word out like a fly that got into his mouth. Lisa and her kids obediently climb into his car. “Do you know who I am?” He asked me. “Bernie Madoff's half-Mexican bastard child?” He smiles. “My name, is Arthur Robles,” he said and looks down on me as I'm half a foot shorter than him. “I'm Lisa's husband. I'm the man who clothes, feeds, and provides for her and our two boys, Marc and Andrew.” “The same man who can't even manage a third-grader's encryption skills?” “I know what you're doing,” he said as his smile turns into a scowl. “I know that you're pitting my wife against me. And I know what you do. The evil things you do in your office. You know what makes me better than you?” “I'm guessing it's how much more money you make than me.” “It's that I love and fear my God,” he says as his voice fills with self-righteous fervor. “I know what he says about your kind--'Suffer not a witch to live'. I'm warning you only once,” he said, sticking his face in mine. “If my wife so much as says your name, I'm going to do what my God commands me to do. I'm going to tie you to a stake and burn you, bruja oval office.” I clench my teeth so hard, I can almost feel them pop. Bruja is the Spanish word for “witch”. I can't stand either word, let alone the last word he said. But what's especially incensing me is how he dares to call me me that while he's emotionally and verbally abusing his family. I can feel myself reaching for my pistol in my back pocket. Careful Rosa, channel your anger. I don't tell the Hulk what to do, I just point in the right direction and tell him “smash”. “If you put your family into the slightest bit of danger, I'll put you through so much pain you'll wish it was you burning and not me.” “God willing, I get to you first,” he says as he gets into his car and takes off with his family as hostages. I take my wand out of my bag and with a flick of the wrist, I'm now tracking him on my smart phone. “Keep running, scumbag,” I say as I get into my car. “Everybody knows the chase is the fun part.”
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I'm in with Week 90: Down with the SicknessGod Over Djinn posted:Hey, if I do Polishing Turds week (http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=36), can I rewrite an entry that's 'past' relative to now, but not past relative to the prompt? ![]() Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 04:27 on Jul 29, 2014 |
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I won't be able to contribute this week. Sorry to those who wanted to see another train wreck, but I'm gonna have to opt out.
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So I take it it has to be set in the Southeast of America in order to qualify? EDIT: aside from being Gothic, of course
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sebmojo posted:Try us, Benny.
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sebmojo posted:you don't get pre approval for poo poo round here, so no ![]() ![]() MERCEDES! I SUMMON YOU AS JUDGE!
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sebmojo posted:But to be clear I will not be giving you a pre-crit this time; up to you if you want to get one from anyone else. I call down thunder, now it's time for me to reap the whirlwind! Thanks Mercedes for answering my summons! Ooh ooh! Could we get the results and post-brawl judgements on Youtube, please? ![]() Also, thanks to Sitting Here and Djin for your offers! I'll be sure to take you all up on them.
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Benny the Snake vs Sebojo Brawl submission Special thanks to Sitting Here and God over Djinn for much-needed input. Thanks y'all ![]() False God (1189 words) My name is Jordan and I was here to try to convince my Dad to leave a death cult. “Dad, please,” I pleaded with him as he bowed in front of the macabre shrine of Santa Muerte. “Please, we miss you.” My words fell on deaf ears as he kept worshiping at the foot of the shrine. The local patron saint of death and mortality, her image is a corrupted version of Our Lady of Guadalupe; a skeletal woman clad in robes, wearing a crucifix around her neck. In her right hand, she holds a scythe ready to harvest souls while in her left she holds a globe, symbolizing her dominion over all. Like my father, other worshipers were presenting their tributes of flowers, incense, and candles to the feet of the shrine while praying for her blessings and forgives. “Dad, please-” I tried again before I saw a familiar face walk inside and across the aisle. “Father Aguilar?” I've never seen my pastor angry in my entire life and when I saw him, he was absolutely livid. He immediately made his way to the front and stood next to the false idol. “Step down, padre!” a heckler from the audience said. "How dare you desecrate our Lady's shrine!" another person shouted. “Shrine? Blasphemy!” Father Aguilar exclaimed. “This is not a shrine, it's a pagan idol! And all of you are dooming yourselves to a life of torment and hellfire!” “Who are you to tell us who we can and can't worship?” Another heckler called out from the crowd. “Exodus 20, verse five,” Father Aguilar quoted. “'You shall not worship or serve a false idol; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God!'” “Where was your God when my girlfriend was kidnapped by the Cartel?” a voice from the crowd called out. “She's dead now!” she shouted as everyone else roared in agreement. “Please!” Father Aguilar pleaded with the crowd. “I ask you, why worship death when you should instead worship our lord and savior, Jesus Christ? Who died for your sins to ensure us all everlasting life?” “Get him out of here,” said someone else as the crowd got up and pulled him down from the shrine. “Please, listen to my words! Salvation lies not in false Gods but in the one true God!” I followed Father Aguilar outside as he was thrown out of the building. And there he was, his hands over his face making a silent prayer in despair. “Father?” “Jordan!” Father Aguilar hugged me. “What are you doing here, my son?” I dropped my head in shame. “My Dad’s in there. I've been trying for weeks to get him to come back to church, but...” “I know, son,” he said sympathetically. “Father, this cult has him in their grasp and I have no idea how to get him out,” I told him. “Don't lose faith, Jordan,” Father Aguilar told me in spite of his obvious doubt. “The Lord will help us find a way.” I gave a half-hearted smile. “But Father, it's not like we can call fire down from the heavens.” The story of Elijah and the false prophets was my favorite in the Bible. I was joking, but the Father stared at me. “Who says we can't?” He asked. “Wh-What are you thinking, Father?” “Does your father still have his gun?” “Yeah but it's for killing coyotes. Why-” “Just bring it and meet me here.” I showed up later on with my Dad's shotgun and found the Father holding a gas can and I immediately knew what he had in mind. Walking in, I fired a shot in the air to keep the crowd in check as the Father stepped up to the shrine. “In Second Kings, the prophet Ezekiel challenged the false prophets of Baal by seeing whose God would send fire from the heavens first,” he said as he doused the statue of Santa Muerte in gas. “Let's see if your God would stand my test of fire!” He pulled out a lighter and lit the statue. As soon as it erupted in flames, they were extinguished by some unseen force. A host of spirits appeared and enveloped Father Aguilar as he levitated in the air. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he pleaded as the spirits filled the air with unearthly shrieking. They flew inside him and after a moment of deathly silence, Father Aguilar screamed in pain and burst into flames. Nothing of Father Aguilar remained except his charred skeleton which fell to the ground in a pile of ashes. I was hyperventilating as I held the shotgun in a death grip. I locked eyes with the idol. I knew at that moment, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was damned. A glint of light caught my eyes and I looked down towards my chest. I was wearing my rosary under my shirt. And it was glowing. I grabbed my cross as another host of spirits appeared from the idol. Just as it flew at me, I took my rosary out from underneath my shirt and held it above my head. I wrapped my fingers around the glowing cross and I felt a warmth flowing through my hand which coursed through my veins and radiated around me. The miasma dissipated and I heard the idol screech. The spirits flew around the idol and transformed into a giant, skeletal dragon which spread its wings and roared at me. My rosary wasn’t just a simple cross--it was a symbol of my faith, my conviction, and my belief in Jesus Christ. It was that which Santa Muerte, in her complete dominion over death, could never extinguish. So why did Father Aguilar burn while I still stood? Because I had what he didn’t--the faith of a child. Focusing my faith into it, the light formed into a suit of armor. I threw my hands up and it formed into a sword and shield. The dragon took a deep breath and spewed hellfire from its gaping maw. I raised my shield and blocked the flames. Before the dragon could get its second wind, I ran towards it, jumped as high as I could, and wrapped my arms around its neck. The dragon bucked and thrashed trying to throw me off. I pulled myself up on its neck, raised my sword above my head, and thrust it straight into the back of its neck. The dragon screeched as I gritted my teeth and ripped it's head clean off. The beast collapsed and I fell to the ground while everything formed by the spirits of the dead and my faith evaporated. As the shrine disintegrated, I stood in front of a whole crowd of people with their faces transfixed on me in fearsome awe. They bowed. They chanted my name. They repeated it over and over again. My eyes gaped. My body was covered in cold sweat. When I saw my Dad bowing in front of me, the horror finally became reality--I had become a false god. I screamed as I heard a raspy voice laughing triumphantly in my ear. Your move, skippy ![]()
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I concede defeat against Sebmojo. Good work, man. ![]() Mercedes, I appreciate the time you took to judge and crit. I knew I could count on you.
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sebmojo posted:Good fight Benny. I don't need a new avatar, so buy yourself one: you've earnt it. Mercedes posted:edit: I agree, time for a new avatar. Arise like a shake shedding its skin! ![]()
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McStephenson posted:Oh dear God. I'll try thunderdome CIX. ![]() I'm in with Jim Butcher Edit: ![]() Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 23:52 on Sep 3, 2014 |
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:In with my avatar.
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Benny the Snake posted:My avatar won't change untill I win, brawl or prompt. And you know what? I had fun! I gotta be careful now. It's only been my first brawl, and I allready smell blood in the water ![]() ![]()
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Grizzled Patriarch posted:
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I don't need the extension after all. I'll have it up soon.
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Negotiating with the Devil 1198 words My name is Rosa Flores. Officially I’m a private investigator--unofficially, I wear a lot of hats. Today, I’m a negotiator, here to discuss business with vampires.. Yeah, I lead a very interesting life. The meeting place is Club Arcadia, a local rave located in downtown LA. Outside it’s an unassuming building located across the street from a shopping center. Inside it’s a manic fever-dream--a sea of exposed flesh, glow-sticks, and neon-colored hair. Add in a speaker wall, a DJ hopped up on ritalin, mix in a whole bunch of illicit substances, and you have yourself a rave. To blend in, I’m wearing my black cropped wig and I’m also wearing knee-high boots, short-shorts, and a sleeveless top. I’m still getting stares because it looks like I’m smuggling grapefruits underneath my shirt. I make my way to the bar where there’s a perky goth chick standing behind it. “Hi, honey!” She shouts over the loud music. “My name’s Rae! What can I get ya?” “Double bloody Mary, extra bloody.” She gives me a look. “Kettle One or Grey Goose?” “Surprise me.” She nods and turns around to make a call. A moment later, I see a pair of pale-skinned hipster types walk out from the “Employee’s Only” door. The first one is wearing a fedora while the second one is wearing Buddy Holly glasses. “We heard you have business,” Fedora says. “With your boss,’ I respond. “First, I’m gonna have to do a pat-down,” he says and leers at me. “I don’t think the boss would appreciate it if you sampled the product before he did,” I tell him as he grimaces and leads us out the door and deeper into the club. After swimming in an ocean of people, we finally make it to a door marked “Private”. Buddy goes in and after a moment, he steps out. “The boss is ready to see you,” he says. Inside it's like a development room with a single red light casting a sanguine glow on everything. The bossman was sitting on a couch with his arms draped around two women. He’s shirtless, wearing tight, black jeans and barefooted. He’s also covered in tats. I couldn’t make out most of them, but I notice a pattern of bat-wing skulls and rosettes. “Have a seat,” he says and points towards the chair on the other side of the glass table in front of him. “I take it you’re Vladimir?” He nods. “And you must here to talk business.” “First, we need some privacy.” He nods and gestures towards his women to clear out. “You two, wait outside,” he to his flunkies as they leave. “I’m here to negotiate for the release of Alphonso Mignola,” I tell him. Al, a mild-mannered day laborer who got caught up in this mess when he stepped forward to inform me about the vampire shenanigans going on at his job site. “What do you have to offer?” “May I?” I ask and hold my hands up. He nods and I reach under my shirt. I pull out from underneath my bra two baggies full of white powder, put them down on the table, and untie them. “That should be about a kilo’s worth,” I tell him. He passes me a mirror with a razor blade. “You first.” I pour some of the powder on the mirror and form it into lines as he hands me a rolled-up Benjamin. I take the Benjamin and just before I inhale, I fling all the powder right into his face. Everybody knows that the surest way to kill a vampire is with a wooden stake through the heart. That’s half right, actually. It’s not stabbing them through the heart, it’s the stake itself that kills them. Vampires go into into anaphylactic shock when wood gets in their systems. It doesn’t have to be a stake at all. After all, it’s not coke in those baggies, it’s sawdust. Vladimir’s eyes turn huge and his throat closes up. He tries hacking out the dust out of his lungs but it’s no good. I see his eyes turning dark and he struggles to get his hands around my throat but he can’t. I grab both baggies, put one in my back pocket, and I pull out lighter right before his flunkies burst in. “Stop right there,” I tell them. “Dunno if your boss told you, but this is sawdust and that-” I motion towards him “-is what happens if you’re exposed to it.” They back off and bare their fangs. Fun fact--vampires can retract their fangs like a cat with its claws. “What the gently caress do you want?” Buddy shouts. “Alphonso Mignola,” I say. “Bring him here,” I say and light the lighter, “or I burn this motherfucker to the ground with you in it!” Buddy nods at Fedora who stays as he takes off. I make my way to one side of the room so that Vladimir isn’t in my blind side. Here’s another fun fact--when it gets in the air, sawdust is a very effective accelerant. The reason why sawmills have giant vacuums is because there’s so much of it in the air that if there’s so much as a spark the whole thing will explode. Vladimir keeps choking as the door opens. Al’s a sturdy guy so when he stumbles his way in, I get worried. I motion for Fedora and Buddy to go to the other side of the room. “Al, you alright?” I ask as he groans. I take a quick look and yep, he’s got fang marks on his jugular. God knows if he’s been turned, and I ain’t gonna ask these motherfuckers. I slip my lighter back into my pocket and wrap my free arm around him as we both back out of the room. But not before I throw all the sawdust in the baggie inside the room and slam the door in front of me. I burst through the emergency exit and out into the alleyway where my car is parked. “Stay with me Al,” I say as I hear the fire alarm blaring inside. “We’ll be safe soon.” He stops. I see his eyes flash red and fangs form in his mouth. I grab a handful of sawdust from my back pocket and throw it in front of me. Al screams in pain and tries desperately to rub the dust out of his eyes. I pull out of my pocket my contingency plan--my wooden kubotan. I grab his head and jam the spike as hard as hard as I can into his temple. Al’s mouth quivers as if he’s trying to say something before he falls down on the ground, dead. I look at the spike. It’s covered in blood and something chunky which I can only assume is brains. I just killed the same person who had the information I desperately needed to stop the same monsters that turned him into one. “gently caress!” I scream at the top of my lungs in rage and frustration. I run into my car and take off as fast as I can, away from Al’s body and away from that evil place. With apologies to Jim Butcher
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Martello posted:o an benny, you best not send your story to anyone for help beforehand. this is you and you alone, mon frer.
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crabrock posted:I hope he brought me a present!
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EDIT: never mind.
Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 22:07 on Sep 10, 2014 |
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sebmojo posted:pick a movie, benny, or i'll assign you one.
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![]() ![]() The Rodeo Bar and Grill 925 words “Once you’re done closing their tab, you count out their change and put it on the table. Got it?” I nod. My name is Alice , and I’m the new bartender in-training here at the Rodeo Bar and Grill. It’s located in the middle of a sleepy bedroom community outside of LA, and so far I’m liking it, mostly. I’m shadowing under Jessie today--yesterday it was under the bosslady Stacy. Stacy seems nice, but I have a feeling that she’s only being patient with me because I’m the new girl here. All the bartenders here at the Rodeo are women, including the bosslady herself. “Good,” Jessie says. “Okay, it’s Monday night, so it should be quiet. Just take it one order at a time and you’ll be fine. I’ll be in the back just in case you need help.” Jessie’s a five-foot-even Filipina chick with immaculately drawn eyebrows and a perfectly toned and tanned body. I’m a head taller than her and straight-up ginger with freckles all over my body and dirty red hair. I look like Mary-Jane Watson, except with even paler skin and less pretty. Yeah, I’m a bit jealous of her. It really doesn’t help that the uniform is a tank top with the bar name and logo and a pair of short-shorts. Kinda goes without saying that I’m feeling a little bit exposed. “She giving you the once-over?” I hear a voice ask behind me. I turn around and I see a middle-aged guy with a friendly face. His hair is graying and he’s wearing a Green Bay hat. “It’s fine,” I tell him. “I’m the new girl, so I expect it anyway. He smiles. “Don’t let her bother you. She’s good people, really.” I nod. “I’m Amber,” I tell him and extend my hand. “George,” he says and shakes it. “Nice to meet you.” “Same here,” I say and notice his pint glass is almost empty. “Another round, honey?” “I like you already,” he says and nods as I fetch a fresh, cold pint glass and pour him another beer. I hand it to him as a middle-aged couple step inside and make their way to the bar. The husband’s wearing glasses and his hair is short and spiky. His wife is pretty. She has a round face and her hair is long and black with gray streaks. They sit down next to George. “Hey, are you new?” The husband asks. “Yep,” I say. “What can I get the two of you?” “I’ll have a Shocktop,” he says. “Tall or short?” “Short, with an orange slice.” “And I’ll have a Vodka soda with a lime,” she says. A couple of hours go by and I’m actually getting into the swing of things. All things considering, I think I’m good at this job. “Another round?” I ask the couple. “Please,” the husband says while her wife nods and smiles. “My name’s Amber, by the way,” I introduce myself. “My name’s Mark. I teach history over at the high school near here,” he slurs as I shake his hand. “I’m Petra,” his wife says and I shake her hand as well. George picks his head up when he hears her name. “Your name’s Petra?” Petra nods and laughs nervously. “Hey! It’s George remember? From the Corner?” “Ummmm…” Petra says looking understandably embarrassed. “Hey buddy, lay off of her,” Mark says, visibly drunk. “Hey, it’s not my fault that your wife has a very active social life. Or,” George says with a poo poo-eating grin, “maybe it is.” “Take that back,” Mark says menacingly. “gently caress you.” Mark grabs his glass and smashes his glass against George’s head. The two get up and grapple, knocking over tables and smashing glasses. Petra stays as far as possible from the two as they keep fighting. Everybody else does the same, forming a wide circle around the two. “Holy poo poo,” I say and run into the back. “Jessie!” She pokes her head from the office. “What’s going on?” “Y-you’d better see this.” She comes out and sees the fight. “Stay here,” she says and grabs an aluminum baseball bat from behind the counter. She climbs over the counter, all five feet 120 pounds of her, and rushes towards them. She brings the bat down on like a hammer on Mark’s back, who breaks from his grapple and spins around. Jessie hip-checks him with the bat as he falls to the ground. She swings the bat and hits George in the gut. He falls to the ground, doubled-over in pain. Jessie props the bat against the wall and pulls out her phone to take pictures of the both of them. “Now get the gently caress out,” she says and throws them out. Everybody cheers while Petra leaves as quickly as she can. “Alright everyone,” Chris says with a huge smile on her face. “Give us like five minutes to clean up, okay?” * * * “I’m sorry Chris,” I tell her as we’re closing. “Sorry about what?” She asks while sweeping. “How I didn’t stop the fight.” She walks over to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Honey, don’t feel bad. This is your first time bartending, right?” I nod. “Look this is all part of the learning process. Just remember that if you can handle it yourself, don’t call the cops. Not unless it turns into a goddamn brawl. You understand?” I nod. “That was loving awesome what you did back there,” I tell her. She smiles. “Let me know when you have time and I’ll show you how to regulate.”
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Sitting Here posted:Anyway, good fight Benny! Please keep coming back for more, it is strangely heartwarming ![]() Sitting Here posted:my nemesis has an M in their name somewhere Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 23:44 on Sep 15, 2014 |
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Mercedes posted:
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IN with 3-9
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Fanky Malloons posted:Okay, everybody stop choosing 3, that volume is Europe and all the stories are either super long and/or suck dongs TIA
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:hey look, a poem https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YMPAH67f4o Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 20:07 on Sep 21, 2014 |
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Coyote Moon (Inspired by "The Tiger Changed into a Woman") 995 words Today's client comes into my office wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt and grass-stained jeans. He's a working man--an independent contractor, like myself. "Welcome," I say and gesture towards the chair in front of me. "Rosa Flores," I say and stick my hand out. "David Aguilar," he says and shakes my hand, which is calloused, cut, and leathered. "So what can I do for you?" I ask as he sits down. "You're discreet, right?" he asks uneasily. "I hope so as a professional," I respond. "I...I have an issue that I need investigating," he tells me. "What's the issue?" I ask. "It's my wife, Pita," he says as his face flinches subtly. I'm genuinely jaded when it comes to relationships since I regularly trade on the insecurities, miseries, and suspicions of my clients as a private investigator. However, I never assume or project anything on my clients. They're already uncomfortable with soliciting the services of a private detective as is, so I don't fill in any blanks. "What is it about?" I ask. David tells me how, once a month, Mrs. Aguilar leaves sundown and returns by sunrise with a bunch of slaughtered rabbits ready to cook and sleeps through the following day. "I don't suspect my wife of anything," he says slowly, trying his best to remain calm. "She just doesn't tell me anything. I don't care what she does, I just want to make sure that she's safe," he says as he starts tearing up. I hand him a box of tissues which he rejects. "Have you kept a record of when she has these excursions?" I ask tactfully. He nods and passes me a note filled with dates. "Mr. Aguilar-" "Please, call me David," he says. "David, then," I say and give him a friendly smile. "I charge $50 an hour, plus expenses. I require a $400 retainer." He nods, pulls out his wallet, and hands me a handful of twenties. After I count them to make sure it's enough, I pull out a contract from my desk. "Before we proceed, I need you to take a look at this," I say as I hand it to him. The contract that I sign with all my clients is more of a formal agreement of the kind of conduct the both of us are to expect in a client-professional relationship--both of us are obligated to practice the utmost discretion while divulging in each other whatever details that may be pertinent before, during, and after an ongoing investigation. We both sign and he leaves me with his contact information. A week later I get a call from David who tells me she's about to leave. Every successful private investigator has a niche--corporate security, civil cases, etc. Mine is paranormal investigations. Like how I hosed up a hostage situation involving vampires a while back. Why that's pertinent is that all the dates I've been provided correspond with the full moon, including tonight. The full moon holds special significance with various paranormal entities and Pita definitely has a habit of making excursions under moonlight. I have a feeling I'll find out what exactly she eventually. I follow her to a to a nearby park in the foothills where she parks and walks towards the brush. I follow behind her with my camera and wand at the ready. Once she's inside, she changes form. It's hard to describe, but her body morphs, shrinks even, from a human into a coyote. I immediately position myself downwind and start snapping pictures. Pita happily jumps into the bushes to flush out prey. It's kind of beautiful, watching a predator stalking after their prey. Using the light of the moon, she finds a rabbit and chases after it. The cute little cottontail bounds away in vain as Pita pounces on top if it and slaughters it. After she kills it, she drags it away into a bush. She repeats this until she's clearly bagged the state limit. Stalking animals isn't about stealth since there's no way you can successfully sneak around an animal which is biologically designed to sense others as a means of survival. The trick is to out-smart them, which is why I'm down-wind from her. I have enough pics to use as substantial evidence. The question is, what do I do with them? I manage to get a hold of Pita's email address, so I send her a couple of the images as well as a meeting time and place--tomorrow morning at a nearby coffee shop. I recognize her immediately when I step in. Coyote spirits like her poses an ethereal vitality to them--glowing skin and flickering yellow eyes why I can spot her. "Before we begin," I say as I sit down, "I want to assure you that I have no intention to release the photos to a third party." "What is your intention then, Miss Flores?" She asks and averts my gaze. I lean in and clasp my hands. "I'm bound by both contract and my professional reputation, to divulge in him my findings," I say as she nods despondently. "I-I' never meant to hurt him," she says. "It's just, times have been tough and I thought hunting rabbits would save us extra money." "I'm still obligated to tell him," I say as she nods despondently. "However if David was to know through someone else..." "I-I can't-" "Pita, how much do you love your husband?" I ask. "I-I'd abandon my true form for him," she says. "Then you have nothing to be afraid of," I tell her and get up from the table. "Your husband deserves to hear the truth. Tell him, or I will." The Aguilars eventually reconcile. I'm genuinely surprised and happy for them, because couples usually separate after I'm involved. They've given me hope, actually. Private investigations is a lonely business, but they've given me the briefest of hopes that I won't remain lonely for the rest of my life.
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Sitting Here posted:
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crabrock posted:JESUS CHRIST STOP STARTING YOUR STORY WITH THE NAME OF THE PERSON AND THEIR PROFESSION. I HAVE YELLED AT YOU FOR THIS BEFORE. GOD OVER DJINN HAS YELLED AT YOU FOR THIS BEFORE. EVERY TIME YOU DO THIS IRC COLLECTIVELY FACEPALMS AND QUESTIONS WHETHER YOU'RE A REAL PERSON OR JUST A TROLL, BECAUSE YOU KEEP REPEATING THE SAME MISTAKES. I summon God over Djinn as judge! Benny the Snake fucked around with this message at 03:49 on Sep 23, 2014 |
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crabrock posted:*yawn*
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The Saddest Rhino posted:All these violence is very unattractive.
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# ¿ Feb 15, 2025 23:41 |
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![]() ![]() The Saddest Rhino posted:battle royale
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