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Aw, drat I missed it by two hours. edit: apparently it's midnight tonight instead, I'm in Liam Emsa fucked around with this message at 08:35 on Dec 5, 2014 |
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Dec 5, 2014 08:19
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| # ¿ May 21, 2025 22:44 |
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This is my first Thunderdome. So, I just post it in here when I"m done?
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Dec 6, 2014 02:47
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FRAGILE 1000 words I could never get used to the rain on Venus. It always rained, every day, for 24 hours a day. The people who lived here said they could tolerate this kind of weather. The deep yellow sky like the color of mustard gas with air so moist it felt like you were living in a sauna. And the nonstop rain hitting me in the face. I found out after a few weeks that I didn't need to take showers anymore. Most people didn't own a shower, they could just stand outside in the nude with a bucket and some soap. The people who could stand it, that is. Those who couldn’t? Well, the rain had a detrimental effect after a while. The slow perpetual drips hitting your face day after day could drive a man mad. They called it “going wet.” So why was I here, then? I’m a delivery man. An intergalactic courier of sorts. I’d picked up some cargo from Europa. They’d paid well, and I didn’t ask questions. I just needed to drop it off and be on my way. The location was the Magellan, a dive bar for riff-raff, bounty hunters, and other scalawags of all sorts. I’d been there before, but this time was different. The cargo had been marked FRAGILE, and it was packaged like I’d never seen: A small container, about the size of a duffle bag with a handle. It had some mechanism that prevented me from peeking even if I wanted to. But like I said, I don’t ask questions. I parked my cruiser on the dock outside Magellan. It was pitch black aside from a few red lights illuminating the loading bay, leading a path to the bar’s entrance. I could hear the music and shouting coming from inside, like a siren’s song leading those out of the rain. I’d already gotten soaked by the time I made my way across the dock. I was greeted by a large Cambrian bouncer. He stood around ten meters tall, his thick shell making an excellent defensive weapon in the event he had to remove unruly guests. He looked at me with those three beady eyes and squawked. “Easy, big fella. The name’s Captain Jackson. I’m just dropping off some cargo.” I handed him a slip of paper. He grabbed it with a pair of pincers and inspected it, then waved me in. Finally inside from the rain, I could remove my coat and dry off. I could still feel the sensation of the rain on my face and shoulders, pulsating like phantom limbs. I took off my jacket and helmet and put them on the seat next to me. The package I laid down by my feet. It’s best to keep it safe and secure until I make the drop. The bar music was loud, but I swore I could still hear the rain on the roof, like a nonstop white noise machine. At least I was out of it for now. The bartender was a small Venusian. Short and stout with a slender head and big black eyes. “What’ll you have?” Thank god he spoke Terran. My Venusian was rusty at best. “I’ll have a Greyhound,” I told him. I looked around the bar. There had to be at least fifty people in here of all sorts. Skeevers, blowers, skunkers, raiders it was a who’s who of people you wouldn’t want to meet in the back of an alley. The entire bar hung with a slight mist, created by the moisture from outside. The door to the bar kicked open. It was two Venusian security officers. They looked around the bar with nervous and focused eyes, and then they finally zeroed on me. “poo poo,” I muttered to myself. I’d been busted before; this wouldn’t be the first time. But this cargo seemed to be extra dangerous. Where would they send me now? Mars Prison Colony? Pluto? I don’t think I’d survive Pluto. They rushed over to me, shoving past a small Martian nursing a drink. “Jackson?” one of them asked quickly, “Are you Thomas Jackson?” “That depends on who’s asking,” I said with a smile. Maybe I could talk my way out of this one. I leaned back on my seat and took a sip of the Greyhound. The Venusian had made a nice blend this time. One part Vodka, one part Grapefruit juice. Probably harvested from the south side of the planet. The rain made them grow extra ripe this time of year. It went down easy. The other officer looked at a photograph, “It’s him,” he said. The officer shoved past me and reached down to my feet. “Whoa, whoa,” I said slyly, “I’ve never seen that before.” Maybe he’d buy it. Maybe I’d escape this time. They lifted the case up and put it on the bar stool, shoving my helmet and jacket onto the floor. They tried opening it without success. One of the officers pulled out a crowbar. They pried it open. I guess we’d finally see what cargo was so important. I glanced over one of their shoulders. It was an infant, blue in the face. Didn’t look to be moving. One of them rushed outside with it, but it was no use. That thing had to have been dead long time ago. I’d been carrying it in my cargo hold for months. Why would someone send a baby? I heard the bar patrons muttering. “Holy poo poo.” “Was that his son?” “Oh my god.” “He must have gone wet.” The other officer shoved me against the wall. I felt the cold steel of the handcuffs go on. “You loving monster,” he whispered in my ear, “You’re going to go down for this. Your own loving kid.” He grabbed me forcefully as he moved me out of the bar. The patrons stared with blank, empty faces. I didn’t protest. What could I do? The guy was clearly wet. I’ve got no kid. I’m Captain Jackson.
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Dec 6, 2014 05:57
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Rosa Flores, leader of the Las Roofers cartel, stormed into the Sears Floor. A bullet whizzed through a loser's fro. She held the 9mm baretta up to his head. "Fear, or loss?" she muttered.
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Dec 23, 2014 05:42
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In with Damien Merman
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Dec 23, 2014 16:25
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