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  • Locked thread
Mar 31, 2015


Alms for the Spider God
WC: 1797

“I dunno, man. There are worse things than being turned into a spider.”

“Like what?”

“Like being turned into… I dunno. Something a spider eats. A fly, maybe?”

“But I don’t want to be a spider!” Quinn said, “I don’t want to turn into anything! I want to stay a human!”

Jason shrugged. The internet hadn’t been helpful in answering “How to fix a gypsy curse” and that meant he was pretty much out of options. He hadn’t learned anything about how to fix his friend. He did learn that “gypsy” was an outdated, pejorative term and that it was more appropriate to use “Roma” or “Romani” because there were too many negative and stereotypical associations with “gypsy.” Like the belief that they could cast curses.

Which it turns out they could. At least some of them. At least one of them.

Quinn covered his face with his hands. That morning, two more eyes had opened on his forehead. Jason reached over and rubbed his buddy’s back.

“It’s okay, man,” Jason said, “We just need to find their camp. See if we can trade something to get you back to normal.” Jason googled "gypsy camp milford pa", paused, then highlighted "gypsy" and replaced it with "Roma". Might as well not be racist.

A couple of petitions popped up from groups called stuff like "The Commission for Community Beautification" and "Clean Up Milford!" about what they called the Vagrant Problem. They avoided specifying what kind of vagrant in the actual petition, but most of the comments were all caps rants about gyppo scum.

"Here," Jason pointed, "it says there's a bunch of trailers and tents and poo poo up by Benning and 23rd. Let's drive up there and see if we can find that crazy bag lady."

Quinn passed his stubby fingers in front of his three sets of eyes, the middle pair of which had already segmented and resembled oval-cut rubies. "You'd better drive, dude," he said, voice near breaking. "I got like, kaleidoscope eyeballs." He dug his keys out of his pocket and thrust them out to Jason.

It was a quiet ride up. Jason had tried to put on some music for a second, but Quinn's mom had left her Joan Osborne CD in the player and of course it switched on in the middle of that weird song about Ray Charles and not One Of Us. Jason figured it was less risky to just go up in silence.

If both had to guess what the other was thinking about, it probably would have been pretty easy. It's not like Quinn had know what was in that lady's tattered old cardboard box when he kicked it. They were just high and trolling the neighborhood for ice cream. Personally, Quinn had thought having his feet and shins covered in half-alive spider babies had been punishment enough. I mean, what kind of freak raises spiders as loving pets?

Obviously, other than a curse-wielding Gypsy bag lady.

Romani bag lady.


The car bumped over some tractor tracks in the dried mud on the shoulder of the road. Jason followed these tracks for a little, both boys' heads bumping against headrests.

"Ow, Jeeesus!" Quinn put a hand under his left arm, then he checked under the right. "Dude, aww, gross, look at this poo poo!" He hit the light switch on the bottom of the rearview and pulled up his shirt. The car gave a little jog as Jason jerked away like he'd seen a cockroach.

There was what looked like a thin, black finger covered in wiry hair sticking out of his ribcage.

Jason poked it.

"Oww, dude! There's a thing growing out of me, don't touch it!"

Jason shuddered a little. "Eeuch, loving gross, dude. Let's get there quick before you start leaking webs out of your rear end."

The car went back to silence until they pulled up to the camp. Christmas tree lights crisscrossed over a common area, rising to make a peak at the top of a maypole. The campers that circled like wagons around the pole were rusted, some rotted all the way through so you could see the furniture and cabinets inside. One leaned at a crazy angle, back axel bent and missing a wheel entirely.

Jason popped the door and stood, leaning against the car. The air smelled weird, like an abandoned garage or basement. It was a mustiness that exuded from the dirt. Quinn got out as well, trying to make sense of the many pinpricks of light through his ruby eyes.

"Um, hi?" Quinn did a good job of keeping his voice steady, even though his naturally high tone still made him sound like a kid. "I'm looking for, uh..." What could he say? The gypsy lady whose pets they'd stomped?

Jason chimed in, his baritone bouncing between the campers. "We're here to apologize to the old lady we saw downtown. The one who cursed my friend."

Nothing moved. A couple of flame-shaped bulbs flickered in their sockets. There was no sound other than a truck horn from the highway, distant behind them.

"Well, poo poo. Come on, dude." Jason moved toward the nearest gap in the campers. Quinn pulled nervously at the hem of his shirt, feeling too big inside it. He followed, after a second.

Jason rounded a fire pit, orange inside with rust, and started looking inside windows. Quinn stopped at the lip of the pit and watched his friend peep. "Why's everything so dusty?"

"They're bums, dude. Everything's dirty here. They don't care. That's why everything stinks, too." Jason knocked on one of the thin aluminum doors. "Yyyyello! Anyone home?"

Quinn tapped the metal lip with the toe of his shoe. "I dunno, man. I don't think anyone's been here for a while."

"She has to be here! Where else is some old fortune teller chick going to go?"

"Just because she had a big old shawl with tassels on it doesn't mean she was a fortune teller."

Jason scoffed. "Yeah, just a walking stereotype, that's all." He ran his hand over the side of the camper. His fingers came back black and gritty-feeling.

"What?" Quinn jerked his head up toward his friend. Jason shook his head and shrugged, indicating he hadn't said anything.

"Do you hear, like... whispering?"

Jason pricked up his ears, trying to hear what his friend could hear. There was nothing.

"You're just freaked out. There's nobody here. We hosed up, I don't know what to do." Jason pulled out his phone to look again at the gypsy petitions, but it said 'No Service' where his bars should have been. "gently caress," he said mostly to himself, "we're not even that far from town." He looked over at Quinn to tell him they'd have to head back, look for another camp, when he noticed Quinn wasn't moving.

"Quinn! Bud? What's up?"

A sound came from trailer on Jason's right, the crooked trailer, a groaning sound like a huge wooden building settling. Quinn and Jason watched as two long, hairy black legs rose from the far side and set themselves on the roof, followed by two more, and two more. They hoisted a swollen abdomen on top of the camper, and three sets of ruby eyes leveled toward the intruders.

Both boys found it hard to move for half a moment. Then, Jason bolted in the direction of the car while at the same time Quinn stepped toward the gigantic arachnid.

Jason found himself headed off by a dozen brown recluses the size of greyhounds. He threw himself to the side, trying for the opposite end of the camper. Another one almost as tall as he was blocked his path. That was it.

They were surrounded by at least four dozen spiders ranging from the size of a badger to the size of a small horse. All were dwarfed by what must have been the queen, sitting on her throne of a dilapidated Winnabego.

"Quinn, is it?" she asked, in a tongue that sounded to Jason like two bamboo sticks rattling together. "I must say, I didn't expect this."

"You're her, right?"

Jason's face went numb with shock hearing the same sounds come from his best friend of nearly ten years.

"You're the gypsy lady who cursed me? How are you this giant spider, too?"

"We all have two forms. Every spider you see here is also something else-- a person, a cat, a deer. We have all known the touch of the Spider God. And since my children have bitten you, you have seen the same touch."

"The Spider God..." Quinn repeated. He remembered the bumps on his leg he had woken up scratching this morning. He had been a little distracted by the extra pair of eyes he opened thirty seconds later. "So it's not a gypsy curse?"

"It's a blessing I and my children carry in our venom." The Queen looked at Jason hungrily. "To complete your transformation, you will need to feed..."

Quinn shook his head, breaking out of a trance. "No. Not on him. Leave my friend alone."

The spider herd condensed inward, pushing Quinn toward the frozen Jason and surrounding them, an island in a spider sea.

"This is it, dude. This is loving it. I don't know what to do." Quinn's breath heaved in his chest after that last syllable, his asthma starting to get the better of him. As his shoulders hitch and a cough caught in his throat, an idea struck him. Maybe not an idea, maybe more of a desperate instinct.

He grabbed Jason's semi-conscious arm and sank a pair of pincers into the meat of his bicep. Jason slowly back to the world with what started as a low terrified moan and ended in a scream of pain.

Blood burst into Quinn's mouth, and it tasted sweet. He felt the venom squirt from his pincers, and it felt good. Jason was infected.

The spiders stopped clacking. The Queen gave a slow tutting sound. Quinn turned, hissing an animal hiss at the nearest bugs. He was defending his meal.

He grabbed Jason roughly, dragging him through the throng, parting them with his ruby red eyes and mouth. Jason started to scream.

As soon as they cleared the other side of the camper, Quinn bolted for the car. "Get in! Come on!!"

Through his fogged senses, Jason hustled for the driver's side door. The spiders heard them running and came for them. Jason started the car, threw it in reverse, and got the gently caress out of dodge.

The car was silent except again, for their panting. They sped away, infected, slowly becoming two creatures, but alive.

"Maybe we can join the circus," Jason said, as they pulled back onto the highway.


Mar 31, 2015


So in answer to your earlier question... Yes. Yes. A thousand six hundred times, yes.

Mar 31, 2015


Thanks for the crit, Tyranno. Can you just judge all my brawls? Cuz I just know I'm going to piss someone else off soon

Mar 31, 2015


Immortal in a Time of War
WC: 736

I guess you could say, after three hundred thirty-six wars and countless clandestine missions, that the General had gotten sick of fighting on the behalf of people.

The world's oldest soldier adjusted the tote on his shoulder and stepped into the elevator. He had no idea what to expect when he reached the sub-basement, but he had his old Walther from the Big War for company. Besides, the scuttlers had no reason to hurt him. He wasn't the enemy. Not anymore, at least.

After a couple thousand years, General Felix Maldonado was finally betraying the human race.


"I mean, look at how this war started. Just a request for some land airside, just a little place for a liaison embassy to double as a temple. And how did we react?"

The woman continued to stare straight ahead to the mirror behind the bar, eyes glazed. She lifted her drink once more to her lips, and Felix took that as an invitation to continue.

"We bombed 'em! Torpedoed a whole city. Little Chictaua, it was called. I was on the submarine that did it."

"So what, you're in the Navy too?" It was the first thing she'd said the whole conversation, and she said it to the bar mirror.

He was thrown off his rhythm. "Yes. Well, no, not technically. I was more of a... tactical, umm... advisor, I guess you could say. There to help make the tough choices."

"So you made the decision to bomb the town." She took another sip and arched her eyebrows at him.

He dropped his own drink to the bar a little loudly. "My orders were to take Chictaua out," he said, "and my job was to minimize casualties. And I did a hell of a job." A couple of heads turned, then shook when they saw it was the General talking.

"Oh sure, twelve hundred casualties is practically nothing. Good thing you were there, General."

"Only a hundred fifty two dead, the rest injured, and when the body count could have been twelve thousand or more, I thank the good lord it was me there." Felix finished his drink, laid down money for his tab, then another tenner for her drink. "Good night." And he began the long unsteady trek for the door.

"Tonia," he heard from behind him, and he took an unbalanced swivel to meet her eyes. "I'm Tonia Corda." He noticed for the first time that she wasn't just pretty. She made his blood pump a little quicker just by meeting his eyes.

"I'll see you again," his future wife said.


The elevator opened, and Felix stepped through the doors. The sub-basement had a blue feeling to it, and the smell of ocean water. Nobody waited to escort him. He started to walk.

This building was an old office building. No furniture remained. He hit light switches as he went, and a few of them turned on lights.

"I'm here," he called.

No answer.

He continued to check room by room.


"I don't want you to go," little Felix said to his father. "Caesar has enough fathers, why should he take mine?"

His father knelt, putting a big hand on his son's shoulder. Felix could smell the old leather of his armor.

"Caesar needs us to be strong for Rome. Someday you will fight for your country, and you'll understand."

Felix's father kissed him on the forehead, donned his helmet, and stepped to his wife.

"I'll be back soon. I'll think of you always." He kissed her, a peck on the mouth, and walked through their open front door.

That was the last time Felix had seen his father. He'd chase his footsteps from that day forward.


There was a rustling in a room to the right. Felix opened the door slightly and pressed the light switch.

A high-pitched hissing came from the other side of the door.

"Sorry! Sorry. Should've given you a warning," Felix said.

In the room were three angry-looking hermit crabs. They hissed and whistles at him.

"Look, I'm sorry, but I don't speak the language. I'm just here to drop off the plans..." He held the bag out to them. The crabs didn't move to take it.

"I guess I'll just set it right here, then. Okay?"

The crabs stared him down.

"Well, then. Thank you. Thanks."

Felix turned back for the elevator. For a moral betrayal, it sure was anticlimactic.

Mar 31, 2015


In with a :toxx:

Mar 31, 2015


Broenheim posted:

:siren: offering 3 line crits for people for any week :siren:

I'll jump on that, Bro. I just love making you unhappy. Can I get it for the gambling story for this week?

Mar 31, 2015


Jonked posted:

imma brawl you backtalker

Oh my god yes just somebody write something for fucks sake

Mar 31, 2015


Fuschia tude posted:

More crits of last week's

skwidmonster - Immortal in a Time of War

Danke fur die crit, fyoosh

Mar 31, 2015


Entenzahn posted:


skwidmonster – Mr. War Criminal

Appreciate the crit!

Mar 31, 2015


Tyrannosaurus posted:

Do not post in this thread saying something asinine like "Thanks for the crit!"

Hey T

Hey T

Thanks for the crit


Mar 31, 2015


Blue Wher posted:

I haven't even really been online for the past 48 hours or so. Trying to catch up on things now. Sorry for missing, but that seems harsh ;_; Dammit guts

Come on dude, gently caress you. You're lucky you even got mercy, not only did you get your toxx waived but you got an extension and STILL flubbed. I mean, I know I don't have the greatest track record, but at least I always turn loving SOMETHING in.

You know what, I'm pissed off at you, blue wher, you wriggled your way out of a brawl and managed to bitch about it anyway. Let's go, you and me, a legitimate brawl with a :toxx:. Any hardass judges wanna crack down on a couple of procrastinators?

Mar 31, 2015


Thranguy posted:

Submissions are closed.
A lot of failure out there. In a show of mercy, you have until noon, again PDT, to convert failure to mere disqualification and thus avoid toxxication.

You are a kind and merciful judge.

A Godly Wager
WC: 1389

And a 1

"Hey," Bouzouki said, "you think I can make that girl kill her goat?"

It was a slow day.

Lyra glanced over to where her half-brother's finger was gesturing lazily through a hole in the clouds. Sure enough, there was a girl of about eight or nine on a knoll, trying diligently to hop up and ride her young goat. She actually managed to throw a leg over him, but was upside down in the dirt a second later. She closed her eyes again, leaning back in her throne.

"Forget it. Little brat loves that thing, from the look of it. And besides, since when do you get off on animal sacrifice? I thought flagellation was your thing."

"Uugh, I'm so bored watching a bunch of assholes satisfy their whip kinks," Bouzouki groaned. "Come on, this'll be fun."

Lyra stayed silent, pretending to doze off. Bouzouki flicked a tiny lightning bolt at her foot.

"Ow! gently caress, Bouz..."

"Come oooon, everything's so peaceful since those rear end in a top hat Romans stopped rampaging and loving everything up. It's a beautiful day, ol' Sun's shining, we've got nothing to do... What say we murder a little girl's innocence?"

Bouzouki couldn't tell if she was thinking or ignoring him. She just sat there, picking heavenly golden dirt from beneath her nails and flicking them toward the hills. Some group of shepherds or nomads would no doubt happen upon them later and maybe make a shrine or two.

"I'll throw in a little bet..."

Lyra paused for just a moment, sucked the remaining gunk from under her ring fingernail, and spat, pointedly avoiding his eyes.

"Stakes?" It was a flat word, a flat question. God of Wagers was one of her un-unofficial subtitles. Bouzouki brought it home.

"If I can make little miss sunshine down there kill her beast, I get to convert a third of your sect." A gong struck somewhere below them on the mountain, rolling up over the boulders and through the crevices to where they sat. Bouz cracked half a smile.

"And if the goat lives, your Holy Army is mine," Lyra shot back. "You can keep your followers."

The God of Conflict's smile faltered. He opened his mouth to make an addendum, but was interrupted by the gong sounding once more.

He harrumphed.

"Fine. You got no chance, sister. Killing poo poo is my game. What are you gonna do, throw her a feast?"

Lyra, the God of Wine and Celebration, just flapped her hand dismissively. The Gods stood and braced arms, and the gong thundered a final time.

And a 2

Once again, Saz tried to hop up on the goat from the back, and once again, the ornery thing took a few frantic steps away from her. He looked back with one eye, head cocked. He was clearly not having it.

"Come on, Goat," she chastised, naming him very creatively on the spot, "lemme ride you! You can be my battle goat!"

Goat, clearly not interested, skipped another few feet away from his miniature wrangler and gave a short bleat of defiance. Saz gave up trying to ride him and dropped to the grass.

The goat had wandered into her family's field early this morning, and so far didn't seem to have any plans to move on. He certainly wasn't a wild goat; more than likely, he had wandered away from his herd. Saz had never had a pet before, and she was hoping if she trained Goat for something useful her father might let her keep him.

A sound, like musical thunder, reverberated from the mountain above, and she looked that way. Every once in a while, she heard this low rumbling, and wondered what it meant. Her father liked to say it was the Gods playing their heavenly games, but Saz was just on the cusp of thinking she was too old to believe that nonsense.

The goat looked that way, too, and while he was distracted, Saz crouch-walked silently to his blind side and leapt on his back.

Goat gave a strangled yelp of surprise and started hopping wildly down the knoll. The girl clung to his neck and squeezed his sides with her knees, screaming a little bit from fear and more from sheer elation.

The low sound thundered again while they pranced wildly together. Saz barely noticed it, busy having the time of her life on her desperate steed. Goat gave an overly forceful buck, and Saz was flung into the air. She managed to just barely hang on to his neck with one arm. She landed hard on his back, knocking the air completely from her lungs. To keep her balance she flung her other arm around his head, blinding him.

Immediately, Goat froze, breathing heavily but standing completely still.

Like an ominous alarm, the sound from the mountain came again, this time reverberating in the air so much Saz could feel it vibrating on her skin.

She gulped a breath or two of air, eyes wide, tears of pain streaming from them. She stared toward the mountain.

"Whoa," she breathed.

And a 1, 2, 3--

That night, after she led Goat to the cottage and convinced her father to let her tie him up outside, she slept, and a dream came to her.

She stands in an empty field. The sky wails, the sound of thousands of mourning women. The field is empty except for a stone altar. There is not even grass on the ground.

A flash of lighting. An explosion, bright and soundless, blinding her completely. The wailing pauses for half a moment of torturous silence, then continues, deafening in its sadness. When she sees again, there is something pale on the altar. She walks toward it.

A sword, white as Goat's fur, lies lengthwise on the altar. She touches it. Blood, thick and dark, pours from the edges of the blade. She picks it up. The blood pours down her forearm to the elbow. She feels a smile stretch her lips.

Saz woke up, not frightened, but still covered in sweat. She ran to the window and looked out toward the fence.

Goat was still there, casually gnawing at the rope leashing him.

Saz's breath hitched in her throat.

Leaning against the fencepost, like it had every right to be there, was a sword, exactly like her dream sword except iron-grey.

She ran out the door toward the goat. He backed away suspiciously.

Saz was no ninny. She was well-versed in the methods of the Gods, for her age. Her father was a Priest, after all. She grasped the hilt of the sword and tested it.

It had a heft, but it was short and perfect for her size.

She locked eyes with Goat. He was very calm. Understanding, almost, like he was thinking, All right, okay, I get it. Let's get this over with.

Saz raised the blade over her head.

That's when she noticed, on the other side of the fencepost, a saddle. It was leather-bound, goat-sized, and with sweeping designs embroidered around turquoise inlays. It was gorgeous.

Saz dropped the sword behind her, and it stuck point-first in the dirt. She grabbed the saddle by the horn and gently placed it on Goat's back while stroking his neck. He gave a tiny bleat, but stayed still.

Gently, she cooed to him, and using the fencepost for support, threw a leg over the saddle.

It fit her perfectly.

She grasped the hilt of the sword again, and cut the leash.

"Let's go, Goat!"


The two Gods watched girl and goat hop clumsily across the hills. Lyra laughed as she lost her balance more than once and almost dropped her sword. From his chair hewn into the mountain, Bouzouki sulked.

"What a waste of a perfectly badass dream."

"The dream was alright." Lyra turned to him, her leaf-green eyes smiling. "A little creepy for a child her age, but it might have done the trick. You just have to know your audience.

Bouz sucked his teeth at her. Lyra shook her head.

"Welp, guess I'd better get to converting your army, huh?"

"Whatever, those assholes haven't won a drat battle since my general got stabbed in the back."

Lyra looked again through the clouds at Saz and Goat romping through the field. "I think I might have a pretty good replacement."

Mar 31, 2015



Tyrannosaurus posted:

Rugby Players Eat Their Dead
979 words

“I don’t know why you’re trying to embarrass me-”

“Oh my God! Mom! This has nothing to do with you!”

“-or where I failed as a parent-”


“You’re going to break your arm or something. I just know it. And how will I explain that to my Small Group? What will I say at the church?”
Teehee, mothers. You always start off running and I love it.

“I don’t care,” I say, rubbing my temples. Both of them? Does she have a third arm holding the phone? “I literally do not care. This has nothing to do with you. Or your small group. Or the church.”
Why capitalize Small Group the first time and not the second? I kind of get it, it's more important to the mom character, but if it's the title of a thing, it should be capitalized both times.

“Sarah. Elizabeth. Fitzgerald.”

I toss my phone in the sink. loving love that. A full name drop means I am no longer needed in the conversation and that she’ll be ranting for at least twenty minutes. I don’t know what I was expecting when I called her. I don’t even know why I called her other than some pathetic deep-seated craving for approval stemming from a childhood filled with passive-aggressive put downs like “Maybe if you wear some makeup you won’t have so many problems with your self-esteem.” That sentence was exhausting. Slice it down or add some punctuation, doggie. Gee, Mom, insecurity-- where did that come from?

Ironically enough, my eye black actually looks a lot like makeup. Lipstick, specifically. It even comes in a little tube. Except when I put it on I don’t look “pretty.” I look like a badass. I bare my teeth at my reflection. I wonder if I’ll lose any teeth.

I pick up the phone and check the time. My mother is, unsurprisingly, still losing her mind. I take a deep breath.

“Listen,” I say, “I gotta go. I gotta be on the field in twenty. But it’s just intramurals. It’s not that serious.”

“It is rugby, Sarah! What if you’re hit in the mouth? Four years of braces-” I kind of love that mother and daughter have the same thought at the same time.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t last one minute. Not one. I bet you are carted off the field within one minute. Screaming. Crying. Something being broken.” Something being broken sounds weird.

“Okay,” I say. “Just a minute? Easy bet. I’ll take it. Call ya after the game.” I didn't get that this was the bet until the second time through, and it's because this is ambiguous. If you'd have said "Only a minute?" I'd have gotten it right away. Just a minute, even though mom's been talking about minutes, makes me think she's saying "Hold on."


“I gotta run. Goodbye, Mom.”

“Sarah, don’t you dare-”

“Goodbye, Mom.”

She’s still yelling when I hang up. I give myself a thumbs up. Made me lol.


My team captain, Samantha, is giving everyone a quick rundown of the rules. Lot of new girls here who haven’t played before. I haven’t either but I think I’m good. I’ve read a bunch of stuff on the internet. Watched a bunch of videos. Truthfully, I’ve been a little obsessed.

There’s this one video that went viral where this girl, who plays for a real college team not an intramural one, breaks her nose on the first tackle. Then she gets up, blood pouring down her face, and immediately makes another tackle. Then she spits out a huge wad of blood. It’s awesome. She’s badass. “Rugby War Goddess.” That’s her viral name or whatever you’d call it.

She was just so… Nonchalant about the whole thing. That’s what really amazed me. The confidence. The coolness. I don’t feel like that about anything ever. And in her interviews she said things like, “I hope this inspires more girls to go out and be tough.” You got me.
Character voice is spot on for these three paragraphs. I dig this chick.

Samantha has us put our hands together and say “Teamwork” on three. Adrenaline is pumping through me. I practically dance out on the field. My counter on the other team is an angry looking girl with an aggressive ponytail. I really can't picture an aggressive ponytail at all. Well, maybe I shouldn’t call her angry looking. Maybe she just has resting bitch face. I don’t know. She gives me a polite head nod. That’s nice.

“Good luck,” I say.

She gives me a thumbs up. Aw poo poo son, bringin it back


I watch the video again. I must have gone into shock or something because my actual memory of it is just a blur. I nail the ball carrier. Perfect form. Just like the internet says you’re supposed to. I’m very proud of that tackle. The ball squirts back and I stand up and I just point at the girl that picks it up. I just stare her down. She loops around, avoiding my teammates, but as she heads towards the goal I pick her up on an angle and blast her, too. Perfect form. Drive her straight into the dirt. Very proud of myself. I look awesome. This got me, too, those last two sentences. I read em out loud a few times. Something about the rhythm and the matter-of-factness I really dig.

Then there’s a little bit of crying and it’s not as interesting to watch anymore because, as it turns out, I broke my collarbone on that first tackle but didn’t realize it until the second. Ow, balls. I pop a pain pill and hit reload.

“I told you,” my mother says, “I told you this would happen.”

How long has she been in my bedroom? Has she been talking this whole time? Man, the doctor hooked me up with this prescription. I'd buy that she didn't notice her mom in the room, but if she'd been talking the whole time, why would "I told you" be the thing to catch her attention?

“I knew you would get hurt.” she says. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this at church. I guess I could say you got into a car accident.”


“Or maybe you fell out of the bed. I don’t know. I don’t know, Sarah. I’m very upset with you. I told you that you wouldn’t last one minute out there.”

“Fifty-five, Mom.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Fifty-five minutes. That’s how long I played.”

Mom purses her lips. Great. If a full name drop is a Code Red, lip pursing is a Code Blood Orange. I can practically see the rant brewing. Percolating like a cup of coffee. Ugh, YES, killer simile.

“And that,” she says slowly, “that is something you’re… proud of? Is that what you think?”

“Honestly,” I say, “I think you could try to stop being a bitch all the time. That’d be nice.” Aw snap, here we go

Her mouth falls open and I pop another pain pill. She stares at me for a while. Her mouth opening and closing like a puppet. Like a dummy without a ventriloquist. Finally she sits back in her chair. I give a silent thanks to the Rugby? War Goddess, look down at my phone, and hit play.

Obviously, I like your characters. Mom is super relatable, we all know that overbearing, passive-aggressive older woman. Sarah I loving loved, you hit the nail on the head with her. I think the dynamic is so successful because it's an archetype vs. a really down to earth character.

HOWEVER. You didn't follow the prompt. This wasn't a story about a wager, it was a story about a girl saying "I'll show you" to her mom. It's not a bet just because you use the word bet. There were no stakes. It was like you wrote it and later were like, "gently caress, this was supposed to relate to something." If I'm reading a story about a bet, I want it to be about a BET, dammit.

Also, there was something I really didn't like about the ending, and I think it's that her mom just took it. Like I said, we know this character. She's familiar. This kind of character doesn't get called a bitch by her child and just sit down. I'd buy it if her kid was some sweet, demure little thing, but Sarah's confrontational with her mom literally from the get-go. The aggressiveness didn't suddenly pop out of nowhere. I'd think the mom would at the very least leave the room. She'd be more hurt than shocked.

Zero to five, you get a 4.5 for characters, 5 for voice, 4 for storyline, 3.5 for conflict, and 1 for prompt-following.

Oh yeah. And a 6 for that loving title.

Mar 31, 2015


Hocus Pocus posted:

:frogsiren: second batch of critiques.

Rad crits, dude. Really helpful, thanks so much!

Also thanks Ironic Twist for the wizard crit, you rock

Mar 31, 2015


Rowr, what a sexy prompt. I'm in, and as always, :toxx:ing

Mar 31, 2015


Sitting Here posted:

:siren: hello domers this is a special announcement speaking :siren:

Dude, literally any of my stories. Go for it.

Mar 31, 2015


crabrock posted:

:siren: Brawl: WherMonster :siren:

I'm so loving stoked for this, you have no idea. For you, crabby, I'll write all week.

Mar 31, 2015


sebmojo posted:

oh you horrible monsters


are you all so bad

i will do line by lines for the next three people who ask for them

Yes prease

Mar 31, 2015


SadisTech posted:

gently caress.

loving gently caress.

Mar 31, 2015


crabrock posted:


Depending on the mercy of the judges (turning in my story for a DQ in like an hour), I'll be eating a nice bucketful of toxx myself. But even if I do, I'll return in time to give Wher the asswhipping he deserves.

skwidmonster fucked around with this message at 21:16 on Jun 15, 2015

Mar 31, 2015


docbeard posted:

No, this is not the results post. Nor is it anything to do with Cache Cab.

This is a friendly public service note to inform you failures that, if you post your story today (for reference, there are 5 hours left in today) you will get a DQ, but you will also get a crit, and may yet escape the toxxman's axe.


Mar 31, 2015


Far West On The High Seas
WC: 1272

The General stood, looking gallant on the bow with her curly hair blowing wildly around her face, while her partner puked over the rails.

"Alright there, Corky?"

Corky gave a final retch, hawked, and spat into the stone-blue water.

"Goddamn boats," he glowered, "God drat the day you dragged me onto this Goddamn boat." He pulled a tin of chew from his back pocket and replaced the wad he'd lost along with his breakfast. If dry biscuits and rot-gut rum constituted a breakfast.

"Just think of the money, honey." The General gave the ship in the distance ahead a grim smile. She was in a high mood. Her quarry was in sight, wind filled the bellies of the sails, and her gun felt warm and eager under her hand resting on the holstered stock.

They'd found the boat in San Fransisco, a sleek-looking schooner with four masts and a small crew of inky stevedores. Corky's big mouth came just a hair away from wrecking the deal ("Nice to meet you, Bluebeard! And Christ on the Cross, if this ain't your scurvy crew," he'd said to the captain, and The General cracked him one on the jaw and sent him to the far corner of the bar), but somehow she'd finessed it. An extra five percent of the bounty certainly hadn't hurt.

One of the crew, shirtless and with a whole hellscape tattooed from wrists to waist, boomed from the ratlines something in their weird half-language. A moment later, the captain, a man called Spartak, joined them.

"They've changed flags." His voice was gentle, conversational, terrifying when considering his tanned and calloused visage. "They've surrendered."

"No poo poo!" Corky clapped and laughed a long, braying laugh. "Somebody do a rain dance? 'Cause I think seven hundred thousand little bills just rained from the drat sky!"

The General ignored him, addressing Captain Spartak and keeping her eyes locked on the ship before her. "Any other signal?"

"No signal, but they're letting a dinghy out behind them on a line." He offered her his spyglass, and she took it. Through its warped lens, she could make out the image of the dinghy and a struggling figure inside. She passed it back.

"Shelby Kurtz, you are mine," she whispered, and gooseflesh spread from the nape of her neck down her back.


They hauled Kurtz up from the little boat by a line on the yardarm. He wriggled silently all the way up like a caterpillar on spider's silk. They plopped him unceremoniously on the deck, and Corky darted forward to slip the burlap sack from his head.

"It's him, alright," he called to The General, a hungry look in his eyes. The General stepped deliberately across the deck, boots clacking, her dead husband's epaulets gleaming dully in the cloud-covered sun. Corky backed away, smirking, to his place behind her right shoulder like a faithful hound.

"What'd you do, Shelby? Murder the captain's kid? Run away with his wife? Why'd they give you up so easy?"

Shelby Kurtz leaned up into a sitting position, his legs bound and his hands tied behind his back. "Well, I wish I could tell you they caught sight of the illustrious and fearsome General and shat their pants, but I think we'd both know I's being facetious," he chuckled. Corky growled and spat a long brown stream at the fugitive's bare foot. The General waved him off, but couldn't help but smile at the boy's disgust.

"Well, Shelby, I think you know I've got to take you back to Montana for that bounty. The governor's been clamoring for your head since you absconded with his blushing bride, and you know I'm not one to turn down a wagonload of cash. Let's get you down in the hold."

Corky gestured to one of the crewmen, and the two of them yanked him up by his shoulders and carried him toward the hatch. The General watched them take her nephew away, smiling a little but with hard eyes.


"Ah, Jesus."

The flickering light of the candle confused her eyes, and now The General's knee throbbed from the sharp edge of the crate. The constant roiling of the ship on the waves certainly hadn't helped.

The hold was dead ahead, and she heard a stirring behind the hatch. Shelby was awake, then. She had hoped to have her gun trained on him as he woke. Oh, well. Dramatic effect be damned.

She unholstered her gun and tripped the latch with the barrel, raising the candle a little so she could see into the hold. Shelby's eyes flickered back at her in the unsteady light.

"Hey, Aunt Jo."

"Hey there, Turtleshell," she replied, using the nickname her husband had used for him when he was young. He didn't smile. Neither did she.

"I guess I should ask how you found me."

She barked a short laugh and shook her head. "First off, hon, you're eighteen and not great at covering your tracks. But mostly it was Corky." She lit the dusty guard's lantern and snuffed her own candle. "He's a bloodhound when it comes to tracking. Well, he's a dog in a lot of ways." She found a place to sit and locked her olive eyes on his periwinkle ones. The boy was handsome, despite the pubescent whiskers sprouting from his lip and chin. "Can you tell me why you did it?"

It was his turn to laugh. "Why the hell not? Delilah was a roamer, she didn't never care for that fat ugly hog of a husband-"

"Not the governor's wife, twiddledick," she spat, "I mean your Uncle Morris."

Shelby dropped his mouth open, then huffed and stood, facing away from her.

"I know it was you, Shelby," she intoned. "Pete Soothwater said he chased you for days. If you hadn't caught him in the leg with that lucky shot, he would have caught you."

Shelby shook his head, but didn't say anything.

"Don't tell me you don't even have a lie ready? You just though you'd slit his throat, your own flesh and blood, while he slept, and I wouldn't come for you?"

Apparently, he did think so. He didn't say a word.

The General stood.

"If that mayor didn't want to hang you himself, I'd string you from the yardarm and watch 'til your feet stopped twitching." She was calm when she said it, but she let the hatch slam behind her.


"Gen'ral. Gen'ral, wake up."

The General grimaced, waking more from Corky's breath in her nose than the shaking.

"What, Corky? drat you..." She looked out the porthole. It wasn't even light.

"The boy. He's dead."

It was like someone had stuck a cattle prod in her ribs. She clawed at Corky's collar and pulled him close. "Dead how?"

He wrung his hands as he spoke. "Well, I-- I guess he shot himself."

"Shot himself how? Didn't you frisk him, you blithering idiot?"

Corky looked at his shoes, his skinny frame looking childish with his shoulders folded inward.

"'Course I frisked him, Gen'ral," he said, "but-- well, he shot himself with your gun." With that Corky stepped back twice.

The General shook her head. She had stormed out of the hold, thrown off her gunbelt, and gone straight to bed.

And she had left the gun in the hold with her nephew.

The General, once Auntie Jo to a boy who spent summers in her home and to whom she had fed chocolates and who now sat lifeless in a ship's hold, sighed, and kicked the oak wall.

"Guess the mayor won't get to hang the boy after all."

Mar 31, 2015


WC: 799

It's a still night. Bucolic, you might call it. The moon is just a sliver or two away from full. The grass sways gently in a breeze that smells like hyacinth and river water. All is quiet.

A a woman, a vagrant, steps slowly, nonchalant, unhurried, about 30 feet away from and parallel to an empty highway.

A sound, like a bass drum rolling down a paved hill, pulls her attention north. Half a second later:


A blur of grey and black bowls past her. She doesn't even have time to register it as human. It's a streak of mean speed, and it comes nearly a foot from colliding with her head-on. It passes-- "FUCKFUCKFuckFuckFuckFuckfuckfucksorryyyyyyyy..." --and is gone in an instant.

The woman looks after the strange, puttering stream of fucks. She blinks.

An impossibly loud wind sweeps her from the ground.

It's Speedy Carmichael's last chance, and as always, he's late.

Millions of things are buzzing around inside his skull, most recently the regret for that poor woman he sucked behind him for about twenty feet. She'll probably be fine. Right? Right. No use dwelling on it now. That little worry pops right out of his head.

The city's coming up. He should probably skirt around since he needs to be on the south side.

He bowls through Maine Street, leaping most of the way but still trailing that mighty vacuum low enough to bowl a couple people over and rock some cars.

Whatever. They'll call it a sunspot or something tomorrow.

Fifteen seconds later, he's there. He skids to a stop in an alley and emerges with a confused look on his face, like Good Gravy, Was That A Tornado Or Something, How Peculiar and takes a left into a squat warehouse-looking building.

He enters.

"Knock knock," he shouts, and immediately someone brains him with a baseball bat.


He's up and running again in about a minute. Well, not running. Somebody's strapped him up with just way too many zip ties, like real overkill. The little plastic ends are poking into his back.

"You were supposed to be here at twelve fifteen."

He knows that voice. He hates that voice.

"It's not my friggin fault! I can only run so far til I hit population. And I was at my ma's, if I leave in the middle of a story she whines about it, and I'm not exaggerating here, whines about it for months."

A woman, about thirty, heavy set, completely bald, steps out from behind him.

"Shoulda planned better, Speedy. You lost the deal."

"Look, which way did they go? I can catch up to them."

The woman (Speedy calls her Mr. Clean, always behind her back and never to her face, he doesn't know her real name) laughs once. Her lips are two perfectly straight lines.

"That's not the principle of the thing, Speedy, you seem to constantly miss that point. The calibre of criminal we deal with, it's timeliness that matters, not talent. You were late, and they walked." She sounds like she's talking to a bank teller or maybe a hot dog vendor who's run out of mustard.

"So we lost the run?"

"You lost the run, yes. And any other day you'd get a third strike but this was the one. This was the Godfather. You missed him, and he walked, and now I won't be able to move my stuff in this city, or state, or maybe the country."

"Maybe you could get a job with Antiques Roadshow?" Speedy smirks. Mr. Clean gives him a little kick right in the teeth.

Speedy groans, spits, says "No, no, you're right. Terrible idea."

She kneels. "Here's what you're going to do." She's inches away from his face. Her breath smells like old radishes. "You are going to chase after him. You're going to take this knife," she flicks out a medium-sized hunting knife, "and you're going to gut him, the driver, and the two bodyguards. And you're going to come back here with the artifact in his trunk, show it to me, then take it to our buyer in Malasia. How's that sound?"

She waits.

"You got it, lady."

She cuts him loose and hands him the knife.

"You'd better be back before--"

Now Speedy isn't much of a killer, but he'd seen a prison shanking on HBO. Just stab as fast as you can, right? Well old Speedy, can stab pretty fast. He put about three or four thousand holes in her before his adrenaline slowed and he dropped the knife, not just covered but drenched in her blood.



Why not?

She thought he was a coward, he guesses.

Not that she wasn't right.

Speedy split the scene just as speedily as he could, scared, pumped, and elated.

Mar 31, 2015


crabrock posted:

is this your brawl piece?generally you should say what you are posting for if it's not a story for the week.

WherMonster Brawl

Mar 31, 2015


In with Epilogue.

Also would love a flash rule.

Mar 31, 2015


Dragging my carcass back in for Voidmart because I reaaaallly need the job. Might as well throw a :toxx: on there too for good measure.

Also, I don't have references and drug tests are against my religion.

Can't wait to hear back from you!

Mar 31, 2015


gently caress it. Burn me. I'm sick of turning in last minute bullshit. I'm going to put some actual work into my writing and come back when I can respect the deadline.

I'm still going to keep an eye on the forum, so post crits of mine if you've been working on them. Also, crabrock, for the love of sweet jesus, post the WherMonster brawl results you gently caress.

See y'all in a month or two.

skwidmonster says PEACE.

Mar 31, 2015


Sitting Here posted:

:siren: hello friend :siren:

This recording features Mr. War Criminal by Skwidmonster, which we take a detailed look at. Before that, Doctor Kloctopussy and Djeser let us pick apart a small sample of their own writing. Oh, and the idiot who's pretending to be a host and forgets to introduce herself is me, Sitting Here. Also featured: Ironic Twist, Dr. K, Djeser, Grizzled Patriarch, and Newt (AKA newtestleper). Thanks, guys!

Back in because this just made me really happy.

That said, from this point on I'm only writing about warm milk and shoes just to spite you.

Mar 31, 2015


Oh T-Rex is steppin up? I'm in I'm in I'm IN don't even give a gently caress what the prompt is.

Mar 31, 2015



Mar 31, 2015


I'm in for the sins

Mar 31, 2015


sebmojo posted:

Fuschia tude - sucker punch with actual suckers
PoshAlligator - the strongest arm is not the mightiest
Bad Ideas Good - breaking the mold that made him
Thranguy - gently caress the pigs
skwidmonster - he should have known, he should have known, he should have known
hubris.height - FUCKIN, FUCKIN, FUCKIN

So hi there
I pretty much need one gently caress of an entry this time. I mean, not that I give a poo poo about TD's good graces, but if I have a reputation I'd at least like to be the guy who's an rear end in a top hat because he's an rear end in a top hat and not a no-show. So I'm gonna go ahead and yoink all of these and say do your worst, gently caress nuggets, cuz I'm a loose cannon with nothing to lose.


I'll see you sweet little babies Monday.

Mar 31, 2015


Night Swimming

he should have known, he should have known, he should have known
sucker punch with actual suckers
the strongest arm is not the mightiest
breaking the mold that made him
gently caress the pigs


I’m big. I’ve always been big. Most people who have what I have, they’re sickly and short and their bones are brittle. But I’m the rare exception, because I definitely have it and I’m definitely the complete opposite.

And I say rare in the sense that they tell me I’m the only case in existence.

And in history.

Gee Willikers, right?

It was rough on my dad, growing up. He carries the gene for what’s called Lekman’s Syndrome. He has these spindly fingers and arms and a compressed spine. I was taller than him at age nine and I could out-lift him at around five. He was never a big man, but he hid his smallness.

“C’mon, Brick,” he said one night, eying me sideways, “let’s drive for a while. Hop in the bed.”

I was about fourteen at the time. When I wasn’t able to fit in the Jeep anymore, my dad sold it and bought this little pickup and had a buddy work on the suspension. I found an abandoned car seat in an alley one day and he strapped it down to the bed. It was actually comfortable. I always imagined I was being drawn by horses in my own private carriage or something.

There were four bags of concrete sitting around my seat.

“What’s this for?”

My dad lit a cigarette, the flame reflecting off the bill of his cap and making his face glow red.

“Just a little project.”

I climbed over the dusty paper bags. I had to cross my legs to sit because one stack was right against my seat.

It didn’t take long for me to figure the route. We were making for Charlie Hosselman’s. That worried me. As did the way the truck drifted to the left and jerked softly back to the lane every few minutes.

“Where we headed, Dad?” I called through the open window. He turned on the radio. Tom Petty drowned me out. Break Down. He nodded his head along and mumbled the chorus on a monotone.

Charlie Hossleman ran a Chrysler dealership over in Peoria. All I really knew about him then was that he’d gone to high school with my dad and then married my aunt. Apparently he’d known my mom, too. Not that I’d ever ask about my mom.

Anyway, Mr. Hossleman had a— I guess you’d call it an estate— down south of town, overlooking the river. It was modest enough, probably, but enormous and luxuriant by our standards. He even had a pond and a little waterfall running into it.

I caught a glimpse of silver out of the corner of my eye and turned just in time to see my dad’s head tilt back down. We were on the dirt roads now, and dust kept stinging my nostrils. We moseyed up to a lone stop sign and my dad killed the engine.

He adjusted the rearview to look at me through the open window.

He took a shaky breath and stared out the window to his left for a minute. Then he swiveled his red eyes back to the mirror.

“When that rat sonofabitch stuck it to my sister twenty years ago, I swore to sweet baby Jesus himself that I would end him if she ended up hurting. And I told him that. He knew it. Then she got— and he took her to that clinic—“ He looked down.

“Point is, he deserves a good whipping. And I can’t give it too him. And I couldn’t ask you to give it to him. So this is about the next worst thing and it doesn’t come close.” I could see his hand on the wheel in the dashboard light, his too-thin fingers hanging from the wheel by the tips.

“Your aunt is hurting, Ricky. You’re too young for me to tell you how, but he’s been hurting her bad the past couple of years. And we can’t hurt him back, but we can make him suffer.”

He started up the car again, and we didn’t talk any more even as he pulled up to the gate.

* * * *

He stumbled back after an hour and a half of me waiting in the truck. The bottle of scotch he had taken with him was missing.

“Showtime, Brick.”

“What are we doing?”

He scoffed and shook his head, like I was the drunk one.

“Grab the concrete and let’s move. I got the stick.”

I pulled a couple of bags of concrete onto my shoulders and followed him up the red stone walkway.

It was Quikset, and the pond was only about half full. I guess my dad had turned off the hose on his way inside. Swimming in a sort of frantic way were three gorgeous koi fish, one calico, one orange, and one black. They still had plenty water, but they could sense something was different.

My dad took the knife on his pocket tool and slit open the top of the first bag.

“Wait, dad, the fish are— What are you doing?'

“Get the stick.”

I stood looking at him for a second.

“Brick, Goddammit.”

I got the stick and started stirring.

He emptied all four bags into the koi pond. Every so often the surface would break and I’d see the gasping maw of one of the desperately beautiful fish. I’d look over at the defunct waterfall and pretend I couldn’t feel their bodies banging on the stick.

After about the second bag they stopped coming up.

When Dad was happy with the consistency, I followed him inside and up into Mr. Hassleman’s bedroom. Hassleman was a flabby man, wide shoulders like a linebacker, his thin hair sticking up from his widow’s peak. He was still in his clothes. His chest rose with each long, nasally walrus breath.

My dad motioned for me to pick him up. I stared and shook my head, not quite understanding or believing. He motioned again, and I did it.

He led me impatiently down the stairs and to the edge of the pond.

“Dad, I—“

“Put that pigfucker in.”

“I can’t kill anyone, Dad—“

“From the waist down. We’ll leave one hand free so he can call someone once the roofies wear off.”

Dad set a phone down, maybe a foot out of his reach.

“Roofies like the date-rape drug?”

His eyebrows shot up, then he laughed. “poo poo, you sure are growing up.”

I looked into the grey sludge, thinking about the suffocated fish.

“He’s so proud of those loving things,” my dad mused, reading my thoughts. “Paid thousands for them and keeps them in this temperature-controlled tank. He feeds them silk worms or some horseshit. Treats them like children. Then he goes and makes my sister get a coat hanger and get her insides all mushed up so she can’t— telling me they miscarried, and— and when I think of that healthy baby that could have been—“

He stops.

He’s thinking about me. And he’s thinking about Mom. And how my enormous head and shoulders were too much for her. And how it was his decision to keep me.

“Put him in.”

I did, pretending neither of us were crying.

Mar 31, 2015


sebmojo posted:

I wear these antlers because I earned them, motherfucker

Also, meant to say this earlier, but this is the most legit loving flashrule this week. Wish I coulda stolen it.

Mar 31, 2015


Mar 31, 2015


Somebody drop a motherfucking interprompt before I shiv somebody.

<3 Wrath

Mar 31, 2015


Sebmojo, you sadistic gently caress.


Getting There in Preteen Stages


0) Not A Level Deal

"My mom's an illustrator, I can teach you to draw a face if you do it."

Goading wasn't enough, she resorted to a trade to sweeten this dare.

"Teach me first."

"See, you use the lines on the notebook paper. It's called scale."

A know-it-all.

I scoffed.

"That's easy, I already knew that."

"Oh, c'mon-"

"Do another dare!"

0.5) We Learned It From Sitcoms

I don't even think it was a glass bottle we spun. Maybe a mostly-full water-bottle.

"You know, I'd actually be down for a more open-mouthed kiss," she announced. There was not a single eye making contact in that circle.

She spun.

It landed on me.

Wet lips on my cheek.

"And what'd you just say?"

"Yeah, but you're like, my really good friend, it'd just be weird, right?"

1) Actual First Kiss



"Did I do that right?"



Mar 31, 2015


Spin me in, Coach!!

Mar 31, 2015


Zombie Buddy Cop sounds rad AF... But I'll :toxx: just to see what magic happens


Mar 31, 2015



WC: 517

Denzel Washington gave a groan of disapproval and shook his head in the corner.

“Looks like my partner over there doesn’t believe you,” Officer Conway mused from his seat. “Now why would that be?”

The criminal looked relaxed, sitting on the other side of the table, but his foot was jackhammering up and down underneath it.

“Look, man, that’s how it went down. I don’t know what to tell you.”

Conway slammed his hands down on the metal desk and leaned forward, meeting this criminal’s eyes with his cool blue gaze.

“You think this is a game, Dunlap? You think this is a game? What do you think, partner, is this a game?”

What might have been a laugh escaped Denzel’s lips. It had no effect on his deadpan face.

“Look, is that thing supposed to scare me or something?” Dunlap was clearly uncomfortable next to the star of stage and screen.

“Who, Denzel? What do you mean? We thought you just might want his autograph.”

Denzel snapped his teeth together playfully, eyes locked unblinkingly at the perp.

“Seriously, I said I’d take a lie detector test or whatever. Having this thing in here has to be against some regulation or something.”

Denzel Washington struggled against the chains that bound him to the hand truck in the corner. He was hungry.

Conway sat back in his chair and twiddled a pen between his fingers.

“Just think of this as your classic good cop/bad cop. Denzel here is our good cop. And me… well, if the good cop’s a walker, you can guess just how bad I am.”

Dunlap scoffed. “Yeah, whatever man, I get it.”

The zombie detector thing was in its incipient stages, but Conway felt good about it. Already the walker had an obvious effect on the interviewee. What’s more, every time the perp lied, Denzel had a reaction. He was an incredibly accurate lie detector. He might get this one past the commissioner yet.

Conway kicked his chair to the wall. “You don’t get it yet!” Denzel started to get a little riled. “I’d feed you to this rotting corpse sooner than I’d see you walk out that door. So you better get your rear end in gear and tell me something worth knowing.”

Dunlap was making GBS threads himself. He’d crack any second. That promotion was calling Conway’s name.

“Look man, I told you, I walked in the place, had a look around, and walked out. I didn’t know there was a body! I didn’t even take anything! It wasn’t me, you gotta believe—“

The rest of Dunlap’s words stopped in is throat, where Denzel was chewing on his jugular.

“Dammit! Goddammit!” Conway thumbed the catch off of his holster, flicked the safety, and let go two rounds into Denzel Washington’s head. The shots nearly deafened him in the hundred-square-foot room. Two officers rushed through the door and started tending to the wailing Dunlap.

This was going to be a great one to explain to the commissioner.

  • Locked thread