|# ¿ May 31, 2016 02:03|
|# ¿ Jan 24, 2022 12:26|
Taste & Magnetoception
|# ¿ Jun 2, 2016 02:40|
NOTHING TO SEE HERE
Obliterati fucked around with this message at 15:58 on Dec 31, 2016
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2016 04:40|
Crit for Tyrannosaurus
I know nothing about anime other than 'One Punch Man is great' so I'm ignoring that flash rule
I am a sucker for first sentences and I really like this one. It's got a nice setup, and it feels like pathos? I don't know, but whilst at that first glance his heart breaking is melodramatic, you show us very nicely why this guy's potatoes are so drat important to him as the story goes on. I don't even know if they need to be for orphans, but that gets played for laughs as well so I'm less bothered.
Oddly enough I didn't see the plot twist coming here: it comes out very organically and I don't think it needs any further signposting, as it were. I'm mildly surprised he takes No Hands Man's word for it though.
In the end, this story catches a lot of the spirit of post-Friday Northern Ireland, where most of the guys who actually fought are either behind bars or in parliament, with violence mostly renounced, and the prisons are full of people who ideologically loathe each other but are capable of basic conversations, even if they're about the other ones all being bastards. Yet the old ways are still there, under the surface.
Basically when I say this feels like an Irish story it's a high compliment. This is a good story, hurrah.
“Trying to wash me
- In common parlance, people wouldn't say 'the IRA': firstly because there are like six splinter groups that claim the name (my favourite being the 'Real IRA'), and secondly because it's usually shortened to “the 'Ra” as a word and not an acronym.
“Do you believe in Jesus, Iain?”
Bahaha that's great
- I feel the ending here is a little abrupt. Sure, Iain's confessing, but what change has Sean undergone? It feels like he's two sentences off what I think you were going for, which is dropping the last of his IRA ties after realising that they only want to use him. Maybe a final scene where he's sowing new potatoes, and his cellmate is simply 'absent'?
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2016 19:40|
Did you seriously think nobody in TD has read Harry Harrison? Even worse, like hell would 'Slippery Jim' DiGriz, The Stainless Steel Rat, be so blase as to leave his name at the crime scene: an amateur move, from a poor operator. You insult me, you insult DiGriz, and you spit on Harrison's grave.
Interbatiĝo kun mi, ŝtelisto
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2016 21:10|
It warms my heart to see someone caught the reference, but that warmth is stoked into a fire of pure indignation that you would think it was the actual Stainless Steel Rat and not a copycat out to ruin his good(ish) name!
I see a lot of flailing words but I don't see
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2016 21:35|
So re: brawl, boy am I bad at scheduling
any chance of twelve hours, flerp?
|# ¿ Jun 21, 2016 02:55|
Harry Harrison Justice Brawl
Our Fathers, Who Aren't In Heaven
BOOM. The planet pops like a grape squeezed by a finger, and Barry takes his one off the Fire button. Molten slag spins wildly, peeling like orange-skin as it cools, and he sighs. It's all very impressive, if I say so myself.
Barry's father was a resourceful man: whilst I'm sure nobody would employ the descriptors 'jovial', 'socially adept', or 'good with children' the Space Orbital Doom Laser makes a drat fine planetcracker. This would prove an illustrious, if brief, career for him: the Space Orbital Doom Laser is not particularly subtle and juries can be so fickle. Ask Halboris Prime.
Barry rises from the commander's chair, keyed to our geneprint, and trudges through the bowels of the thing. Layers of steel and lead, interlocking, multiply redundant, weigh down around him in the flickering light. Shoddy rewiring, I tell you.
The Acrox system is silent, which is how he's always liked it, the worm. The little craft, decked in mismatching parts, spins out from the Space Orbital Doom Laser, pirouetting in a direction once describable as downward. A hundred arms unfold from its hull and begin the tiresome process of pulling ore.
In the gloom of the ship, he flicks switches, twists dials, and all in all absolutely mines the hell out of that rock. Barry is at home mining. He likes it! All this power, all this sheer raw power embedded in the Space Orbital Doom Laser and he uses it to mine!
I wonder how he even managed to keep it. “Yes, m'lud, I am certainly aware of the limitless potential of the Space Orbital Doom Laser, but I promise to only use it on uninhabited planets for purely industrial purposes, because that is something I actually enjoy.” And they'd believe him.
Fortunately this is a moot point, as I've just stolen it back. I make a big show of powering up the engines: real engines, more than enough to outstrip his little tug. Really I shouldn't answer his hails, but I can never resist a bit of effect.
What do I look like? Magnificent, that's what I look like. When Barry looks, he sees himself. My pointed chin, on him rolling and fat; my strong, aquiline nose, on him just a beak; my glorious satin cape -
“Dad,” he says. “You're wearing the cape again.”
“Of course I am!” I swirl it around. “The Great Malactus, Scourge of the Galaxy, can wear what he drat well pleases!”
“Where did you keep it?”
“Did you keep your cape in the prison cell, or did you stash it somewhere?”
I twirl my moustache. It's important to keep up appearances. “That's for me to know and you to fail to know.”
Nah. I prep for jump. Barry accelerates, prodigiously, impossibly, and keeps pace. The arms glow in the dark. drat. Magnetic. I pull fondly remembered levers and close range guns unfold from my Orbital Space Doom Laser. His craft's arms explode. Repair that. I open the channel again.
“Give it up, fool! You cannot stand against the force that is Malactus! I will shoot you, you know.”
“No you won’t, Dad.” He frowns. “You’re supposed to be retired.”
“Ha! I was imprisoned!”
“You told them you'd quit-“
I fire again. I catch his craft amidships, right where I’d installed the engine. Barry falls behind, listing. Not a kill. Ought to recalibrate, fire again.
Nah. I hit Jump, and I blast off in search of someone to threaten.
Here is how I imagine Barry's chat with law enforcement went.
“Officer, I need to report a robbery.”
“Yes, my father, the Most Horrific Malactus, who designed and built the awesome and terrible Space Orbital Doom Laser, has reclaimed it in glory. All shall tremble! WOE TO THE PERFIDIOUS.”
"Very funny, Citizen. Malactus is too old to threaten anyone again.”
You wondered how I managed to build a Space Orbital Doom Laser without anyone stopping me, now you know.
Halboris Prime had refused to pay up last time around and, worse, had got me locked up, so it was only fair I came and settled that debt. Nestled alongside the moon, I engage all systems, and the Space Orbital Doom Laser unfolds like a flower in spring. Secondary weapons bristle, thorns on my stem. I had time to get her polished, and every single surface gleams in the light of the stars. He never cleaned it! Some people have no respect.
I spin in the chair, flicking switches as I go. The cape gets tangled and I shrug it off. The Space Orbital Doom Laser sparks into fresh life, as systems untouched for years power on. I'd been hoping for a chance to use the point defence, but so far the Halbori navy was standing off, way out of range. Sure, I could turn the Doom Laser on them, but that'd hardly be sporting. The unmanned satellites, though... just a couple. So they know I'm not joking. Sublasers slice them to shreds and I feel young again. Try your GPS now, worms!
The planet hails and I answer. “I hope this is your formal surrender. I'd hate to have to do something... drastic.”
“Dad, it's me.”
How did he beat me here? No matter.: keeping one's poise is the thing. “Ha! Joined the enemy, have you? That won't stop me, the indefatigable Malactus, from blasting their little toys from the sky-”
“No, Dad. I'm on the surface.”
I stop spinning. “No.”
“Yeah. It’s a nice place, Dad. Got all that Noir Gothic architecture you like. We could visit.”
My finger hovers over the Fire button. One push. What an embarrassment for a galactic terror such as I, to have a law-abiding son! One push. Problem sorted.
"Good rock down here too. Nice firm malachites all over the place. You know," he says, and shrugs, "if it weren't for the seven billion people I'd be up there with you."
"Shut up." I turn back to the button. I made it and all its brothers with the best plastic. No cheap stuff. It's smooth to the touch, and somehow soft: as if it is waiting to give way to my pressure.
First though, I twist a dial, and the Space Orbital Doom Laser recalibrates.
I fire. It's a blast of rock, slag and dust, twisting and unfurling in space. I hope the Halbori get a good view. That's one moon they're not getting back. My vengeance!
Barry boosts up in a fresh ship and I let him dock. He steps into the command room, and suddenly everything feels a little smaller. "Thanks," he says. "Nice show. Took her out in one."
"I blew up the drat moon," I say. "I'll be going away again."
"Well," he says, "maybe. For now, though, that's a lot of good ore out there. Mind if I scoop some up?"
"The navy- "
"Probably won't come near the Space Orbital Doom Laser. Seriously," he laughs, "who named that?"
"So what, we mine this, return that ship you borrowed and I…?"
"Actually," he says, "We should move fast. I stole that ship back in the system down from Acrox and sooner or later they'll notice."
I look at him. He shrugs. "I was in a rush."
I feel the creases in my mouth shifting, perhaps into a smile.
|# ¿ Jun 21, 2016 16:56|
|# ¿ Jan 24, 2022 12:26|
|# ¿ Sep 28, 2016 18:03|