Well I've wanted to start doing these, and you have to start somewhere.
IN Thranguy, but since I know nothing about Leonard Cohen just give me a song.
Crain fucked around with this message at 17:28 on Jan 10, 2018
|# ¿ Jan 10, 2018 17:23|
|# ¿ Oct 21, 2021 22:25|
“Manhattan has fallen.”
The debriefing room was colder than I remember. It was more comfortable when I sat on the other side of the table. The door opened exactly 30 minutes late. Holger, my handler, was sticking to the script he had developed for these situations. Next would be-
“Nina. Start one month prior to the field office being ransacked.” Holger said finishing before he was even seated. The sound of him taking his seat was used as punctuation.
One month. Holger already knows what happened; He wants to hear how I try to explain it.
I was making contact with a target. Our cell sought out Wall Street power players in an attempt to get dirt on them. Drugs, affairs, financial crimes, attempting to breach the Iron Curtain for capitalist gains, or anything else were our goals. Sure they may have been trying to do business with us, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t take advantage of them further. The “date” went poorly. This hedge fund manager I had picked didn’t take well to his drug of choice, which meant he didn’t take well to me. After an overpriced dinner that only served sticker shock and an anemic attempt at wooing me, I was in a thrashed dress with a bloody nose being thrown out into an alley by his apartment’s “concierge”.
“A failed contact isn’t significant. Skip to what was.” Holger said.
Someone became worried about me, that’s what happened. On my walk of shame back to my apartment fate painted as pathetic a scene for me as possible. Torn clothes and a bloody nose, then the rain started, my purse was snatched along with my keys and ID. I was locked out in the rain. Ultimately not the worst situation I’ve been in considering I could always hoof it over to field office where someone was probably around. But for once in this cold city someone noticed me and started to worry.
Vaughn was on shift that night, one of the younger porters. To my knowledge I had never spoken a word to him. He let me in without my key (others might have too), he gave me his coat (just common decency), called a locksmith friend to get me back into my apartment (could just be a favor), and took me into the staff lounge and cooked me a meal (that…). It wasn’t just a sandwich he had left over either. He cooked for me.
My mother never cooked for me.
Of all the high priced haute cuisine I’ve been treated to by these playboys, none of them ever cooked for me.
It was just stew and some bread, but it was hot, it warmed me up, it was something I never knew I was missing.
After that his friend finally showed up and let me back into my room, he was also able to cut me a new key. I knew I’d have to get both changed in the morning, just to be sure he didn’t keep a copy, but at least I was home and could clean up and sleep. I missed the next check in because I slept far too late, but I needed it. After that things went back to normal. Mostly. Targets were chosen, I’d go make contact, and we’d wrap them up or move on, except I’d meet Vaughn for dinner every so often. A month after that first dinner, late to check in, I found the door open and the office ransacked, so I ran and-
“Mailed this telegram. Here. Directly.” Holger said as he placed my telegram on the table. “You even added our seal.”
“Yes.” I responded.
“You know what this means.” Holger said.
“That’s why I did it.”
The door opened, it was time to leave.
“It’s terrible what she has to go through. Sure there’s probably a good reason, or a jobs a job at least, but it’s still a dangerous business.” I said, looking at Bill to add his two cents again.
“Ugh, Vaughn. I don’t know why you’re so convinced Nina’s out there playing spy. Talk to me about sports and lay off the James Bond movies.” Bill rebutted, going back to the sports page.
He’s right, there’s no proof that I have that she’s a spy, but that’s why I’m here. It’s not unusual to see a playboy have 30 different dates in a month, hell for some of ‘em that’s a week’s worth. But a dame moving in from nowhere in particular and doing that? A bit aggressive, even if it is the 80s. Going after deep pockets? Everyone’s got a type. But she’d been in a position to be set for life multiple times, and instead her boy toys get set up while she walks away.
“Then how about them Cubs?” I throw at Bill to cap things off.
“Now you can go gently caress off and get the mail. I’m done for the night.” He says on cue. I gladly step out with him as he keeps heading on past the mailbox.
The rest of the night is quiet. Other than Nina there are no interesting tenants here. Grandmas, families, upper middle class working folk who can afford a decent pad but aren’t trying to impress above their pay scale, which is another reason why Nina stands out. Side.
Outside. Hey Nina’s banging on the door. Oh no, she also looks pretty banged up. I run out to let her in, the rain had started too. I grab Nina a coat to put on. This is no state to put someone into. I don’t ask what happened, she doesn’t need to relive anything I’m sure. She tells me she lost her keys, I get Malcom on the phone.
“Are we making a move?” he asks.
“No we are letting a poor sop back into their place after what is probably one of the worst nights of their life. Just get down here and do something decent.” I snap back.
She’s freezing and trying not to show it. I gotta get some food in her, God knows if she’s actually had anything to eat tonight. Bill shows up an hour later and we get her into the place. She thanks us with the first bit of emotion I’ve hear from her.
As the weeks go on we keep having dinner. I don’t even bother prying too hard but a couple weeks in Nina tells me she knows I was counter-spying her. She tells me all about their little nest, the set up. I don’t even remember what I’m supposed to do with that info and just cut her another slice of Turkey. poo poo! Did a couple of lasagnas and stews really undo a lifetime of East German training?
The next day she gives me a key and an address. We head for the nest. She mails a letter and heads for the airport.
“Holger, sir. A telegram” A junior officer hands me a plain telegram. It says: “Next we take Berlin.”
“Tell command to audit all agents, especially field agents.” I tell him.
“What should I tell them to look for sir?”
“Ask them if they’ve eaten well.”
|# ¿ Jan 15, 2018 03:44|
Boy howdy I sure do love my semi-regular ritual of drinking red wine and livecrittin', yes sirree
Well that's a good crit, thanks Obliterati.
Also thank you for the best writing advice I've ever gotten:
"You know what, assume your reader is drunk."
Crain fucked around with this message at 23:05 on Jan 15, 2018
|# ¿ Jan 15, 2018 22:49|
wow this is a good post i hope you didnt write anything after this sentence or that would ruin this post!
|# ¿ Jan 15, 2018 23:04|
|# ¿ Jan 17, 2018 14:02|
Sign Here, Initial There.
“Welcome Tatiana. My name is Mr. Wallace. I am the account manager for the account your late Grandfather was in control of up until, well, right now.” Said the man at the desk. He was in a very simple, but worn and faded, business suit. You could tell that a lot of alterations and repairs had been made. They were well made, but there were so many that there was just no hiding it.
I had been notified at the reading of my Grandfather’s will that I had been named as a successor to him on whatever this investment account is. It was a surprise, as was the fact that no one seemed to know anything about it beyond that it had existed. My Grandfather was very tight lipped about the nature of his account.
“You say that like my Grandfather wasn’t the one who started it. Did he inherit it like I am?” I asked Mr. Wallace as he was laying a series of documents out for me.
“Oh heaven’s no. This is a much older account than your Grandfather. We’ll get to that.”
I had always suspected there was something up with our family. No one was visibly rich or acted like they were, but much of my extended family never seemed to…work. I always figured a lot of them just worked from home or had their own investments, but whenever the topic came up everyone either deflected to something else or just ignored the question. Even my mother and father had a disparity between what they “did” and what our financial status seemed to be. I was still sent to school, and college, and told to find something I wanted to do, settling in on the civil service and working with some charities. Seems that was just till I reached whatever milestone this is.
“Now you do have your “plan” that we asked you to write up, yes?” Mr. Wallace said motioning to the paper in my hand. “Please take a look at that again before I start going over the account.”
I glanced over my page and a half “plan”. Knowing nothing about the account’s actual contents it’s all just vaguely based on my own 401k and a list of things that I’m sure my family would be happy with, especially now that I’m being let in on whatever this secret is.
“This investment account is not a…traditional account shall we say. In the more recent decades we could call it something like ‘Angel Investing’, seeking out novel or worthwhile ideas, products, or plans, and offering support in exchange for influence, dividends, or whatever. Let me just go over some of the more prominent investments from the account’s history and you’ll see what I mean. Hopefully.
We’ll start recently: Speaking of Angel Investing, your Grandfather put early funds into most of the big tech companies. Google, Amazon, Microsoft, Xerox, IBM, Bell Labs. And speaking of Bell your Great-Great-Grandfather invested in Alexander Gram Bell, that’s skipping ahead though.
We have requests for funding that were paid to CERN Labs for an accelerator, to FERMI Lab for an accelerator, to Los Alamos labs for a nuclear device.
There was backing to the US in both World Wars, backing to the US in the Revolutionary War too.
This account paid for the discovery of the American continent TWICE, once to Columbus and once to Lief Erikson. It could have been 3 times but whoever was in charge at the time balked at backing a Chinese expedition.
There’s a small investment into an alchemist in China, who was working on some sort of explosive.
Skipping further we have some funding for cleaning up a flooding event around Ancient Judea.
Another flood cleanup in the Sumerian area…“ He said finally trailing off.
“You’re loving with me. This…thing goes back to pre-history?” I said, gawking.
“Sorry, not done just going to skip ahead a bit more.
So there’s a long chain of smaller investments, mostly related to tool discoveries. You know: Cooking, fire, using rocks to smash things, walking upright.
Then we get back to the interesting stuff: Request for funding paid to XenFabo Heavy Industries for a stasis generator. Funds to DR Industries for a Thermo-Nuclear Linear Cann-“
“Wait. Did you go out of order.” I asked, with a period, telling him that’s what I wanted to hear.
“No. As I said, this is not a traditional investment account.” Mr. Wallace repeated to me. “I think you’re getting the point though, so let’s proceed with the questions you have.”
I looked down at the “plan” they requested I write. It feels like a sick joke almost, there’s no way I could come up with something that was applicable here. I asked Mr. Wallace everything I could think of.
“Was this what my family was keeping from me?” I asked.
“No, only your Grandfather and the account holders before him. We don’t reveal anything to anyone but the account holder. Your family is probably aware of something though, depending on what previous account holders have said.” Mr. Wallace said, collecting the records he had been reading off of.
“Can I close this account? Can I just walk away?”
“You could do that. Closing the account would be ill-advised due to the time it would take to close out the investments that are currently still active. You personally would never see the money, probably. And you can always pass this off to someone else, or just leave it to churn based on the last instructions your grandfather gave. You only have to be as active as you want. Your presence or absence will ultimately have little effect on us.” He said, shrugging.
“Are we the only account like this?”
“I can’t comment on the nature of any other accounts that may or may not exist. Take that as you will.” Wallace said, stone faced. We went on like that for a while longer. Mr. Wallace indulged any weird question I had about the company (turns out the name is Zuho Finanacial Industries and they do not list that anywhere).
“So what are my options then, we still haven’t talked about what I can actually…DO with the account.” I asked.
“Oh well that’s simple. For the most part, at least since 1800s we’ve seen that the nitty gritty choices can end up bogging people down when it comes to choosing what to do, especially since we’re very long term focused. So we usually sift through the events of the world and then present the most significant items to the account holders. You see I have 3 folders out in front of you. They are Political, Industrial, and World focused collections. Inside you’ll find lists relevant to those topics. Your Grandfather liked to just select the tech options from the industrial folder.” Mr. Wallace explained as motioned to each folder on the desk like he was presenting the prizes on a gameshow.
I was curious about the World folder; it was the thinnest of the three by far. Inside there was only a single page with two options listed on it: Request for funding from the UN for a global anti-invasion defense grid, and Request for aid in subjugating the Earth from the…Nantarzo Empire.
“Are we being invaded!?” I screamed at Mr. Wallace.
“Yes! Although that request has almost expired so it would be a good idea to answer soon.” He said a little too happily.
“Well back the UN!”I responded, sticking with screaming.
Mr. Wallace sucked his teeth, “Oooh, as your advisor, from a financial standpoint, backing the Nantarzo Empire would be the safer investment."
“Are you seriously telling me…to back an invading alien empire?”
“Well yes. Earth’s track record with repelling invaders is actually pretty poor. The last time didn’t work out very well and we spent several epochs just getting back to a monetary system with which to track performance.” Mr. Wallace replied, far too interested in the exact wrong aspect of the situation.
“When is that deadline you were talking about? When will they get here?” I asked wondering how much time I had to think about it.
“They need an answer within the next, oh, 200 years.” He said looking at the file, then back at me eager to hear my answer.
“HOW IS THAT SOON!?” I shouted at him.
I backed the UN, Grabbed Mr. Wallace’s info, my stuff, and got the driver once he showed up to take me to the closest bar. That was far too many things to reveal in one sitting.
|# ¿ Jan 22, 2018 03:23|
IN. DOUBLE OR NOTHING
(Those flash rules are amazing so far.)
|# ¿ Jan 23, 2018 16:50|
Prompt: Picturesque Picaresque.
Flash Rule: Trained in eleven martial arts, twelve languages, and bog standard parlor tricks.
We looked like a tube of crescent rolls: Crammed up, in the dark, and under enough pressure to spook a middle aged housewife once this whole thing popped off. Jon Vittor, the Hotel King of Florida was throwing his son’s 13th birthday party today on the top floor of his new property in Amalfi, Italy (He’s branching out) called: Il re del Cardinale Lusso Rifugio Coccole per il Ricco e Bellissimo Hotel (His idea). It took us 3 years to build up enough clout to sneak our way into this party. Shell companies, fake identities, 32 rental properties throughout Italy and St. Petersburg, Fl all hiring and reviewing ourselves as top notch performers specializing in 13 year olds. We had PR meetings, we sent Christmas bonuses, there’s still some poor bastard cleaning the same empty, unused office furniture on Granville Ct who keeps showing up despite never seeing anything relating to us besides his paycheck. We’re finally ready to finish this plan off.
“So much for a room with a view,” Grumbled Jorge, “four thousand miles of coastline and I get to look at your shoes.”
“And if you were on top you’d be looking at 2 pulped up partners soaking into your shoes.” I snapped back at him.
“Be ready to throw us as we practiced Jorge.” Whispered Bertrand, still sticking to the proper operational procedures Jorge and I had long since dropped.
One final set of doors opened up in front of my little peephole. Dead ahead was the party boy, Jon Vittor 8th (He has a lot of brothers), sitting on his very own birthday throne amidst a glittering hall of mirror like marble and gold. We stop right in front of him and the rest of the guests. Bertrand steels himself, folding up into a near perfect human ball. I try to do the same but only end up needing to stifle a fart.
Bertrand gives the signal and Jorge springs to full height then launches us upwards as if he were setting up a game winning volleyball spike. Bertrand spins through the air picking out the perfect landing spot while I tumble incoherently through the air. (Hey, it’s my job to come up with the plans, and filling out a hundred W2’s for fake employees while filing taxes on 32 homes doesn’t leave much time for gymnastics.) Bertrand stabs into the ground right in front of little Jonny, rooted in place like he was always there. He then grabs me out of the air right before I complete my high dive into the concrete floor.
“You jump high, heh heh.” Clapped Jon-boy. I guess we passed the kid test.
“Yes, very high! Wait till Bertrand here REALLY gets started! But Jorge and I, he’s the big one, will leave that to lightfoot here while we go finish up your special cake!” I chanted as we ran to the kitchen. We billed ourselves as a package deal: Entertainment and Bakers.
The kitchen was the key. See, Jon didn’t build this building, he just bought it. Some governmental palm greasing, and times being what they are, meant that the town sold what used to be their city hall, the same city hall that was connected to one of Italy’s Treasury deposit vaults. Now the elevator may have been deactivated in the sale, and the doors blocked up, but the shaft is still there. So are Jorge and I about to run to the kitchen and break down a wall? Of course not! Jon Sr. already did that for us. He put in a dumbwaiter and used the existing shaft to save money. We will need to cut a hole in the dumbwaiter though. Thankfully the staff were too busy to notice us slip into it.
“So I am facing down one of their guards. He has told me that the training he has received is courtesy of the FBI. He is retired. He will be using modified Aikido mixed with Brazilian Jujitsu grapples and some Karate.” Bertrand thought to himself, sizing up his opponent.
The bodyguard took the initiative. He and Bertrand had started close so we attacked with a simple strike to the liver. It had been blocked. He followed it up with a kick to Bertrand’s shin to try and knock him off balance. Blocked as well. A flurry of attempts followed: Punches, grapples, kicks, sweeps! Each blocked quicker than the last. It seemed like Bertrand was blocking everything he could think to try as soon as he himself could think of it. Then his brain caught up with his body. Bertrand had thrown him as soon as Jon Vittor had signaled. The last few seconds or so had simply been the guard fighting against the ground.
“Amazing.” Gapped Jon Sr. as murmurs spread through the crowd of adults watching. It soon died down as they waiting to hear what the birthday boy would say about the scene.
“…Why he fall down? That was boring” Grumbled Jimmy Jon, arms quickly crossed.
“Shall I…try another act?” Shrugged Bertrand to the boy’s father.
Another series of fights were set up against the other guards present. Each fight had a different restriction for Bertrand to try and make it interesting: Legs tied together, no arms allowed, blindfolded, etc. Each fight ended much the same, and even though Bertrand made sure that his opponents wouldn’t get hurt, their pride was now keeping them from volunteering any more…
The vault was 151ft down the elevator shaft, 50 down an access tunnel, and behind a secondary vault door that a contractor was supposed to decommission with the sale of the building. So 50/50 on it being either left still functional or wide open. The shaft was an easy climb down. With the elevator taken out of commission there wasn’t anything to dodge or any cameras to avoid. The bottom of the shaft was a different story: They had installed a set of steel double doors with security glass, the hinges welded solid.
“Hope Bertrand’s killing it with his act, this will take a while.” I said as I got started checking out the door.
It was really weird that they left the elevator door itself unobstructed, but the checkpoint door was welded. The hinges I could see were solidly fused. Or so I though as I saw Jorge walk though the other door, with no obstruction.
“They only welded one set of hinges. And the other door opens inwards.” Jorge giggled at me as he peaked through the unlocked, open door.
“Well that improves the odds for the vault I guess.” I grunted, getting up and putting away the saw.
“宿題を, 忘れて廊下に, 最上川” Bertrand solemnly recited, hoping the child would finally find entertainment in something.
“Whaaaat!?” Jon Jingle Jr. grunted, assuming he had been insulted.
Bertrand grabbed at the hair on his temples. The child was an imbecile! 30 years of martial arts training, folk tales from Russia to Nairobi, and fluent conversation in a variety of languages left no impact on the child. The other guests might be entertained but the father was becoming angry. There was still time that needed to be killed, but there was nothing left to try. Unless…
Bertrand held up hand, palm towards himself, grasped his thumb, and with one swift motion made it appear he was removing it repeatedly.
“HAW HAW HAW! Your thumb’s coming off!” Guffawed the moron child.
Bertrand swallowed his pride as he made balloon animals (Snakes only), did card tricks (shuffling the deck and just giving Jon a card), and made objects disappear by abusing Jon’s lack of object permanence.
Someone on the elder Jon’s team had the bright idea to actually go through with removing the vault door. Too bad tac-welded sheet metal is cheaper than fully reinforced steel walls.
“Jorge, if you would?” I said as I handed him the saw. He ignored me and kicked one of the panels in, triggering the alarm as a wall of safety deposit boxes fell in as well. Seems they hid the shoddy work by just installing the boxes over it. The alarm wasn’t an issue, we wouldn’t be long. I found box #444, popped it out of the wall to find Mr. Jon Vittor Sr.’s prized collection of Scandinavian Crypt Keys. Which he is simply hoarding, but we have much use for. We also left a nice set of photos of the terribly shoddy workmanship Jon used to secure the Vault he was supposed to fix up as part of his purchase.
One brisk climb later we were back in the kitchen, and a brisk sprint after that had us in the party hall as we watched Bertrand standing on his head while Jon laughed himself into a fit.
“Bert! Time to go!” I yelled as Jorge started cutting a hole in the window. Bertrand took no extra convincing as he ran for the newly made exit, grabbing his parachute as he dove from the building. I decided to leave Jon with a parting gift: “Get your boy some remedial classes while you can still afford them!”
Not the best one liner to leave on, but it still looked cool from a parachute.
|# ¿ Jan 29, 2018 05:19|
Never eat anything larger than your own head.
Never eat anything bigger than your own head yeah? I mean, how would you anyways? Like you eat with your mouth yeah? My mouth isn’t bigger than my head, or even the same size, not to mention the size of my throat. So like, you’re not gonna eat anything bigger than your own head anyway. A cow’s bigger than my head, am I going to try and python a whole cow? No I’m eating a burger. Gut some steakums. Same with a pig. Wilbur’s bigger than my head, bacon ain’t. Hell, we can even go on to veggies yeah? Watermelon? No one’s skulling that like a Nyquil. Slice it up, cubes, mash it into a drink, you’re gonna make it smaller yeah? Even if you don’t bring tools into the situation you’re gonna make whatever you’re eating smaller. Them cudgel looking turkey legs? No knife and fork for that, but I got my teeth. Bite it, it’s smaller. Leg’s bigger’n my head; mouthful ain’t. Right? See where I’m at? C’mon.
“Sir I’m not allowed to sell you the whole spiral of gyro meat.”
|# ¿ Jan 31, 2018 01:41|
Arts and Crafts on the high Seas.
"Aye, that's, that, th-That's a mermaid! Yes. You, me mate, are looking at a real mermaid!" The captain fumbled out from behind the sheets he had pulled up.
"Right-o, but...are you done with the sewing kit?"
|# ¿ Feb 5, 2018 17:09|
In honor of our esteemed head judge Antivehicular, I give to you your interprompt:
$3600 a MONTH
Words: You count them.
No cars. No busses. Not even a covered bicycle. I will not ride nor drive any sort of vehicle.
I just keep losing my combs. Every drat time. I need those loving combs!
|# ¿ Feb 13, 2018 00:54|
Skipped the last two weeks so as well.
|# ¿ Feb 13, 2018 22:08|
I blinked and missed something...what the gently caress is all of this?
|# ¿ Feb 18, 2018 04:28|
CASE No. 67-042, Exhibit 03, A-E
|# ¿ Feb 19, 2018 00:00|
Here you go, assholes.
|# ¿ Feb 20, 2018 04:04|
IN, The Ice.
|# ¿ Feb 20, 2018 04:24|
In, but the Fiasco lingo might as well be gibberish to me. Spell it out like I'm a child please
The basic format is this: A Fiasco "game" setup involves rolling dice to determine random story elements (The Relationships, Needs, etc that Anti mentioned) and then fitting those into the Fiasco story arc of Act 1, Tilt, Act 2, Aftermath.
Basically the playset looks like this:
Each element is chosen by rolling two 6 sided dice, 1 decides on the kind of thing (Normal place, weird place, etc) and 1 decides on the specific element in that set(Your House, God's bathroom, etc). You don't need to worry about that.
Basically, for whichever set you choose/get (you can try to check what they are here: http://fiascoplaysets.com/ for a basic idea of the theme) Antivehicular will roll the dice for you and, like he said, Give you the resulting story elements:
-Relationships (For 3 characters)
-Needs (for those characters)
-Location where stuff happens
-A Tilt or Plot Twist.
Take those, make a story.
|# ¿ Feb 20, 2018 12:18|
Relationship: The only survivors
Relationship: Dorm room bunkies
Relationship: Clandestine collaborators
Location: Inside Mt. Erebus, above the lava lake
Object: A dead seal
Need: To get even with a scientist
Tilt: Magnificent self-destruction
How To Dispose Of A Body At The Bottom Of The World.
Silas and Merrill were two moderately competent Computer Janitors working at the Crary lab at McMurdo Station, Antarctica. They were currently standing among a field of frozen waves, littered with seals and other station workers on their weekend breaks, at the Pressure Ridges just off the coast of their only neighbor Scott Base. They were selling stolen research data.
“Siiilaaas, Byron’s late, he’s not supposed to be late.” Merrill whined through a facemask, two scarves, and a fur rimmed hood.
“Oh shut up he’s always late, now take some more pictures so we don’t look weird standing here” Hissed Silas through not nearly as much cold weather gear.
After about a dozen selfies, and two dozen overly ripe seal farts Byron finally showed up in little more than a track suit and a fur hat. He looked like he was just going for a jog, which he probably was, the crazy Kiwi. Their handoffs were usually longer affairs, trying to look natural as a couple friends getting a chance to meet up finally since the two bases weren’t technically open to each other at any old time. But Byron looked like he was in a rush today.
Merrill started to hand over the hard drive “Here, this is from—“
“I don’t care, I don’t want to know, I’ve told you this, I just pass this on to the buyers.” Byron said putting up his hands and trying to push this imperative into Merrill’s head for the 100th time.
“Hey Roomie what’re you guys up to? Thought about letting me take you on a helo ride yet?” Porfiro said popping up over one of the ridges.
“Bwah!” Merrill gasped, almost inflating his face covers as he dropped the hard drive.
Just as the hard drive was about to hit the ground Merrill managed to grab it, but immediately fumbled it, sending the shiny, silvery looking hard drive right at a seal that mistook it for a fish, and swallowed it. Merrill started to run after the seal, Silas ran after Merrill, Porfiro rand after the two of them, and Byron just continued on his way deciding never to talk with those two again.
“Stop guys! You can’t mess with the wildlife! It’s against the rules!” Yelled Porfiro between sharp gasps of frigid air.
Merrill and Silas ignored him as they caught up with the seal. It was just a pup so it wasn’t too fast. Merrill tried to pry the mouth open only to get nipped by the little seal. Silas caught an idea; he told Merrill to try and roll the seal over on its back, and he’d try and make it throw up with some kind of Heimlich maneuver. After a few moments of struggling with the ball of fur and fat and ignoring Porfiro some more, he managed to position the seal. Silas shook him limbs out, did his best impression of The Rock, and brought his elbow down straight onto the poor seal. Nothing but a piercing squeal came out as the seal started to convulse, then stop.
Silas had now killed something in Antarctica.
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD ARE YOU MONSTERS DOING!” Boomed over another one of the ridges. The commotion had gotten the attention of Dr. Darwin Lushbrook, one of the head biologists at the Lab. “You, are you with them!?” he shouted at Porfiro.
“I’m Silas’s roommate. I tried to stop hi—“
“Take them back to the base and keep them in the dorms. I’ll deal with you all later; I need to take this seal back to the lab now that you’ve killed it.”Dr. Lushbrook sighed as he turned away from them to look at the seal. Porfiro started to usher the other two away.
“Oh! Also tell me what dorm you’re in and your room numbers and names…”
Silas finally managed to get the lock to the lab open. If they had still been able to work in the IT office he could have just made a new card with access, but now they had to do it hard way. They only had a few days left before the next flight came and they were going to be on it heading for animal cruelty charges back home. The only reason they weren’t being locked up was because there was literally nowhere for them to run. Just as they found the seal—
“Hey guys! Are you coming to apologize to Dr. Lushbrook? You should have told me, I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.” Porfiro chimed from the doorway.
Merrill and Silas both slammed him with “SHHHHHHH”s louder than what he had said as they covered his mouth.
“Yes, now, uh, please…take him over to another room Merrill while I find the Doctor.” Silas stammered as his brain kept trying to catch up with his mouth.
Merrill dragged Porfiro down to the touch tanks at the end of the lab so Silas could try and get the hard drive back. They hadn’t cut the seal open yet, thankfully, so they were still only in trouble for animal cruelty as far as anyone knew. But now Silas had to get into the damned thing somehow.
Silas noticed some arm length gloves on the work bench and started to struggle his way into one when he heard someone coming down the hall. Just as he managed to hide behind a shelf he heard Dr. Lushbrook enter the room.
“Hello? Is someone in here?” The doctor called out, having heard the commotion.
Silas carefully kept moving just out of Lushbrook’s way as he searched around the room looking for the source of the sound. Then he got himself in a corner, panicked, grabbed a fire extinguisher, and cracked Dr. Lushbrook over the head as he came around said corner.
Now he had killed two things in Antarctica.
He quickly put the glove on and dug out the harddrive from the seal. Desperately trying to think up a plan to deal with body in a place where every piece of trash is sorted and inspected Silas caught an idea. He grabbed one of the large specimen bags from the back, and stuffed Lushbrook’s body into it, and went to find Merrill and Porfiro.
“It sure was nice of Dr. Lushbrook to let you off the hook just for helping stock the Erebus site.” Porfiro said through his headset as he piloted his helicopter up the volcano.
Merrill and Silas just nodded as they sat on a hodgepodge of random items from the lab, plus one specimen bag. Porfiro had been talking about trying to get them on a helo ride to the volcano since Silas got him as a roommate, this isn’t the way he thought it would happen, but it was probably the best way to dispose of a body. Just drop it in the lava and walk away.
As they landed at the empty camp they grabbed the specimen bag and asked Porfiro to start moving the other “supplies” to the storage container at the edge of the site while they took this “special” item over elsewhere. It didn’t take too long before Dr. Lushbrook was careening down through the smoke into the lava below. At least they hoped he hit the lava, they couldn’t see any, but figured the chamber was just a really long way down. A couple minutes later they were on the way back.
Porfiro kept trying to make small talk as Silas and Merrill ignored him, or tried too at least since you’re not able to mute the pilot on the headsets they had to wear. About halfway through the ride back Porfiro decided that the best bet was to share some trivia he’d picked up flying scientists around.
“Did you guys know that some people think that Erebus is still active? There’s actually no lava in the chamber, the ‘smoke’ you see rising is actually just steam from a lake of melt water in the chamber below. They actually even send probes down into that lake, but they haven’t found anything alive in it.” He nonchalantly shared.
Silas went white. Merrill went white. Silas went white again.
They landed back at the empty pad and slide out of the helicopter. Silas shuffled over towards the rear rotor. Porfiro ran over to try and keep him from going that way, he was sure he told Silas not to wander near it in the safety check before they left. Silas gritted his teeth and contorted his face at Porfiro. As he tried to get Silas away from the rotor Porfiro slipped on some ice just as Silas reared back and dove at Porfiro to try and push him into the rotors, hitting them himself.
Silas had now killed 3 things in Antarctica.
|# ¿ Feb 26, 2018 04:23|
The Book of Barnes, Chapter 10, Verse 12-29
12 And lo the crowds did gather as told at the base of the mountain. 13 And as they had in the olden days, a priestess was chosen. 14 And upon that priestess, the holy garments were adorned.
15 And upon her the holy straw hat was adorned. 16 But it was not to be worn as a hat, but really more of a necklace piece kinda? 17 Anyway, into the wilderness she was driven with only the sacred sheet music, the holy garments, the hat, and other accessories as befitting her complection and the current summer season. So stick to lighter hues and fabrics.
18As the priestess fasted in the wilderness, and studied the music, the crowds did gently caress off to WaWa. Except for Jerry who took his kids to Sonic because they wanted Tater Tots. Forever shall Jerry and his kind be cursed for not bring any to share.
19On the 14th day a breakthrough was made. The priestess did begin the ceremony, and the crowds returned. 20The song of Barnes did echo through the wilderness. 21And upon hearing the call, music swelled through the wilderness.
22And after 22 days, lo did the beat drop, as Barnes appeared above the Mountains. 23 Thus Barnes spoke: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh.
25AAAAAHHHH EEEEE AAAAAHHH EEEEE YEEEEEAHHHHHHH 26AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
27 28 AAAAH.
|# ¿ Feb 26, 2018 18:24|
Flash me with some 80's garbage.
|# ¿ Mar 8, 2018 02:16|
Lol double flash rule. I’ll take it.
|# ¿ Mar 8, 2018 03:58|
Stevie spent another Sunday sitting at that dumb Macintosh box that Dad bought. He sits there, hour after hour, flying around a crummy looking helicopter in a purple desert listening to beeps.
“Are you trying to become Chunk? You’d actually be better off practicing your truffle shuffle than sitting here for another weekend.” I threw at him, like I was spiking a football.
“Shuddup Robbie, you don’t even want a turn.” He mumbled without turning around.
That wasn’t the point dweeb. He keeps doing this. Just running away and hiding when something goes wrong for him. Last time he spent weeks going to the movies after school watching Rocky or Rambo or whatever else they had playing, only coming home late after dark. Mom and Dad put a stop to that after he got kicked out for hiding out in The Goonies for a whole Sunday (On one ticket). He was trying to avoid them because he failed some classes. I don’t know what he’s hiding from this time though.
I went and grabbed a real football, and actually spiked him this time. “Who’re you hiding from?” I asked, nicer than the thumped shoulder would suggest.
Stevie swiveled in the chair towards me, rubbing his shoulder. He kept looking down and mumbled “Jimmy”. After a little more poking, prodding, and one carefully executed power bomb, down the hall, and onto his bed it turned out this Jimmy kid embarrassed Stevie at football tryouts. Now he makes fun of him every time he sees Stevie around.
“So you’re not even going to try and get better?”
“Noooo. The only winning move is not to play.” He whined, throwing a pillow at me. I put him in a headlock and gave him a noogie.
“You idiot, how many times did you watch that movie? And you still missed the point? The computer didn’t win by not playing,” I say, taunting him, and let him go, “Tell you what; If I beat your score at that helicopter game you have to come to the high school football practice, with me, for a month. We’ll fix you up and then Jimmy’ll never even be able to touch you again.”
Stevie didn’t say anything. He got up, walked back to the den and started the game up again. After a few screens of beeps and garbled mess on the screen he flew over to a green block and let it destroy the chopper. I patted him on the, non-spiked, shoulder and told him I’d pick him up after school on Monday.
“Thanks” Stevie said, quietly, as I left the room.
|# ¿ Mar 11, 2018 23:42|
You mean AA. As in Alcoholics Anonymous.
AAA is the car service.
|# ¿ Mar 13, 2018 00:33|
Goddammit NZ, just flipping the script like that.
|# ¿ Mar 13, 2018 01:20|
In, Staring contest.
|# ¿ Apr 3, 2018 23:45|
“Welcome everyone to the 73rd Meeker County, Minnesota Staring Contest; Brought to you by the local Lion’s Club. Woo! Yaaay!” Cheered Bill, providing his own backing in the auditorium populated by 10 other people. The last of the participants had shoveled their way into the auditorium, quite literally given the snow packed February that had been raging for a couple of weeks now, and had signed in. Bill tried to sign a few more people up so they could actually do a quarter finals, but no one else was interested.
“Well I know that you all know the rules, buuuuut we actually have a new contender this year! So before I get into the nitty gritty of our little contest on his behalf, let’s meet our newest member of the community!” Bill pointed to an the odd man out in the crowd and waved him up to the front “stage” about 7 or 8 times before the man finally joined him.
“It is pronounced ‘John’” Said…John.
“Haha, I doubt that but okay there,” Laughed Bill as he put the man’s sign-up sheet back on the table, “So how long have you been with us now?”
“Precisely 6 months, the minimum amount of time to establish residency in this county.” Replied John.
“Convenient! Well then welco-”
“He can’t compete! He’s an alien!” Screamed a woman from the seats.
“Technically not against the rules Jenny, he doesn’t need to be a citizen, just a country resident and he showed me a utility bill tonight so-“
“No! He is literally a space alien!” Jenny screamed again.
“Oh, well, yes. He is a 7ft tall broccoli monster…lizard broccoli monster. Also: You’re just now bringing this up? He’s been sitting here since before you got here; a little rude Jenny. But, but, again, technically not against the rules,” explained Bill, “plus it’s not like he’s asked for anything terrible for his ‘prize’. Which brings me to what I was trying to get to…”
Bill went into explaining the basic rules for the County Staring Contest. The simple goal is to outlast your opponent by not blinking; the winner then receives one thing (that they submit ahead of time to be checked) from the County chair as a “prize”. The prize could potentially be anything the winner wanted as long as it was feasible, didn’t violate any laws, and wasn’t an undue burden on the County budget (this was a fundraiser after all). Thankfully in recent years the requests have been things like a “park anywhere pass” or just new sports equipment for the little leagues.
“So any last questions, John?” Asked Bill, as he grabbed the rule book off a folding table.
“So I just need to keep at least 1 eye open during the contest? Can I simply keep my other eyes closed until I need them open?” John asked as he demonstrated independently blinking his 12 eyes.
“Oh no. Technically you must keep all your eyes open and facing toward your opponent. See here? No ‘winking’ for an advantage.” Explained Bill as he mimicked John by winking he two eyes back and forth.
“Then if eye contact is necessary I will simply use my nictitating membrane and keep my eyes moist.” Chuckled John as he revealed another trump card.
“Teeeeechnically no. It says here that the use of any lid like structure used to close over the eye in order to maintain moisture counts as a blink.” Explained Bill again, trying to mime that action too, to little effect.
“Then what about the ancient woman Susan? Look at her eyes, she is clearly using a membrane like mine right now!” Complained John.
“Haha, those are cataracts. Susan’s blind as a bat.” Laughed Bill.
“Then she cannot see and cannot compete!”
“Technically the rules don’t say anything about sight, just that your eyes are pointed in the direction of your opponent. So we’ll just point her in the right direction and let ‘er go!”
“I think I should have spent more time researching the actual rules of this contest…” John sighed, taking his seat.
Ultimately there were only 4 contestants including John. Jenny Lost to Susan in the first round, partially so that she could stop staring into her milky white eyes. John went up against a young boy who could barely sit still and lost when he looked away to talk with a friend. This left John and Susan for the final round. Bill helped walk Susan over to her chair and John locked his 12 eyes onto her defective two. Susan stared somewhere over John’s left shoulder. Then with Bill’s entirely anti-climactic “alright go” they were off.
One minute went by without any issue, both competitors merely looking, or as close as they could, dead on at their opponent.
Five minutes in and John was sweating, but this was yet another trump card. He was doing his best to wrinkle his skin to funnel the sweat into his eyes to keep them wet; Susan just stared on, barely even moving.
Ten minutes in and even the sweat trick was failing John, the extra sets of eyes were far more of a detriment than he first realized.
After twenty minutes Susan was carted out by the EMTs having died at roughly the eight minute mark, leaving John the red eye’d victor.
“Well John, congratulations. It’s a shame that Susan died like that but considering her situation, and that her prize was a burial plot, I think we’ll be legally obligated to honor her request anyways. So are you ready for your prize!?” Chimed Bill, as he clapped towards the few who had remained to finish off the meager snacks.
“Yes. Do you have the deed to my land here or do I need to go to the County Offices to pick it up?” Asked John.
“Welp, we’ll need you to pick out a particular spot for your 4 acres, so please come on down to-“
“What do you mean ‘pick out’? I requested those exact coordinates.” Snapped John.
“Oh no… Technically we can’t give you that land. There’s a nuclear waste dump there. We figured you didn’t know that and just wanted any old open 4 acres.” Bill said, opening up a property map for the county.
“Yes, I know. My people are going to mine that material to use for our own purposes.” John was beginning to look worried.
“Well, I do apologize, but you’ll have to talk to the federal government about that land. We can still give you any other plot though.” Bill said patting John on the back, trying to comfort him.
“I do believe I am going to die.” John sighed, looking dejectedly at the ground. A slight whining sound starting to emanate from him
“Oh it’s not that bad. You can find other options…” Comforted Bill.
“No, I just heard my kill collar activate.” John corrected.
“Oh, too bad…” Said Bill, stepping away.
|# ¿ Apr 9, 2018 01:33|
What's up you bastards. You may remember me from such classics as Dog Police and Black Jesus.
I'm down, but these kids are going to put us (or me at least) to shame
|# ¿ Apr 9, 2018 13:53|
|# ¿ Oct 21, 2021 22:25|
I can't access google docs at work (blocked for some reason) but I'll check this out when I get home.
|# ¿ Apr 16, 2018 18:57|