In, a contest where people go back in time to kill hitler
|# ¿ Apr 6, 2018 17:01|
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2022 05:00|
I'm Gonna Git You Hitler! (1750 words)
My first try, I nearly got laughed out of the competition. I nearly died too, but honestly, I think I would have preferred that over the humiliation I got. They dropped me right into central Berlin, 1941;. Not a chance in hell. I already had the worst odds of any Fuhrermörder ever—a thousand to one, and they didn’t get any longer than that. I couldn’t quarrel with the handicapping. A black guy who didn’t speak German—what the hell did they expect?
Some unamused Nazis strung me up near the Brandenburg gate, and as the noose cinched and my vision blurred all I could see was Shondra, saying, ‘you the stupidest motherfucker on the planet’ over and over. Dangling above a sea of angry, blue-eyed krauts, I realized she was right. The final gulp of air wheezed out of me, and then at the last moment the Time Cops busted in with their power armor and nova rifles, frying the Nazis into neon sludge and delivering me back to the studio with the drat rope still around my neck. The audience howled with laughter, Shondra in the front row, shaking her head in disgust.
You might be thinking: won’t mucking around in the past change the future? Long story short, no. The producers explained it to us in excruciating detail, but as far as I understood, the past was like a giant museum exhibit we could mess with as much as we wanted. Unless we got killed; then we were gone for good. But the time cops did their best to prevent that. The audience wanted to see Hitler bite it, not us.
Anyway, this was right in the middle of Dieter Kreuzer’s five-year streak, and after he’d been awarded the Golden Luger he found me backstage, icing down my neck and shoulders. Smirking, he nudged me with the gun, and made some crack about how I hadn’t exactly acted like Arnold Schwartzenegger out there. I didn’t really know Dieter back then, so I thought he was just busting my balls in a friendly way. I soon found out that no, he was just an rear end in a top hat. It’s one thing to win, it’s another to strut around like a fighting cock when you’re a porcelain-skinned aryan who speaks perfect German. I mean, talk about a layup. But that’s why he was the favorite, year after year. I vowed revenge.
Shonda said I must have been crazy to try again, and she wasn’t the only one who thought so. When Dieter saw me among that year's contestants he covered his mouth like a giggling school girl. But despite last year’s poor showing, my ratings had been good—everyone likes a clown, apparently—and the producers offered me a raise if I returned. Besides, I was a dreamer at heart. That million-dollar prize kept me awake during my German lessons. I had this recurring fantasy of winning, showing Shondra the new a 24-carat diamond ring I'd bought, and then flinging it into the garbage disposal, just to see the look on her face.
I fared only slightly better my second time. They threw us for a loop—1901, kid Hitler. Those turn of the century Austrians looked at me like an escaped zoo animal, but at least they didn’t string me up at first sight. I made it as far as the train station before I got word that Dieter had already thrown little 12-year-old Adolph off the roof of the Vienna schoolhouse. That rear end in a top hat thinks he’s so slick. Five other Fuhrermörders in the building, and only Dieter can find the kid? I always suspected there was tomfoolery afoot. A producer with a vested interest, if you catch my drift. They wanted to keep their boy on top. Screw the whole lot of `em.
What’s one more year, right? This time we landed in 1915, world war I Hitler. By now my German was pretty good, and I kept my gas mask on everywhere I went, so nobody could tell I was actually black as their goddamned forest the krauts were so proud of. Posing as a reporter, I actually made it to the big man’s unit, was halfway down into his trench before an artillery strike blew me backward and fragged all 25 members of his company. Dieter had gone to the French side, directing mortar fire with a stolen lieutenants’ uniform. Motherfucker was clever, I’ll give him that.
After Dieter returned to a standing ovation, he gave me a little condescending wink: better luck next year kid. Later, I told him he would have made a great Nazi, they would have showered him with all sorts of medals and crosses. He seemed to take that as a compliment. rear end in a top hat.
Shondra said if I tried again this year she’d leave me. Woman, I’ve had StG 44s pointed at my face. You think I won’t call your bluff?
My odds had increased to 500-1, and I was feeling optimistic. I’d studied my history, was almost totally fluent, and figured that despite my racial handicap, I still had a shot. I told myself win or lose, this would be the last time.
Then I saw where the machine spat me out, and things got really interesting. Berlin Summer Olympics, 1936 baby. Maybe someone up there was looking after me. Or maybe one of the producers put down a grand on my 500-1 rear end and decided I could use a leg up. Either way, for once I wasn’t the only black person in 1000 miles. I spotted Dieter outside the stadium; he was losing his cool, trying to buy a ticket from a scalper. Meanwhile, I strolled inside like a celebrity as people gawked and flashbulbs popped.
Man, that crowd was in a frenzy. A hundred thousand crackers screaming and shouting for their fuhrer. Dieter had finally made it inside and was conferring with a group of other pasty Fuhrermörders in the lobby, shouting at each other over the roar of the crowd as the opening ceremonies started. Always scheming, these guys. I knew I didn’t have much time to come up with a plan, not if I was going to beat Dieter to the punch.
I made my way down to the locker room, and who should I find standing outside but Jesse Owens himself. He was mobbed by fans, including young German girls, which I don’t think the man upstairs would have been too happy to see.
It was no secret where the Fuhrer had parked his ugly rear end; his box overlooked the festivities, crammed with people. People were trying to wrangle Jesse for a diplomatic visit. He didn’t look too pleased, but sure enough he and his entourage began to make their way upstairs, with me tagging along like I was just one of the gang. Nobody looked twice at me. When we reached the box, old Adolph didn’t come out, but that motherfucker actually waved at Jesse, can you believe it? I scoped the scene, but there was no way to get any closer.
Discouraged, I went down to the street level and saw a Wehrmacht soldier smoking a cigarette against a wall, the back of his truck just left unlocked. And wouldn’t you know it, in there was a box chock full of those twisty grenades the krauts love so much. I tucked it into my pants and hooked back up with the rest of my brothers just in time for the opening ceremonies. All the athletes from the different countries strolled across the stadium, just feet away from the Fuhrer himself. As I passed, I was so close I could almost see the food stuck in his mustache. Under my shirt I cooked the grenade, and as soon as I was a few paces further I turned, chucked it, and ran like hell, so fast that Jesse Owens would have been proud. I didn't get to see the boom, but I tell you, it’s a good thing the time cops bust in to evac me right away, because those Germans were not happy.
Suddenly I was back on stage, the crowd going absolutely crazy, and the next thing I knew this tall dude was presenting me with a giant check and champagne bottles were popping, and it’s all a little hazy after that, but it was one of the better nights of my life, no doubt about that. I even managed not to say ‘I told you so’ to Chandra after she pulled me into one of her smothering bear hugs.
But the look on Dieter’s face was the real prize. He was dumbfounded, I mean befuddled, in complete disbelief that a black man from New Orleans had ended his five-year streak of Hitler homicide.
“You are lucky,” he told me, between puffs of his stinky European cigarette, “Someone on the board has taken a fancy to you.”
I simply said, “Luger don’t lie,” and flashed the golden pistol in front of his scowling face.
I thought that’d be it for me. I got my money, my respect, I got Shondra to finally shut her trap and I got Dieter’s blood boiling. How naive of me. During a lull in the festivities the producers pulled me aside. Your ratings are through the roof, they told me. You come back next year, you’ll get as much money as you want, comfy drop zones, easy scenarios, you name it. I wish I could say I told them to shove it, but a million only goes so far these days, and those dollar signs were doing the cha cha in front of my eyes. And that crowd chanting my name didn’t feel too bad, neither.
Who’s the star now, baby? I’m the star. Dieter sulks backstage, chain smoking, and shoots me his Bavarian death glare as I pass. It’s been a while since he tasted victory. Maybe he forgot its sweet, tangy flavor. He steps out onstage, and the crowd actually boos him. I can just feel how much he hates me. But hey, buck up there, Herr Kreuzer. A little healthy competition never hurt anyone.
I put on a real show for the people now. Having fun with it. I strut out in full pimp outfit, cane, feather in the cap and everything. As I lean back in the machine and strap the goggles to my face, I stare intensely out into the crowd and shout: “Time to show this motherfucking honkey Hitler who’s boss!”
They just about lose their poo poo.
|# ¿ Apr 8, 2018 21:36|
Thanks to last weeks judges for reading my retarded story. I'm in with a flash rule
|# ¿ Apr 10, 2018 15:25|
Diner Food (1925 words)
Both women had their reasons for choosing the diner. Dr. Klein imagined the diner held a kind of slight backwoods danger which excited her: the working class-clientele, the grizzled waitresses, the fact that she and Dr. Shazier were clearly city slickers from out of town. She wasn't really expecting trouble, of course, but the dirty chrome, ripped booths and wobbly stools would at least be different from power lunches downtown, 12 dollar cocktails and bankers in loose ties sloshing their gin and tonics.
In Dr. Shazier's case, the choice was more practical. Her new book had not sold well; she had taken a long sabbatical to write it and her finances had suffered. She was late on her mortgage payments. A few dollars for some eggs over easy would be cheaper than the trendier options closer to the University.
Leanne Burbank, who had managed the diner for the last ten years, met the two women at the front counter and directed them to a booth. She noticed their unusual dress and manner, but Leanne tried not to judge people on appearances alone. She had been running the diner more-or less on her own the past decade, and she had seen plenty worse than two professor types. Space aliens would have been fine, so long as they wore a shirt and shoes and paid their bill. It was a slow morning and she was doing double duty as a waitress; she willed a smile and went to their table and said “Welcome, ladies. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Water is fine,” said Dr. Shazier.
Dr. Klein held the menu aloft, studying it for something that wasn't there. “Do you have chamomile tea?”
“No Hon. Just green tea.” Upon hearing this, Dr. Klein smirked and tilted her head.
“No? You don't have anything herbal? Oh, you know what, green tea is fine. You don't have soy milk, do you?”
“We have soy milk.”
“I'd like some with the tea, then. Thanks.”
Both professors were due to speak on a panel about modern international sovereignty at the university later that day. Dr. Klein was nervous, as her specialty geared more toward diplomatic history than questions of sovereignty and independence, and she accommodated for this nervousness by talking loudly and with unfiltered abandon about whatever crossed her mind.
“A little grimy,” Dr. Klein said, running a finger through a streak of grease perpendicular to her place mat. “I heard Emma Bradford's supposed to show up after all. You think she'll mention her column in the Economist?”
“Does she ever not?”
“That's the joke, hon.” Dr. Klein smiled mischievously. Above, them, a television was blaring a cable news program, pundits talking about the war. She craned her head. “Listen to this prattle. No wonder we're always at war. What kind of person would take this seriously? Should I ask them to turn it off?”
“I think they might find that a little rude.” Dr. Shazier was also concerned about the conference, for different reasons. She had a chapter in her book devoted to issues of sovereignty, and was confident in her knowledge of the subject. What worried her was whether she'd sell any copies of it, whether she'd secure further speaking arrangements. The thought of having to borrow more money made her insides squirm more than any kind of public speaking.
“What's rude is having to listen to propaganda bleating praise about sending soldiers to occupy a foreign country.”
“We're not in the city anymore,” Dr. Shazier said, lowering her voice. “People in here probably disagree with you.”
“And so what? It's a free country, no? Ostensibly that's what they're fighting for? So that some high school dropout can go shoot people and everyone here can wave an American flag?”
Leanne had busied herself cleaning tables at the other end of the room, but during her ten years she had learned quite well how to eavesdrop. Her only son Maxwell was fighting overseas, 19 and homesick, at least from what she could read between the lines in his last letter. Leanne sent him his favorite snacks every week, gummy bears and mountain dew. The two professional women in the booth could not comprehend someone like Max, someone who lived not for himself but for others, someone for whom values and patriotism was more than words in a book or pages in a journal. Leanne tried to tell herself she was accepting, but the truth was she was not. She was protective and provincial; she would do anything for her son and she would not apologize for it. As she listened to the conversation, she found herself growing angrier.
Dr. Shazier didn't want to debate the war—at present, all she wanted was to eat her cheap eggs and get to the conference without making a big scene.
“You're right,” she said, but Dr. Klein would not let it go.
“And they just keep broadcasting this garbage to the people who just lap it up, unquestioningly. It doesn't roil you?”
“We'll be doing our best to fight ignorance today. What more can you do?”
“Right, but the people who really need to hear the message have never stepped foot in a college classroom. But we can fund millions of dollars for the football team for a new scoreboard.”
“All ready to order?” Leanne had returned, the smile plastered across her face now unconvincingly fake. Dr. Shazier ordered her frugal eggs. Dr. Klein pointed to an item on the menu.
“Can I have this, but with egg whites? I can't eat the yolks, so just the whites is very important, okay? Can you do that?”
“Sure,” Leanne said, smiling broadly. “I'll put that right in for you.”
This was the fundamental difference between them, Leanne thought as she headed back to the kitchen. Some people's problems would always be theoretical. There was a reason the women had come here, and it wasn't the food. It was to touch, briefly, the lives of those who had experienced more than mere inconvenience. Leanne had experienced tragedy before, and she would again. And yet these zen thoughts did not quell her rage. She thought of her son, and if she would see him again. She tried to picture him, out there in the desert, but for those few brief moments it was almost like she'd forgotten his face.
I'm not here. I'm at home working in the diner with mom, and the bacon is sizzling on the grill and I can hear the eggs cracking against the skillet and it smells so good, it smells like heaven, and Bobbi is waiting for me outside and together we hop into my pickup truck and burn rubber down main street--
That's blood on the ground, oh man, it's in my mouth, it's suffocating me, I can't breathe! I spit it out over the dirt and sand and finally I have the stomach to look, I have to look, there's no other choice now, and oh no, my right leg is gone at the knee, just shredded skin there like hamburger and I choke and cough again on the BLOOD, it's metal and coppery and it's coming out my nose, and everyone else is dead on the ground and there's no one coming. The ground under my leg is a giant splotch like someone turned over a bucket of red paint.
I'm cold, sweaty and shaking, and I can't breathe, and no one is coming, I'm going to DIE here, no I'm not it's going to be okay they'll find me, no I'm really going to die, before I left I said Mom I'll be all right, don't worry about me, but that was wrong, I'm going to DIE and that's it and there's nothing, I never even got to have sex, I never told Bobbi how I feel and it hurts so bad I call out for Mom but my mouth is so full of blood I don't even know if any sound comes out, and the wind blows sand into my eyes and I can't even raise my hands to wipe them.
My heart's beating too fast and more blood is spurting out with every thump, no no no, and I can't think, I can't reach my radio, my leg feels like a balloon that exploded and I can feel the bone scraping against the sand, and God, I'll take it all back, I'll do better in school, I'll do my homework and study for the tests, I'll get into college and get a job and buy a house with Bobbi. I'll go back and drop out of ROTC, I'll lie to the recruiter and say I'm diabetic, I'll never pick up Call of Duty, just give me one chance to go back to boot camp and I'll fall (jump) from the climbing wall and break my leg and muster out, I'll malinger, PLEASE just let me go back just this one time, I swear I'll go to church every week and give all my money to the collection plate, just this once, please, I'll do it all, I promise.
Someone's coming! Someone's walking—no, it's just a shadow, a shadow of a cloud, no one's coming and everything's getting jumbled, it's really hard to think, and I'm cruising around campus in the pickup hollering at the college girls, honking and smiling and watching them blush and flip me off and put their hands on their hips, but some of them smile and I know they all like it, and the sun is out and there's that summer feel in the air and Bobbi's texting me to come hang out and there's a six pack of beer waiting in the fridge when I get there and it's cold and wet and I press it to my forehead....
I'm not here, I'm back home, smells like freshly cut grass and funnel cake at the boardwalk and my friends are in my ear saying Maxie Maxie when you comin' out? But there's still that taste of blood in my mouth and the horizon is just this narrow strip of darkness and I'm starting to feel okay with it, starting to feel a slow fade like my tube amp cooling down, and Mom, where are you Mom? Am I late for school? What time is it, what day is it, how long have I been aslee—
Ten minutes before she was due to give her presentation on international sovereignty, Dr. Klein stood in front of the mirror, pointing at herself and screaming. Dr. Shazier, who'd been finishing up in the stall, came bursting out. Dr. Klein's face was covered in splotchy hives, bright red like a sunburn. Her hands trailed over her skin in disbelief.
“I told her no whites! Goddamn it! I can't go out there like this! Ugh, I feel sick. I feel sick. I can't believe this. She did it on purpose, that loving hillbilly! These idiots, they—are you laughing? You're really laughing? This isn't funny, I've been poisoned!”
Dr. Shazier tried to stifle her laughter, but it had overwhelmed her. She left Dr. Klein steaming in the bathroom and walked out, out of the bathroom, out of the university building, out into the quad, where the squirrels were out running around and the breeze was calm and pleasant. She sat down against a giant oak tree and closed her eyes.
|# ¿ Apr 16, 2018 01:18|
drat I came in last lol. Well thanks for reading anyway, I'm IN this week and toxxing myself that I'll have the best story
|# ¿ Apr 17, 2018 14:02|
that's bold af and i love it. good luck and godspeed.
Thank you sir. Do we have to use the quotes in the story or is it more of a suggestion?
|# ¿ Apr 18, 2018 01:20|
Finnt Visits the Potion Master
Idris Elba plays Potion Master Starkley
Inspirational quote: He has a flair for…you know, making the unrealistic seem realistic.
Finnt puzzled at the wall of buttons. They were set deep into the brassy surface, each labeled with an indecipherable, ornate calligraphy. He compared them with the symbols on his wilted scrap of parchment.
“Looks like the scrawlings of a mungoid,” said Finnt’s iddy. Finnt ignored it. The iddy grabbed Finnt’s shirt scruff and yanked itself up for a better look. Its face was a bloated caricature of Finnt’s own—jutting beak nose, flapping ears, and eyes set so closely together they nearly touched. Finnt tossed him aside.
Just finding the damned conveyor had been a trial of its own. The Dobe stretched countless leagues, subterranean channels coursing beneath a squat crown of cement and stone. Finnt had bribed an untangler to show him the way. He’d followed the toothless wretch down grease-slicked cables and across yawning chasms; they sloshed through sewers fetid with fleshrenders and denuded cisterns wafting stenches so foul Finnt had to rim his nose with mintbalm to keep from vomiting. All with the damned iddy clinging to his back, loosing profanity as they went.
Finnt studied the parchment. If he entered the code wrongly the conveyor could spit him out under water, or into a furnace, or worse.
“Get on with it,” his iddy moaned. “I don’t want to be stuck sniffing your foul wind all day.”
Grunting, Finnt pressed what he hoped were the right buttons; another brassy panel swung down to cover the entrance, and the cage began to move. The brassy walls turned translucent, and they rode suspended on impossible wire that dipped and swerved in all directions, moving through a silvery, glittery substance with the thickness of cold broth. Great, scaly snakelike things swam through the nectar it, fringed feathers guiding them along like boat oars. Another conveyor, a chrome box the size of a boulder, raced right toward them; the iddy shrieked.
Both conveyors swung: one up, one down, and the two passed each other as smoothly as a Jacob’s ladder unraveling. Finnt's stomach roiled; the iddy cursed. They rode on.
After several minutes, the conveyor stopped abruptly. Its sides became opaque once again, and they emerged into an anteroom—a plush couch, walls covered in gold and silver brocade, and a marble sculpture of a nude woman, beckoning. Behind them, the conveyor doors sucked shut.
Ahead was a tombstone-shaped crescent of dark. Starkley stepped out of the shadows.
“Now there’s a face from long-ago.” Starkley’s broad frame nearly filled the entranceway.
Finnt's iddy dragged his feet across the carpet, scowling. “Why can’t you live someplace normal, you black bastard?”
“Quiet,” Finnt said. Starkley laughed.
“My, Finnt. Someone of your cunning, cursed with an iddy?”
The iddy spat. “If you want to talk cunning, bring out your woman! I’ll show her a thing or two!”
“Nasty little homunculus, isn’t he? Well, since you’re here, you might as well come in.”
The iddy clung to Finnt's leg as he followed Starkley inside. Starkley’s abode smelled of incense and brimstone. There were shelves full of neatly indexed plants and roots, flasks, goblets and beakers of varying size and shape, a few colored birds roosting quietly in cages, and a cauldron. There were also several tapestries of nude women hanging about. Starkley’s lascivious appetites were legendary.
Finnt sank into a soft wicker chair. The iddy pressed its hooked nose against the birdcage and blew a raspberry before Finnt yanked him back. Starkley sat across from him on a velvety stool. His flowing robe looked like it could have draped a banquet table.
“Let’s see if I can cogitate this,” Starkley began. “You wouldn’t visit a potion master to get rid of an iddy. Not our forte. And I doubt you came here to reminisce.”
“Astonishing,” Finnt replied. “Are you a soothsayer now as well as a brewman?”
“I guess that leaves the obvious. You need a potion. A difficult one, I imagine.”
Starkley may have looked like one of the heroes of old--handsome, charming, big as a yank-ox—but instead of vanity, his eyes radiated a keen, sinister intelligence.
“I need to travel through Bighollow Bog,” Finnt said. “I require a draught that would allow me to weather the noxious fumes there.”
“Bighollow Bog,” Starkley mused. “No pearls or gold to be found there. Why would the famous Finnt go trawling through that damp misery?”
“Old Finnt wants to get his wick wet!” The iddy shrieked jubilantly. “He’s doing it for a clam!”
Starkley laughed. “Is it true? Are you risking your life not for silver or coin, but for love?”
Finnt sighed. “The sister of my ladyfriend has been abducted by the Newt Prince cult. I’m to bring her back.”
“You know as well as I that nobody gets kidnapped by the Newt Prince. They go of their own accord, to pleasure him in hedonistic ways.”
“The circumstances don’t matter to me,” Finnt said. “I’m to bring her back, that’s all.”
“From Bighollow Bog? You always did make the absurd sound plausible.”
“Can you do it or not?”
Starkley stroked his chin. “What’s in it for me?”
“Name your price. I’ve got plenty of coin.”
Starkley motioned around. “I live humbly. I’m not in want of coin.”
“Everybody wants something.”
Starkley stroked his chin again, and gave a smile that rankled the gooseflesh on Finnt's arms.
“If you’re willing to risk your hide for this lass, she must be a great beauty. Am I right?”
Finnt said nothing. For once, his iddy was quiet as well.
“I’ll take that as a yes. How about this? Bring your lady here, and pledge her to me. Then I’ll brew whatever you want.”
“Living in this cave must have addled your mind,” Finnt said. “You debase yourself with such a request.”
“Maybe so. But those are my terms.”
“And here I was, thinking you’ve changed,” Finnt said. “You’re still the same shabby, scabrous, serpent-oil peddler.”
But he had little choice. Starkley was the only person on this side of the world who could brew a breath-of-life draught.
“Fine,” Finnt said. “But I need the bog-brew first. You can bind me to the promise with oathwine.”
“All right. I’ve got a batch gathering dust in the cellar.”
He returned shortly with a foaming red goblet, smelling of berries. Finnt's iddy jumped on his arm for a closer look, and Finnt shook him off.
“By drinking of this cup,” Starkley recited, “Finnt of Cainsworth forswears Starkley Half-Moon his ladyfriend for carnal purpose, at a time no later than one voyage of the world around the sun.”
If Finnt broke the oath, his bones would crack and splinter; his skin would burst with pustules and his stomach would distend with horrible agony. He nodded, and drained the cup. Starkley clapped and giggled.
“Excellent,” Starkley said. “Please wait in the foyer while I work. The draught should be finished after an hour, no more than two.”
Glumly, Finnt gathered his iddy and went out, flopping down on the plush couch. Once Starkley was out of range, he and his iddy burst into giddy laughter.
“Oh!” his iddy howled. “How funny! Can’t wait to see the look on that black bastard’s face when he sees Imelia!”
Finnt grinned. Everything he said had been true. Imelia was in fact his ladyfriend, and her sister Finnt had indeed agreed to retrieve from the Newt Prince’s clutches. But Imelia was not his lover. And she hadn’t always been a lady. Before she was Imelia, she was Imelchior, shape-sculptor and champion heavy-wrestler of the Northern isles.
Finnt put his feet up, as his iddy cackled joyously. Who knew? Perhaps Finnt had a future as a matchmaker.
(USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
|# ¿ Apr 23, 2018 02:06|
Just a little preview of my crits for this week:
I think that's a pretty disingenuous reading of my story, but whatever
|# ¿ Apr 23, 2018 13:19|
|# ¿ Jan 25, 2022 05:00|
Hmm, could I get a crit for my recent brawl story?
I don't have irc. The point is that the contract is obviously not going to be carried out. It's called a trick. I guess I should have made that more clear. Thanks for reading.
|# ¿ Apr 23, 2018 17:15|