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YORUICHI VS MUFFIN BRAWL: THE ENDENING This was a tough one to judge. I asked for action. I asked for pictures. Both authors delivered the goods. The Race, by Yoruichi Sort of an equine dieselpunk adventure, this one got off to a good start and just kept going. In particular, this story did a good job of having an intertwined B plot that got wrapped up neatly in the end. I was skeptical at first, because usually B plots are a trap in anything under 2k words, but the story of how a wayward brother returned home to both save the day and be saved made a nice end. The copious amounts of sick during the story were also appreciated, because being trapped in the torso of a mechanical horse (a horso if you will) while it is simultaneously spewing exhaust that is filtering back into the cabin sounds just terrible, but made for good descriptive writing. Where I felt the story sort of went astray is in some of the action choreography. Are these horse mechs (horchs) jumping or flying properly or just galloping really fast? The talk of a "...red-striped machine circling, a cloud of dust rising from the canyon below..." sort of makes it sound like it's hovering or in a holding pattern. Not against the rules, bur simply unclear. Also, the initial scene of Kat hurling out of the side-hatch was a little head scratching because I couldn't tell if she'd pulled over to be sick, or if she was still flying along whilst barfing. Speaking from experience, emptying one's stomach out of the open door of a moving vehicle is no mean feat...even more so if you're the one who's driving. But overall, high marks because I was solidly entertained. gently caress-Knuckle Jones IN Terminal Velocity: the Ballad of gently caress-Knuckle Jones, by SurreptitiousMuffin This story took my prompt to the logical conclusion of ALL ACTION ALL THE TIME. I generally don't go in for stream-of-consioussnessy stories, but you managed to put the right tone on this which really helped it. Equal parts hard-boiled, surreal, and hyper-violent. Do I ever have a clear picture of what a Mancar is? No not really. Does it matter? No not really. What matters is that the kinetics keep kineticking and the story keeps moving. It never devolved into feeling like and then...and then...and then... but that's precisely what was going on because it was just one stunt after another. That's not to say that some parts didn't stretch just a little thin. A half naked man is attempting to kill a mutant car with wheels *and* feet on the ruined surface of Mars. Ok, I'm in. ...But they somehow achieve escape velocity and exit the solar system? Mmm...ok I guess. And I stumbled a little thinking about Carman's anatomy. If the bonnet is the thing's mouth, then is Jones sitting inside the back of the mancar's throat? Is that how he can toss a harpoon into it's epiglottis? Or did he have to lean out the window and sort of hook around? Or is the epiglottis sitting in the back seat? I don't know and it's probably best if I just don't think about it. Also a class O white dwarf would be a blue dwarf. My immersion is ruined. Anyway, another very entertaining story. --- But this leaves me in a lurch because they're very different and I like them about the same. What to do, what to do... Well. They *do* share sort of a thematic element--things going fast. So I'll arrange a race of my own to break the tie. Representing Muffin will be Reggie:  Representing Yoruichi will be Bonnie:  The task is simple. I'm going to toss their favorite toy, and whoever brings it back to me first will win. Two different strategies here, though--Reggie is a pure nitro burner that will race go get it and then bring it back as fast as he can. Bonnie prefers a little finesse and guile, letting Reggie get it first then snagging it from him as he tries to run past her on his way back to me. Who will win? Let's find out: https://i.imgur.com/fI4mIUb.mp4 Looks like SurreptitiousMuffin wins! Weltlich fucked around with this message at 20:00 on Jan 12, 2022 |
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Jan 12, 2022 19:51
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 20:08 |
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Sitting Here posted:
The Call 461 words “Don’t hang up the phone. They might be listening…are you alone?” “Uh, what?” Dave looked confused, struggling to hear the voice in the receiver over the device’s high-pitched whine. “Listen, my position has been compromised, we don’t have much time. They’re going to come for you tonight. Might be a smash and grab raid, might be a stealth op. Can you get out?” Dave looked at the open door of the lab while Dr. Cindy desperately tried to shut the RealitySmasher500 down. “Yeah, I guess.” “Good, then you need to get to the safe house as soon as you possibly can. Only take what you can carry with you and don’t leave any identification at the scene. We think these people work for the good aliens… The ones that kidnap hobos and dissolve them in vats of acid under Denver International. Consume the slurry by spreading it on their skin and absorbing it through metabolizing pores. You know, the good aliens. God help you if it’s the bad ones.” Dave tried to gesture at Dr. Cindy, something that would convey You should be the person taking this call. She saw him flap his hand at her gracelessly and shouted “NOT NOW!” in return. “If you can make it to the safe house, we’ll have a team ready to evacuate you to the Vatican. Otherwise, the buzzards are going to be picking your bones out by the big blue mustang statue by the end of the week.” “Hang on.” Dave covered the mouthpiece of the phone and raised his voice above the din of the infernal machine. “Hey Doc, do you want to go to see the Pope?” “Goddamn it, Dave! We’re going to be meeting his boss if I can’t unfuck whatever you did to this thing!” Dave nodded sagely and out the handset back to his ear. “I dunno, we don’t go to church or anything.” “The real Vatican of course, not the fake Vatican. But you must move! Go now! Where the sands have shifted, the sentry stands and awaits the illuminated.” “S-sure. That must be a pretty clutch job.” There was dead air on the phone for a moment. Then the voice spoke again, enunciating each word carefully, “The antlers unfold and cast a shadow. Around the embers, the salted circle.” “What?” “You’re… That’s not the passphrase. This isn’t Order of the Night Moose, Lodge 500. Who is this?” “Dave. Who’s this?” “poo poo!” The line went dead. Dave turned to ask Dr. Cindy if she knew that moose (mooses?) were from outer space when the RealitySmasher500 grounded itself with a flash of purple energy and he felt as if he was in two places at once. Neither place was Denver, so he breathed a small sigh of relief.
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Mar 1, 2022 03:12
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I'll take one of them there hell rules for my next pass.
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Mar 1, 2022 03:45
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a friendly penguin posted:A Touch of Death sebmojo posted:Everyone in your story is on fire Walking Riddles 469 words Dokter Sindy was vry clevver but 1ce she had the knowing of the liddl shyning man the addom insyde the devyse it was only tym until we wer all bernt by the party cools and the many cools. I tryd to talk her a way from pulling the liddle addom in 2 but yu kno the dokter, 1ce she has maid her mynd shewl not lissen to a fool lyk me. Trubba me not Dafid she sed Becaws this is your fawlt. Yu put the apple in the devyse and yu have no knowing ov it and I do so now I mus do what I mus do. So I sed Trubba not dokter. Yu mus stop the devyse 1 way or an over. And it was tru she was vry clevver and I was not but I cud feel the wrongness and berning start insyde when she pullt the liddl addom in 2. 1 minum it was fyn and the nex it was not. Berning in my throte an berning in my eyes. It even bernt in my twignberrys and I felt the sick cum up in my throte even tho I had only et the apple that day. I was tryng to keap the sick out ov my oan mouf and I culd tel the dokter was berning too but she was maid of iron and wud not stop until the addom was pulled in 2. Then she lookt at me and sed The setting sun. What is done is done. But the devysewl not stop it seems. Wewl dy now then I sed. The berning was wors and I felt lyk my skin was on fyr now. I thot I saw smoak rising from the dokter but it was hard to see becaws my eyes burnt too. Doktor Sindy smiled and sed Yes Dafid but we wud aul ways dy any ways. But look whyl yu can becaws yu can see aul the tymes when we are still alyve. And she poynted at the devyse and I saw but I did not see. It was lyk I was sum where els and ryding in my oan head but it was not my head and seeing thru my oan eyes but they wer not my eyes. Where are yu now Dafid? The doctor asked and I sed I do not kno but in sum places I am on fyr and in sum places I am in peaces and in sum places I am hole. And she sed Tel me mor. And tho we wer berning the dokter lissened to me for 1ce and I told her ov the places we wer and the places we wud aul ways be even whyl the addom’s berning maid our eyes hevvy and we cud not say no thing no mor. And then she sed Tel me mor.
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Mar 2, 2022 03:28
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Have you ever come back home after a long while out of town and found all the furniture rearranged and the apartment is full of new roommates? All the cupboards are nearly bare and where we used to keep the tea is now nothing but lentils! I'm at a loss for words. No, that's a lie, I have lots and lots of words and precious little time to vent them. I am challenging Nae to a brawl! Anyone of you louts can judge, but here are my terms: The focus of this brawl will be the 3rd person omniscient. The deadline for this brawl must fall after May 21st. The judge may embellish beyond that, but don't you dare come at us with some weak sauce. Lentils are bland enough as is.
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Apr 14, 2022 03:41
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An evening with Nae and Welt: Brawl judged by Rohan A Slice of Starving Sky 1860 words, or so Roy Shank had been avoiding Beefeaters all night. He was precisely the sort of paunchy lout who thought he was the cleverest man in the room and felt the need to let everyone else know by tweaking their nose. Others would never suspect he was a twit because he was bound to open his mouth and let them know for sure. But tonight Roy Shank had outdone himself. While on a Christmas holiday to Neo Swansea, he’d nicked the Crown Jewels—not all of them, but enough of them. There had been a special traveling exposition of the Jewels in celebration of the third restoration, And on Boxing Day, Roy had drunkenly tottered though the last showing of the night. When he happened across the Spurs of Charles II right as the young Beefeater standing guard was distracted by a young lady’s hemline, inspiration struck. “Hey bruv, which way to the stable then?” he’d asked jovially, clicking his heels together with a metallic clink. And now his heels were clicking down The Kingsway as fast as they could carry him because despite his insistence that he was just having a laugh, the Beefeaters weren’t. It was Eleven o’clock and all was very much not well. Halberds were out for Roy Shank, and the thief takers would be close behind. He jogged into the outdoor Christmas market with stalls full of roast geese and figgy puddings, elbowing his way though shoppers and drunks as he looked for somewhere to hide. He hung a left into Picton Lane and through the first open door he saw. A digital bell jangled in sterile merriment as Roy Shank crossed the threshold. At once, he was frozen to the floor inside a pie shop, the spicy sweet smell of mince nearly knocking the spurs off his feet. A yule-time fire crackled merrily in an open hearth, warming the shop against the frosty outdoor chill. Behind the counter stood the owner—a sullen, moon-faced fellow with rosacea—who was clearly overwhelmed by the spirit of Christmas. Or at least by a spirit of Christmas: Mari Lwyd, in particular. A skeletal horse that stood a full sixteen hands high and had a rictus grin stretched across her long jawline was busy leering at an assortment of pastries under the counter’s glass top. She turned to face Roy the moment he entered and her holly-leaf ears pricked up as crimson plasma danced in her empty eye sockets. Ribbons festooned her head in a crown and their tails draped down over the white cloak that was pulled around the rest of her frame. It dragged along the shop floor, muffling her hoof steps as she shuffled in place. “Look, pieman! Another visitor demands hospitality!” Her rich baritone voice seemed to emanate from her chest instead of her mouth. “This calls for—” “More pies?” Archibald Powell—pieman, proprietor—asked as if the words had sharp edges. “More pies!” cheered Mari Lwyd, tossing her head from side to side as she bucked up on her hind legs for a moment. Her front hooves landed back on the hardwood floor with a metallic clop. Archibald groaned and reached under the counter to retrieve three pastries. It had been a lovely Christmas Eve until Mari showed up. Now the crowds were avoiding his shop and more than one family had stormed out with a wailing toddler in tow. Good luck be damned, he just wanted Mari to shove off. “I’ll have the apple,” she said as she scooped the turnover deftly into her ivory jaws and it tipped into the white recesses of her shroud. Resigned to his fate and loss of profits, Archie asked Roy, “Mince or cheese?” Roy’s mouth worked open and closed for a few moments before he finally managed to ask, “What the hell is going on here, bruv?” “Oh you know, usual Christmas haunting. Rapping on the windowpane after sundown, challenge to a rhyme battle… I fumbled a line and now it’s pasties on the house all night long.” Archie glanced at the sweat running from Roy’s brow and the golden spurs strapped to his shoes. “And you?” Roy looked back and forth between Archie and Mari. The pieman had a slightly annoyed and expectant look on his face, but Roy couldn’t tell if he was waiting to hear Roy’s story or if he was more interested in knowing what flavor of pie Roy wanted. Mari was making noises that sounded like contented chewing even though there was nothing in her jaws. For once in his life, he had no witty comment. No little joke or prank that might establish him as the king of the room in his own mind. Roy Shank was completely at a loss, and soon the truth began to tumble out of his mouth to fill the yawning silence. “It’s Boxing Day and I ain’t got a missus or a mate to spend it with. I’ve just pinched Chuck Two’s spurs by accident and now I’m on the lam. I’m having an absolutely shite night, bruv. The mince pie sounds lovely.” Archie stared at Roy with a hard look for a moment, then nodded once. He picked up one of the pastries and laid it on a paper plate, then walked around to the counter to present it to Shank. “Well then, a Merry Christmas to you, sir. I’d ask your name but I’d rather not answer it to a thief taker later.” Roy lifted the pastry and took a bite. It was everything a good mince pie ought to be—sweet with raisin and currant, salty with plenty of butter in the crust, and a generous pour of brandy somewhere in the mix. Despite himself, he closed his eyes and savored the bite until a little voice in the back of his head reminded him that it might be the last meal he’d ever eat outside a prison’s walls. He swallowed bitterly and nearly choked when a ball of crimson plasma filled his vision the moment he opened his eyes. Mari knickered happily and threw her head back. Then she began to circle around Roy slowly, hooves clopping as she inspected him from head to toe, occasionally chattering her teeth. “Here, what are you on about?” Roy asked nervously. “You approve, then?” she asked as she rounded to look him in the eye once more. “The hospitality suits you?” “Yeah… It’s a proper pie, I suppose.” Mari knickered again and crossed the room to look into the hearth. Quietly she said, “The living are defended by the rich warmth of flames that keep the loneliness out…” Then with one shrouded hoof, she reached into the hearth and raked a handful of coals out onto the hardwood floor where they smoldered and sizzled—her shroud remained unsinged. The smell of burning oak filled the room and Archie hustled over from the counter to sweep them back into the fireplace with his shoe while he cursed under his breath. “Oi, leave off!” He growled as he turned to find Mari helping herself to the cheese pie he’d left sitting on the counter. He made to swat at her, but her holly-leaf ears folded back and she snapped at his hand with her ivory teeth. Archibald cut his losses and just levelled a baleful look at the skeletal horse. The pie was well down her gullet now, and she once again crossed the shop floor to stand in front of Roy and gaze at him with an appraising eye. “Sinners and saints, good and evil. The beggar’s a saint, the saint’s a devil,” she muttered, sounding as if her mouth was full of pie. “Tell me Roy Shank, what do you want for Christmas?” The scarlet plasma in her eye sockets flared intensely, and Roy realized this wasn’t some idle question put to primary school children. He thought for a few moments. “Before an hour ago I’d said a hookup with a generous girl in the pub.” He frowned. “Now, I think just to be away from here and to a place where nobody knows my name.” Outside, the chime of some great clock began to toll. Twelve times it rang out, and then fell silent. Archie stepped over to the door and threw the bolt and drew the shade. “That’s it then, night market’s wrapped up and I’ve not tuppence to show for it. You two can use the back door if you like but I’ll be happy to see the end of tonight.” “Midnight. Midnight. Midnight. Midnight,” Mari said slowly, one ear of holly flicking at some imagined fly. “Hark at the hands of the clock. Outside the nightmare rides; and the nightmare’s hooves draw near. Dead men pummel the panes outside and the living quake with fear.” At once there came a hammering on the door and someone bellowed for entry in the name of the law. “I shall take you away from here, but will you pay my price?” Mari asked, dipping her head to inspect the spurs still tied to Roy’s feet. “They’re yours,” he said quickly, bending down to pull them off. Holding them in open palms, he presented the relics to Mari as the pounding at the door grew louder. Like the pies before, she picked each one up gingerly in her ivory jaws and swallowed them down. Roy wasn’t sure, but he could almost swear he saw a hand reach up under her skull to snatch them away into the shroud as they passed into the unknown. “You shall have a Merry Christmas indeed,” she declared and stamped a hoof on the floor. Then she began to slowly walk to the rear door as her voice rose and reverberated against the walls. There was no doubt that anyone outside could hear her as the bass in her tone rattled the front glass. “Go back to Hell, there are clean souls here! Go back to your barns and your muck! Go back to Hell and leave us in cheer!” She turned her pale face to Archibald as she walked past the gob smacked pieman. Her voice lowered to a husky whisper, “And Mari will bring you good luck.” The sound of something loosely plopping to the floor could be heard and Roy Shank knew it was time to leave. He shuffled along in Mari’s wake, nodding to Archie one last time as he disappeared into the night. Archie breathed a sigh of relief for a moment...then the beating on the front door began again. He cringed, counted a full sixty seconds, then went to open it up. “Dunno who they were but they went out the back,” he said, and thumbed over his shoulder as the thief taker and Beefeater hustled through the shop in pursuit. Archie grunted, glad to see the backs of them all. He re-bolted the front door, then walked across to close the rear. His foot planted squarely in something wet, and a barnyard aroma bloomed in the shop. For a few moments, he just stood as warmth crept into his shoe. As he reached down to unlace it—no sense in tracking it around the room—he noticed a bar of gold sticking out of the dung.
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May 22, 2022 08:27
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Jul 20, 2022 01:16
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Lake Mead 776 words This was the second time Martina helped move Samuel this month. The heavy samsonite case squelched in the thick mud as she tried to heft it out. She almost had it free before the dried crust of the lakeshore gave way underfoot, sending her leg calf-deep into the muck. At least this time Martina had the good sense to leave her flip-flops on the deck of the Sofia’s rented pontoon boat. Somewhere higher up on the parched bank, her favorite pair were still buried a few feet deep under the moondust-fine silt and sand, drying in the Nevada sun. Martina almost shouted to Sophia to get her rear end down here and help—this was her mess to clean up, after all. But then she counted to ten and kept her cool, even if it was over a hundred degrees in the sun. Sophia was her best friend. Your good friend will help you move a body, but your best friend will help you move it no matter how many times it takes. And by the time Martina hit ten, she was happy she hadn’t shouted. The low putter of an outboard motor could be heard from somewhere out in the cove, but the tall profile of the pontoon boat was concealing her from whoever was coming in from the dwindling waters of Lake Mead. Muttering an obscenity, Martina grabbed onto the suitcase and used it to haul herself back out of the mud. As she waded carefully back into the water to snatch a rope tied to the side of the boat, she could hear Sophia talking to their visitor. Yes, it was a shame about the drought. If she waited until next week there might not be a lake Left. No, not fishing, just working on her tan. These coves are nice places to get a little privacy on her day off. Martina worked furiously with the rope, pulling it through the handle of the suitcase. Last month she’d been worried that the makeshift coffin would stink of death and rot, but she’d found it smelled no different than the rest of the drying mud on the shore of the disappearing lake. And again she was thankful for that as she straddled Samuel, working the rope into a hasty trucker’s hitch. Sophia risked a furtive look back as she distracted the chatty son-of-a-bitch in the fishing boat and Martina mouthed the word GO. Well, it’s been great talking but she really had to be going. The wait for that boat ramp is crazy and this rental was due back by three. Martina held her breath for a moment as the outboard rumbled to life and Sophia hit the throttle. For an instant it seemed like Samuel would be an anchor—intent on keeping the boat and Sophia in the cove forever. Then with a sickly sucking noise, the samsonite case pulled free of the mud and dove into the water behind the accelerating boat. But the sudden tension on the line caused the knot to cinch down on Martina’s thumb where she’d been grasping the rope. Samuel took her under with him. She started to count again. By the time she counted to ten, the bathtub-warm water of the shallows had given way to chillier water deep under the surface. When she counted to twenty-two, she’d managed to pull her thumb free of the hitch and started climbing hand-over-hand up the rope, desperate not to lose her grip in the boat’s wake. Forty-seven was when she got her head above the water and managed to get a half-lungful of air. The boat had cleared the cove and was well out into the main channel before Sophia killed the engine and looked over railing with panic filled eyes. Her best friend was trying to climb up onto the fender of the pontoon and soon there was a flurry of hands grasping at arms and clothes and anything else they could grab to haul Martina over the side and onto the deck. The half-drowned woman coughed up water and laughed and called Sophia a fucker for the accidental atomic wedgie when she dragged Martina over the rail by the waistband of her bathing suit. They ran the engine slow until the cheap depth finder couldn’t find the bottom anymore. Sophia reached over the side to untie the rope and the samsonite case plunged away. The tail end snapped through the cleat and slapped her forearm just before it vanished beneath the lake’s surface, a red welt left rising above her wrist. Martina said it was the last time that bastard would ever lay a hand on her.
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Jul 24, 2022 15:21
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Guys, we gotta get some words sacrificed to the word god. We can do this, we've got a week to go. So besides the regular TD round this week (which you should enter), and Yoruichi's Redemption Brawl (which you should also enter), I am declaring:    A flash mob for flash fiction initiative. A low stakes cage match for all comers. Read the prompt, write a story, post the story. FILL THE BLOOD METER. Rules: 1) One prompt every 12 hours for the next 6 days. 2) 500 words 3) One judge. One winner. Winner becomes next judge. 4) Bonus: I will crit every story entered during the gang brawl. Maybe not immediately, but within the next week. Gang Brawl Prompt #1: Moby dick, but about corn. Due: 12PM GMT 26 July 2022 (12 hours from now)
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Jul 26, 2022 00:59
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Gang Brawl Results I’m honestly surprised at how tough this was because we had some strong contenders. It came down to three coin flips and Antivehicular takes home the fist win in this series! Post your prompt, Antivehicular and be ready to judge in. 12 hours!
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Jul 26, 2022 13:06
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GangBrawl: infinitely late at night The Needful 308 words Flour. Beef. Beans. Cheese. Doesn’t matter what you order, you’re getting the same four things. Just put together different. Please tell me what you want. I don’t judge. You might be ashamed to be here this once—but my brother and sister in Christ, I’m here every night. I’m here for you. Maybe it was last week, maybe it was thirty years ago… There was a woman who came in every night at 4 am and ordered three soft tacos and a crunchwrap supreme. Eight packets of hot sauce. She would get one refill of a small Mountain Dew. She sat just over there in the corner booth and ate slowly until the sun came up. One night she asked me if I knew why. I said of course I did not—it was not my business to know, only to serve. She said she would tell me anyway, because she had no one else to tell. The woman had five children. Five! And she loved them all dearly. She gave them everything; the money she made, the hours of her life, her joy and her love and her fear for their future. And they took all that she could give and asked for more. And she was devoted to them, but she said to me that she just wanted one thing that was hers and hers alone. One thing that her children could never take away from her. So while they slept in their beds, she ordered three soft tacos and a crunchwrap supreme every night. And I watched her grow a little older every time I refilled her cup of Mountain Dew…but it was always her cup of Mountain Dew. Do you understand? Now please, a line is forming behind you. Tell me how you would like your flour, beef, beans, and cheese put together.
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Jul 26, 2022 16:43
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gently caress! The sands in the hourglass have passed me by. Here’s prmpt: Gangbrawl 3: Stare into the Monolith Will it reveal wisdom for evolution or just stare silently back? Tell Me!
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Jul 27, 2022 02:03
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For capturing in story form the unique drudgery of digging a hole in the ground, MockingQuantum wins round three of GangBrawl!
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Jul 27, 2022 13:01
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In for sports
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Jul 28, 2022 05:53
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 20:08 |
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I wish I could have participated more this year, but such is life and such is life for the next six months. After that I'll be subjecting you all to my awful writing once more. I think kayfabe in TD is sort of a ship that has sailed. I think it works well when we're all largely anonymous screen names that might be people or might be electrical phenomena, but as the 'dome has matured that sense of anonymity has given way to community and now we actually care about the lives and feelings of the people we're interacting with. Maybe a once-or-twice-a-year kayfabe enabled contest? As for avatars, I can also see how some people are really attached to theirs and getting the loser-tar can sting a little. Especially if gambling $20/month (assuming an entry a week) might be the difference between paying a bill or having a couple day's worth of food. But it's worth recognizing why the loser-tar exists--to stop people from dropping a lovely, low-effort story and expecting judges to give them serious crit in return. From what I understand of old 'dome history, the loser-tar is there to add just a tiny bit of stakes so that people try their best. The loser-tar has also served as sort of a sandwich-board advertising method that losers have to wear around the forums and point gawkers/entrants back to this thread. And that sort of segues into a change in judging style I've noticed over the past few years, where Losses are more likely to be given to a story where the writer tried hard but took some risks and stepped outside their comfort zone. DM's have become the place where judges drop stories that might have traditionally been "losers." I'm generally inclined to like the idea of failure-tars instead of loser-tars these days, since even most losers are deserving of the time it takes me to write the crit. I'd also be of a mind to hand out a shame avatar for DQ's instead of a failure--something that was so bad that it made me irritated that I had to write criticism of it. Weltlich fucked around with this message at 00:14 on Dec 30, 2022 |
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Dec 30, 2022 00:11
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