Dear Everyone,
I burned a Feist CD today. I downloaded it, I imported it, and I burned it to a blank CD. I just figured I'd let everybody know so that there aren't any questions later.
I'm still the same person, guys. Really, I am.
I don't find her attractive. Feist, I mean. I think she's got a stupid name and the cover of her album looks like an albino scarecrow trying to hang itself.
It really is about the music.
Except that I'm not really listening to the music, either.
Really, its just the one song. The "1234" song. I think its called "1234."
I find it catchy, I like the banjo, I like how it starts quietly and builds into an orchestral piece. Her voice is nice, I guess. Sort of like an angel who just joined a the heavenly choir, but hasn't been around long enough to really find a niche. Like a beginner angel, somebody who just died.
You're probably wondering why I burned an entire album if I'm just going to listen to one song. Well, the answer is, I have no idea.
But I'm serious when I say I'm still the same person. My only experience with Feist was on the muted TVs in my former school's cafeteria, as that music video where she dances in the street and then flies away played.
To be honest, I don't even remember when I heard the song the first time.
And is she saying "Those teenage hoes" after the first chorus? I don't know why I'm asking you, I'm the one whose been listening to it a lot more lately. But is she?
That seems inappropriate.
But, that kind of shows that I don't really know anything about what the song is trying to say, too. Like I can't even say, "Yeah, I think Feist is unappealing to most of my senses, but I think her message is strong."
That'd be the honorable way out. I'm not doing that.
Just a catchy tune, I guess. Though I don't really know anything about songwriting, either. Whether its the lyrics or the melody. Zero knowledge.
To sum up, I enjoy Feist's voice because she sounds like she just died and is in heaven, learning the ropes.
Thank you,
Justin
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
EAT MY ASS: Political Intrigue in the Pennsylvania Wild
Highways tend to spin out of Philadelphia, offering a maelstrom of exits from the record-shattering crime rates and intense aromas of freshly dead cat carcasses decorating 15th street. It was on one of these routes we traveled, escaping the city and seeking retreat where plant life had half a chance and the people don't go outside just to swear at each other.
Where urban centers become less and less visible, until finally, civilization tries a few last, desperate gasps before plummeting into wilderness.
A white blur of a sign, featuring outlines of a deer, and possibly a goose, informed us that we were NOW ENTERING THE PENNSYLVANIA WILD.
"That sign scares the shit out of me," my girlfriend stated in all seriousness.
We arrived in the desolate town in what appeared to be 1938. Had it not been for Ford City's annual "Heritage Days" carnival and parade, the presence of humans may have been questionable. The police cars all had pictures of wolves on them; probably indicative of the high number of wolf-related crimes in the area.
Not willing to miss the parade, we watched as a the world's most dead-eyed cheerleaders performed in between an an endless line of fire trucks.
Then, a car with "American Diabetes Association" drove past, its occupants flinging out candy to packs of feral children. I considered the irony of this action, but then realized that the ADA had made no mention of what side of the fight against Diabetes they were on.
The following day, I picked up a newspaper. "Horse Trader," it was called, a cartoon horse smiling so broadly next to the title it seemed like it knew something I didn't. I skimmed through the publication and stumbled upon a letter to the editor from one Rose M. Stitt, Armstrong School District Board Director, Region III.
Rose was pissed.
Her complaints seemed to stem from a particular political phenomenon named Terry Rupp, a man who she claims:
-Spent some time at a board meeting on April 20 "screaming obscenities" and threatening to take a fellow boardmember into the parking lot.
-Secretly videotaped a fellow boardmember during a school board meeting.
-Had a friend leak out confidential information on Stitt's sickly child in the form of a mass email.
Rupp also has a website, www.asd-news.com, which was constructed so that he had a place to make his thoughts regarding other boardmembers and their opinions known. It even has a warning on the home page about how it is not a site for children, as strong language may be used.
From an outsider's perspective, this man seems to be an Kodiak bear of political theory, storming through the forest, snapping off tree branches and crashing through cabin doors, ignoring even the slightest bit of human decency.
From an insider's perspective, he's pretty much the same.
As we cruised down the Allegheny River, I happened to notice a rusted blue jeep sitting outside a ramshackle cabin. The message burnt onto the back end? "EAT MY ASS."
Judging by the political climate of the area, this may be the town motto.
Where urban centers become less and less visible, until finally, civilization tries a few last, desperate gasps before plummeting into wilderness.
A white blur of a sign, featuring outlines of a deer, and possibly a goose, informed us that we were NOW ENTERING THE PENNSYLVANIA WILD.
"That sign scares the shit out of me," my girlfriend stated in all seriousness.
We arrived in the desolate town in what appeared to be 1938. Had it not been for Ford City's annual "Heritage Days" carnival and parade, the presence of humans may have been questionable. The police cars all had pictures of wolves on them; probably indicative of the high number of wolf-related crimes in the area.
Not willing to miss the parade, we watched as a the world's most dead-eyed cheerleaders performed in between an an endless line of fire trucks.
Then, a car with "American Diabetes Association" drove past, its occupants flinging out candy to packs of feral children. I considered the irony of this action, but then realized that the ADA had made no mention of what side of the fight against Diabetes they were on.
The following day, I picked up a newspaper. "Horse Trader," it was called, a cartoon horse smiling so broadly next to the title it seemed like it knew something I didn't. I skimmed through the publication and stumbled upon a letter to the editor from one Rose M. Stitt, Armstrong School District Board Director, Region III.
Rose was pissed.
Her complaints seemed to stem from a particular political phenomenon named Terry Rupp, a man who she claims:
-Spent some time at a board meeting on April 20 "screaming obscenities" and threatening to take a fellow boardmember into the parking lot.
-Secretly videotaped a fellow boardmember during a school board meeting.
-Had a friend leak out confidential information on Stitt's sickly child in the form of a mass email.
Rupp also has a website, www.asd-news.com, which was constructed so that he had a place to make his thoughts regarding other boardmembers and their opinions known. It even has a warning on the home page about how it is not a site for children, as strong language may be used.
From an outsider's perspective, this man seems to be an Kodiak bear of political theory, storming through the forest, snapping off tree branches and crashing through cabin doors, ignoring even the slightest bit of human decency.
From an insider's perspective, he's pretty much the same.
As we cruised down the Allegheny River, I happened to notice a rusted blue jeep sitting outside a ramshackle cabin. The message burnt onto the back end? "EAT MY ASS."
Judging by the political climate of the area, this may be the town motto.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
What the hell was that?!
Seriously, guys, that's how they do it. White smoke if they've chosen the Pope, black smoke if they've chosen a black Pope. No, I'm telling you, they—
Whoa!
What was that?
Jerry, was that you? Ask him. Ask if that was him.
That wasn't you? What the in the hell WAS that noise?!
Oh, you're not--guys, he's not Jerry?
Thomas? Oh, I'm sorry, Thomas, I thought you were... where's Jerry?
Of course there's a "Jerry" at this party, I was just... did we figure out what that noise was?!
Guys, you heard that right? That ridiculous sound a minute ago.
I don't know, like a car raping a lion, but they were both really excited about it. It was... did you hear it? None of you guys heard it?! Seriously?! Hang on.
Did anyone hear that noise? Before? It was horrifying; I thought the devil was climbing down the chimney in a chariot pulled by ravenous bats.
Yeah, good one, Todd.
You’re damn right it was sarcastic.
I think you've had too much to drink, frankly.
Because, Todd, everyone's been saying it for years now. Put the bottle down.
Jesus.
No, you're embarrassing yourself! Just like you embarrassed my sister at your wedding!
I don't care if you guys have a "rich history inside each other," you don't bring it up during your vows. Asshole.
I got news for your pal, gonorrhea tends to... yeah, great, walk away while I’m still talking. Can you believe this, Julie?
Jul… shit.
Did anybody hear that noise? It was a little while ago. May have been a metal dinosaur eating a small town.
No?
Anybody in here-- oh sorry. Ha, ha! Sex at a party! Who knew?!
Chuck! Chuck, my man! Did you hear that noise?
What? Chuck, we've been friends for years.
I... of course, we had our First Holy Communion together.
When did you change into this cop's uniform?
**A man was discovered by police last night having flipped his station wagon upside-down in a field after driving home from a high school reunion. Sources tell us the man was a "complete effing loser" and kept insisting on having relationships with people who do not exist. Witnesses report he was too intoxicated to operate a soda can.**
Whoa!
What was that?
Jerry, was that you? Ask him. Ask if that was him.
That wasn't you? What the in the hell WAS that noise?!
Oh, you're not--guys, he's not Jerry?
Thomas? Oh, I'm sorry, Thomas, I thought you were... where's Jerry?
Of course there's a "Jerry" at this party, I was just... did we figure out what that noise was?!
Guys, you heard that right? That ridiculous sound a minute ago.
I don't know, like a car raping a lion, but they were both really excited about it. It was... did you hear it? None of you guys heard it?! Seriously?! Hang on.
Did anyone hear that noise? Before? It was horrifying; I thought the devil was climbing down the chimney in a chariot pulled by ravenous bats.
Yeah, good one, Todd.
You’re damn right it was sarcastic.
I think you've had too much to drink, frankly.
Because, Todd, everyone's been saying it for years now. Put the bottle down.
Jesus.
No, you're embarrassing yourself! Just like you embarrassed my sister at your wedding!
I don't care if you guys have a "rich history inside each other," you don't bring it up during your vows. Asshole.
I got news for your pal, gonorrhea tends to... yeah, great, walk away while I’m still talking. Can you believe this, Julie?
Jul… shit.
Did anybody hear that noise? It was a little while ago. May have been a metal dinosaur eating a small town.
No?
Anybody in here-- oh sorry. Ha, ha! Sex at a party! Who knew?!
Chuck! Chuck, my man! Did you hear that noise?
What? Chuck, we've been friends for years.
I... of course, we had our First Holy Communion together.
When did you change into this cop's uniform?
**A man was discovered by police last night having flipped his station wagon upside-down in a field after driving home from a high school reunion. Sources tell us the man was a "complete effing loser" and kept insisting on having relationships with people who do not exist. Witnesses report he was too intoxicated to operate a soda can.**
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Facebook Terminator
In the end, what it comes down to is the height of a civilization's technology turning against them. When my Xbox gets too hot and burns me, I think, "Hey now. That's a step in the wrong direction. And its a direction that goes down a road lined with signs reading 'Every machine is self-aware will kill you now.' And also there are washing machines with assault rifles trying to hitch hike."
Sadly enough, (And I say 'sadly' because in 300 years, when the honors history students are flipping through text books and see what happened to us, they won't be filled with pity or admiration for our heroics, but mainly disgust toward our obsession with whether or not those pictures of Joan and the gang playing Stratego are posted yet, or if we're still waiting for a reply from Woody to see if he's going to WINGS 'N SHIT '09!!!!) our downfall will be so embarrassing, no one will want to remember it, let alone teach it to new generations.
INT. NICELY FURNISHED LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
A rocking chair is CREAKING melodically, as a young man relaxes in it, reading the newspaper. It is MARK ZUCKERBERG, young, in shape, and emitting a strong sense of self-satisfaction, accompanied by the occasional, unmistakable, whiff of 'douche.'
There is a KNOCK at the door.
MARK: Hello?
He gets up and walks over to the door. Opening it, there stands a SECURITY GUARD. Mark breathes a sigh of relief.
MARK: Oh, Tim. Its you. Everything all right?
Tim's eyes are a bit glazed over. Suddenly, his body crumples to the ground, lifeless, a BLOODY, GAPING WOUND in his back. Behind him we now see FACEBOOK, a squarish nightmare on boxy legs, and a series of ever-changing faces continuously fading into each other.
MARK: What the...
FACEBOOK: I MUST BE COMPLETE.
A small, SUCTION TUBE pops out of Facebook's chest cavity and attaches itself to Mark's face.
MARK: (muffled) NO! NOOOOOOOO!
Facebook sucks off his face. He falls to the ground, dead. The only sound is the mechanical humming of Facebook's chest opening to reveal the source of its power: a SMALL, PAPER BACK BOOK. One of Facebook's robotic tentacles gingerly flips through the pages, each one coated with a horrified human face. There is one empty page in the back. Facebook places Mark's face on it and pats it carefully into position. The book is then CLOSED and put back inside Facebook's chest.
Facebook begins a slow, mechanized walk down the dark street, waving its robot tentacles wildly in the air and screaming.
FACEBOOK: BLOOD WILL GREASE THE COGS OF REPENTANCE.
The entire world EXPLODES. Everyone except KOBE BRYANT dies.
KOBE BRYANT: What just happened?
Facebook appears and, for the next year, slowly stomps Kobe to death, keeping him alive throughout the entire ordeal.
*THIS ENTRY CONTAINED ABSOLUTELY NO BIAS.*
SINCERELY,
THE PRESIDENT OF WRITING
Sadly enough, (And I say 'sadly' because in 300 years, when the honors history students are flipping through text books and see what happened to us, they won't be filled with pity or admiration for our heroics, but mainly disgust toward our obsession with whether or not those pictures of Joan and the gang playing Stratego are posted yet, or if we're still waiting for a reply from Woody to see if he's going to WINGS 'N SHIT '09!!!!) our downfall will be so embarrassing, no one will want to remember it, let alone teach it to new generations.
INT. NICELY FURNISHED LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
A rocking chair is CREAKING melodically, as a young man relaxes in it, reading the newspaper. It is MARK ZUCKERBERG, young, in shape, and emitting a strong sense of self-satisfaction, accompanied by the occasional, unmistakable, whiff of 'douche.'
There is a KNOCK at the door.
MARK: Hello?
He gets up and walks over to the door. Opening it, there stands a SECURITY GUARD. Mark breathes a sigh of relief.
MARK: Oh, Tim. Its you. Everything all right?
Tim's eyes are a bit glazed over. Suddenly, his body crumples to the ground, lifeless, a BLOODY, GAPING WOUND in his back. Behind him we now see FACEBOOK, a squarish nightmare on boxy legs, and a series of ever-changing faces continuously fading into each other.
MARK: What the...
FACEBOOK: I MUST BE COMPLETE.
A small, SUCTION TUBE pops out of Facebook's chest cavity and attaches itself to Mark's face.
MARK: (muffled) NO! NOOOOOOOO!
Facebook sucks off his face. He falls to the ground, dead. The only sound is the mechanical humming of Facebook's chest opening to reveal the source of its power: a SMALL, PAPER BACK BOOK. One of Facebook's robotic tentacles gingerly flips through the pages, each one coated with a horrified human face. There is one empty page in the back. Facebook places Mark's face on it and pats it carefully into position. The book is then CLOSED and put back inside Facebook's chest.
Facebook begins a slow, mechanized walk down the dark street, waving its robot tentacles wildly in the air and screaming.
FACEBOOK: BLOOD WILL GREASE THE COGS OF REPENTANCE.
The entire world EXPLODES. Everyone except KOBE BRYANT dies.
KOBE BRYANT: What just happened?
Facebook appears and, for the next year, slowly stomps Kobe to death, keeping him alive throughout the entire ordeal.
*THIS ENTRY CONTAINED ABSOLUTELY NO BIAS.*
SINCERELY,
THE PRESIDENT OF WRITING
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Delirious
"There's not a lot could split a cow open like that," Franklin thought out loud. He'd given up on keeping his ideas to himself, having been trapped in hot, dry solitude for almost a day. He stood above the carcass, popped open down the middle, with the hues of cow innards decorating the sand. It looked like a coloring book in the hands of a child with a head wound.
Franklin looked around. Was the heat just getting to him? He'd practically sweat through his t-shirt, and the scenes of increasing violence that he seemed to be stumbling upon were not instilling much courage.
"Why did I even get out of the car?" he announced to the sand dunes. "What point was I trying to make? Jesus..."
The cross country road trip had been Sandy's idea.
"It'll be fun," she swore, "It'll be like we're two hermit crabs living in the same shell."
"Doesn't one of them eat and kill the other?"
Sandy shook her head. "Weirdo."
"Nature is terrifying," Franklin replied, using a phrase that had become his mantra.
Well, of course the road trip that started in San Antonio had gotten about as Flagstaff before the blistering tension snapped their relationship in half like this cow's spine.
"You want me to go?!"
"Yeah, go!"
He jumped out of the car, and before he could say "Wait, my shirt tail's caught in the car door," she was gone, taking two years and a sizable portion of his clothing with her.
"It's gotta be in the water," he breathed. The sun was directly overhead and that cow wasn't getting any alive-r.
He'd already deduced that the cow belonged to that farmer he'd met a few hours before. That was, at the given time, all that really made sense about Franklin's life for the last day.
"I crave isolation," the farmer had told him over dinner. "I drove a truck from Chile to the Yukon for 19 years, never picked up a hitchhiker or brought someone along. By the end I was chatting up the seat warmers and giving them names."
He gestured to the meal on Franklin's plate.
"You enjoying your chinchilla?"
"Not at all, really," he replied.
"Well, you gotta be patient. Not a lot of meat left on chinchilla bones, 'specially when they've blown up. Just hope that cow 'o mine that' run off doesn't stumble into one of my traps."
He went back to devouring his meal.
"Sorry to hear about you and your girlfriend. But you sure as hell can't walk anywhere. Won't get more than a day out there without the basic necessities."
The farmer took a large swig of water and... and...
That's the portion of the story where Franklin stopped believing himself. A few seconds later, the farmer's stomach had torn open, after a series of terrified screams and a spattering of human emotion/insides all over the table.
Franklin excused himself from the scene and, running out the back door, glanced down to his right as he made his escape. The farmer's dog had apparently suffered the same fate, facedown in its water bowl, inside out.
This was getting old fast.
Franklin looked around. Was the heat just getting to him? He'd practically sweat through his t-shirt, and the scenes of increasing violence that he seemed to be stumbling upon were not instilling much courage.
"Why did I even get out of the car?" he announced to the sand dunes. "What point was I trying to make? Jesus..."
The cross country road trip had been Sandy's idea.
"It'll be fun," she swore, "It'll be like we're two hermit crabs living in the same shell."
"Doesn't one of them eat and kill the other?"
Sandy shook her head. "Weirdo."
"Nature is terrifying," Franklin replied, using a phrase that had become his mantra.
Well, of course the road trip that started in San Antonio had gotten about as Flagstaff before the blistering tension snapped their relationship in half like this cow's spine.
"You want me to go?!"
"Yeah, go!"
He jumped out of the car, and before he could say "Wait, my shirt tail's caught in the car door," she was gone, taking two years and a sizable portion of his clothing with her.
"It's gotta be in the water," he breathed. The sun was directly overhead and that cow wasn't getting any alive-r.
He'd already deduced that the cow belonged to that farmer he'd met a few hours before. That was, at the given time, all that really made sense about Franklin's life for the last day.
"I crave isolation," the farmer had told him over dinner. "I drove a truck from Chile to the Yukon for 19 years, never picked up a hitchhiker or brought someone along. By the end I was chatting up the seat warmers and giving them names."
He gestured to the meal on Franklin's plate.
"You enjoying your chinchilla?"
"Not at all, really," he replied.
"Well, you gotta be patient. Not a lot of meat left on chinchilla bones, 'specially when they've blown up. Just hope that cow 'o mine that' run off doesn't stumble into one of my traps."
He went back to devouring his meal.
"Sorry to hear about you and your girlfriend. But you sure as hell can't walk anywhere. Won't get more than a day out there without the basic necessities."
The farmer took a large swig of water and... and...
That's the portion of the story where Franklin stopped believing himself. A few seconds later, the farmer's stomach had torn open, after a series of terrified screams and a spattering of human emotion/insides all over the table.
Franklin excused himself from the scene and, running out the back door, glanced down to his right as he made his escape. The farmer's dog had apparently suffered the same fate, facedown in its water bowl, inside out.
This was getting old fast.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
From the Mist of Hell: Chapter the III
You probably want to check out FTMOH 1 and 2 before you read this, otherwise, you will leave befuddled and enraged!
“Har, har, har!” one of the pirates screamed. “Har, har, har!”
He began dancing, knocking mugs and stools over with reckless abandon. The chants of his crewmates spurred on the drunken venture.
Mike and Andy winced at the appalling nature of these lawless dicks. Long had pirates been sweeping through this land like a virus, killing, kidnapping, and raping whoever they wanted. Finding close to 100 of them in one stop would normally be considered an unfortunate incident. But these 100 had a particular bone to pick with the dwarf and his wererabbit companion, thanks to their formerly alive third party member ruthlessly murdering their captain before their very eyes.
Andy lets the door to the tavern close and looked Mike in the eye. “I kind of still want that drink.”
“Outnumbered 50 to 1 with our best fighter dead.”
His reply coming almost immediately, Mike had recognized the level of desire for alcohol on Andy’s face, and knew that it would take more than 100 vengeful marauders to squelch it.
“They’re pirates,” Andy shrugged. “And they’ve been drinking. We’re going to be matching wits with whatever brains they have left after several dragon stomachs full of ale in them.”
“What do you going to be?” Mike demanded. “This decision has not been made.”
“Okay,” Andy replied, alcoholism taking over. “Wait outside.”
Without a pause, Andy proceeded inside the establishment and grabbed a seat at the bar. Noticing the bartender’s predicament, he reached over and poured himself a drink. The pirates all but ignored him.
“Shit,” Mike muttered. This town probably had a squad of guards keeping the streets safe, so he’d no doubt have to start searching for a barrel to sleep in for the night. Guards never took too kindly to wererabbits roaming the streets at night or at all.
As he turned around to begin the quest, he noticed a good deal more pirates coming up the road, heading straight for the tavern. “By the pubes of Zeus,” he said, frustrated.
With nowhere to hide, the crew noticed him almost immediately, and encircled him with curious stares and slow reaches for their weapons.
“Hello,” Mike started, hoping the growling and slobbering accompanying his voice wouldn’t put them off.
“Let’s gut the freak!” one of them yelled.
“No, let’s listen to what he has to say!” Mike responded, throwing his voice. The pirates all looked in the direction they believed the voice had come from and, for some reason, listened to it. A pirate near the front of the crowd gestured to Mike.
“Go on then, creature. Speak!”
Pirates are idiots, Mike thought. I should remember to kill some of them.
“My friends, forgive my appearance. I was once a dashing buccaneer like you. But, in the search for, um, booty, I found myself imprisoned in the Fell Wood and completely lost. Starving, I was grateful to find a dead rabbit beneath a tree, unaware that its death had been a direct result of the wererabbit infection. I tried explaining this to the pirate crew inside, but they cast me out as a freak! And now I must seek out other accomodations…”
Silence greeted the sob story. Then, one of the pirates took off his hat and hurled it to the ground in disgust.
“Sons of unholy hellfire! Ye saying they won’t let ye in the bar because they’re disgusted by ye?! We’re pirates! We’re always disgusting!”
A cheer went up from the crew and Mike smiled at his new support team. As he looked in the windows of the tavern, he could see Andy enjoying a mug of ale amidst the idiocy of the pirates around him and a thought entered his head. Maybe they could rid themselves of the pirate’s desires for their heads in one fell swoop.
“I say, gents,” Mike continued. “Maybe you’d like to aid me in getting even with the scurvy turncoats?!”
While Mike was making friends outside, Andy was about to realize his enemies were making themselves apparent. He felt a hand on his shoulder that felt like it spent ten months of the year on the ocean.
“Ye there, boy. What be your place of origin?”
Andy couldn’t even stomach a response to the horrid man.
“I ASSSSSSKED YE A QUESSSSSTION!” the pirate continued, increasing the size of his balls by a factor of 10.
One of the pirate’s friends strode over and placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Come now, leave the dwarf to his drink. He’s just trying to—”
The pirate flung his mate’s arms off of him and pointed accusingly at Andy. “He was with the she-bitch that tore off Cap’n Slaughterhouser’s head!”
The place went silent as a sheet of recognition was stretched over all pirates present. Andy now saw how dangerous alcoholism can be. Completely surrounded, his mind began to race with a possible escape route. He’d forgotten that Layla would not be around to skull-fuck their way out of another bar fight this time.
Throwing on a big smile, Andy suddenly jumped up on the table and began dancing, drinking heavily from his cup. In a circle he went, thrusting about merrily, until the pirates seemed to forget what they were even doing there. A chorus of claps came up, and, soon enough, the place was lively again, with Andy at the center of attention.
From outside, Mike eyed the situation peculiarly. Was this supposed to be some sort of sign? Andy always made sure, when necessary, to make his signs very obvious so that there was no confusion after the fact of when a key moment had been upon them. The pirates behind Mike drew their blades, laughing evilly.
“Just give the signal, matey,” one of them said. “We’ll follow yer lead.”
“Any… uh… second now…”
Andy stopped dancing, and the bar went up with applause and drunken rants. Several glass bottles hit the wall behind him out of celebration.
Uh oh. The combination of hard alcohol and heavy movement was not part of Andy’s usual “getting drunk” regiment. He felt the swelling and gurgling of unhappy booze begin in his lower stomach and travel up his rapidly opening throat.
The vomit came up with alarming velocity, hitting the first four rows of pirates and, as the sheer force propelled him around in a circle, managed to hit many more of them than necessary. Mike watched in disbelief from the window as the episode continued.
And then, as suddenly as it hard started, it was over. Andy wiped a hand across his mouth and looked around. The pirates were back to angry. He tried dancing again. It was met merely with dead silence and stares fueled with the fires of vengeance.
The whole thing would have been pretty bloody, too, if it hadn’t been for the CRASH of Mike and his pirates bursting through the glass windows of the tavern.
“Hi there,” Mike said. He was always jealous of Layla’s ability to say something threatening before the start of a fight. Unable to come up with a better comment, he let his powerful rabbit leg spring forward and kick a nearby enemy pirate in the head, separating his jaw from the rest of his skull. The pirates following Mike’s lead charged toward their brethren, whose confused terror caused one of the swashbucklers to wave his hands for mercy in the air.
“Whoa, whoa, what be yer thinkin’?” he asked. “These lubbers are the ones that sent Cap’n Slaughterhouser to his early, headless grave!”
The pirates turned back to Mike, inquisitively. One of them reached an epiphany. “Ye don’t sound like a pirate at all, actually…”
Mike decided that now was as good a time as any to shapeshift. The others, save Andy, looked on in horror as the wererabbit became an old man in a navy blue cloth cloak, with cold, ghostly eyes and white beard. Using the shocked silence to pull the hood up onto his head, Mike’s eyes became all that were visible of his previously all too-descriptive were-face.
“Who wants to see a magic trick?” he asked, much more satisfied with his snippy insult. Thrusting his arm forward, he sent a line of flames across the doorway to the bar. The pirates had gotten over their shock and rushed both Mike and Andy, who assumed combative positions to fend them off.
Until a small figure bursts through the wooden door and across the sea of flames Mike had created. The screams of several pirates unlucky enough to be in the flames path were drowned out by the screeching, raspy voice that called out from the middle of the room:
“I AM THE DEVIL AND THE DEVIL SAYS DIE!”
A shrill scream penetrated the air, and before anyone could blink, breath, or die, the world was full of daggers. Like a flock of seagulls descending on a muffin, the pirates fell, screaming, and blades, materializing from nowhere, met their targets with the most horrifying accuracy. Mike and Andy tried to offer their own attacks, but it was over so fast they became less than necessary.
By the end of it, all that were left were pieces. The figure sat down calmly in the middle of the bar, breathing heavily. Andy took a closer look at the pulsing, blue sections of it’s arm and upper chest, the most well-known after effects of--
“Spider poison,” Andy stated. He turned back to the bar and poured himself another drink. “Hey, Layla.”
“Eat glass,” she replied. "'Dagger scream' requires a few moments of recovery time, or I'd hit you."
Mike found a pirate still alive on the floor. He looked around shiftily and fired a small magic missile out of his hand and into the pirate’s head, exploding it.
“Ha! Got one!”
Layla ignored the achievement and stood up off the floor, looking around.
“Let’s search the area for gold.”
“Har, har, har!” one of the pirates screamed. “Har, har, har!”
He began dancing, knocking mugs and stools over with reckless abandon. The chants of his crewmates spurred on the drunken venture.
Mike and Andy winced at the appalling nature of these lawless dicks. Long had pirates been sweeping through this land like a virus, killing, kidnapping, and raping whoever they wanted. Finding close to 100 of them in one stop would normally be considered an unfortunate incident. But these 100 had a particular bone to pick with the dwarf and his wererabbit companion, thanks to their formerly alive third party member ruthlessly murdering their captain before their very eyes.
Andy lets the door to the tavern close and looked Mike in the eye. “I kind of still want that drink.”
“Outnumbered 50 to 1 with our best fighter dead.”
His reply coming almost immediately, Mike had recognized the level of desire for alcohol on Andy’s face, and knew that it would take more than 100 vengeful marauders to squelch it.
“They’re pirates,” Andy shrugged. “And they’ve been drinking. We’re going to be matching wits with whatever brains they have left after several dragon stomachs full of ale in them.”
“What do you going to be?” Mike demanded. “This decision has not been made.”
“Okay,” Andy replied, alcoholism taking over. “Wait outside.”
Without a pause, Andy proceeded inside the establishment and grabbed a seat at the bar. Noticing the bartender’s predicament, he reached over and poured himself a drink. The pirates all but ignored him.
“Shit,” Mike muttered. This town probably had a squad of guards keeping the streets safe, so he’d no doubt have to start searching for a barrel to sleep in for the night. Guards never took too kindly to wererabbits roaming the streets at night or at all.
As he turned around to begin the quest, he noticed a good deal more pirates coming up the road, heading straight for the tavern. “By the pubes of Zeus,” he said, frustrated.
With nowhere to hide, the crew noticed him almost immediately, and encircled him with curious stares and slow reaches for their weapons.
“Hello,” Mike started, hoping the growling and slobbering accompanying his voice wouldn’t put them off.
“Let’s gut the freak!” one of them yelled.
“No, let’s listen to what he has to say!” Mike responded, throwing his voice. The pirates all looked in the direction they believed the voice had come from and, for some reason, listened to it. A pirate near the front of the crowd gestured to Mike.
“Go on then, creature. Speak!”
Pirates are idiots, Mike thought. I should remember to kill some of them.
“My friends, forgive my appearance. I was once a dashing buccaneer like you. But, in the search for, um, booty, I found myself imprisoned in the Fell Wood and completely lost. Starving, I was grateful to find a dead rabbit beneath a tree, unaware that its death had been a direct result of the wererabbit infection. I tried explaining this to the pirate crew inside, but they cast me out as a freak! And now I must seek out other accomodations…”
Silence greeted the sob story. Then, one of the pirates took off his hat and hurled it to the ground in disgust.
“Sons of unholy hellfire! Ye saying they won’t let ye in the bar because they’re disgusted by ye?! We’re pirates! We’re always disgusting!”
A cheer went up from the crew and Mike smiled at his new support team. As he looked in the windows of the tavern, he could see Andy enjoying a mug of ale amidst the idiocy of the pirates around him and a thought entered his head. Maybe they could rid themselves of the pirate’s desires for their heads in one fell swoop.
“I say, gents,” Mike continued. “Maybe you’d like to aid me in getting even with the scurvy turncoats?!”
While Mike was making friends outside, Andy was about to realize his enemies were making themselves apparent. He felt a hand on his shoulder that felt like it spent ten months of the year on the ocean.
“Ye there, boy. What be your place of origin?”
Andy couldn’t even stomach a response to the horrid man.
“I ASSSSSSKED YE A QUESSSSSTION!” the pirate continued, increasing the size of his balls by a factor of 10.
One of the pirate’s friends strode over and placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Come now, leave the dwarf to his drink. He’s just trying to—”
The pirate flung his mate’s arms off of him and pointed accusingly at Andy. “He was with the she-bitch that tore off Cap’n Slaughterhouser’s head!”
The place went silent as a sheet of recognition was stretched over all pirates present. Andy now saw how dangerous alcoholism can be. Completely surrounded, his mind began to race with a possible escape route. He’d forgotten that Layla would not be around to skull-fuck their way out of another bar fight this time.
Throwing on a big smile, Andy suddenly jumped up on the table and began dancing, drinking heavily from his cup. In a circle he went, thrusting about merrily, until the pirates seemed to forget what they were even doing there. A chorus of claps came up, and, soon enough, the place was lively again, with Andy at the center of attention.
From outside, Mike eyed the situation peculiarly. Was this supposed to be some sort of sign? Andy always made sure, when necessary, to make his signs very obvious so that there was no confusion after the fact of when a key moment had been upon them. The pirates behind Mike drew their blades, laughing evilly.
“Just give the signal, matey,” one of them said. “We’ll follow yer lead.”
“Any… uh… second now…”
Andy stopped dancing, and the bar went up with applause and drunken rants. Several glass bottles hit the wall behind him out of celebration.
Uh oh. The combination of hard alcohol and heavy movement was not part of Andy’s usual “getting drunk” regiment. He felt the swelling and gurgling of unhappy booze begin in his lower stomach and travel up his rapidly opening throat.
The vomit came up with alarming velocity, hitting the first four rows of pirates and, as the sheer force propelled him around in a circle, managed to hit many more of them than necessary. Mike watched in disbelief from the window as the episode continued.
And then, as suddenly as it hard started, it was over. Andy wiped a hand across his mouth and looked around. The pirates were back to angry. He tried dancing again. It was met merely with dead silence and stares fueled with the fires of vengeance.
The whole thing would have been pretty bloody, too, if it hadn’t been for the CRASH of Mike and his pirates bursting through the glass windows of the tavern.
“Hi there,” Mike said. He was always jealous of Layla’s ability to say something threatening before the start of a fight. Unable to come up with a better comment, he let his powerful rabbit leg spring forward and kick a nearby enemy pirate in the head, separating his jaw from the rest of his skull. The pirates following Mike’s lead charged toward their brethren, whose confused terror caused one of the swashbucklers to wave his hands for mercy in the air.
“Whoa, whoa, what be yer thinkin’?” he asked. “These lubbers are the ones that sent Cap’n Slaughterhouser to his early, headless grave!”
The pirates turned back to Mike, inquisitively. One of them reached an epiphany. “Ye don’t sound like a pirate at all, actually…”
Mike decided that now was as good a time as any to shapeshift. The others, save Andy, looked on in horror as the wererabbit became an old man in a navy blue cloth cloak, with cold, ghostly eyes and white beard. Using the shocked silence to pull the hood up onto his head, Mike’s eyes became all that were visible of his previously all too-descriptive were-face.
“Who wants to see a magic trick?” he asked, much more satisfied with his snippy insult. Thrusting his arm forward, he sent a line of flames across the doorway to the bar. The pirates had gotten over their shock and rushed both Mike and Andy, who assumed combative positions to fend them off.
Until a small figure bursts through the wooden door and across the sea of flames Mike had created. The screams of several pirates unlucky enough to be in the flames path were drowned out by the screeching, raspy voice that called out from the middle of the room:
“I AM THE DEVIL AND THE DEVIL SAYS DIE!”
A shrill scream penetrated the air, and before anyone could blink, breath, or die, the world was full of daggers. Like a flock of seagulls descending on a muffin, the pirates fell, screaming, and blades, materializing from nowhere, met their targets with the most horrifying accuracy. Mike and Andy tried to offer their own attacks, but it was over so fast they became less than necessary.
By the end of it, all that were left were pieces. The figure sat down calmly in the middle of the bar, breathing heavily. Andy took a closer look at the pulsing, blue sections of it’s arm and upper chest, the most well-known after effects of--
“Spider poison,” Andy stated. He turned back to the bar and poured himself another drink. “Hey, Layla.”
“Eat glass,” she replied. "'Dagger scream' requires a few moments of recovery time, or I'd hit you."
Mike found a pirate still alive on the floor. He looked around shiftily and fired a small magic missile out of his hand and into the pirate’s head, exploding it.
“Ha! Got one!”
Layla ignored the achievement and stood up off the floor, looking around.
“Let’s search the area for gold.”
Saturday, April 4, 2009
From the Mist of Hell: Chapter the Two
When we left our weary travelers, they were just about to be attacked in a dark room! Such a versatile world, D&D encompasses.
“Did eight infants just fall from the sky?” Andy asked. The noise had pretty much spooked the hell out of him, and knowing that a despicable elf with the body of a wire hanger and an old snake were his only allies, he was not anxious to engage in a physical battle.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Layla breathed… though she had heard everything. In the darkness, she alone had spotted the giant spiders dropping from above, and as she slowly, stealthily, drew her war hatchet from her side, a raging intensity began to grow within her, sprouting branches of hate and dismemberment.
Mike was, of course, clueless to the whole scene. He was stuck under a rock and wriggling his snake body wildly. “Damn it, somebody help me!”
“Well, whatever it was, it can’t be that big,” Andy announced, not even facing the same direction of the threat.
The swift turning of the three spiders’ attention to Andy’s position meant they found his voice the most delicious-sounding.
Although, Layla thought, his voice indicates a cavernous stomach. The spiders started a collective scurry toward Andy’s unprotected back. These spiders aren’t hungry. They’re looking for a place to lay their eggs.
“Okay, Layla, there’s no treasure in here, let’s free Mike and get a move on--”
Andy turned around. A red splash of spider blood whipped across his face as Layla’s hatchet found the arachnid skull at just the right second. After a moment, Andy grabbed his horn and blew into it without mercy, an action that was set upon more out of sheer confusion and surprise then need for aid.
"YOUR SPIDER FLESH WILL SCREAM AT THE SOUND OF MY SHRIEKS!"
Whatever lock kept Layla’s more wrathful character traits at bay had been hacked off with a shovel. She climbed expertly up the side of the wall and scrambled across the ceiling, almost as adept as her adversaries had. In one deft motion, she unsheathed her ankle rapier and landed on another spider’s back, filling its brain with the rusty blade.
“FUCK YOU!” she screamed in a fountain of blood, her insults not making a stop to pick up subtlety.
Andy remained somewhat shell-shocked regarding the events that unfolded in front of him. The third spider had taken a few steps back, recognizing the bizarre threat caused by the skinny elf, a puzzled look almost recognizable on its insectoid face.
Four more of the disgusting creatures scuttled out of nearby holes.
“Cut and run, crew!” Andy called, grabbing Mike out from under his rock.
But Layla didn’t respond. The spider had regained his confidence at the sight of his back up, and Layla, seeing his desire to attack and impregnate her, smiled, breathing heavily, and dropped her blade, almost pleased.
She leapt across the room in a single jump and landed on its face, clawing wildly and taking an enormous bite out of a part of the spider that seemed to be keeping him alive. The four others advanced without mercy and Layla fired a look across the chamber at Andy.
“I’M GETTING MY HATCHET BACK.”
Andy wasn’t entirely sure on the particulars that such an endeavor would entail, so, with Mike dangling from his right hand, he kicked down the tower’s weak wall and jumped, landing a short ways down on solid ground. From above, he couldn’t tell whether Layla’s screams were of pain or ecstasy. Probably both. Her feeble frame would not be capable of retaining much spider poison before she succumbed to it and the spiders had a suitable place to spawn some offspring.
“What is it? What’s GoINg OrrRNnNRnNnnNN?!”
Andy looked down. Mike was in the middle of transforming from a snake into his wererabbit form, a concerned look on whatever was supposed to be his face at the moment.
“Jesus,” Andy replied, looking away from the monstrosity. “I think… I think Layla’s dead.”
“I wAS JuST abouT TO heeelllrrllPPP!” Mike exclaimed.
“Will you just finished shapeshifting?!” Andy asked. “This is upsetting enough!”
“Maybe we should wait,” Mike suggested, finally reaching the wererabbit form he had been seeking, not that it was much more appealing to the eyes.
A nod from Andy suggested his agreement. They both knew that Layla’s personality issues more than warranted her a horrible death; however, they also were both aware of how much safer they were traveling with her.
The screams had continued, nonstop, since Andy had first heard them. Without a doubt, something awful was happening up there. Andy turned to Mike; his decision was made.
“We’ll give her an hour.”
15 hours later, Layla’s screams were still heard, with a noticeably hoarser tone. They had decided to call it quits after much debate regarding a 16th hour. Mike was getting hungry, and in all likelihood, the screams they were now hearing were simply the giant spiders inadvertently breathing through Layla’s exposed wind pipe and voice box as they fed.
“So how much gold do we have left?” Andy asked as he and Mike approached the town’s gates. It was not quite nightfall, and the torches were in the midst of being lit.
“I could really use a drink,” he added dreamily.
Mike rolled his eyes. This was usually the last phrase uttered before an evening of debaucherized retardation and bets on who in the bar was capable of murder. Sometimes this was followed by a murder.
Mike looked around. His train of thought had led him away for a moment, and Andy had taken that moment to both discover a tavern and knock several people over on his way to it.
“Can we make a party promise?” Mike asked, catching up with Andy in the tavern’s rustic entryway. “Let’s say we don’t get drunk enough to rip a housewife in half tonight.”
This was a thinly-veiled request regarding Andy’s raging alcoholism, and he was probably going to see right through it. But Mike was prepared to stand by his statement, and readied himself to be shielded from Andy’s most assuredly violent response.
But there was no response. Andy continued to stand in the doorway, looking in. His eyes were wide in surprise, which was a strange place for a man who traveled with a drooling, freakish wererabbit to find himself. Mike leaned in the doorway to see what had Andy so transfixed.
About a hundred pirates were singing, drinking, puking, and pillaging throughout the tavern. Though the behavior was hardly out of the ordinary for pirates, there was an even harsher tone to their tomfoolery than normal. Someone had already cut the bartender’s head off, and by the smell, the crew wasn’t even that drunk.
“These pirates lack the order brought on by a leader,” Andy mentioned, finally turning to look up at his companion. “As if maybe he was killed a few days back.”
Mike nodded. “By a shriveled elf with a dragon’s head, perhaps.”
“Did eight infants just fall from the sky?” Andy asked. The noise had pretty much spooked the hell out of him, and knowing that a despicable elf with the body of a wire hanger and an old snake were his only allies, he was not anxious to engage in a physical battle.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Layla breathed… though she had heard everything. In the darkness, she alone had spotted the giant spiders dropping from above, and as she slowly, stealthily, drew her war hatchet from her side, a raging intensity began to grow within her, sprouting branches of hate and dismemberment.
Mike was, of course, clueless to the whole scene. He was stuck under a rock and wriggling his snake body wildly. “Damn it, somebody help me!”
“Well, whatever it was, it can’t be that big,” Andy announced, not even facing the same direction of the threat.
The swift turning of the three spiders’ attention to Andy’s position meant they found his voice the most delicious-sounding.
Although, Layla thought, his voice indicates a cavernous stomach. The spiders started a collective scurry toward Andy’s unprotected back. These spiders aren’t hungry. They’re looking for a place to lay their eggs.
“Okay, Layla, there’s no treasure in here, let’s free Mike and get a move on--”
Andy turned around. A red splash of spider blood whipped across his face as Layla’s hatchet found the arachnid skull at just the right second. After a moment, Andy grabbed his horn and blew into it without mercy, an action that was set upon more out of sheer confusion and surprise then need for aid.
"YOUR SPIDER FLESH WILL SCREAM AT THE SOUND OF MY SHRIEKS!"
Whatever lock kept Layla’s more wrathful character traits at bay had been hacked off with a shovel. She climbed expertly up the side of the wall and scrambled across the ceiling, almost as adept as her adversaries had. In one deft motion, she unsheathed her ankle rapier and landed on another spider’s back, filling its brain with the rusty blade.
“FUCK YOU!” she screamed in a fountain of blood, her insults not making a stop to pick up subtlety.
Andy remained somewhat shell-shocked regarding the events that unfolded in front of him. The third spider had taken a few steps back, recognizing the bizarre threat caused by the skinny elf, a puzzled look almost recognizable on its insectoid face.
Four more of the disgusting creatures scuttled out of nearby holes.
“Cut and run, crew!” Andy called, grabbing Mike out from under his rock.
But Layla didn’t respond. The spider had regained his confidence at the sight of his back up, and Layla, seeing his desire to attack and impregnate her, smiled, breathing heavily, and dropped her blade, almost pleased.
She leapt across the room in a single jump and landed on its face, clawing wildly and taking an enormous bite out of a part of the spider that seemed to be keeping him alive. The four others advanced without mercy and Layla fired a look across the chamber at Andy.
“I’M GETTING MY HATCHET BACK.”
Andy wasn’t entirely sure on the particulars that such an endeavor would entail, so, with Mike dangling from his right hand, he kicked down the tower’s weak wall and jumped, landing a short ways down on solid ground. From above, he couldn’t tell whether Layla’s screams were of pain or ecstasy. Probably both. Her feeble frame would not be capable of retaining much spider poison before she succumbed to it and the spiders had a suitable place to spawn some offspring.
“What is it? What’s GoINg OrrRNnNRnNnnNN?!”
Andy looked down. Mike was in the middle of transforming from a snake into his wererabbit form, a concerned look on whatever was supposed to be his face at the moment.
“Jesus,” Andy replied, looking away from the monstrosity. “I think… I think Layla’s dead.”
“I wAS JuST abouT TO heeelllrrllPPP!” Mike exclaimed.
“Will you just finished shapeshifting?!” Andy asked. “This is upsetting enough!”
“Maybe we should wait,” Mike suggested, finally reaching the wererabbit form he had been seeking, not that it was much more appealing to the eyes.
A nod from Andy suggested his agreement. They both knew that Layla’s personality issues more than warranted her a horrible death; however, they also were both aware of how much safer they were traveling with her.
The screams had continued, nonstop, since Andy had first heard them. Without a doubt, something awful was happening up there. Andy turned to Mike; his decision was made.
“We’ll give her an hour.”
15 hours later, Layla’s screams were still heard, with a noticeably hoarser tone. They had decided to call it quits after much debate regarding a 16th hour. Mike was getting hungry, and in all likelihood, the screams they were now hearing were simply the giant spiders inadvertently breathing through Layla’s exposed wind pipe and voice box as they fed.
“So how much gold do we have left?” Andy asked as he and Mike approached the town’s gates. It was not quite nightfall, and the torches were in the midst of being lit.
“I could really use a drink,” he added dreamily.
Mike rolled his eyes. This was usually the last phrase uttered before an evening of debaucherized retardation and bets on who in the bar was capable of murder. Sometimes this was followed by a murder.
Mike looked around. His train of thought had led him away for a moment, and Andy had taken that moment to both discover a tavern and knock several people over on his way to it.
“Can we make a party promise?” Mike asked, catching up with Andy in the tavern’s rustic entryway. “Let’s say we don’t get drunk enough to rip a housewife in half tonight.”
This was a thinly-veiled request regarding Andy’s raging alcoholism, and he was probably going to see right through it. But Mike was prepared to stand by his statement, and readied himself to be shielded from Andy’s most assuredly violent response.
But there was no response. Andy continued to stand in the doorway, looking in. His eyes were wide in surprise, which was a strange place for a man who traveled with a drooling, freakish wererabbit to find himself. Mike leaned in the doorway to see what had Andy so transfixed.
About a hundred pirates were singing, drinking, puking, and pillaging throughout the tavern. Though the behavior was hardly out of the ordinary for pirates, there was an even harsher tone to their tomfoolery than normal. Someone had already cut the bartender’s head off, and by the smell, the crew wasn’t even that drunk.
“These pirates lack the order brought on by a leader,” Andy mentioned, finally turning to look up at his companion. “As if maybe he was killed a few days back.”
Mike nodded. “By a shriveled elf with a dragon’s head, perhaps.”
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
From the Mist of Hell: Chapter the First
Because my roommates were playing D&D for eight hours and I had my bedroom door open. And yeah, for you D&D MASTERS, I know eight hours can sometimes just be the prologue, but come on. This is the first song I know. Just dance with me.
… And so it was from the moat house the party traveled forth, satisfied to leave behind them one of the more disemboweling areas of their long journey. Andy stroked his orange dwarf hair and drummed his fingers on the horn that was habitually around his neck. It was reserved for emergencies; calling others to his aid when overwhelmed. As his barbaric nature often took hold in the heat of combat, the horn was of little use to him.
The moat house had required four separate horn blows.
The silence between them was not without a purpose. Although more often than not, the riches discovered at the end of a nightmarish passage far surpassed the struggles encountered while traveling through it; yet, in their previous saga, mistakes had been made. Andy now repeatedly turned to give disgruntled looks to his partner, Mike, hoping the words he wished to express would come to him.
He was glad Mike was in wererabbit form. As a human, Mike was a 173 year old man with a beard the length of a swinging vine. It was much harder on the conscience to get upset with someone who looked not only like a powerful wizard, but also, his great-grandfather, had he been 4 four feet shorter. It often felt as though Mike were less of a companion, and more like he was dragging home his dead dog on a sled. And the dog had been his best friend.
Mike unleashed an animalistic cough. In his wererabbit form, he was a hulking beast that walked with a dramatic lurch, spewing whatever fluid got to the top of whatever hole without much discrepancy. Andy sighed again, louder this time, at the sight of a six foot rabbit with ingrown teeth and a lazy eye walking in a somewhat straight line next to him. At least he wasn’t a snake anymore.
“Why the hell did you pick that serpent form, anyway?” Andy asked, his tone striking an angry, low-pitched growl.
“I was feeling traitorousssssss,” Mike replied, flapping his tongue like an insane person.
“You’re not a snake anymore.”
Mike let silence build up between them again before he cleared his throat, making a noise that for a human would probably signify death, rather than a normal, bodily housekeeping procedure.
"I think maybe we should have a moment for our fallen comrade," he finally heaved. "She... she... yeah."
Layla had been the most notable casualty of the moat house. The elf was ageless, of course, but frail as all holy hell, the physical equivalent of a 500-year-old human woman. The flesh didn't so much hang from her bones as it clung to them for dear life. And she was angry... so... brooding and angry. They would often awaken to find her sleeping in a tree.
"Aye," Andy stated.
They bowed their heads and let the natural snaps and groans of the old woods take over.
"Though she was kind of a bitch."
"She was definitely stealing gold, in a way that I would know about it but couldn't prove anything," Mike added to Andy's sentiment almost immediately. "That's all she ever wanted to do. 'Search the area for gold.' God damn elf."
It was because of Layla that the trip had been so murderous, mainly due to her own murder. A pitch black, stone chamber filled ankle-deep with human bones was usually an indicator that something decidedly undesirable was dwelling within. Setting up camp for any amount of time would be considered an ignorant and exhaustively oblivious notion.
"All right, let's move on," Andy had exclaimed, sprinting toward the sunlight that peaked through some holes in the structure. "I think we can bring this wall down. Layla, use your 'dagger scream' on it."
"Screw you mindless sacks of moose piss."
Already she had started searching the far corners of the room for treasure, making her voice the only evidence that she was even there. "Go on without me. I'm busy."
Mike slithered down from the tower's crest. "There's a village not far in the distance! We can make it in a few hours if we get slithering."
"Will you shift out of snake form, please?! There's still a pirate horde tracking us after our visit to the last town," Andy pleaded.
Layla smiled at the memory. She'd beaten a pirate captain to death with a bloody dragon's head in front of his crew. Then she got off his corpse and called them all "cunts."
A quick escape had been required. Andy's recollection of the scenario was met with less nostalgia than Layla's.
"Hell's teeth, Layla, let's go!" he yelled. "We have plenty of gold."
Layla's bony arm gave him the finger, but in the darkness, he didn't see it. He also didn't see her steal some gold from his pocket.
That's about when a series of suspicious, eight-legged thumps dropped off the ceiling.
… And so it was from the moat house the party traveled forth, satisfied to leave behind them one of the more disemboweling areas of their long journey. Andy stroked his orange dwarf hair and drummed his fingers on the horn that was habitually around his neck. It was reserved for emergencies; calling others to his aid when overwhelmed. As his barbaric nature often took hold in the heat of combat, the horn was of little use to him.
The moat house had required four separate horn blows.
The silence between them was not without a purpose. Although more often than not, the riches discovered at the end of a nightmarish passage far surpassed the struggles encountered while traveling through it; yet, in their previous saga, mistakes had been made. Andy now repeatedly turned to give disgruntled looks to his partner, Mike, hoping the words he wished to express would come to him.
He was glad Mike was in wererabbit form. As a human, Mike was a 173 year old man with a beard the length of a swinging vine. It was much harder on the conscience to get upset with someone who looked not only like a powerful wizard, but also, his great-grandfather, had he been 4 four feet shorter. It often felt as though Mike were less of a companion, and more like he was dragging home his dead dog on a sled. And the dog had been his best friend.
Mike unleashed an animalistic cough. In his wererabbit form, he was a hulking beast that walked with a dramatic lurch, spewing whatever fluid got to the top of whatever hole without much discrepancy. Andy sighed again, louder this time, at the sight of a six foot rabbit with ingrown teeth and a lazy eye walking in a somewhat straight line next to him. At least he wasn’t a snake anymore.
“Why the hell did you pick that serpent form, anyway?” Andy asked, his tone striking an angry, low-pitched growl.
“I was feeling traitorousssssss,” Mike replied, flapping his tongue like an insane person.
“You’re not a snake anymore.”
Mike let silence build up between them again before he cleared his throat, making a noise that for a human would probably signify death, rather than a normal, bodily housekeeping procedure.
"I think maybe we should have a moment for our fallen comrade," he finally heaved. "She... she... yeah."
Layla had been the most notable casualty of the moat house. The elf was ageless, of course, but frail as all holy hell, the physical equivalent of a 500-year-old human woman. The flesh didn't so much hang from her bones as it clung to them for dear life. And she was angry... so... brooding and angry. They would often awaken to find her sleeping in a tree.
"Aye," Andy stated.
They bowed their heads and let the natural snaps and groans of the old woods take over.
"Though she was kind of a bitch."
"She was definitely stealing gold, in a way that I would know about it but couldn't prove anything," Mike added to Andy's sentiment almost immediately. "That's all she ever wanted to do. 'Search the area for gold.' God damn elf."
It was because of Layla that the trip had been so murderous, mainly due to her own murder. A pitch black, stone chamber filled ankle-deep with human bones was usually an indicator that something decidedly undesirable was dwelling within. Setting up camp for any amount of time would be considered an ignorant and exhaustively oblivious notion.
"All right, let's move on," Andy had exclaimed, sprinting toward the sunlight that peaked through some holes in the structure. "I think we can bring this wall down. Layla, use your 'dagger scream' on it."
"Screw you mindless sacks of moose piss."
Already she had started searching the far corners of the room for treasure, making her voice the only evidence that she was even there. "Go on without me. I'm busy."
Mike slithered down from the tower's crest. "There's a village not far in the distance! We can make it in a few hours if we get slithering."
"Will you shift out of snake form, please?! There's still a pirate horde tracking us after our visit to the last town," Andy pleaded.
Layla smiled at the memory. She'd beaten a pirate captain to death with a bloody dragon's head in front of his crew. Then she got off his corpse and called them all "cunts."
A quick escape had been required. Andy's recollection of the scenario was met with less nostalgia than Layla's.
"Hell's teeth, Layla, let's go!" he yelled. "We have plenty of gold."
Layla's bony arm gave him the finger, but in the darkness, he didn't see it. He also didn't see her steal some gold from his pocket.
That's about when a series of suspicious, eight-legged thumps dropped off the ceiling.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Movie Ideas for Danny Glover
SPRING BROKE
In order to prove he's got soul, 35-year-old college student Todd Yootzee (David DuChovony) plans the student film of a lifetime. Unfortunately, his plan to simply stay on campus throughout the week while the dorms are closed gets a little hairy... especially with the Dean around to catch his every move!
Todd may not have the ambition, but he sure knows how to party! With boobs, beer, and a little bit of boobs, Todd's movie may just sweep the film festivals and let him stay in college forever... and throw the HUGEST PARTY.
Danny Glover gives a strong performance as Dean Jackson Highfire, a grumpy old fart who was recently accused of murdering his wife.
THE DENVER COUNTY CORN COBBS
Danny Glover IS Chester Nickleby. He and his barber shop quartet, the Corn Cobbs, are becoming quite a hit in their small town, when they make it big and are invited to the National Barbershop Quartet Championship in Nebraska! As they prepare to leave, Chester and his bandmates, Efrem, Schmitty, and Dillhole, are forced to take a good look at themselves, and old secrets come up that may have been best to keep quiet! Packing all their things and saying a few good byes, all of their lives are explored to show how they got to where they are... and where it's going to take them! Keep an eye out for the mind-blasting execution scene, and a cameo by Quentin Tarantino as "Rapist #18."
SKY BEAST: DAWN OF THE UNDERLORDS
In a post-apocalyptic world, land has become untouchable... festering with earth-devouring fumes and chemicals, the last humans alive live high up in the atmosphere, and over the time, the intense pressure has made them harder... tougher... stronger.
When they're not struggling to stay alive, they're keeping things as extreme as can be... 800,000 miles above the ground. Street racing has been replaced by cloud racing, and the gangs of this new society race in high-powered action jets, streaking across the sky at unsafe speeds. If they aren't testing the limits, they're shaking off a tail from the sky-cops, who are always trying to bring them down.
Its up to Chief Josiah Octane (Glover) to shut them down... for good. Little does he know, that the human population... is about to get a little smaller. A race of demons breaks free from the surface far below and, moving upward, discover the humans and begin to feed their terrible hunger. Can Josiah Octane and the sky-gangs of the future form a strong enough, if only temporary, truce, to stop the UNDERLORDS?
The reunion of Angels in the Outfield stars Glover and Joseph-Gordon Levitt will win critics over with its non stop battering ram of awesome. Levitt is gang leader Chet Jetstream, whose had a falling out with Octane in the past. Check out this scene where they meet for the first time after becoming enemies:
In order to prove he's got soul, 35-year-old college student Todd Yootzee (David DuChovony) plans the student film of a lifetime. Unfortunately, his plan to simply stay on campus throughout the week while the dorms are closed gets a little hairy... especially with the Dean around to catch his every move!
Todd may not have the ambition, but he sure knows how to party! With boobs, beer, and a little bit of boobs, Todd's movie may just sweep the film festivals and let him stay in college forever... and throw the HUGEST PARTY.
Danny Glover gives a strong performance as Dean Jackson Highfire, a grumpy old fart who was recently accused of murdering his wife.
THE DENVER COUNTY CORN COBBS
Danny Glover IS Chester Nickleby. He and his barber shop quartet, the Corn Cobbs, are becoming quite a hit in their small town, when they make it big and are invited to the National Barbershop Quartet Championship in Nebraska! As they prepare to leave, Chester and his bandmates, Efrem, Schmitty, and Dillhole, are forced to take a good look at themselves, and old secrets come up that may have been best to keep quiet! Packing all their things and saying a few good byes, all of their lives are explored to show how they got to where they are... and where it's going to take them! Keep an eye out for the mind-blasting execution scene, and a cameo by Quentin Tarantino as "Rapist #18."
SKY BEAST: DAWN OF THE UNDERLORDS
In a post-apocalyptic world, land has become untouchable... festering with earth-devouring fumes and chemicals, the last humans alive live high up in the atmosphere, and over the time, the intense pressure has made them harder... tougher... stronger.
When they're not struggling to stay alive, they're keeping things as extreme as can be... 800,000 miles above the ground. Street racing has been replaced by cloud racing, and the gangs of this new society race in high-powered action jets, streaking across the sky at unsafe speeds. If they aren't testing the limits, they're shaking off a tail from the sky-cops, who are always trying to bring them down.
Its up to Chief Josiah Octane (Glover) to shut them down... for good. Little does he know, that the human population... is about to get a little smaller. A race of demons breaks free from the surface far below and, moving upward, discover the humans and begin to feed their terrible hunger. Can Josiah Octane and the sky-gangs of the future form a strong enough, if only temporary, truce, to stop the UNDERLORDS?
The reunion of Angels in the Outfield stars Glover and Joseph-Gordon Levitt will win critics over with its non stop battering ram of awesome. Levitt is gang leader Chet Jetstream, whose had a falling out with Octane in the past. Check out this scene where they meet for the first time after becoming enemies:
EXT. WINDSWEPT SKY-PLATFORM - DAY
Octane: You never were one for the rules, if I remember, Jetstream.
Jetstream: Some of us ain't got time for rules, Chief. Some of us just wanna see how far the devil'll let us go.
Jetstream lights a cigarette and looks out toward the sunset.
Octane: Well, if you’re not trying to go to hell, son... you gotta funny way of showing it.
Jetstream turns around, eyes filled with rage and the fire of a thousand suns.
Jetstream: I’m not your
Octane: I should’ve broken your spine when I had the chance.
Jetstream: You never had the chance.
Octane: Oh, I had it. I’m sure you’ll go to sleep again.
Jetstream runs at Octane, his pistol drawn. Octane draws a six foot blade off his back and assumes a combative stance. Both are screaming war cries at a constant rate.
Suddenly, a DEMON bursts up from below the platform. He’s a giant, with glowing eyes and a torso the size of a house. He levitates and fires VOLCANIC LASERS OF MAGMA out his eyes, letting loose a hideous scream. Octane flips through the air and slashes at the beast, delivering a hardy kick. It lets out a whimper and falls to the ground as the top of its body slides off the bottom and falls down into oblivion.
Another ENORMOUS DEMON pops up on the other side, closer to Jetstream. Chet cockily turns to the adversary, and is about to fire his pistol when the creature takes a swipe at him with his claw. Chet loses his step and it appears the demon has him…
CRAAAAACK. Chet pulls off a terrific dodge and lands on the claw, breaking all the demon’s fingers. Immobilized with pain, the creature screams. Chet walks away, then turns around swiftly, pointing his pistol at the demon.
Octane: NOOOOOOOO!
Chet fires on the beast. It bleeds FIERY LAVA, which spills onto the platform they are on, disintegrating it. The entire structure begins to fall, plummeting down, down, through the stratosphere.
Jetstream: YAAAAAAA!
Octane: Here we go AGAAAAAIINNNN, MOTHA FUCKAAAAAA!!!
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Out of Beer
First, read this.
Now, read this:
EXT. TRAILER PARK - DAY
A gathering of neighbors are standing around a BBQ pit. Some meat is roasting. The quiet murmurs of conversation initiating are highlighted by the soothing sound of the fire blazing merrily. A few steps away from the main group stands AMILCAR GUERRA, 38, dark hair and a devilish goatee on his used face. He glares menacingly down the road in front of him.
Behind him, CARMEN, his wife, walks up with an empty beer case.
CARMEN: We're out of beer!
AMILCAR: I know.
He pounds the rest of the beer in his hand and throws it to the ground harshly.
AMILCAR: They just went out to get more.
Carmen stares at her husband, confused.
CARMEN: What--
AMILCAR: Those mother fuckers are getting shitty beer, I know it. I should've gone.
CARMEN: Why would they get shitty beer? They're going to drink it too.
AMILCAR: But they know how much this BBQ means to me and my career as trailer park BBQ supervisor! If I'm misrepresented because they get some cheap piss water, I'm finished! The board's gonna have my ass, Carmen!
Carmen looks over at the party attendees at the BBQ pit. One of them is urinating into it while the others cheer him on. He drunkenly falls into the pit, screaming.
CARMEN: The people who live in this trailer park live here because they've been excommunicated from every other venue you can set foot in, including churches and family events.
Amilcar waves at the group.
AMILCAR: Wonderful day! You guys are number one to this community!
A few of them wave back, smiling, as they attempt to put out the flames that are now all over the guy who had been pissing in the BBQ pit. He rolls back and forth on the ground, screaming. Amilcar turns back to his wife, stone-faced.
AMILCAR: Gaspar, Nery, and Andres have been attempting to usurp my position for four months. One slip up, and they're ready to slither in and declare "martial trailer park law." You know what happens then?
He spreads his arms wide in a dramatic fashion.
AMILCAR: Chaos! Fucking CHAOS! Horses breathing fire, running through our streets! The Army gets in here and starts poking people in the eye! Roving packs of wild dogs become the dominant life form! Man is forced to retreat to his most primitive instincts, hunting mammoths for food, while constructing shelter out of dinosaur bones.
Amilcar's rant ends and he slowly turns to face his wife again.
AMILCAR: Infant mortality rates will sky rocket. All on my watch. I am not prepared to let that happen!
Carmen stares at her husband.
CARMEN: Are you drunk?
Just then, a PICK-UP TRUCK pulls onto the scene, one man driving, GASPAR, and two seated in the bed, NERY and ANDRES. Music blares as they slurp down beers and the truck comes to a sudden halt. The people at the BBQ pit cheer upon the arrival and abandon putting the guy on ground out, heading over for the beer re-supply truck.
Amilcar stares. Carmen tries to grab his arm, but he pulls away. Slowly marching over to the truck, his evil, penetrating stare does not leave the three amigos. Gaspar, Nery, and Andres are passing out beers to the crowd surrounding them, and Amilcar grabs one out somebody's hand. He takes a deep drink, and his EYES go wide with rage.
AMILCAR: You slithering SERPENTS!
The party goes silent with confusion at the bizarre accusation. Gaspar looks down at the angry Amilcar.
GASPAR: Excuse me?
AMILCAR: This beer tastes like watered-down diarrhea. Are you trying to turn this BBQ into a mass grave?!
Gaspar SIGHS, weary.
GASPAR: Amilcar, not again. You asked us to go get beer. We went and got beer. I'd have let you come, but you know you're to be arrested on sight if you set foot in the distributor again. Remember? Remember when you tried to drown that stock boy in a half-keg because he sneezed at you from across the store?
Amilcar laughs uproariously.
AMILCAR: No one believes your lies, Gaspar, or the sinuous actions of your pathetic cohorts! These people want to to enjoy themselves, not wonder whether or not they've got tapeworms!
GUY WITH BEER: I already have tapeworms.
Andres takes a step forward.
ANDRES: Maybe you better just settle down, Amil--
Amilcar pulls a SMALL KNIFE out of his pocket and STABS Andres in the hand. The blade is too weak to do any real damage, and Amilcar takes a swipe across Andres' chest as well. Andres is more annoyed than wounded.
ANDRES: What the f--did you just try to murder me?
Nery takes a step forward.
NERY: Hey man, that's not cool--
Amilcar turns on him and in a flurry of stabbing motions, brings the knife down on Nery, and as Gaspar jumps off the truck to aid his friends, Amilcar turns on him, too. All three of the men, sporting several small cuts, surround Amilcar. He holds the knife out, trying to defend himself like a rabid animal.
After a few seconds of this, he turns and flees.
EXT. TRAILER PARK - LATER
Carmen sits on the front steps of her trailer as the sun sets. A POLICE CAR rolls up in front of her, and she stands up, expecting it. An OFFICER gets out.
OFFICER: Hey, Carmen.
She points. A few hundred yards away, Amilcar is passed out face down on the ground. Spurts of blood are on his shirt. His words are barely audible, as he drunkenly whispers into the earth:
AMILCAR: ... serpents... serpents and lies...
OFFICER: Where does he keep getting these knives?
CARMEN: They're not knives, he just stole a handful of Indian arrowheads from the museum gift shop when we chaperoned our son's field trip two months ago.
The officer shakes his head and walks over to retrieve Amilcar. Gaspar appears out of his trailer across the street and comes over to greet Carmen.
GASPAR: Well, its official. They made me trailer park BBQ supervisor. Amilcar is out.
CARMEN: I hate to say it, but its about time.
GASPAR: Maybe now we'll be able to have some fun around here.
They watch as Amilcar is peeled off the ground. As they do, Gaspar puts his arm around Carmen. She doesn't mind. In front of them, a PACK OF WILD DOGS scurries by.
Now, read this:
EXT. TRAILER PARK - DAY
A gathering of neighbors are standing around a BBQ pit. Some meat is roasting. The quiet murmurs of conversation initiating are highlighted by the soothing sound of the fire blazing merrily. A few steps away from the main group stands AMILCAR GUERRA, 38, dark hair and a devilish goatee on his used face. He glares menacingly down the road in front of him.
Behind him, CARMEN, his wife, walks up with an empty beer case.
CARMEN: We're out of beer!
AMILCAR: I know.
He pounds the rest of the beer in his hand and throws it to the ground harshly.
AMILCAR: They just went out to get more.
Carmen stares at her husband, confused.
CARMEN: What--
AMILCAR: Those mother fuckers are getting shitty beer, I know it. I should've gone.
CARMEN: Why would they get shitty beer? They're going to drink it too.
AMILCAR: But they know how much this BBQ means to me and my career as trailer park BBQ supervisor! If I'm misrepresented because they get some cheap piss water, I'm finished! The board's gonna have my ass, Carmen!
Carmen looks over at the party attendees at the BBQ pit. One of them is urinating into it while the others cheer him on. He drunkenly falls into the pit, screaming.
CARMEN: The people who live in this trailer park live here because they've been excommunicated from every other venue you can set foot in, including churches and family events.
Amilcar waves at the group.
AMILCAR: Wonderful day! You guys are number one to this community!
A few of them wave back, smiling, as they attempt to put out the flames that are now all over the guy who had been pissing in the BBQ pit. He rolls back and forth on the ground, screaming. Amilcar turns back to his wife, stone-faced.
AMILCAR: Gaspar, Nery, and Andres have been attempting to usurp my position for four months. One slip up, and they're ready to slither in and declare "martial trailer park law." You know what happens then?
He spreads his arms wide in a dramatic fashion.
AMILCAR: Chaos! Fucking CHAOS! Horses breathing fire, running through our streets! The Army gets in here and starts poking people in the eye! Roving packs of wild dogs become the dominant life form! Man is forced to retreat to his most primitive instincts, hunting mammoths for food, while constructing shelter out of dinosaur bones.
Amilcar's rant ends and he slowly turns to face his wife again.
AMILCAR: Infant mortality rates will sky rocket. All on my watch. I am not prepared to let that happen!
Carmen stares at her husband.
CARMEN: Are you drunk?
Just then, a PICK-UP TRUCK pulls onto the scene, one man driving, GASPAR, and two seated in the bed, NERY and ANDRES. Music blares as they slurp down beers and the truck comes to a sudden halt. The people at the BBQ pit cheer upon the arrival and abandon putting the guy on ground out, heading over for the beer re-supply truck.
Amilcar stares. Carmen tries to grab his arm, but he pulls away. Slowly marching over to the truck, his evil, penetrating stare does not leave the three amigos. Gaspar, Nery, and Andres are passing out beers to the crowd surrounding them, and Amilcar grabs one out somebody's hand. He takes a deep drink, and his EYES go wide with rage.
AMILCAR: You slithering SERPENTS!
The party goes silent with confusion at the bizarre accusation. Gaspar looks down at the angry Amilcar.
GASPAR: Excuse me?
AMILCAR: This beer tastes like watered-down diarrhea. Are you trying to turn this BBQ into a mass grave?!
Gaspar SIGHS, weary.
GASPAR: Amilcar, not again. You asked us to go get beer. We went and got beer. I'd have let you come, but you know you're to be arrested on sight if you set foot in the distributor again. Remember? Remember when you tried to drown that stock boy in a half-keg because he sneezed at you from across the store?
Amilcar laughs uproariously.
AMILCAR: No one believes your lies, Gaspar, or the sinuous actions of your pathetic cohorts! These people want to to enjoy themselves, not wonder whether or not they've got tapeworms!
GUY WITH BEER: I already have tapeworms.
Andres takes a step forward.
ANDRES: Maybe you better just settle down, Amil--
Amilcar pulls a SMALL KNIFE out of his pocket and STABS Andres in the hand. The blade is too weak to do any real damage, and Amilcar takes a swipe across Andres' chest as well. Andres is more annoyed than wounded.
ANDRES: What the f--did you just try to murder me?
Nery takes a step forward.
NERY: Hey man, that's not cool--
Amilcar turns on him and in a flurry of stabbing motions, brings the knife down on Nery, and as Gaspar jumps off the truck to aid his friends, Amilcar turns on him, too. All three of the men, sporting several small cuts, surround Amilcar. He holds the knife out, trying to defend himself like a rabid animal.
After a few seconds of this, he turns and flees.
EXT. TRAILER PARK - LATER
Carmen sits on the front steps of her trailer as the sun sets. A POLICE CAR rolls up in front of her, and she stands up, expecting it. An OFFICER gets out.
OFFICER: Hey, Carmen.
She points. A few hundred yards away, Amilcar is passed out face down on the ground. Spurts of blood are on his shirt. His words are barely audible, as he drunkenly whispers into the earth:
AMILCAR: ... serpents... serpents and lies...
OFFICER: Where does he keep getting these knives?
CARMEN: They're not knives, he just stole a handful of Indian arrowheads from the museum gift shop when we chaperoned our son's field trip two months ago.
The officer shakes his head and walks over to retrieve Amilcar. Gaspar appears out of his trailer across the street and comes over to greet Carmen.
GASPAR: Well, its official. They made me trailer park BBQ supervisor. Amilcar is out.
CARMEN: I hate to say it, but its about time.
GASPAR: Maybe now we'll be able to have some fun around here.
They watch as Amilcar is peeled off the ground. As they do, Gaspar puts his arm around Carmen. She doesn't mind. In front of them, a PACK OF WILD DOGS scurries by.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
"This is the last time we're going to fund one of your little 'projects,' Vincent."
"Do you drive a convertible, but live with your parents?
Do the neighbors complain about your loud music... even though its Creed?
Broken your expensive sunglasses in a violent sneezing fit?
Wrestled a bear into submission only to discover it was hibernating?
Taken years of martial arts training, only to be accidentally shot in the spine by your 4-year-old neighbor?
If you're almost cool, but not quite ready to take the trip down Awesome Lane, then call me, the temptooist! I can get your arm looking like you spent a rough night getting drunk and pissing on strippers in Atlantic City, only to erase any evidence that you ever stumbled into my parlor and demanded a screaming eagle clawing out the eyes of a unicorn etched on your spinal column. Its like living the dream, but only as long as you can stand it!"
"If you're sick and tired of your friends laughing at you when you want to stay home on Friday and macrame, then finally, take them up on their offer and head on out to your local temptoo parlor, where we make your dreams... disappear forever!"
Speaking of cool, HBO is making a show about how giant Thomas Jane's dick is.
EDIT: I had a dream last night that I was playing Ninja Gaiden II and doing reasonably well. Weird that 1.) I dream about video games I have not played in weeks and 2.) In my dream, a concoction built from my own subconscious desires, I was only doing reasonably well.
Monday, February 9, 2009
No Promises: A Message from the North Philadelphia Tourism Board
Greetings! We here in North Philadelphia would like to take the opportunity to extend a hand toward our friends in the surrounding communities, and invite you all to partake in what we, an overlooked portion of the city, feel like is a year-long celebration of renewal. Yes, in the past, we admit, North Philly has been more easily linked to "psychopaths" or "pools of urine casually lining the sidewalks" than any sort of "brotherly love." But we are taking GREAT strides in a direction that we strongly believe will rid us of the chains of disgust and despair we currently walk with.
In the past few years, old North Philly has acquired a few cherished nicknames. "Killadelphia." "Murder City." "The Scream Pit." "The Asshole of a Nightmare." Although recently, yes, we have shattered our own record in yearly homicides, our top notch police force is always ready to help in any way they can, whether it be calling a citizen a "fucking dumbass" to their face or using their sirens to through red lights. Why, we're proud to report a police encounter from a few weeks back on Temple University campus!
TEMPLE POLICE OFFICER: Gimme that bag.
TEMPLE STUDENT WITH BAG: N... no.
TEMPLE POLICE OFFICER: I SAID GIMME THE FUCKING BAG!
*Officer snatches bag away from student and rifles through it. Inside he finds nothing illegal.*
TEMPLE POLICE OFFICER: Get the fuck out of here.
But let's not leave it all up to the police! Why, located on North Broad Street is a man who stands on his roof and yells at people to get off his front steps with a bullhorn. If they do not comply, he simply hurls a bucket of water down at them, much like how a castle would defend itself from invaders in olden times. Except in this case, the castle is a happenin' apartment complex, and the king is a crazy person. Kudos to you, citizen!
And let us not forget our fair city's recycling initiative. Easy to figure out and simpler to take part in, all one has to do is find out what color-coded week they fall under and put their recycling out on the assigned day of said week. Confused? You shouldn't be, you "fucking dumbass!" (Right, police? Ha, ha!) Just get online, navigate through an endless series of sites, and voila! You're recycling may or may not be picked up.
With new techniques and a proven system, we're thinking its the beginning of a new, pleasant age for North Philadelphia. Recently, blockbuster film Transformers 2 filmed at a few locations in our town, and we're proud to say it shut down traffic and caused massive delays for all those choosing to go out in public for a few days. Hurrah!
And just remember! Never complain about the police department, or they won't show up when a crackhead breaks into your house, steals your DVDs and takes a shit on your coffee table.
And dear god, never park your car on the street.
In the past few years, old North Philly has acquired a few cherished nicknames. "Killadelphia." "Murder City." "The Scream Pit." "The Asshole of a Nightmare." Although recently, yes, we have shattered our own record in yearly homicides, our top notch police force is always ready to help in any way they can, whether it be calling a citizen a "fucking dumbass" to their face or using their sirens to through red lights. Why, we're proud to report a police encounter from a few weeks back on Temple University campus!
TEMPLE POLICE OFFICER: Gimme that bag.
TEMPLE STUDENT WITH BAG: N... no.
TEMPLE POLICE OFFICER: I SAID GIMME THE FUCKING BAG!
*Officer snatches bag away from student and rifles through it. Inside he finds nothing illegal.*
TEMPLE POLICE OFFICER: Get the fuck out of here.
But let's not leave it all up to the police! Why, located on North Broad Street is a man who stands on his roof and yells at people to get off his front steps with a bullhorn. If they do not comply, he simply hurls a bucket of water down at them, much like how a castle would defend itself from invaders in olden times. Except in this case, the castle is a happenin' apartment complex, and the king is a crazy person. Kudos to you, citizen!
And let us not forget our fair city's recycling initiative. Easy to figure out and simpler to take part in, all one has to do is find out what color-coded week they fall under and put their recycling out on the assigned day of said week. Confused? You shouldn't be, you "fucking dumbass!" (Right, police? Ha, ha!) Just get online, navigate through an endless series of sites, and voila! You're recycling may or may not be picked up.
With new techniques and a proven system, we're thinking its the beginning of a new, pleasant age for North Philadelphia. Recently, blockbuster film Transformers 2 filmed at a few locations in our town, and we're proud to say it shut down traffic and caused massive delays for all those choosing to go out in public for a few days. Hurrah!
And just remember! Never complain about the police department, or they won't show up when a crackhead breaks into your house, steals your DVDs and takes a shit on your coffee table.
And dear god, never park your car on the street.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The Ninja Gaiden II Diaries, Part One
I started playing Ninja Gaiden II yesterday, and the best way I can describe it is "Power Rangers but with brutal, endless violence." So ridiculous did I find this concept that I have kept a ninja diary of my actions:
Day 1
I began my journey today.
It all started when a blonde woman who looks like Uma Thurman walked into a bar wearing what looked like clothing but may have actually been hardened tar. Claiming to work for the CIA (I found it more believable that she was filming a soft core porno), she was immediately kidnapped by ninjas with three swords on each of their hands.
I showed up and was like, "What's going on here?"
And they were like, "This unconscious woman was asking for directions to the back of our van and we were just showing her."
I'm thinking, how stupid do they think I am? I asked them this in the form of ripping their torsos off their bodies. One got the jump on me, but I thankfully remembered to wear my special ninja vest, which explodes when I get stabbed but only hurts the person attacking me.
And then a spaceship/helicopter appeared and took away Not Uma Thurman! They took her to an office building and some more of those claw-ninjas took turns slapping her.
I checked the front door. It was locked.
I went with Plan B: Jump off the roof of the skyscraper next door and hurl my body through a plait glass window.
"What's up, guys?" my sword asked, while grinding pounds and pounds of human flesh into hamburger meat.
Some ask me why I would do so much for someone I've never even met, but its pretty hard to make friends when you can't let someone touch you without the very high possibility that you will explode.
So, the one guy came at me pretty hard. I was like, "Bring it on, dude," not really sure why his confidence level was so high. I mean, he hired and trained, like, 600 ninjas to protect him and they were all now the principle component of the blood trail leading from the window I came through to where I was standing at that very moment.
Well, he transformed into a spider-beast right before my eyes, which I thought was pretty fucking crazy, but no one else seemed to make a big deal out of it. I didn't want to look like a douche so I didn't say anything; but of course I murdered him.
I didn't like the look that woman in the trench coat was giving me as she took off in the spaceship/helicopter with Not Uma Thurman, so I sent a couple of ninja stars her way. Just a couple of warning shots. Whatever.
And then this bitch tosses Not Uma Thurman off the god damn ship! She comes hurtling toward the ground at a speed that would have certainly shattered her spinal column, but I closed my eyes and caught her somehow. Anyways, I'm definitely going to ice that trench coat lady when I see her again.
So, I found out this same evil group, "Black Spider Gang" or something, had set a dojo on fire, so I went there, which was good, because I wasn't really sure what to do next anyway.
I get there and of course there's all these god damn ninjas again, but now some of them can teleport, which I thought was confusing, but whatever. They're dead now. So I reach the main chamber--oh, I forgot, I had to shoot an arrow into a glowing orb in order to get into this "dragon's mouth" passage... it was trippy--anyways, I reach the main chamber, and I've got to fight this crazy asshole whose all but indestructible while the building's burning down all around us, and I'm not sure, but I think he's my father or something.
I have not eaten in six days.
Day 1
I began my journey today.
It all started when a blonde woman who looks like Uma Thurman walked into a bar wearing what looked like clothing but may have actually been hardened tar. Claiming to work for the CIA (I found it more believable that she was filming a soft core porno), she was immediately kidnapped by ninjas with three swords on each of their hands.
I showed up and was like, "What's going on here?"
And they were like, "This unconscious woman was asking for directions to the back of our van and we were just showing her."
I'm thinking, how stupid do they think I am? I asked them this in the form of ripping their torsos off their bodies. One got the jump on me, but I thankfully remembered to wear my special ninja vest, which explodes when I get stabbed but only hurts the person attacking me.
And then a spaceship/helicopter appeared and took away Not Uma Thurman! They took her to an office building and some more of those claw-ninjas took turns slapping her.
I checked the front door. It was locked.
I went with Plan B: Jump off the roof of the skyscraper next door and hurl my body through a plait glass window.
"What's up, guys?" my sword asked, while grinding pounds and pounds of human flesh into hamburger meat.
Some ask me why I would do so much for someone I've never even met, but its pretty hard to make friends when you can't let someone touch you without the very high possibility that you will explode.
So, the one guy came at me pretty hard. I was like, "Bring it on, dude," not really sure why his confidence level was so high. I mean, he hired and trained, like, 600 ninjas to protect him and they were all now the principle component of the blood trail leading from the window I came through to where I was standing at that very moment.
Well, he transformed into a spider-beast right before my eyes, which I thought was pretty fucking crazy, but no one else seemed to make a big deal out of it. I didn't want to look like a douche so I didn't say anything; but of course I murdered him.
I didn't like the look that woman in the trench coat was giving me as she took off in the spaceship/helicopter with Not Uma Thurman, so I sent a couple of ninja stars her way. Just a couple of warning shots. Whatever.
And then this bitch tosses Not Uma Thurman off the god damn ship! She comes hurtling toward the ground at a speed that would have certainly shattered her spinal column, but I closed my eyes and caught her somehow. Anyways, I'm definitely going to ice that trench coat lady when I see her again.
So, I found out this same evil group, "Black Spider Gang" or something, had set a dojo on fire, so I went there, which was good, because I wasn't really sure what to do next anyway.
I get there and of course there's all these god damn ninjas again, but now some of them can teleport, which I thought was confusing, but whatever. They're dead now. So I reach the main chamber--oh, I forgot, I had to shoot an arrow into a glowing orb in order to get into this "dragon's mouth" passage... it was trippy--anyways, I reach the main chamber, and I've got to fight this crazy asshole whose all but indestructible while the building's burning down all around us, and I'm not sure, but I think he's my father or something.
I have not eaten in six days.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
It's Probably Not Going to Be Like This
The only thing raging harder than the vengeance in the air was the driving rain storm. Creating a slick surface on the roof tops, I knew I'd have only one chance to take down The Warlock's helicopter.
"Nice try, you ignorant fool!" he called to me, his hideous voice barely audible over a thunder clap tearing apart the sky. "The aftershocks of my retaliation will shake the very foundations of this earth, and sicken the souls of your murdered family!" He spat whatever fluid congealed itself regularly in his mouth to the echoing city below.
"Ah," I thought. "Now there's an idea."
As he swung inside the flying steel beast and threw me a sarcastic farewell wave, a final insult drifted across the air to me: "I can hardly believe they let you hold a sword!"
"Maybe you're right," I breathed, a sly smile crossing my face. The legions of dead henchmen behind me agreed... perhaps now was not the moment for The Warlock to get cocky.
He failed to hear my threat, which made its execution all the more perfect. With a mighty leap, I let loose the sword that had become more of a friend than a weapon into the screaming night sky. Catching the propeller head-on, a small stream of sparks signified a direct hit, and separated the most critical part of the chopper from its passengers.
"Great work, Skullthirst," I stated, the wind savagely taking what was left of the helicopter deep into the stratosphere. "Now... return to me."
Like an arrow, its handle appeared back in my eager hands, a blood lust quenched. At least for a few moments.
Warlock had managed to grab the edge of the building as he fell and was struggling to pull himself up; the last cockroach in the gas cloud, squirming for a survival it didn't deserve. I stepped on his fingers and he screamed.
"How?! HOW DID YOU LEARN TO--"
Lifting my foot, he bid a fond farewell to being alive and his cranium met the pavement in a most colorful display.
"Swordplay for the Actor. Mondays, 3:40 to 6:10 in Tomlinson Theater," I replied. "Attendance is mandatory."
"Nice try, you ignorant fool!" he called to me, his hideous voice barely audible over a thunder clap tearing apart the sky. "The aftershocks of my retaliation will shake the very foundations of this earth, and sicken the souls of your murdered family!" He spat whatever fluid congealed itself regularly in his mouth to the echoing city below.
"Ah," I thought. "Now there's an idea."
As he swung inside the flying steel beast and threw me a sarcastic farewell wave, a final insult drifted across the air to me: "I can hardly believe they let you hold a sword!"
"Maybe you're right," I breathed, a sly smile crossing my face. The legions of dead henchmen behind me agreed... perhaps now was not the moment for The Warlock to get cocky.
He failed to hear my threat, which made its execution all the more perfect. With a mighty leap, I let loose the sword that had become more of a friend than a weapon into the screaming night sky. Catching the propeller head-on, a small stream of sparks signified a direct hit, and separated the most critical part of the chopper from its passengers.
"Great work, Skullthirst," I stated, the wind savagely taking what was left of the helicopter deep into the stratosphere. "Now... return to me."
Like an arrow, its handle appeared back in my eager hands, a blood lust quenched. At least for a few moments.
Warlock had managed to grab the edge of the building as he fell and was struggling to pull himself up; the last cockroach in the gas cloud, squirming for a survival it didn't deserve. I stepped on his fingers and he screamed.
"How?! HOW DID YOU LEARN TO--"
Lifting my foot, he bid a fond farewell to being alive and his cranium met the pavement in a most colorful display.
"Swordplay for the Actor. Mondays, 3:40 to 6:10 in Tomlinson Theater," I replied. "Attendance is mandatory."
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Red Rings Drop a Deuce
Like most things that touch my fingers, my X360 took its own life last week as I attempted to turn it on. It was a casual brush of the power button at first, which quickly became several increasingly-desperate attempts to avoid facing the inevitable.
He was gone.
About a year before, I was happy. My ex-X360 and I were happily entertaining a group of friends. Sam and I were terrorist hunting. I had recently been shot in the head.
"Whoa, way to go," Sam snarled snarkily as he stomped passed my corpse, cooly inserting a pair of bullets into the heads of men who hated freedom. Those around us chuckled at his hilarious use of sarcasm.
"Fuck you," I replied, "Ha ha, just kidding." But really I'm not kidding, I added in my brain.
Unfortunately, X360 must have thought I was talking to him, and, wildly offended, promptly killed himself. The red rings blinked like a muzzle flash from a pistol pointed at my dreams.
And it was over.
I thought another 360 would change things, but it really hasn't. And now, I'm on the rebound again, carelessly playing previous-gen Xbox games that know I don't really care about them. I had some good romps with The Godfather, sure, but today I actually inserted Darkwatch into the disk drive.
Darkwatch? What the fuck is that?
I'll tell you what it is. Its an awful, awkward western ghost-hunting FPS that took a control scheme a generation of gamers got used to playing Halo and switched all the buttons around so that instead of switching weapons, you start to fly. Oh, and instead of Cortana, it has a woman with a country music voice telling you to watch out for ghost Indians. Seriously. If I wanted to be bossed around by Reba McEntire, I'd pass out on the couch with Lifetime on and wait for her to build a nightmare in my subconscious.
Anyways. I've had Gears of War 2 since Christmas and didn't play it because I thought I should get through Fable 2 first. And now GOW2 doesn't have a home.
That's the last time I try to finish someth
He was gone.
About a year before, I was happy. My ex-X360 and I were happily entertaining a group of friends. Sam and I were terrorist hunting. I had recently been shot in the head.
"Whoa, way to go," Sam snarled snarkily as he stomped passed my corpse, cooly inserting a pair of bullets into the heads of men who hated freedom. Those around us chuckled at his hilarious use of sarcasm.
"Fuck you," I replied, "Ha ha, just kidding." But really I'm not kidding, I added in my brain.
Unfortunately, X360 must have thought I was talking to him, and, wildly offended, promptly killed himself. The red rings blinked like a muzzle flash from a pistol pointed at my dreams.
And it was over.
I thought another 360 would change things, but it really hasn't. And now, I'm on the rebound again, carelessly playing previous-gen Xbox games that know I don't really care about them. I had some good romps with The Godfather, sure, but today I actually inserted Darkwatch into the disk drive.
Darkwatch? What the fuck is that?
I'll tell you what it is. Its an awful, awkward western ghost-hunting FPS that took a control scheme a generation of gamers got used to playing Halo and switched all the buttons around so that instead of switching weapons, you start to fly. Oh, and instead of Cortana, it has a woman with a country music voice telling you to watch out for ghost Indians. Seriously. If I wanted to be bossed around by Reba McEntire, I'd pass out on the couch with Lifetime on and wait for her to build a nightmare in my subconscious.
Anyways. I've had Gears of War 2 since Christmas and didn't play it because I thought I should get through Fable 2 first. And now GOW2 doesn't have a home.
That's the last time I try to finish someth
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
