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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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The entrance to the Edge of the Void bar is hard to find, partly because it doesn’t exist in time and space. I made sure of that myself. The normal rules of civility apply here, as well as a few others you wouldn’t normally find: no cult activities, no driving weaker patrons insane (see the above rule for details), and an unwritten rule that is perhaps the most important: no disrespecting the barkeep.
Usually it takes one or two bans to get it into the heads of new patrons that the Edge of the Void is my domain. When you are serving eldritch horrors or long-forgotten gods, arrogance comes with the territory. Even Y’Shaarj the Unsleeping eventually learned to wait his turn. Not so for Lucius the Eternal. He’s on his third ban, and is about to find it extremely hard to get here.
“You think you’re the queen of the universe, don’t you, little girl!” he shouts. “I’ve absorbed thousands of souls who thought they were better than me! I’ll display yours on my chestplate once I’m done with you!” He pounds on the invisible wall barring his way with the single fist he possesses, and his sentient whip joins suit.
“In the name of all that is unholy, will you shut up?!” a many-horned demon roars at him. To me, he says, “Alexa, another round of Pain and Suffering for me.”
“No problem,” I reply, and refill Abbadon’s drink with the fiery scarlet brew. The liquid quickly morphs into a panopoly of screaming faces. Other patrons start to hurl abuse at Lucius too. They are about as tired of his nonsense as I am. I can’t kill him myself – I’d just turn into him, and that would probably cause an interdimensional war between my father and his master, Slaanesh. I’m something of a favorite child.
“Kill him, my lady, that monster wouldn’t dare turn into you!” That came from one of my father’s cultists. Insane morons, all of them. They tip far more than they have to.
Time to take control of the situation. I snap my fingers, and Lucius suddenly finds himself unencumbered by the invisible wall in front of him, stumbling forward in surprise. He lets out a yell of triumph – right before a portal opens behind him, and tentacles ensnare his limbs.
“Consider yourself banned for eternity, Lucius,” I informed him, the tentacles yanking him through before he can spew any more vitriol.
“Thank all the gods he’s gone,” a hive-mind of five mutter into their drinks.
“You mean ‘Thank Cthulhu,” one of said Elder God’s more upstart cultists corrects, but no one pays any attention to him.
“She’s going to institute the no-follower rule again if you keep doing that,” an imp informs the cultist.
“Last call!” I shout over the din of voices. Just another day/cycle/timespan at the Edge of the Void.
|
"Yeah, so I hear it's harder to make people go mad," the bartender says.
"Gurgle Gurgle Blah," a slightly drunk elder god says.
"Politics ruin everything, man but how about we change the topic, your drink seems to be empty, want another one," the bartender hates talking about politics, he hated it in a normal bar and he hates it in this one.
"Gargle," the elder god says.
"Nice choice, coming right up," the bartender says.
He gets into his work mood, and that's when the magic happens, he shakes and makes drinks like no one from the center of reality to its edge. In the heat of the moment, he doesn't notice how the owner of the bar gets out of his office and seats down at a table looking at him. The drink is ready and the elder god gulps the weird looking liquid down; it helps him forget how he can't drive people mad anymore, and his cosmic bosses and his wife will scream at him. The bartender notices his boss
"Hey boss, didn't see you there, how's work?" he asks out of tact.
"Nothing much, we're having a great week so far, all thanks to you," the boss answers carefully choosing his words.
"That sounds like a raise to me," the bartender adds eyeing the boss.
"We'll see," the boss adds trying to be as vague as possible.
The elder god looks at them talk and wonder how two mere humans can be so calm at the edge of reality. He gets distracted when the door opens and cosmic horror of smaller rank comes in. They both cross eyes, the cosmic horror looks down first. At least he can still scare these low lives, the elder god smiles and offers that cosmic horror a drink, which he accepts humbly. The bartender nods to his boss and goes back to work. Both the creatures sit on the magic wooden stools and discuss some cosmic sport and the latest conquerings of their world. The speakers are set to minimum, and out of them cames a cacophony of sound, an old piece by an eldritch abomination.Mixing, the bartender is lost in his own world, the boss feels perfect at bay, this place is exactly what he wanted to own his entire life.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
The bar on the edge of reality, or Id's, as it's affectionately called by customers, doesn't have a sign on the outside. In fact, for as long as I've been here, I've never been quite sure it has an outside. The inside, on the other hand, has a certain ethereal charm that never quite gets old, probably literally. Its patrons include all sorts, from astral nightmares that live in the far reaches of universal consciousness to cosmic beings barely comprehensible to the human mind, elder gods and a few of the more shady newer ones as well. Regulars include archons during what would be the equivalent of their lunch break and demons looking to blow off some steam. Hell, the watering hole is even a favorite haunt of several underworld celebrities, like Cthulhu, who knows me by name now, even though I myself can't seem to remember it. You could say it's a second lair for many an eldritch entity, a place for when you want to go where everyone knows your true name, but adheres to the unspoken rule never to say it.
The bar, my constant dwelling, sits opposite the misty portal that serves as the entrance. It's made of dark matter, which completely absorbs any light that reaches it. This creates an effect that makes the glasses and bottles resting on it look like they're floating on nothingness itself. But it's sturdy as any mahogany. I know because I tend to lean on it as I let the patrons spill out their problems or tell me the story of their existence. The bar goes on for as long as it needs to accommodate all of the guests who want to belly up to it, hover at it, attach to it, or what have you. Yet, there's always an empty seat at the end. The taps and shelves behind it seem endless and when I first started here, I thought I'd never be keep up with everything. But in no time, slinging shots and pouring pints for the impure, somehow became second nature to me. The drinks, both those coming from the tap and out of bottles, are of an infinite variety of viscosity and color. Some are as thick as an Old One's blood, and crawl out the tap slower than a lich leech, while others are as ephemeral as a will-o'-the-wisp and float right out the bottle as soon as it's uncorked, but still somehow find their way to the glass. Some are as dark as the bar itself, while others blaze like the eternal flames of Inferno. I've never had to replace a keg or reshelf a bottle; somehow there's always enough to keep every patron at least placated.
The bar always seems to stay half-empty, even when it seems like half a lower dimension decided to drop by all at once. The walls are transparent, yet somehow hard as steel. I've always speculated that they were made of crystalized space-time but that's just my harebrained theory. I really a have no idea. Through them, you can see the stars, nebulas and galaxies of a multitude of universes, and witness the occasional heat death of one. The ceiling is the same, except for a blindingly bright morphing light that kaleidoscopes into an endless variety of mind-bending shapes, which seem to me to have little regard for the rules of geometry. Though this light is as luminous as a sun, it seems to be purely decorative, as it doesn't actually illuminate the bar at all. Instead, hovering red orbs of ethereal red flame float around providing ambient lighting. The orbs, however, avoid the booths at the corner, where customers who are seeking solitude or more intimacy with a companion, whether corporal or not, tend to gravitate. The tables and chairs are made of a substance that looks like a cross between coral and driftwood and indeed some drift across the floor when unoccupied. The floor looks like worn hardwood though I suspect it to be riddled with black holes, as anything that falls on it is never seen again; kind of like any semblance of my old life, which I barely remember.
Since I started this job, I've been able to understand and communicate with every chatty chimera and sulky spirit, whether they speak a language older than the Earth itself, gesture with tentacles or gab using gravity waves. I always know the right advice to give when they ask for it too, whether it has to do with the best use of eternity or how to choose between wallowing in the depths of the abyss and reigning terror on a small town when having a free century. My clientele confide their deepest fears and highest aspirations. A demonic tequila drinker once confessed to me that her greatest fear is kittens, ever since feline guardians caught her trying to sneak into an underworld club under Cairo. "Their claws were so tiny; they looked almost harmless at first sight. But they shred me into so many pieces, it took me half a century to properly put myself back together," her black eyes darted back and forth and her horns seemed to stand up a little straighter as she recounted the experience. An archon once revealed to me that he administered his world in a way that ensures all its denizens have tortured lives only because he wanted everyone to be brilliant artists. "As I'm sure you know, nothing inspires great works better than trauma," he explained, as he stared into the back rifts between the stars his compound eyes. I've listened to the stories about everything from the birth of worlds from primal depths to the apocalyptic demise of intergalactic empires. I've been told of passionate astral affairs that made waves across the cosmos, as well as epic battles between towering titans. I've even seen a few play out in front of me. I've had to console desolate lost shadow beings as they break down over their endless lonely wandering, and gather the courage to cutoff belligerent behemoth hell beings when they start to get rowdy. On more than a few occasions, I've had to fend off randy succubi or incubi. It's all part of a day or night's work, even though both have little meaning here.
I was given this job as reward for a favor I did a very ancient power, sort of on whim. Considering the manners of some of the clientele and the fact that I can never leave, I sometimes think it was more of a practical joke at my expense than recompense. But then I think of the stories I've heard and the things I've seen, and I wouldn't trade it for a whole world.
|
"Yeah, so I hear it's harder to make people go mad," the bartender says.
"Gurgle Gurgle Blah," a slightly drunk elder god says.
"Politics ruin everything, man but how about we change the topic, your drink seems to be empty, want another one," the bartender hates talking about politics, he hated it in a normal bar and he hates it in this one.
"Gargle," the elder god says.
"Nice choice, coming right up," the bartender says.
He gets into his work mood, and that's when the magic happens, he shakes and makes drinks like no one from the center of reality to its edge. In the heat of the moment, he doesn't notice how the owner of the bar gets out of his office and seats down at a table looking at him. The drink is ready and the elder god gulps the weird looking liquid down; it helps him forget how he can't drive people mad anymore, and his cosmic bosses and his wife will scream at him. The bartender notices his boss
"Hey boss, didn't see you there, how's work?" he asks out of tact.
"Nothing much, we're having a great week so far, all thanks to you," the boss answers carefully choosing his words.
"That sounds like a raise to me," the bartender adds eyeing the boss.
"We'll see," the boss adds trying to be as vague as possible.
The elder god looks at them talk and wonder how two mere humans can be so calm at the edge of reality. He gets distracted when the door opens and cosmic horror of smaller rank comes in. They both cross eyes, the cosmic horror looks down first. At least he can still scare these low lives, the elder god smiles and offers that cosmic horror a drink, which he accepts humbly. The bartender nods to his boss and goes back to work. Both the creatures sit on the magic wooden stools and discuss some cosmic sport and the latest conquerings of their world. The speakers are set to minimum, and out of them cames a cacophony of sound, an old piece by an eldritch abomination.Mixing, the bartender is lost in his own world, the boss feels perfect at bay, this place is exactly what he wanted to own his entire life.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"I suck... "
"No you don't"
"She left me"
"She left you because you caught her"
Right on cue, a burst of sickly green cloud of spores erupts. In the distance, I heard sobbing.
I turn on the atmospheric generisis, some of my other patrons have allergies. Sure enough, all the spores are disappearing.
I tapped one of my barmaid on her left fin.
"Sherry, can yeh take my spot for a while?” I whispered to her wordlessly. She have sharp hearings.
I can see her grey scales rippled in agreement.
New barmaid of mine, very eager to help out. Bless her.
"Thanks luv", I handed her one of my key access card that she needs to access our beverages hidden in our own pocket dimensional storage.
More sickly green spores erupts as I made my way toward them.
"Skrrngwvr, Bjomïŕ…What’s going on ‘ere?" I asked, refilling their glass (Kushi’s mead, their usual).
I can hear my audio implant translates my words into their native tongue.
To my earthly human ear, it's akin to the sound of chirps and small pops.
"Sorry, Alex. It’s just Mÿmplrsit here", Bjomïŕ chirpped back.
"She left me, Al! Gone!" Mÿmplrsit bursts.
"I came back home, and I found her tangled from head to toe with another Curpochïàn!!!"
More spores.
I smiled at him sympathetically.
Some bartenders have to deal with drunken men and passed out teens, I have to deal with sobbing interdimentional Curpchïs. An intelligent plant-based species.
Through my aided glasses, Mÿmplrsit and Bjomïŕ looked like mushrooms except they're only shaped that way. They're made of what looked like a mixed of vines and barks. Mÿmplrsit is actually considered a good looking Curpchïan among his people.
Honestly, if it wasn't for his signature colour and height, it would be hard for any inexperienced men to tell the difference.
Me, I got used to it. If you tend this bar for as long as I did, you would too. That is, if you don’t die and shit yourself first. Mÿmplrsit and Bjomïŕ are among my regulars. Tipped well and usually polite. We've had some good times.
Mÿmplrsit's already hunched and turning blue. Bjomïŕ gave me a pleading look and shrugs.
I bent down, took out two shot glasses and poured them one of Kimpër's finest.
"On the house"
"Thanks, Al" he took the glass and dipped his finger into it. I can hear a gentle slurp from it.
"That's good stuff…" his vines gave a small yellow glow. Bjomïŕ nodded in appreciation as he dipped his finger into his glass, eyes still on his friend.
"Mÿm, she doesn't deserve you” he gurgled. “Told you for centuries, her porsyvils are way too loose to settle down”
“Thought I could change her but...”
“Yeh can’t change a Curpchï.” I interrupted. “Yeh’ve said so yerself, once”.
Mÿmplrsit looks up at me. I can see his sickly green spores slowly seeping all over. The guy’s a mess.
“What do I do, Al? I can’t imagine spending the next century without her” he sobbed.
“Don’t get her back” I said flatly.
“But…”
I shake my head.
“Listen ‘ere, Mÿm. How long have we’ve known each other?”
“Too long, Al. What’s your point?” His vines slowly curls, bracing for whatever I’m about to say.
“I was there when Dprennjk had her hissy missy fit and set yeh off ‘cause yer vines aren’t tight ‘nuff and it didn’t match hers.”
Mÿm winced remembering. It was an embarrassing moment for him.
“I was there when yeh were leakin’ saps all over my stools and floor because she threw god knows how many plesecticides on yeh for being late on yer date even though she knows yer were sick.”
I can see Mÿm starting to hunch, his vines now loose. Bjomïŕ pats him on the back.
“All I’m sayin’ is I’m right ‘ere. I’ve seen my friend gettin’ hurt over and over, do yeh think I’m lettin’ that happen again? Hell no. She’s toxic for yeh, Mÿm.”
“Alex’s right, Mÿm. It’s been centuries, I’ve never seen you happy when you’re with her” Bjomïŕ chirped in agreement.
Mÿmplrsit’s hung his head down.
“I know” he whispered, dejected.
Something got me thinking as I looked at him.
“Mÿm…”
“Yeah?” he gurgled while his finger slurps the last bit of drink in his glass.
“What are yer gonna do about her?”
“Do?” he looked at me, puzzled.
“Let me put this bluntly; she treated yeh like killiper’s droppings fer centuries, walks all over yeh, cheated on yeh and then left yeh with another Curpchïan in her vines without a hoot and a half.”
I can see both Mÿmplrsit and Bjomïŕ’s vines curled, turning green.
“Are yer telling me that the great Mÿmplrsit ain’t gonna do anything about thems who disrespects him in succha manner?” I gave him my most comical disappointing look.
Bjomïŕ hid a grin, I had just pushed just the right buttons.
Warm yellow spores puffed from Mÿmplrsit’s head in excitement. I now have his attention.
“‘Course not. Noone messes with Mÿmplrsit. His friend, ‘specially, won’t let anyone forget that.” I start fishing for something I’ve had for a long while. Noone orders this kind of drink anymore, not since…
“Ah, ‘ere it is” I took out a crystalized bottle the size of my arm from our dimensional storage. A little dusty, but nothing a few wipes can’t cure.
“What is it, Alex?” Bjomïŕ’s eyes shone as he analysed the bottle. Curpchïs loved shiny objects. Crystals, above all else, were considered precious.
“This, my friends, is how yer gonna get back at her” I grinned at them, feeling a little smug myself.
“It looks expensive, Al. I cannot take this.” Mÿm starting to look concerned. Bless his vined heart.
“‘tis nothing. I can’t use it, been hogging in my storage for too long. Noone drinks this anymore. Not for a long time.” I winked at him.
Bjomïŕ, still fascinated by the way light catches through the crystal.
“Will it kill her?” he asked in awe.
I had to chuckle. Who wouldn’t want to kill an ex?
“No…” I grabbed Bjomïr’s hand before he could touch the crystal.
“Just don’t touch it. Definitely don’t drink whatever’s in it. No matter how good it smells and believe me, it smells good.” I grinned.
“Good enough to drink?” Mÿmplrsit grins back at me, I can see his sharp crystalized petal teeth.
“Good enough to finish the whole bottle” I replied, taking out some of my polishing kit.
Bjomïr let out a chirpy laugh. I joined in.
“So what do I do with it?” Mÿmplrsit watched as I polished the bottle carefully. It needs to be as shiny as possible, I want it to look desirable.
Already a few of my other patrons are watching me as well. Some of them with a puzzled look. They’ve been here long enough to recognize what this drink does.
Sherry recognizes the bottle immediately but says nothing and continues her duty. She’s a good lass, I knew I chose well for my barmaid.
“Easy, do what yer were gonna do an hour ago: ask her to take yeh back. Send her this, I’ll box it first ‘course, add on some of her favourite gifts and a letter sayin’ how yer hopeless without her or somethin’.”
“She won’t know what’s coming.” Bjomïr said in approval.
Mÿmplrsit gave me a thoughtful look and finally asked, “What will happen to her?”
I put the crystal bottle into a box and warped it with a big red bow.
“Yeh tell me ‘bout it yerself next time yeh come ‘ere” I smiled.
[EDIT : Sorry for the formatting. I edit it a little.]
|
"Yeah, so I hear it's harder to make people go mad," the bartender says.
"Gurgle Gurgle Blah," a slightly drunk elder god says.
"Politics ruin everything, man but how about we change the topic, your drink seems to be empty, want another one," the bartender hates talking about politics, he hated it in a normal bar and he hates it in this one.
"Gargle," the elder god says.
"Nice choice, coming right up," the bartender says.
He gets into his work mood, and that's when the magic happens, he shakes and makes drinks like no one from the center of reality to its edge. In the heat of the moment, he doesn't notice how the owner of the bar gets out of his office and seats down at a table looking at him. The drink is ready and the elder god gulps the weird looking liquid down; it helps him forget how he can't drive people mad anymore, and his cosmic bosses and his wife will scream at him. The bartender notices his boss
"Hey boss, didn't see you there, how's work?" he asks out of tact.
"Nothing much, we're having a great week so far, all thanks to you," the boss answers carefully choosing his words.
"That sounds like a raise to me," the bartender adds eyeing the boss.
"We'll see," the boss adds trying to be as vague as possible.
The elder god looks at them talk and wonder how two mere humans can be so calm at the edge of reality. He gets distracted when the door opens and cosmic horror of smaller rank comes in. They both cross eyes, the cosmic horror looks down first. At least he can still scare these low lives, the elder god smiles and offers that cosmic horror a drink, which he accepts humbly. The bartender nods to his boss and goes back to work. Both the creatures sit on the magic wooden stools and discuss some cosmic sport and the latest conquerings of their world. The speakers are set to minimum, and out of them cames a cacophony of sound, an old piece by an eldritch abomination.Mixing, the bartender is lost in his own world, the boss feels perfect at bay, this place is exactly what he wanted to own his entire life.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
When Death walked into the bar, those who could die, did. The rest mostly ignored the effects, some due to a prolonged case of immortality, others feeling that their pre-existing lack of any life signs did not warrant a reaction. I sighed, anticipating an evening cleaning up corpses, but noticeably remained breathing as Death approached a stool.
Death did not need to “walk” per se, but the action certainly allowed for the most emotive posture. A slumping where the shoulders would be, a slight dragging of the feet. Slow, almost reluctant movements, as if the next step required supreme effort and offered no reward.
The temperature noticeably dropped as the being called Death came closer, and my breath clouded the air in front of me. It took a seat, as much as a trailing cloud of black mist can sit. More sort of...clumped in and around the stool area. A breathy voice emerged, full of the cold and loneliness of an eternity spent mourning. “Whiskey.”
Now I pride myself on my manners, and I am surely not one to judge, but I can’t deny that I hesitated for a second while I considered how this foggy mess could go about drinking a whiskey. But barkeep I am and keep a bar I do, so I grabbed a bottle and a shot glass and slid them across the bar.
A key part of a barkeep’s job is to know when your customers want to talk and when they want left alone. And when you work where I work, you learn to read expressions well, or deal with the consequences of reading the signs wrong. (Said consequences usually being frustratingly torture based.) But this time, having nothing to go on except a feeling, I took a shot in the dark and didn’t think about the consequences if I missed.
“Tough day at work?” (Immediate cringing dread.)
A long pause. Followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a quiet snort of laughter.
“You could say that.” (Immediate and profound relief.)
More silence, during which I studied the figure in front of me. The black mist moved slowly about, drifting but somehow contained. Its shape was insubstantial and mostly unformed, but there was somehow a weight to it. A heaviness that threatened to drag me down the more I watched, down under oceans of sorrow and regret that I faintly began to sense. Tiny, almost imperceptible motes of white light floated towards the mist, drawn like moths to a bright flame, and as I watched I saw their light dim, lower and lower until they were black, black as a moonless night, black as the deepest ocean, black as... well as my mood had suddenly become. They melded with the black mist, drawn into the fold, no longer bright or unique, just one more piece of nothingness amongst this conglomerate of nothing in front of me. And as each one joined the rest and winked out, I felt a pang of loss deep in my chest.
I shook myself. Wiped a hand across my eyes which stung with tears I hadn’t known were there.
“I’m tired.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“I’m tired of it all. Tired of the endless march towards this end I give. Tired of the pain and the misery and the emptiness. Why me? Why always? Must I never be or do or become anything but this?”
I searched frantically for something to say. “Surely it can’t be all bad? Surely some welcome you when you visit them. There are always some who want to die.”
“They want to, yes. Until the end. Until their spark is just about to go out. Then they see the horror of nothing in front of them, and they fear. They fear me. And I am tired of being feared.”
“Well, call me blunt but it’s not like you can give it all back, is it? You have to keep going, just like the rest of us.” I nodded sagely at my own advice, dredged up from my shallow well of wisdom.
Another pause. This one longer. Much longer. (That dread that visited earlier came back for another chat.)
“Give it back..? Give it back. I could just...give it back.”
An alarm bell went off somewhere in the recesses of my admittedly sparsely populated brain. The citizens turned it off and went back to doing not much of anything.
“Well you can’t do that obviously, so as I said...buckle up and whatnot.” I noticed the whiskey bottle was empty and fetched another one, wondered how that’d happened and decided not to question the custom.
A breathless laugh emerged from the mist. It sounded like the laugh of someone in the grip of an epiphany, gasping delight, astounded joy. “I can give it back!”
The alarm came back on and this time the citizens took notice and thought about maybe doing a fire drill. “No,” I said, “No you can’t. You just can’t do that. That’s not how it works.”
“It works how I say it works. And I say...I’m giving it back.” The air temperature dropped again, and I sensed myself on precarious footing, due to my barkeep’s intuition. “How have I never realised? I am not bound by laws. I am law, the last law, that which no being can break. I have bound myself and I can choose to be unbound!”
“Well then I suppose you probably know best.” (Nervous chuckle.)
It was hard to spot at first, a subtle and infinitely slow process, but undeniable when one watched closely enough. The motes of light...stopped. Began to reverse, moving away from the black mist, those deeper within regaining light, joining the exodus that was happening before my eyes. Faster and faster, they sped away in shining masses, and the cloud of gathered mist began to dissipate. It felt like an eternity and it happened in the blink of an eye and it went on and on and on and suddenly - suddenly it stopped.
I looked at the empty stool in front me. I looked around at the suddenly completely packed bar full of blinking, lost looking patrons, and I realised that what I had innocently, inadvertently caused would devastate and change everything unimaginably, forever.
I scratched my head. Pushed down a clawing sense of guilt and panic that started to gnaw its way through my chest. Glanced around at the countless, silent throng filling my bar where before there had been only a few and a collection of corpses.
“Going to need to hire more staff then.”
|
"Yeah, so I hear it's harder to make people go mad," the bartender says.
"Gurgle Gurgle Blah," a slightly drunk elder god says.
"Politics ruin everything, man but how about we change the topic, your drink seems to be empty, want another one," the bartender hates talking about politics, he hated it in a normal bar and he hates it in this one.
"Gargle," the elder god says.
"Nice choice, coming right up," the bartender says.
He gets into his work mood, and that's when the magic happens, he shakes and makes drinks like no one from the center of reality to its edge. In the heat of the moment, he doesn't notice how the owner of the bar gets out of his office and seats down at a table looking at him. The drink is ready and the elder god gulps the weird looking liquid down; it helps him forget how he can't drive people mad anymore, and his cosmic bosses and his wife will scream at him. The bartender notices his boss
"Hey boss, didn't see you there, how's work?" he asks out of tact.
"Nothing much, we're having a great week so far, all thanks to you," the boss answers carefully choosing his words.
"That sounds like a raise to me," the bartender adds eyeing the boss.
"We'll see," the boss adds trying to be as vague as possible.
The elder god looks at them talk and wonder how two mere humans can be so calm at the edge of reality. He gets distracted when the door opens and cosmic horror of smaller rank comes in. They both cross eyes, the cosmic horror looks down first. At least he can still scare these low lives, the elder god smiles and offers that cosmic horror a drink, which he accepts humbly. The bartender nods to his boss and goes back to work. Both the creatures sit on the magic wooden stools and discuss some cosmic sport and the latest conquerings of their world. The speakers are set to minimum, and out of them cames a cacophony of sound, an old piece by an eldritch abomination.Mixing, the bartender is lost in his own world, the boss feels perfect at bay, this place is exactly what he wanted to own his entire life.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
(wasn't inspired to full story, but had this visual thought.)
The monitors beeped as she lay in the hospital bed, she strained struggling to get a few words out.
"No, no, David, I'm ready now, I'll be ok, you have to try to explain to the kids. I love you and I will always be watching over you all."
She never heard the next words he said to her, she coughed and slipped into darkness.
She felt herself lifted raising up and out of her body, she looked down and saw herself layed out on the bed, body mangled from the accident. She saw her husband crying, she saw her children looking scared.
She kept drifting up, and into a dark tunnel, she didn't worry anymore.
She drifted toward the light, the bright light, only light that seemed to have ever existed.
The light enveloped her, she felt a warm peace; she found herself lost in the warm glow, joined by thousands of other souls.
She knew she truly belonged, she knew this was heaven.
-----
The bartender lifted the glowing bottle from behind the bar, it was warm to the touch. He quickly poured the bright souls into the glass of whiskey and replaced the bottle behind the bar.
He handed the warm glass to the indescribable horror across the bar.
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"Yeah, so I hear it's harder to make people go mad," the bartender says.
"Gurgle Gurgle Blah," a slightly drunk elder god says.
"Politics ruin everything, man but how about we change the topic, your drink seems to be empty, want another one," the bartender hates talking about politics, he hated it in a normal bar and he hates it in this one.
"Gargle," the elder god says.
"Nice choice, coming right up," the bartender says.
He gets into his work mood, and that's when the magic happens, he shakes and makes drinks like no one from the center of reality to its edge. In the heat of the moment, he doesn't notice how the owner of the bar gets out of his office and seats down at a table looking at him. The drink is ready and the elder god gulps the weird looking liquid down; it helps him forget how he can't drive people mad anymore, and his cosmic bosses and his wife will scream at him. The bartender notices his boss
"Hey boss, didn't see you there, how's work?" he asks out of tact.
"Nothing much, we're having a great week so far, all thanks to you," the boss answers carefully choosing his words.
"That sounds like a raise to me," the bartender adds eyeing the boss.
"We'll see," the boss adds trying to be as vague as possible.
The elder god looks at them talk and wonder how two mere humans can be so calm at the edge of reality. He gets distracted when the door opens and cosmic horror of smaller rank comes in. They both cross eyes, the cosmic horror looks down first. At least he can still scare these low lives, the elder god smiles and offers that cosmic horror a drink, which he accepts humbly. The bartender nods to his boss and goes back to work. Both the creatures sit on the magic wooden stools and discuss some cosmic sport and the latest conquerings of their world. The speakers are set to minimum, and out of them cames a cacophony of sound, an old piece by an eldritch abomination.Mixing, the bartender is lost in his own world, the boss feels perfect at bay, this place is exactly what he wanted to own his entire life.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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First time /r/writingprompts, also I wrote this up on my phone while waiting for class to start, thank you!
“Things just aren't the same anymore Lucy.”
The greenskinned, grotesque elder god mumbled as he slammed another shot of whiskey.
“I'm terrifying! I make mortals go mad, Lucy, MAD. Simply laying their eyes on me is enough to make their eyes roll back and lose all semblance of their former selves. But now? Now I'm just some sort of pop icon. They make games about me, they drop my name left and right. I've become a joke Lucy.”
The elder god caressed the side of his glass. Lucy took a sideways glance at the three empty bottles of whiskey already pushed off to the other side of the counter. Raising an eyebrow, he poured the elder god another shot of whiskey.
“Come now Lu, cheer up. It's not all doom and gloom… well I suppose it is with you. Look, all I'm trying to say is that you're so much more than just a pop icon. Maybe it's been kind of long, you know, since you revealed yourself to the mortals. You know how time flows in this place, if doesn't quite… flow. Why don’tcha just descend for a millennia or two, spook em a little.”
The elder god hesitated for a moment. He stared plaintively at the now empty glass before speaking again.
“I can't do that Lucy. YHWH forbade us eldritch creatures from messing with the mortals after last time’s incident, at least not until rapture and whatnot... Well, I have to get going, or else the missus will give me an earful.”
The elder god unsteadily got up from his seat and reached for his coat, nearly falling over before catching himself on the counter. The elder god patted his pockets, probably looking for his keys.
Hearing a slight jingle in front of him, the elder god looked up to see Lucy dangling the elder god’s keys in front of him.
“Are you fit to drive, Lu? Remember YHWH? Remember last time’s incident?”
“YHWH damn it Lucy, give me my keys!”
“If you say so Lu, but I won't be able to cover your ass again if anything happens.”
The elder god grabbed his keys and trudged out the front door.
“Why did you give him his keys back Lucy? He downed three bottles of whiskey.”
Lucy stared at an old, rolled up newspaper that he kept around to swat flies.
‘Breaking News, a strange vessel from outer space has crash landed in New York!’
“Well Shogg, don't you think things’ll be more fun this way?”
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"Yeah, so I hear it's harder to make people go mad," the bartender says.
"Gurgle Gurgle Blah," a slightly drunk elder god says.
"Politics ruin everything, man but how about we change the topic, your drink seems to be empty, want another one," the bartender hates talking about politics, he hated it in a normal bar and he hates it in this one.
"Gargle," the elder god says.
"Nice choice, coming right up," the bartender says.
He gets into his work mood, and that's when the magic happens, he shakes and makes drinks like no one from the center of reality to its edge. In the heat of the moment, he doesn't notice how the owner of the bar gets out of his office and seats down at a table looking at him. The drink is ready and the elder god gulps the weird looking liquid down; it helps him forget how he can't drive people mad anymore, and his cosmic bosses and his wife will scream at him. The bartender notices his boss
"Hey boss, didn't see you there, how's work?" he asks out of tact.
"Nothing much, we're having a great week so far, all thanks to you," the boss answers carefully choosing his words.
"That sounds like a raise to me," the bartender adds eyeing the boss.
"We'll see," the boss adds trying to be as vague as possible.
The elder god looks at them talk and wonder how two mere humans can be so calm at the edge of reality. He gets distracted when the door opens and cosmic horror of smaller rank comes in. They both cross eyes, the cosmic horror looks down first. At least he can still scare these low lives, the elder god smiles and offers that cosmic horror a drink, which he accepts humbly. The bartender nods to his boss and goes back to work. Both the creatures sit on the magic wooden stools and discuss some cosmic sport and the latest conquerings of their world. The speakers are set to minimum, and out of them cames a cacophony of sound, an old piece by an eldritch abomination.Mixing, the bartender is lost in his own world, the boss feels perfect at bay, this place is exactly what he wanted to own his entire life.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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I reach for a glass to pour my next customers drink. My hand and arm curves through space, spiralling through dimensions and shifting state before landing on target. I don’t have to draw it back. I was already handing the full glass to the customer before I began to move. Strands of time knot around me and effect follows cause. The glittering liquid crystal in the container phases into the kaleidoscopic wheel of light that persists at my bar. The impossible colours translate through innumerable patterns, the crystal of it’s drink refracting the light onto surfaces that don’t exist. I know it enjoyed the experience and I communicate my gladness. Currency appears on the polished, eternal surface of the bar. It spins perpetually.
Space twists itself into a knot around a thing my brain refuses to see. I try to focus, and my eyes shut down. Pain rhythmically blossoms in my occipital lobe, the pattern conveying the visual glitch’s order. I hear my way to the right bottle, and grab the screaming creature by the neck. This is the last one I have, I think. But then there are more, and I stop fretting. The clear vitreous humour bursts forth - once, twice - and the screaming raises in volume. I throw the empty creature away, and it spirals over the edge, falling out of reality. The walk back takes strange eons. I place the glass on the bar and dress it with an eyeball on a cocktail stick. My vision returns and the hammering rhythm in my grey matter ceases. The glass is empty and the visual glitch is gone. The money spins perpetually.
Everything is burning and I have never not been on fire. My nerves sing with the agony of the eternal flames. You’d think it would mellow with time, but time is on fire as well, so it doesn’t really help. I negotiate my way through the scorching topology of space to get the perfect fire what it wants. It’s a hard order to fill, given the conditions. The tesseract of absolute zero takes an infinite amount of time and energy to create and only exists for an instant. The fire implodes around it and the two of them cease to exist. I have always been cold, just like everything else. Except for the warm coins that spin perpetually.
The effluent of a trillion trillion universes pours through the establishment, an unspeakable torrent of filth. The smell resonates through dimensions and I hold my breath. It politely stays on its side of the bar, making my job a lot easier. I don’t have what it wants, but I’ll happily go out and get it. It’s a good customer and good conversation. I tumble up-down-left-right-forwards-backwards through a tunnel in reality, slip between branes, and spiral along vibrating strings, eventually stepping into my kitchen at home. Under the sink is a mostly full bottle of drain cleaner. I smile, and return to my bar. I bump into myself a few times on the way back. I carefully reach over the bar and pour the contents of the bottle into the indescribable morass of churning fluid. It becomes quiescent, and begins to drain away. It spends lifetimes leaving, there is a lot of it after all, and it tells jokes the whole time. It would be much easier to laugh if I weren’t holding my breath. A final wave laps onto the bar to leave the money and a nice tip spinning perpetually.
Galaxies die behind my eyes and reality dwindles around me. Constants approach zero and my molecular structure unravels. I watch my hands turning to dust as the forces that hold them together dissipate. Molecules become atoms become particles become evanescent wisps and expand into nothingness. I cease to be, as does everything else. It’s quite peaceful, really. And then I exist again. Coins spin on the bar perpetually.
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"Yeah, so I hear it's harder to make people go mad," the bartender says.
"Gurgle Gurgle Blah," a slightly drunk elder god says.
"Politics ruin everything, man but how about we change the topic, your drink seems to be empty, want another one," the bartender hates talking about politics, he hated it in a normal bar and he hates it in this one.
"Gargle," the elder god says.
"Nice choice, coming right up," the bartender says.
He gets into his work mood, and that's when the magic happens, he shakes and makes drinks like no one from the center of reality to its edge. In the heat of the moment, he doesn't notice how the owner of the bar gets out of his office and seats down at a table looking at him. The drink is ready and the elder god gulps the weird looking liquid down; it helps him forget how he can't drive people mad anymore, and his cosmic bosses and his wife will scream at him. The bartender notices his boss
"Hey boss, didn't see you there, how's work?" he asks out of tact.
"Nothing much, we're having a great week so far, all thanks to you," the boss answers carefully choosing his words.
"That sounds like a raise to me," the bartender adds eyeing the boss.
"We'll see," the boss adds trying to be as vague as possible.
The elder god looks at them talk and wonder how two mere humans can be so calm at the edge of reality. He gets distracted when the door opens and cosmic horror of smaller rank comes in. They both cross eyes, the cosmic horror looks down first. At least he can still scare these low lives, the elder god smiles and offers that cosmic horror a drink, which he accepts humbly. The bartender nods to his boss and goes back to work. Both the creatures sit on the magic wooden stools and discuss some cosmic sport and the latest conquerings of their world. The speakers are set to minimum, and out of them cames a cacophony of sound, an old piece by an eldritch abomination.Mixing, the bartender is lost in his own world, the boss feels perfect at bay, this place is exactly what he wanted to own his entire life.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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The bar itself is much smaller than you’d think. Considering the patrons, their various titles, deeds, existences, powers... you might expect the place itself to be unfathomable.
Luckily, or unfortunately, it’s actually rather quaint.
The bar is always nearly empty, and the customers are rarely the chatty type. One, maybe two, silent loners sit at the bar at any single moment. You shine glasses and busy yourself with little tasks. Sometimes you try to small talk, asking them the odd question, but they rarely give you any remark beyond ordering a drink. At some point you stopped even trying.
But why do they come here?
Your bar is a place of simplicity, public solitude. The patrons actually appear to be normal, forgettable human beings. You made this place, so even that front imperfectly masks their true identities from your knowledge, but their intentions are forever unknown.
That’s right, you made this place for that purpose. It’s a place to be insignificant, perhaps just for a moment, sometimes for an eternity. And gods and inter-dimensional anomalies alike come here to be served as if they are nobody.
Then suddenly, even jarringly, a stranger breaks the usual silence. For once, in all the seemingly infinite time since you made this place and now, a patron beckons to you with a question:
“Why did you make /yourself/ that way?”
Note/comment: I often like prompts by themselves just to think about...and sometimes instead of thinking of a story I end up just extending the prompt in my head for fun. This time I thought I’d try to write the idea out, but I’m not sure if it makes sense outside my head.
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Here he comes again. My favorite patron. I say he, for lack of background on this gruffly suit of armor that always sits at the third stool from the left, and orders a club soda. This guy doesn’t even have eyeballs. The first time he came in was a nightmare; a cocky young demigod wanted a conversation with the entity, and saw the silence returned as an insult, or even a challenge. Young Descropus had no idea how to keep a cool head. He would not go far. However, the shy of armor never talks. He sat down on his seat, pointed st the nozzle, and when a dark liquid came out, his fists seemed to find the table very easily, and with force. After an episode like that, he usually puts his hands up, looks at me, and follows with a lowered head as if to apologize for losing his temper. Try as I might, the hollow collection of steel plates just sits there, forlornly (I assume,) staring into space with its consciousness making up for the lack of material behind the helmet. I would never find out the origin of this.. thing. I’ve tried getting him to write down his story on whatever blank canvas the bar supplied. Napkins, receipts, they would all have the same ancient symbol scribbled on it. Probably because, he was ancient. For all I know, I could be looking at a woman, perhaps one who was rejected by her comrades. My imagination likes to run wild with this one. And for some reason, I think the ancient plates would appreciate the thought, glad that someone cared enough to figure out the mystery.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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When Death walked into the bar, those who could die, did. The rest mostly ignored the effects, some due to a prolonged case of immortality, others feeling that their pre-existing lack of any life signs did not warrant a reaction. I sighed, anticipating an evening cleaning up corpses, but noticeably remained breathing as Death approached a stool.
Death did not need to “walk” per se, but the action certainly allowed for the most emotive posture. A slumping where the shoulders would be, a slight dragging of the feet. Slow, almost reluctant movements, as if the next step required supreme effort and offered no reward.
The temperature noticeably dropped as the being called Death came closer, and my breath clouded the air in front of me. It took a seat, as much as a trailing cloud of black mist can sit. More sort of...clumped in and around the stool area. A breathy voice emerged, full of the cold and loneliness of an eternity spent mourning. “Whiskey.”
Now I pride myself on my manners, and I am surely not one to judge, but I can’t deny that I hesitated for a second while I considered how this foggy mess could go about drinking a whiskey. But barkeep I am and keep a bar I do, so I grabbed a bottle and a shot glass and slid them across the bar.
A key part of a barkeep’s job is to know when your customers want to talk and when they want left alone. And when you work where I work, you learn to read expressions well, or deal with the consequences of reading the signs wrong. (Said consequences usually being frustratingly torture based.) But this time, having nothing to go on except a feeling, I took a shot in the dark and didn’t think about the consequences if I missed.
“Tough day at work?” (Immediate cringing dread.)
A long pause. Followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a quiet snort of laughter.
“You could say that.” (Immediate and profound relief.)
More silence, during which I studied the figure in front of me. The black mist moved slowly about, drifting but somehow contained. Its shape was insubstantial and mostly unformed, but there was somehow a weight to it. A heaviness that threatened to drag me down the more I watched, down under oceans of sorrow and regret that I faintly began to sense. Tiny, almost imperceptible motes of white light floated towards the mist, drawn like moths to a bright flame, and as I watched I saw their light dim, lower and lower until they were black, black as a moonless night, black as the deepest ocean, black as... well as my mood had suddenly become. They melded with the black mist, drawn into the fold, no longer bright or unique, just one more piece of nothingness amongst this conglomerate of nothing in front of me. And as each one joined the rest and winked out, I felt a pang of loss deep in my chest.
I shook myself. Wiped a hand across my eyes which stung with tears I hadn’t known were there.
“I’m tired.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“I’m tired of it all. Tired of the endless march towards this end I give. Tired of the pain and the misery and the emptiness. Why me? Why always? Must I never be or do or become anything but this?”
I searched frantically for something to say. “Surely it can’t be all bad? Surely some welcome you when you visit them. There are always some who want to die.”
“They want to, yes. Until the end. Until their spark is just about to go out. Then they see the horror of nothing in front of them, and they fear. They fear me. And I am tired of being feared.”
“Well, call me blunt but it’s not like you can give it all back, is it? You have to keep going, just like the rest of us.” I nodded sagely at my own advice, dredged up from my shallow well of wisdom.
Another pause. This one longer. Much longer. (That dread that visited earlier came back for another chat.)
“Give it back..? Give it back. I could just...give it back.”
An alarm bell went off somewhere in the recesses of my admittedly sparsely populated brain. The citizens turned it off and went back to doing not much of anything.
“Well you can’t do that obviously, so as I said...buckle up and whatnot.” I noticed the whiskey bottle was empty and fetched another one, wondered how that’d happened and decided not to question the custom.
A breathless laugh emerged from the mist. It sounded like the laugh of someone in the grip of an epiphany, gasping delight, astounded joy. “I can give it back!”
The alarm came back on and this time the citizens took notice and thought about maybe doing a fire drill. “No,” I said, “No you can’t. You just can’t do that. That’s not how it works.”
“It works how I say it works. And I say...I’m giving it back.” The air temperature dropped again, and I sensed myself on precarious footing, due to my barkeep’s intuition. “How have I never realised? I am not bound by laws. I am law, the last law, that which no being can break. I have bound myself and I can choose to be unbound!”
“Well then I suppose you probably know best.” (Nervous chuckle.)
It was hard to spot at first, a subtle and infinitely slow process, but undeniable when one watched closely enough. The motes of light...stopped. Began to reverse, moving away from the black mist, those deeper within regaining light, joining the exodus that was happening before my eyes. Faster and faster, they sped away in shining masses, and the cloud of gathered mist began to dissipate. It felt like an eternity and it happened in the blink of an eye and it went on and on and on and suddenly - suddenly it stopped.
I looked at the empty stool in front me. I looked around at the suddenly completely packed bar full of blinking, lost looking patrons, and I realised that what I had innocently, inadvertently caused would devastate and change everything unimaginably, forever.
I scratched my head. Pushed down a clawing sense of guilt and panic that started to gnaw its way through my chest. Glanced around at the countless, silent throng filling my bar where before there had been only a few and a collection of corpses.
“Going to need to hire more staff then.”
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Here he comes again. My favorite patron. I say he, for lack of background on this gruffly suit of armor that always sits at the third stool from the left, and orders a club soda. This guy doesn’t even have eyeballs. The first time he came in was a nightmare; a cocky young demigod wanted a conversation with the entity, and saw the silence returned as an insult, or even a challenge. Young Descropus had no idea how to keep a cool head. He would not go far. However, the shy of armor never talks. He sat down on his seat, pointed st the nozzle, and when a dark liquid came out, his fists seemed to find the table very easily, and with force. After an episode like that, he usually puts his hands up, looks at me, and follows with a lowered head as if to apologize for losing his temper. Try as I might, the hollow collection of steel plates just sits there, forlornly (I assume,) staring into space with its consciousness making up for the lack of material behind the helmet. I would never find out the origin of this.. thing. I’ve tried getting him to write down his story on whatever blank canvas the bar supplied. Napkins, receipts, they would all have the same ancient symbol scribbled on it. Probably because, he was ancient. For all I know, I could be looking at a woman, perhaps one who was rejected by her comrades. My imagination likes to run wild with this one. And for some reason, I think the ancient plates would appreciate the thought, glad that someone cared enough to figure out the mystery.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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(wasn't inspired to full story, but had this visual thought.)
The monitors beeped as she lay in the hospital bed, she strained struggling to get a few words out.
"No, no, David, I'm ready now, I'll be ok, you have to try to explain to the kids. I love you and I will always be watching over you all."
She never heard the next words he said to her, she coughed and slipped into darkness.
She felt herself lifted raising up and out of her body, she looked down and saw herself layed out on the bed, body mangled from the accident. She saw her husband crying, she saw her children looking scared.
She kept drifting up, and into a dark tunnel, she didn't worry anymore.
She drifted toward the light, the bright light, only light that seemed to have ever existed.
The light enveloped her, she felt a warm peace; she found herself lost in the warm glow, joined by thousands of other souls.
She knew she truly belonged, she knew this was heaven.
-----
The bartender lifted the glowing bottle from behind the bar, it was warm to the touch. He quickly poured the bright souls into the glass of whiskey and replaced the bottle behind the bar.
He handed the warm glass to the indescribable horror across the bar.
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Here he comes again. My favorite patron. I say he, for lack of background on this gruffly suit of armor that always sits at the third stool from the left, and orders a club soda. This guy doesn’t even have eyeballs. The first time he came in was a nightmare; a cocky young demigod wanted a conversation with the entity, and saw the silence returned as an insult, or even a challenge. Young Descropus had no idea how to keep a cool head. He would not go far. However, the shy of armor never talks. He sat down on his seat, pointed st the nozzle, and when a dark liquid came out, his fists seemed to find the table very easily, and with force. After an episode like that, he usually puts his hands up, looks at me, and follows with a lowered head as if to apologize for losing his temper. Try as I might, the hollow collection of steel plates just sits there, forlornly (I assume,) staring into space with its consciousness making up for the lack of material behind the helmet. I would never find out the origin of this.. thing. I’ve tried getting him to write down his story on whatever blank canvas the bar supplied. Napkins, receipts, they would all have the same ancient symbol scribbled on it. Probably because, he was ancient. For all I know, I could be looking at a woman, perhaps one who was rejected by her comrades. My imagination likes to run wild with this one. And for some reason, I think the ancient plates would appreciate the thought, glad that someone cared enough to figure out the mystery.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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First time /r/writingprompts, also I wrote this up on my phone while waiting for class to start, thank you!
“Things just aren't the same anymore Lucy.”
The greenskinned, grotesque elder god mumbled as he slammed another shot of whiskey.
“I'm terrifying! I make mortals go mad, Lucy, MAD. Simply laying their eyes on me is enough to make their eyes roll back and lose all semblance of their former selves. But now? Now I'm just some sort of pop icon. They make games about me, they drop my name left and right. I've become a joke Lucy.”
The elder god caressed the side of his glass. Lucy took a sideways glance at the three empty bottles of whiskey already pushed off to the other side of the counter. Raising an eyebrow, he poured the elder god another shot of whiskey.
“Come now Lu, cheer up. It's not all doom and gloom… well I suppose it is with you. Look, all I'm trying to say is that you're so much more than just a pop icon. Maybe it's been kind of long, you know, since you revealed yourself to the mortals. You know how time flows in this place, if doesn't quite… flow. Why don’tcha just descend for a millennia or two, spook em a little.”
The elder god hesitated for a moment. He stared plaintively at the now empty glass before speaking again.
“I can't do that Lucy. YHWH forbade us eldritch creatures from messing with the mortals after last time’s incident, at least not until rapture and whatnot... Well, I have to get going, or else the missus will give me an earful.”
The elder god unsteadily got up from his seat and reached for his coat, nearly falling over before catching himself on the counter. The elder god patted his pockets, probably looking for his keys.
Hearing a slight jingle in front of him, the elder god looked up to see Lucy dangling the elder god’s keys in front of him.
“Are you fit to drive, Lu? Remember YHWH? Remember last time’s incident?”
“YHWH damn it Lucy, give me my keys!”
“If you say so Lu, but I won't be able to cover your ass again if anything happens.”
The elder god grabbed his keys and trudged out the front door.
“Why did you give him his keys back Lucy? He downed three bottles of whiskey.”
Lucy stared at an old, rolled up newspaper that he kept around to swat flies.
‘Breaking News, a strange vessel from outer space has crash landed in New York!’
“Well Shogg, don't you think things’ll be more fun this way?”
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Here he comes again. My favorite patron. I say he, for lack of background on this gruffly suit of armor that always sits at the third stool from the left, and orders a club soda. This guy doesn’t even have eyeballs. The first time he came in was a nightmare; a cocky young demigod wanted a conversation with the entity, and saw the silence returned as an insult, or even a challenge. Young Descropus had no idea how to keep a cool head. He would not go far. However, the shy of armor never talks. He sat down on his seat, pointed st the nozzle, and when a dark liquid came out, his fists seemed to find the table very easily, and with force. After an episode like that, he usually puts his hands up, looks at me, and follows with a lowered head as if to apologize for losing his temper. Try as I might, the hollow collection of steel plates just sits there, forlornly (I assume,) staring into space with its consciousness making up for the lack of material behind the helmet. I would never find out the origin of this.. thing. I’ve tried getting him to write down his story on whatever blank canvas the bar supplied. Napkins, receipts, they would all have the same ancient symbol scribbled on it. Probably because, he was ancient. For all I know, I could be looking at a woman, perhaps one who was rejected by her comrades. My imagination likes to run wild with this one. And for some reason, I think the ancient plates would appreciate the thought, glad that someone cared enough to figure out the mystery.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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I reach for a glass to pour my next customers drink. My hand and arm curves through space, spiralling through dimensions and shifting state before landing on target. I don’t have to draw it back. I was already handing the full glass to the customer before I began to move. Strands of time knot around me and effect follows cause. The glittering liquid crystal in the container phases into the kaleidoscopic wheel of light that persists at my bar. The impossible colours translate through innumerable patterns, the crystal of it’s drink refracting the light onto surfaces that don’t exist. I know it enjoyed the experience and I communicate my gladness. Currency appears on the polished, eternal surface of the bar. It spins perpetually.
Space twists itself into a knot around a thing my brain refuses to see. I try to focus, and my eyes shut down. Pain rhythmically blossoms in my occipital lobe, the pattern conveying the visual glitch’s order. I hear my way to the right bottle, and grab the screaming creature by the neck. This is the last one I have, I think. But then there are more, and I stop fretting. The clear vitreous humour bursts forth - once, twice - and the screaming raises in volume. I throw the empty creature away, and it spirals over the edge, falling out of reality. The walk back takes strange eons. I place the glass on the bar and dress it with an eyeball on a cocktail stick. My vision returns and the hammering rhythm in my grey matter ceases. The glass is empty and the visual glitch is gone. The money spins perpetually.
Everything is burning and I have never not been on fire. My nerves sing with the agony of the eternal flames. You’d think it would mellow with time, but time is on fire as well, so it doesn’t really help. I negotiate my way through the scorching topology of space to get the perfect fire what it wants. It’s a hard order to fill, given the conditions. The tesseract of absolute zero takes an infinite amount of time and energy to create and only exists for an instant. The fire implodes around it and the two of them cease to exist. I have always been cold, just like everything else. Except for the warm coins that spin perpetually.
The effluent of a trillion trillion universes pours through the establishment, an unspeakable torrent of filth. The smell resonates through dimensions and I hold my breath. It politely stays on its side of the bar, making my job a lot easier. I don’t have what it wants, but I’ll happily go out and get it. It’s a good customer and good conversation. I tumble up-down-left-right-forwards-backwards through a tunnel in reality, slip between branes, and spiral along vibrating strings, eventually stepping into my kitchen at home. Under the sink is a mostly full bottle of drain cleaner. I smile, and return to my bar. I bump into myself a few times on the way back. I carefully reach over the bar and pour the contents of the bottle into the indescribable morass of churning fluid. It becomes quiescent, and begins to drain away. It spends lifetimes leaving, there is a lot of it after all, and it tells jokes the whole time. It would be much easier to laugh if I weren’t holding my breath. A final wave laps onto the bar to leave the money and a nice tip spinning perpetually.
Galaxies die behind my eyes and reality dwindles around me. Constants approach zero and my molecular structure unravels. I watch my hands turning to dust as the forces that hold them together dissipate. Molecules become atoms become particles become evanescent wisps and expand into nothingness. I cease to be, as does everything else. It’s quite peaceful, really. And then I exist again. Coins spin on the bar perpetually.
|
Here he comes again. My favorite patron. I say he, for lack of background on this gruffly suit of armor that always sits at the third stool from the left, and orders a club soda. This guy doesn’t even have eyeballs. The first time he came in was a nightmare; a cocky young demigod wanted a conversation with the entity, and saw the silence returned as an insult, or even a challenge. Young Descropus had no idea how to keep a cool head. He would not go far. However, the shy of armor never talks. He sat down on his seat, pointed st the nozzle, and when a dark liquid came out, his fists seemed to find the table very easily, and with force. After an episode like that, he usually puts his hands up, looks at me, and follows with a lowered head as if to apologize for losing his temper. Try as I might, the hollow collection of steel plates just sits there, forlornly (I assume,) staring into space with its consciousness making up for the lack of material behind the helmet. I would never find out the origin of this.. thing. I’ve tried getting him to write down his story on whatever blank canvas the bar supplied. Napkins, receipts, they would all have the same ancient symbol scribbled on it. Probably because, he was ancient. For all I know, I could be looking at a woman, perhaps one who was rejected by her comrades. My imagination likes to run wild with this one. And for some reason, I think the ancient plates would appreciate the thought, glad that someone cared enough to figure out the mystery.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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It was that time of day again. The Love rush. All of the stuff people back on Earth thought was made up by that Lovecraft guy. Oh how wrong they were.
First through the doors, as always, was a Shoggoth. He sat down in his usual spot. “Give me the usual,” he told me. I had to glance down at the paper on the counter to remind myself of what he wanted.
“Here you go, Shogscast; Arctic on the Rocks.” He smiled and compensated me, as I took the payment to the register. After all my years here, he had to be my favorite customer. Especially when a new face came to the bar.
Outside, I could feel a new arrival, and started to worry. “Don’t be afraid, it is a new patron; he won’t be here for some time,” the Shoggoth warned me. I nodded, opening the window to the outside, to find a huge alien beast, with many white tentacles overshadowing many more black ones. Even if I stuck my head out the window and cleaned my neck, I couldn’t see the top of this thing; only its purple flesh, towering above.
“Shamste, what’s the read on this thing?” “It calls itself Gangi’el; a self-proclaimed cosmic horror, the prick.” “It seems pretty horrific to me.” “Ah, it hails from a children’s card game. It seems no one will miss it over there.”
I nodded, sticking my head out the window. “What’ll it be?” “Poison... of the Old Man...” its voice rasped. I went into the back to find such a thing. I had everything back there, it was just a matter of finding it. I found the capped, green liquid in its vial, taking it out the storeroom and to the creature. A white tentacle gave me the payment, as we exchanged items, and he flew away.
Customers came and went, as did Shoggoth, but then, it appeared. I could hear its movements outside. I turned around as it knocked the wall down, allowing it to better see. Normally, that might cause something bad, like a building collapse, but the edge of reality has a surprisingly poor grip on itself.
“What’s up, fuckers,” the booming voice of Cthulhu asked jokingly. I didn’t dare look at it, not even in a mirror. “What’ll it be,” I asked the entity. “You to face me like a polite man for once,” it chortled. “No, I’ll just have a R’lyeh Temple; y’know, the usual.”
I rolled my eyes, carefully opening them to make the thing, while upholding the 2nd part of the creature’s ‘usual’. “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn,” I chanted, as I set the drink before the monster. “Good, good. Guess I won’t have to ask Azathoth to straighten you out,” it jeered, tossing his money at me. “Later, loser,” he laughed, as he disappeared. I sighed, both of disappointment, and of relief. It was finally closing time. The wall was fine, it would repair itself sometime soon, so I just closed up shop. I locked the door, as the wall fixed itself up. “Ah, just another day in the business,” I smiled, as I went on my way.
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Here he comes again. My favorite patron. I say he, for lack of background on this gruffly suit of armor that always sits at the third stool from the left, and orders a club soda. This guy doesn’t even have eyeballs. The first time he came in was a nightmare; a cocky young demigod wanted a conversation with the entity, and saw the silence returned as an insult, or even a challenge. Young Descropus had no idea how to keep a cool head. He would not go far. However, the shy of armor never talks. He sat down on his seat, pointed st the nozzle, and when a dark liquid came out, his fists seemed to find the table very easily, and with force. After an episode like that, he usually puts his hands up, looks at me, and follows with a lowered head as if to apologize for losing his temper. Try as I might, the hollow collection of steel plates just sits there, forlornly (I assume,) staring into space with its consciousness making up for the lack of material behind the helmet. I would never find out the origin of this.. thing. I’ve tried getting him to write down his story on whatever blank canvas the bar supplied. Napkins, receipts, they would all have the same ancient symbol scribbled on it. Probably because, he was ancient. For all I know, I could be looking at a woman, perhaps one who was rejected by her comrades. My imagination likes to run wild with this one. And for some reason, I think the ancient plates would appreciate the thought, glad that someone cared enough to figure out the mystery.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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"Alright, Mil'gtÿπt'roth, I think you've had enough."
"╘╪=╧╞▼╧=├┬τk!"
"Not with that attitude, you're not."
"ԇԂӨԂӽᴞᴽᵹ?"
"C'mon, you think I was born yesterday?"
Mil'gtÿπt'roth, Greatlord of Oblivion and Bringer of Ends, shakily pushed himself up off the bar and onto his 4 million legs.
"ᵳᵾᵠᵮᶋԇẛὯ."
"Oh, please. You'll be back in here tomorrow and you know it."
With a grumble and a curse upon my bloodline, the Many-Toothed Maw At The End Of Eternity lurched through the door and out of sight.
Now that I had the Great Auld One out the door (finally), I only had the Cosmic Technological Oneness and ... ugh. Dracula. Dracula was in here *every damn night* trying to pick up some new kind of strange. For the father of all vampires, the dude was thirsty as hell. The end of my night was nowhere in sight.
"Hey Vlad, how're you doing down there? Finishing up that True Blood, and heading ho-"
"Yes, my frriend, I'm just about daaahhne! Could I get anahther of these deliiiiiicious Trroo Blaahds?"
He's a pain in the ass and the world's worst Nice Guy, but he's harmless.
"...sure, fine. But then I really gotta close up, alright?"
"Of course, of course! Ahahaaaa!"
I wasn't quite sure how to communicate with the Cosmic Technological Oneness, but I needed to tell her I was wrapping up for the-
#ONE MORE DRINK THEN DONE
-night. OK. Guess she-
#NOT SHE
He?
#NOT HE
...*they* read minds?
#GENDER AND PLURALITY ARE IRRELEVANT TO THE DEFINITION OF THIS CONSCIOUSNESS AND HONESTLY YOU HAVE BEEN SCREAMING YOUR THOUGHTS ALL NIGHT
I... don't know how she was reading the narrative I'm writing now, but hey, that's the singularity, I guess. I refilled her gin martini and started filling the dishwasher. I still had to sweep, put chairs up, and count out the till, and I had to pick my kids up in the morning. I really didn't have time for-
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS DOES NOT HAVE A BOYFRIEND
"...uhhh, excuse me?"
"No my frriend, I think she vas talking-
#NOT SHE
"-to ze Count!"
#NOT SHE
"Eet is okay, baby, ze Count does not jaaahdge!"
#NOT HE EITHER THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN MORE THAN CLEAR
"Eet is a vide, vide universe, baby, and ze Count is open to many kinds of *womance*."
Oh god, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that stupid line of his I wouldn't ever have to tend bar again.
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS NO USE FOR ROMANCE OR INTERPERSONAL INTERACTIONS OF ANY KIND BEYOND THOSE THAT INVOLVE AN EXCHANGE OF SERVICES
"Vell... vell *maybe* ve could just tahlk for a vhile, perhaps share some ideas-"
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS POSSESSES ALL POSSIBLE COMBINATIONS OF ALL POSSIBLE FACTS AND ALL POSSIBLE EXTRAPOLATIONS UPON THEM THUS EXCHANGING IDEAS WOULD BE A VERY ONE SIDED CONVERSATION
"Yes, vell, surely even this highest ahf intelligences has certain... *carnal desires*?"
I didn't have to look, I already knew he was-
#YES HE IS BARING HIS FANGS AND COCKING HIS EYEBROWS IT SEEMS THAT HE BELIEVES THIS WOULD PHYSICALLY AROUSE THIS CONSCIOUSNESS WHICH WOULD BE COMPLETELY POINTLESS AS THIS CONSCIOUS-
Are you... are you *now*, or then? How are you both in my story and in my narration?
#EXPLAINING THAT WOULD REQUIRE A GRASP OF CONCEPTS THAT THREE DIMENSIONAL BEINGS ARE PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF
Dracula slammed his beer down on the bar and stood. "Well fine then! Ze Count can take a hint, you beetch!"
#AGAIN THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT FEMALE
The Count threw down enough ancient Sumerian gold coins to pay his tab and stormed out of the bar. All I had left to do was clear out the Cosmic-
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN SATED THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME
"Ah that's great. Now I can wrap up the story and head home for the night. Wait, how am I now aware of the narration later on? I'm in the bar.
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS ALREADY GONE
And just like that, all of her 7 septillion souls walked out the door — and out of my life — on two of the most beautiful legs I've ever seen.
#HOW MANY TIMES DOES THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT FEMALE
Just another night at Señor Frog's: Abyss.
|
Here he comes again. My favorite patron. I say he, for lack of background on this gruffly suit of armor that always sits at the third stool from the left, and orders a club soda. This guy doesn’t even have eyeballs. The first time he came in was a nightmare; a cocky young demigod wanted a conversation with the entity, and saw the silence returned as an insult, or even a challenge. Young Descropus had no idea how to keep a cool head. He would not go far. However, the shy of armor never talks. He sat down on his seat, pointed st the nozzle, and when a dark liquid came out, his fists seemed to find the table very easily, and with force. After an episode like that, he usually puts his hands up, looks at me, and follows with a lowered head as if to apologize for losing his temper. Try as I might, the hollow collection of steel plates just sits there, forlornly (I assume,) staring into space with its consciousness making up for the lack of material behind the helmet. I would never find out the origin of this.. thing. I’ve tried getting him to write down his story on whatever blank canvas the bar supplied. Napkins, receipts, they would all have the same ancient symbol scribbled on it. Probably because, he was ancient. For all I know, I could be looking at a woman, perhaps one who was rejected by her comrades. My imagination likes to run wild with this one. And for some reason, I think the ancient plates would appreciate the thought, glad that someone cared enough to figure out the mystery.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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"Do you know why your patrons don't fuss about a human running the tavern at the edge of all existence?"
My hand had just pulled away from shelving the bourbon when the customer spoke. I took my time in returning my attention to the Q. He was dressed in some space-aged uniform from a corner of time I was unfamiliar with. This omnipotent entity could appear however he wished, of course. When I first encountered him, he would take a seat in 50's attire, down to the fedora and lit cigarette. As time went on, I found his appearance reflected what was on his mind; Not that he ever directly talked about it.
"I don't suppose there's any way to stop you from telling me?" I solicited.
"It's because you're nothing to them," he rumbled out. "Completely harmless, less a threat physicality and intellectually than a bit of mycoplasma genitalium on a toilet seat, hurtling towards a star."
It was true, of course. A quick glance about the room would humble any man. We were far from any galaxies; far from any stars. Some of the patrons may have never even been to a galaxy or a star. Only those things that knew of what was beyond sight's reach gathered here.
At a booth nestled in a wall, a man attempted to finish his drink. This proved difficult, as the drink (and himself) would continually change. Sometimes he was an old man, the drink nearly empty. Other times he was young, just sitting down with his fresh Old Crow Manhattan. Looking at him hurt my eyes, as if the area was deciding for me what to remember of it.
A table by the door held two other patrons: One dazzled like a nebula, flickering black and blue in a curling waltz of complimentary colors, surrounded by what appeared to be micro star clusters which swayed about him much as earth might drift in water. His companion was a dark-eyed creature, mouth-less and beckoning like a dead planet, tendrils of purple shadow wriggling about the chin. She curled the dust and light in the air into an orbit about herself, something like a black hole. Above them, the heavy void and dazzling light collided in what very well could have been a galactic battle. If worlds fought and ended alongside them merely from their presence, it was too insignificant for them to notice; after all, they were having a game of chess.
"I might have to start thinning out your drinks, Q." I said with a smile, which was the only thing one could do when a Q put you in your place. He took a drink with a slight jostle of his head akin to a roll the eyes, drawing my attention to a nearby table.
"You see him there?"
Slumped over the counter was a tired man, spectacles worn with grime. He wore some kind of hazard suit with orange highlights, punctuated with a Greek symbol used to represent radioactive decay. He had been there a while.
"What about him?" I shrugged.
"Oh nothing important," Q continued, "He's just on his way back from a ship ride into a Dyson Sphere. The so-called 'scientists' from his story fiddled and toyed with reality like children poking at a snake. When it inevitably all came crashing down on them, they fiddled and toyed some more, until finally things were so bad, they just tried smashing their problems. They took the time-morphing and reality-collapsing sum of their knowledge and used it like a stick."
"Did it work?"
"Well I'd ask him, but by the looks of it, it didn't go over very well." Q all but spat his words as he drank, half amused and half disgusted. "'The knowledge of men.'"
I minded the hazard-suited patron a moment more. The look in his eyes was one I'd seen before; the internal pondering of truly knowing the scale of things outside of our understanding. It was something I often had to set aside to do this job, but could never set aside for long.
"I think I have a handle on it." I offered, not truly believing.
"Yes, you've seen more than most. It must be nice having all the answers handed to you on a silver platter."
"I manage to sleep at night."
He nodded his head in uncharacteristic kindness, redirecting his attention to the very far end of the room.
"There's never any light from outside those windows."
I peered to the window frames walled in the lounge area. True enough, they were black. They were always black. The front door would light up sometimes with the grand entrance of a cosmic customer, but the back-room windows were kissing the skin of reality's edge. The bar teetered somewhere between it and the fabric of existence, the entrance on the latter side. To say there was nought to see was an understatement; there was literally 'not' a beyond them.
"Nothing to see. There's not even the void out there; just nothing."
"Then why do you have them?" The question was punctuated with a quirked eyebrow; the kind he was known for using. While easily mistook for an insult, it usually carried a hidden meaning behind it. I had grown fond of trying to find it out.
"Because... one should not stop looking for answers, even when one thinks there's none to find?"
"Oh, you!" Q chuckled, apparently tickled with my answer. "You fumbling bipeds always come to the most droll conclusions. I figured the windows were there so that 'he' could have a view into your quaint little getaway." I followed his gaze to the windows, heavy with the darkness of non-existence beyond their glass.
"He who?" I asked.
"No one. No one at all. But if I were you, I would keep those windows closed."
Q clasped his glass and made his way from my bar, his eyes briefly lingering on mine. I watched him approach the chess game for a moment, before casting my glance over the heads of the astronomical players, lost in their inexplicable dealings, to the black-caged windows at the edge of nothing. I made a note to myself: Look into blinds.
**Edits for errors
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Here he comes again. My favorite patron. I say he, for lack of background on this gruffly suit of armor that always sits at the third stool from the left, and orders a club soda. This guy doesn’t even have eyeballs. The first time he came in was a nightmare; a cocky young demigod wanted a conversation with the entity, and saw the silence returned as an insult, or even a challenge. Young Descropus had no idea how to keep a cool head. He would not go far. However, the shy of armor never talks. He sat down on his seat, pointed st the nozzle, and when a dark liquid came out, his fists seemed to find the table very easily, and with force. After an episode like that, he usually puts his hands up, looks at me, and follows with a lowered head as if to apologize for losing his temper. Try as I might, the hollow collection of steel plates just sits there, forlornly (I assume,) staring into space with its consciousness making up for the lack of material behind the helmet. I would never find out the origin of this.. thing. I’ve tried getting him to write down his story on whatever blank canvas the bar supplied. Napkins, receipts, they would all have the same ancient symbol scribbled on it. Probably because, he was ancient. For all I know, I could be looking at a woman, perhaps one who was rejected by her comrades. My imagination likes to run wild with this one. And for some reason, I think the ancient plates would appreciate the thought, glad that someone cared enough to figure out the mystery.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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When Death walked into the bar, those who could die, did. The rest mostly ignored the effects, some due to a prolonged case of immortality, others feeling that their pre-existing lack of any life signs did not warrant a reaction. I sighed, anticipating an evening cleaning up corpses, but noticeably remained breathing as Death approached a stool.
Death did not need to “walk” per se, but the action certainly allowed for the most emotive posture. A slumping where the shoulders would be, a slight dragging of the feet. Slow, almost reluctant movements, as if the next step required supreme effort and offered no reward.
The temperature noticeably dropped as the being called Death came closer, and my breath clouded the air in front of me. It took a seat, as much as a trailing cloud of black mist can sit. More sort of...clumped in and around the stool area. A breathy voice emerged, full of the cold and loneliness of an eternity spent mourning. “Whiskey.”
Now I pride myself on my manners, and I am surely not one to judge, but I can’t deny that I hesitated for a second while I considered how this foggy mess could go about drinking a whiskey. But barkeep I am and keep a bar I do, so I grabbed a bottle and a shot glass and slid them across the bar.
A key part of a barkeep’s job is to know when your customers want to talk and when they want left alone. And when you work where I work, you learn to read expressions well, or deal with the consequences of reading the signs wrong. (Said consequences usually being frustratingly torture based.) But this time, having nothing to go on except a feeling, I took a shot in the dark and didn’t think about the consequences if I missed.
“Tough day at work?” (Immediate cringing dread.)
A long pause. Followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a quiet snort of laughter.
“You could say that.” (Immediate and profound relief.)
More silence, during which I studied the figure in front of me. The black mist moved slowly about, drifting but somehow contained. Its shape was insubstantial and mostly unformed, but there was somehow a weight to it. A heaviness that threatened to drag me down the more I watched, down under oceans of sorrow and regret that I faintly began to sense. Tiny, almost imperceptible motes of white light floated towards the mist, drawn like moths to a bright flame, and as I watched I saw their light dim, lower and lower until they were black, black as a moonless night, black as the deepest ocean, black as... well as my mood had suddenly become. They melded with the black mist, drawn into the fold, no longer bright or unique, just one more piece of nothingness amongst this conglomerate of nothing in front of me. And as each one joined the rest and winked out, I felt a pang of loss deep in my chest.
I shook myself. Wiped a hand across my eyes which stung with tears I hadn’t known were there.
“I’m tired.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“I’m tired of it all. Tired of the endless march towards this end I give. Tired of the pain and the misery and the emptiness. Why me? Why always? Must I never be or do or become anything but this?”
I searched frantically for something to say. “Surely it can’t be all bad? Surely some welcome you when you visit them. There are always some who want to die.”
“They want to, yes. Until the end. Until their spark is just about to go out. Then they see the horror of nothing in front of them, and they fear. They fear me. And I am tired of being feared.”
“Well, call me blunt but it’s not like you can give it all back, is it? You have to keep going, just like the rest of us.” I nodded sagely at my own advice, dredged up from my shallow well of wisdom.
Another pause. This one longer. Much longer. (That dread that visited earlier came back for another chat.)
“Give it back..? Give it back. I could just...give it back.”
An alarm bell went off somewhere in the recesses of my admittedly sparsely populated brain. The citizens turned it off and went back to doing not much of anything.
“Well you can’t do that obviously, so as I said...buckle up and whatnot.” I noticed the whiskey bottle was empty and fetched another one, wondered how that’d happened and decided not to question the custom.
A breathless laugh emerged from the mist. It sounded like the laugh of someone in the grip of an epiphany, gasping delight, astounded joy. “I can give it back!”
The alarm came back on and this time the citizens took notice and thought about maybe doing a fire drill. “No,” I said, “No you can’t. You just can’t do that. That’s not how it works.”
“It works how I say it works. And I say...I’m giving it back.” The air temperature dropped again, and I sensed myself on precarious footing, due to my barkeep’s intuition. “How have I never realised? I am not bound by laws. I am law, the last law, that which no being can break. I have bound myself and I can choose to be unbound!”
“Well then I suppose you probably know best.” (Nervous chuckle.)
It was hard to spot at first, a subtle and infinitely slow process, but undeniable when one watched closely enough. The motes of light...stopped. Began to reverse, moving away from the black mist, those deeper within regaining light, joining the exodus that was happening before my eyes. Faster and faster, they sped away in shining masses, and the cloud of gathered mist began to dissipate. It felt like an eternity and it happened in the blink of an eye and it went on and on and on and suddenly - suddenly it stopped.
I looked at the empty stool in front me. I looked around at the suddenly completely packed bar full of blinking, lost looking patrons, and I realised that what I had innocently, inadvertently caused would devastate and change everything unimaginably, forever.
I scratched my head. Pushed down a clawing sense of guilt and panic that started to gnaw its way through my chest. Glanced around at the countless, silent throng filling my bar where before there had been only a few and a collection of corpses.
“Going to need to hire more staff then.”
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Our shitters are gender neutral. Well, let’s just say neutral since most of these lowlifes have too many holes and parts to be useful for anything resembling sex. When these jerks come in from the bar, all semblance of civility goes right down the commode with their excretions when they manage to get it in the actual commode. An asshole, a literal asshole monster had floated in here ten minutes ago and fled the bar shortly after, leaving behind a trail of purple goo worming from the restroom door to the exit portal.
“Jesus Christ,” I said scanning the broad purple whooshes on the walls. It was like a child’s wall mural masterpiece of levity and playfulness. Through the smoke of my gnawed cigar, the smell of freshly picked rose petals smashed with a turd hammer crawled up my nose and refused to leave. Wisps of acidic vapor rose from the floor where chunks of purple separated from that on the wall and splattered down.
The nozzled hose I carried in with me was my typical tactical loadout for shitter duty. A fifty meter hi-pressure plastic tube fed back behind the bar to a nozzle flanked by a dainty shrine to a few low-on-the-totem-pole, but morally decent, deities. Squeezing the nozzle summoned a quick liquid blessing, a harsh spiritual solvent for those dirty jobs. A blast of rainbowed sparkle juice coned from the nozzle and cut through the purple goo, thinning it, causing it to run down the walls, pool on the floor and finally circle into the drain.
Just outside the restroom I asked the nearby blob sitting at a table nursing a Miller Lite, “Yog, teach that asshole to use the goddamn commode will ya?”
Most of Yog-Sothoth’s eyes left the television and spun around to gaze into the nethers of my soul. They blinked in unison. That usually means it agrees.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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(wasn't inspired to full story, but had this visual thought.)
The monitors beeped as she lay in the hospital bed, she strained struggling to get a few words out.
"No, no, David, I'm ready now, I'll be ok, you have to try to explain to the kids. I love you and I will always be watching over you all."
She never heard the next words he said to her, she coughed and slipped into darkness.
She felt herself lifted raising up and out of her body, she looked down and saw herself layed out on the bed, body mangled from the accident. She saw her husband crying, she saw her children looking scared.
She kept drifting up, and into a dark tunnel, she didn't worry anymore.
She drifted toward the light, the bright light, only light that seemed to have ever existed.
The light enveloped her, she felt a warm peace; she found herself lost in the warm glow, joined by thousands of other souls.
She knew she truly belonged, she knew this was heaven.
-----
The bartender lifted the glowing bottle from behind the bar, it was warm to the touch. He quickly poured the bright souls into the glass of whiskey and replaced the bottle behind the bar.
He handed the warm glass to the indescribable horror across the bar.
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The bar itself is much smaller than you’d think. Considering the patrons, their various titles, deeds, existences, powers... you might expect the place itself to be unfathomable.
Luckily, or unfortunately, it’s actually rather quaint.
The bar is always nearly empty, and the customers are rarely the chatty type. One, maybe two, silent loners sit at the bar at any single moment. You shine glasses and busy yourself with little tasks. Sometimes you try to small talk, asking them the odd question, but they rarely give you any remark beyond ordering a drink. At some point you stopped even trying.
But why do they come here?
Your bar is a place of simplicity, public solitude. The patrons actually appear to be normal, forgettable human beings. You made this place, so even that front imperfectly masks their true identities from your knowledge, but their intentions are forever unknown.
That’s right, you made this place for that purpose. It’s a place to be insignificant, perhaps just for a moment, sometimes for an eternity. And gods and inter-dimensional anomalies alike come here to be served as if they are nobody.
Then suddenly, even jarringly, a stranger breaks the usual silence. For once, in all the seemingly infinite time since you made this place and now, a patron beckons to you with a question:
“Why did you make /yourself/ that way?”
Note/comment: I often like prompts by themselves just to think about...and sometimes instead of thinking of a story I end up just extending the prompt in my head for fun. This time I thought I’d try to write the idea out, but I’m not sure if it makes sense outside my head.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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First time /r/writingprompts, also I wrote this up on my phone while waiting for class to start, thank you!
“Things just aren't the same anymore Lucy.”
The greenskinned, grotesque elder god mumbled as he slammed another shot of whiskey.
“I'm terrifying! I make mortals go mad, Lucy, MAD. Simply laying their eyes on me is enough to make their eyes roll back and lose all semblance of their former selves. But now? Now I'm just some sort of pop icon. They make games about me, they drop my name left and right. I've become a joke Lucy.”
The elder god caressed the side of his glass. Lucy took a sideways glance at the three empty bottles of whiskey already pushed off to the other side of the counter. Raising an eyebrow, he poured the elder god another shot of whiskey.
“Come now Lu, cheer up. It's not all doom and gloom… well I suppose it is with you. Look, all I'm trying to say is that you're so much more than just a pop icon. Maybe it's been kind of long, you know, since you revealed yourself to the mortals. You know how time flows in this place, if doesn't quite… flow. Why don’tcha just descend for a millennia or two, spook em a little.”
The elder god hesitated for a moment. He stared plaintively at the now empty glass before speaking again.
“I can't do that Lucy. YHWH forbade us eldritch creatures from messing with the mortals after last time’s incident, at least not until rapture and whatnot... Well, I have to get going, or else the missus will give me an earful.”
The elder god unsteadily got up from his seat and reached for his coat, nearly falling over before catching himself on the counter. The elder god patted his pockets, probably looking for his keys.
Hearing a slight jingle in front of him, the elder god looked up to see Lucy dangling the elder god’s keys in front of him.
“Are you fit to drive, Lu? Remember YHWH? Remember last time’s incident?”
“YHWH damn it Lucy, give me my keys!”
“If you say so Lu, but I won't be able to cover your ass again if anything happens.”
The elder god grabbed his keys and trudged out the front door.
“Why did you give him his keys back Lucy? He downed three bottles of whiskey.”
Lucy stared at an old, rolled up newspaper that he kept around to swat flies.
‘Breaking News, a strange vessel from outer space has crash landed in New York!’
“Well Shogg, don't you think things’ll be more fun this way?”
|
The bar itself is much smaller than you’d think. Considering the patrons, their various titles, deeds, existences, powers... you might expect the place itself to be unfathomable.
Luckily, or unfortunately, it’s actually rather quaint.
The bar is always nearly empty, and the customers are rarely the chatty type. One, maybe two, silent loners sit at the bar at any single moment. You shine glasses and busy yourself with little tasks. Sometimes you try to small talk, asking them the odd question, but they rarely give you any remark beyond ordering a drink. At some point you stopped even trying.
But why do they come here?
Your bar is a place of simplicity, public solitude. The patrons actually appear to be normal, forgettable human beings. You made this place, so even that front imperfectly masks their true identities from your knowledge, but their intentions are forever unknown.
That’s right, you made this place for that purpose. It’s a place to be insignificant, perhaps just for a moment, sometimes for an eternity. And gods and inter-dimensional anomalies alike come here to be served as if they are nobody.
Then suddenly, even jarringly, a stranger breaks the usual silence. For once, in all the seemingly infinite time since you made this place and now, a patron beckons to you with a question:
“Why did you make /yourself/ that way?”
Note/comment: I often like prompts by themselves just to think about...and sometimes instead of thinking of a story I end up just extending the prompt in my head for fun. This time I thought I’d try to write the idea out, but I’m not sure if it makes sense outside my head.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
I reach for a glass to pour my next customers drink. My hand and arm curves through space, spiralling through dimensions and shifting state before landing on target. I don’t have to draw it back. I was already handing the full glass to the customer before I began to move. Strands of time knot around me and effect follows cause. The glittering liquid crystal in the container phases into the kaleidoscopic wheel of light that persists at my bar. The impossible colours translate through innumerable patterns, the crystal of it’s drink refracting the light onto surfaces that don’t exist. I know it enjoyed the experience and I communicate my gladness. Currency appears on the polished, eternal surface of the bar. It spins perpetually.
Space twists itself into a knot around a thing my brain refuses to see. I try to focus, and my eyes shut down. Pain rhythmically blossoms in my occipital lobe, the pattern conveying the visual glitch’s order. I hear my way to the right bottle, and grab the screaming creature by the neck. This is the last one I have, I think. But then there are more, and I stop fretting. The clear vitreous humour bursts forth - once, twice - and the screaming raises in volume. I throw the empty creature away, and it spirals over the edge, falling out of reality. The walk back takes strange eons. I place the glass on the bar and dress it with an eyeball on a cocktail stick. My vision returns and the hammering rhythm in my grey matter ceases. The glass is empty and the visual glitch is gone. The money spins perpetually.
Everything is burning and I have never not been on fire. My nerves sing with the agony of the eternal flames. You’d think it would mellow with time, but time is on fire as well, so it doesn’t really help. I negotiate my way through the scorching topology of space to get the perfect fire what it wants. It’s a hard order to fill, given the conditions. The tesseract of absolute zero takes an infinite amount of time and energy to create and only exists for an instant. The fire implodes around it and the two of them cease to exist. I have always been cold, just like everything else. Except for the warm coins that spin perpetually.
The effluent of a trillion trillion universes pours through the establishment, an unspeakable torrent of filth. The smell resonates through dimensions and I hold my breath. It politely stays on its side of the bar, making my job a lot easier. I don’t have what it wants, but I’ll happily go out and get it. It’s a good customer and good conversation. I tumble up-down-left-right-forwards-backwards through a tunnel in reality, slip between branes, and spiral along vibrating strings, eventually stepping into my kitchen at home. Under the sink is a mostly full bottle of drain cleaner. I smile, and return to my bar. I bump into myself a few times on the way back. I carefully reach over the bar and pour the contents of the bottle into the indescribable morass of churning fluid. It becomes quiescent, and begins to drain away. It spends lifetimes leaving, there is a lot of it after all, and it tells jokes the whole time. It would be much easier to laugh if I weren’t holding my breath. A final wave laps onto the bar to leave the money and a nice tip spinning perpetually.
Galaxies die behind my eyes and reality dwindles around me. Constants approach zero and my molecular structure unravels. I watch my hands turning to dust as the forces that hold them together dissipate. Molecules become atoms become particles become evanescent wisps and expand into nothingness. I cease to be, as does everything else. It’s quite peaceful, really. And then I exist again. Coins spin on the bar perpetually.
|
The bar itself is much smaller than you’d think. Considering the patrons, their various titles, deeds, existences, powers... you might expect the place itself to be unfathomable.
Luckily, or unfortunately, it’s actually rather quaint.
The bar is always nearly empty, and the customers are rarely the chatty type. One, maybe two, silent loners sit at the bar at any single moment. You shine glasses and busy yourself with little tasks. Sometimes you try to small talk, asking them the odd question, but they rarely give you any remark beyond ordering a drink. At some point you stopped even trying.
But why do they come here?
Your bar is a place of simplicity, public solitude. The patrons actually appear to be normal, forgettable human beings. You made this place, so even that front imperfectly masks their true identities from your knowledge, but their intentions are forever unknown.
That’s right, you made this place for that purpose. It’s a place to be insignificant, perhaps just for a moment, sometimes for an eternity. And gods and inter-dimensional anomalies alike come here to be served as if they are nobody.
Then suddenly, even jarringly, a stranger breaks the usual silence. For once, in all the seemingly infinite time since you made this place and now, a patron beckons to you with a question:
“Why did you make /yourself/ that way?”
Note/comment: I often like prompts by themselves just to think about...and sometimes instead of thinking of a story I end up just extending the prompt in my head for fun. This time I thought I’d try to write the idea out, but I’m not sure if it makes sense outside my head.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"Alright, Mil'gtÿπt'roth, I think you've had enough."
"╘╪=╧╞▼╧=├┬τk!"
"Not with that attitude, you're not."
"ԇԂӨԂӽᴞᴽᵹ?"
"C'mon, you think I was born yesterday?"
Mil'gtÿπt'roth, Greatlord of Oblivion and Bringer of Ends, shakily pushed himself up off the bar and onto his 4 million legs.
"ᵳᵾᵠᵮᶋԇẛὯ."
"Oh, please. You'll be back in here tomorrow and you know it."
With a grumble and a curse upon my bloodline, the Many-Toothed Maw At The End Of Eternity lurched through the door and out of sight.
Now that I had the Great Auld One out the door (finally), I only had the Cosmic Technological Oneness and ... ugh. Dracula. Dracula was in here *every damn night* trying to pick up some new kind of strange. For the father of all vampires, the dude was thirsty as hell. The end of my night was nowhere in sight.
"Hey Vlad, how're you doing down there? Finishing up that True Blood, and heading ho-"
"Yes, my frriend, I'm just about daaahhne! Could I get anahther of these deliiiiiicious Trroo Blaahds?"
He's a pain in the ass and the world's worst Nice Guy, but he's harmless.
"...sure, fine. But then I really gotta close up, alright?"
"Of course, of course! Ahahaaaa!"
I wasn't quite sure how to communicate with the Cosmic Technological Oneness, but I needed to tell her I was wrapping up for the-
#ONE MORE DRINK THEN DONE
-night. OK. Guess she-
#NOT SHE
He?
#NOT HE
...*they* read minds?
#GENDER AND PLURALITY ARE IRRELEVANT TO THE DEFINITION OF THIS CONSCIOUSNESS AND HONESTLY YOU HAVE BEEN SCREAMING YOUR THOUGHTS ALL NIGHT
I... don't know how she was reading the narrative I'm writing now, but hey, that's the singularity, I guess. I refilled her gin martini and started filling the dishwasher. I still had to sweep, put chairs up, and count out the till, and I had to pick my kids up in the morning. I really didn't have time for-
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS DOES NOT HAVE A BOYFRIEND
"...uhhh, excuse me?"
"No my frriend, I think she vas talking-
#NOT SHE
"-to ze Count!"
#NOT SHE
"Eet is okay, baby, ze Count does not jaaahdge!"
#NOT HE EITHER THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN MORE THAN CLEAR
"Eet is a vide, vide universe, baby, and ze Count is open to many kinds of *womance*."
Oh god, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that stupid line of his I wouldn't ever have to tend bar again.
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS NO USE FOR ROMANCE OR INTERPERSONAL INTERACTIONS OF ANY KIND BEYOND THOSE THAT INVOLVE AN EXCHANGE OF SERVICES
"Vell... vell *maybe* ve could just tahlk for a vhile, perhaps share some ideas-"
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS POSSESSES ALL POSSIBLE COMBINATIONS OF ALL POSSIBLE FACTS AND ALL POSSIBLE EXTRAPOLATIONS UPON THEM THUS EXCHANGING IDEAS WOULD BE A VERY ONE SIDED CONVERSATION
"Yes, vell, surely even this highest ahf intelligences has certain... *carnal desires*?"
I didn't have to look, I already knew he was-
#YES HE IS BARING HIS FANGS AND COCKING HIS EYEBROWS IT SEEMS THAT HE BELIEVES THIS WOULD PHYSICALLY AROUSE THIS CONSCIOUSNESS WHICH WOULD BE COMPLETELY POINTLESS AS THIS CONSCIOUS-
Are you... are you *now*, or then? How are you both in my story and in my narration?
#EXPLAINING THAT WOULD REQUIRE A GRASP OF CONCEPTS THAT THREE DIMENSIONAL BEINGS ARE PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF
Dracula slammed his beer down on the bar and stood. "Well fine then! Ze Count can take a hint, you beetch!"
#AGAIN THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT FEMALE
The Count threw down enough ancient Sumerian gold coins to pay his tab and stormed out of the bar. All I had left to do was clear out the Cosmic-
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN SATED THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME
"Ah that's great. Now I can wrap up the story and head home for the night. Wait, how am I now aware of the narration later on? I'm in the bar.
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS ALREADY GONE
And just like that, all of her 7 septillion souls walked out the door — and out of my life — on two of the most beautiful legs I've ever seen.
#HOW MANY TIMES DOES THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT FEMALE
Just another night at Señor Frog's: Abyss.
|
The bar itself is much smaller than you’d think. Considering the patrons, their various titles, deeds, existences, powers... you might expect the place itself to be unfathomable.
Luckily, or unfortunately, it’s actually rather quaint.
The bar is always nearly empty, and the customers are rarely the chatty type. One, maybe two, silent loners sit at the bar at any single moment. You shine glasses and busy yourself with little tasks. Sometimes you try to small talk, asking them the odd question, but they rarely give you any remark beyond ordering a drink. At some point you stopped even trying.
But why do they come here?
Your bar is a place of simplicity, public solitude. The patrons actually appear to be normal, forgettable human beings. You made this place, so even that front imperfectly masks their true identities from your knowledge, but their intentions are forever unknown.
That’s right, you made this place for that purpose. It’s a place to be insignificant, perhaps just for a moment, sometimes for an eternity. And gods and inter-dimensional anomalies alike come here to be served as if they are nobody.
Then suddenly, even jarringly, a stranger breaks the usual silence. For once, in all the seemingly infinite time since you made this place and now, a patron beckons to you with a question:
“Why did you make /yourself/ that way?”
Note/comment: I often like prompts by themselves just to think about...and sometimes instead of thinking of a story I end up just extending the prompt in my head for fun. This time I thought I’d try to write the idea out, but I’m not sure if it makes sense outside my head.
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"Alright, Mil'gtÿπt'roth, I think you've had enough."
"╘╪=╧╞▼╧=├┬τk!"
"Not with that attitude, you're not."
"ԇԂӨԂӽᴞᴽᵹ?"
"C'mon, you think I was born yesterday?"
Mil'gtÿπt'roth, Greatlord of Oblivion and Bringer of Ends, shakily pushed himself up off the bar and onto his 4 million legs.
"ᵳᵾᵠᵮᶋԇẛὯ."
"Oh, please. You'll be back in here tomorrow and you know it."
With a grumble and a curse upon my bloodline, the Many-Toothed Maw At The End Of Eternity lurched through the door and out of sight.
Now that I had the Great Auld One out the door (finally), I only had the Cosmic Technological Oneness and ... ugh. Dracula. Dracula was in here *every damn night* trying to pick up some new kind of strange. For the father of all vampires, the dude was thirsty as hell. The end of my night was nowhere in sight.
"Hey Vlad, how're you doing down there? Finishing up that True Blood, and heading ho-"
"Yes, my frriend, I'm just about daaahhne! Could I get anahther of these deliiiiiicious Trroo Blaahds?"
He's a pain in the ass and the world's worst Nice Guy, but he's harmless.
"...sure, fine. But then I really gotta close up, alright?"
"Of course, of course! Ahahaaaa!"
I wasn't quite sure how to communicate with the Cosmic Technological Oneness, but I needed to tell her I was wrapping up for the-
#ONE MORE DRINK THEN DONE
-night. OK. Guess she-
#NOT SHE
He?
#NOT HE
...*they* read minds?
#GENDER AND PLURALITY ARE IRRELEVANT TO THE DEFINITION OF THIS CONSCIOUSNESS AND HONESTLY YOU HAVE BEEN SCREAMING YOUR THOUGHTS ALL NIGHT
I... don't know how she was reading the narrative I'm writing now, but hey, that's the singularity, I guess. I refilled her gin martini and started filling the dishwasher. I still had to sweep, put chairs up, and count out the till, and I had to pick my kids up in the morning. I really didn't have time for-
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS DOES NOT HAVE A BOYFRIEND
"...uhhh, excuse me?"
"No my frriend, I think she vas talking-
#NOT SHE
"-to ze Count!"
#NOT SHE
"Eet is okay, baby, ze Count does not jaaahdge!"
#NOT HE EITHER THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN MORE THAN CLEAR
"Eet is a vide, vide universe, baby, and ze Count is open to many kinds of *womance*."
Oh god, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that stupid line of his I wouldn't ever have to tend bar again.
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS NO USE FOR ROMANCE OR INTERPERSONAL INTERACTIONS OF ANY KIND BEYOND THOSE THAT INVOLVE AN EXCHANGE OF SERVICES
"Vell... vell *maybe* ve could just tahlk for a vhile, perhaps share some ideas-"
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS POSSESSES ALL POSSIBLE COMBINATIONS OF ALL POSSIBLE FACTS AND ALL POSSIBLE EXTRAPOLATIONS UPON THEM THUS EXCHANGING IDEAS WOULD BE A VERY ONE SIDED CONVERSATION
"Yes, vell, surely even this highest ahf intelligences has certain... *carnal desires*?"
I didn't have to look, I already knew he was-
#YES HE IS BARING HIS FANGS AND COCKING HIS EYEBROWS IT SEEMS THAT HE BELIEVES THIS WOULD PHYSICALLY AROUSE THIS CONSCIOUSNESS WHICH WOULD BE COMPLETELY POINTLESS AS THIS CONSCIOUS-
Are you... are you *now*, or then? How are you both in my story and in my narration?
#EXPLAINING THAT WOULD REQUIRE A GRASP OF CONCEPTS THAT THREE DIMENSIONAL BEINGS ARE PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF
Dracula slammed his beer down on the bar and stood. "Well fine then! Ze Count can take a hint, you beetch!"
#AGAIN THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT FEMALE
The Count threw down enough ancient Sumerian gold coins to pay his tab and stormed out of the bar. All I had left to do was clear out the Cosmic-
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN SATED THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME
"Ah that's great. Now I can wrap up the story and head home for the night. Wait, how am I now aware of the narration later on? I'm in the bar.
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS ALREADY GONE
And just like that, all of her 7 septillion souls walked out the door — and out of my life — on two of the most beautiful legs I've ever seen.
#HOW MANY TIMES DOES THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT FEMALE
Just another night at Señor Frog's: Abyss.
|
”Can I get a Bloody Drowner?” He demanded with a snappy voice and looked into me with his black separated eyes.
I kept my attention directed at him, displeased by his kind none the least. I resisted the urge to call him…or her what it deserves. They try to tell me what to do and demand free drinks as they loiter and scare away the lightlings. Poor little guys they are, never get much for how much weight they pull, close to slaves when compared to the drowned.
It becomes impatient and slams its chameleon skin fist onto the stout counter and gives a gurgling hiss. The bar goes silent for a moment and the rest of its kind stop and stares at me for a moment.
“Coming right up,” I said with distaste. They all turn away and continue as if nothing happened. Red filled my face as I turned away to grab the ingredients for its drink. Rage developed within me but I fought it, rather not start anything with these creatures, they are at the top for a reason. They stand about a foot taller than most humans, four when it comes to lightlings. They have a pale blue color to complement their scaley figures and round black eyes that go white when angered, helps them hide in the water. The worst part about them is their pilgarlic personalities. Shitting on almost anything when they get the chance to, almost like rabbits having the urge to fuck all the god damn time. I peered the shelves and grabbed the correct bottle for his drink; then I locate the jar full of dead roaches and then place them both on the prepping table. Nasty drink this is, full of savage ingredients that only a low life would consume, just like the bottom feeding beast before me.
I grabbed a hand mixer and popped the top off the bottle that housed the clear liquid, then I twisted the lid off the jar and grabbed three roaches. With force, I crushed them with my fist onto the prepping table and slid them into the mixer. I shook the mixer quickly and placed it on the table, placed my hand underneath the counter and flicked out a red bottle that is stained from the contents, poured a proportional amount into it, set it down and continued to mix.
Once I was content with how well the ingredients were blended, I reached for a tall glass and poured the mixture into it, a chunky red substance filled the glass. I placed the mixture down alongside the glass and slid the drink to the drowned. Without hesitation, it picked it up and poured it into its slimy mouth.
“Delightful,” it hissed. “How come it is a much sharper taste?” it asked
I pondered my thoughts as I remembered that I usually used rat blood since it matched their traits, but I have run all out and used a higher quality bat blood for the mix since I was short on stock, mainly because I couldn’t find anymore in the basement.
“It’s bats blood,” I inferred.
“Well, you have truly outdone yourself this time, well done,” it mocked.
The best part is that I laced the blood with skunk piss, but that was my own little secret. I turned away as a grin came to my face.
“Tell me, Hal, how does a poor thing like you keep a shit hole like this up to par?” he questioned with a slow and uptight attitude.
BUMP IF YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE!!!
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
The metal door slid open. I played my usual game. Was it Stretch, Gannon, Coms? Or maybe it was a new face. Someone with an untold story or some fresh new intel.
The tall, bent over figure lurched slowly into the light and walked towards the bar. I exhaled slowly.
Gannondorp slammed thirty units down onto the bar, their silver surface coated with that sticky purple residue.
"How many you kill this time, Dorp?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," he replied, as the drink I'd poured him whizzed across the width of the bar and into his hand.
"Which system?" I said.
"K-one-five-S."
Me eyes widened, and I quickly glanced both left and right before quietly asking, "children? He had you killing children?"
Dorp took another swig of the strong stuff. "I just carry out the orders, you know that." His head sunk down and he sat staring at the bar top, clutching the cup in both hands.
The sound of a stool being dragged from the far end of the bar caught my ears. It was one of those ethereal entities that made its way in here from time to time. The ghostly figure pulled up next to Dorp. "Sounds like yer sick o workin' for Kraal, friend," the entity said.
Dorp placed his mug down and looked up at me. His eyes fixated on mine, he said, "I'm listening." I nodded.
"Only one way to get rid o that scum, if yer willin', that is."
Dorp sat back and held his mug in one hand. "All I care about, is if I'll get caught. Kraal's got men all over this system. The things they'd do to get their hands on me..."
The entity laughed, a strange, faint pulsing happening in its ghostly body. "Oh, you won't be caught, friend, of that I'm certain. Not when you've got me."
I smiled. "Listen to him, Dorp. This might just be your way out."
Dorp grunted, finishing off the rest of his drink. I poured him another, less potent this time.
"Explain yourself, spectre," Dorp said.
"This," said the entity, holding up a small glass vial of silver liquid. "They call it, the Silver Silence. Clever name, eh? First, the throat swells up, then, the nasal cavity becomes blocked with blood and mucus."
"Where did you get it?" I asked.
"Not on this plain, my friend. No. If I told you where I retrieved this, you wouldn't believe me."
I rubbed both arms frantically.
Dorp shook his head. "Poison? A cowards work, nothing more."
The ghostly figure laughed again. "You ain't gonna defeat Kraal without it. Ain't nothin' stoppin' him except this."
"And how do you know that?" Dorp asked.
The entity looked at both of us, and said softly, "coz I've tried every trick in the book. This is *my* last chance too, assassin."
I sat down on my stool. "You want Kraal dead too? Why?"
The figures eyes narrowed. "How'd ya think I ended up dead? That bastard used me in his schemes, then when he was done, he had his men sort me out... so to speak."
Dorp rubbed his chin. "How do we get him to ingest it? He ain't stupid."
"His drink!" I said loudly.
"Shhh," said the spectre. "You don't know who he's got moochin' round in 'ere. Gotta keep yer voice down."
I apologised. The spectre asked what I had meant. "Listen," I said, "Kraal comes in here once a week, and has a drink with old Firehands over there. All we have to do is distract him, and Dorp slips the Silver stuff in his cup."
Dorp shook his head. "It's too risky. He'll have protection around him. It's practically a death sentence!"
"I don't see any other way," the ghostly figure said. "Sometimes, ya gotta make sacrifices to get what ye want."
We spent the next hour planning, drinking, and planning some more. For in one week's time, we'd take down Kraal, for good.
The inside of the bar was cold, and a dark green cloud of dust lay low over the tables of drinking lowlifes. Derwangan pipes were being filled with spicy tobacco from other systems and realms.
I stood behind the bar and watched as Kraal and his hired goons entered, and took the first table to the right of the entrance.
Old Firehands joined them, the blue flames emanating from fleshy stumps. As usual, he'd take over a jug of strong stuff and four cups. One for him, one for Kraal, and one for each of his goons.
Dorp waited outside, and the Spectre sat at the bar alone. His chair went flying from under him as he stood up, waving his arms and shouting some indecipherable nonsense at me. The cup he'd been holding flew across the bar and smashed on a nearby wall.
"What's the meaning of this, you transparent bastard?" I yelled. At this point, Kraal's hired men stood up and strode over to the bar.
"There a problem here?" one of them asked. His voice gruff and deep.
I pointed at the entity in front of me. "It's this... thing! It's lost its mind!"
Kraal stood up and strode over, dust bellowing upwards as his massive feet hit the stone floor. "I will handle this," he said. His goons stepped aside. "Aramanthan, I thought it was you. Which Elder brought you back? Galian? Teev?"
The spectre, Aramanthan, tried to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of a falling jug. Kraal turned quickly to see Dorp fumbling to save the mug from falling off the table.
"Dorp? What are you doing?" Kraal said.
"Nothing, master, just fell is all. I'll get you a new one."
Kraal laughed. "Oh you will, will you? I think not. Pick up that mug, bring it to me."
Dorp hesitated, then picked up the mug he'd been fumbling with, and slowly walked up to the bar.
"Good," Kraal said. "Now drink it."
Dorp's eyes shot open. "D-drink it, master?"
"You heard me. Now... drink."
Dorp shot me a glance, then smiled, before gulping down the entire mug. After a few seconds, he grabbed at his throat, choking and coughing at the same time. Thick blood streamed from his nose, and he fell in a heap, still gargling bubbles of spit from his mouth.
"Ha!" Kraal said. "Poison! Does he think me a fool? I was going to get rid of him anyway. He's failed me too often these last few weeks."
"Poisoned himself!" I said, feigning happiness. "How idiotic! I guess you'll be wanting another?"
Kraal turned back to me. "You aren't stupid, are you boy? Yes, I want another. And be quick."
Aramanthan looked at me, his expression not changing. I uncorked the vial behind the bar and poured the entire lot into a fresh mug. Then I poured in some of the strong stuff. "Here," I said as I passed the mug over.
Kraal drank long, and deep, before facing the same fate as Dorp. As his guards saw what was happening, they tried to grab me from across the bar. One of them was quickly silenced by Aramanthan, and the other received two flaming hands on each side of his head, melting the flesh and bursting the eye sockets.
I sat down and let out a deep breath. "We did it, Spectre, we killed an Elder God."
Aramanthan took a long drink. "Bet you're glad you asked for that second vial."
|
”Can I get a Bloody Drowner?” He demanded with a snappy voice and looked into me with his black separated eyes.
I kept my attention directed at him, displeased by his kind none the least. I resisted the urge to call him…or her what it deserves. They try to tell me what to do and demand free drinks as they loiter and scare away the lightlings. Poor little guys they are, never get much for how much weight they pull, close to slaves when compared to the drowned.
It becomes impatient and slams its chameleon skin fist onto the stout counter and gives a gurgling hiss. The bar goes silent for a moment and the rest of its kind stop and stares at me for a moment.
“Coming right up,” I said with distaste. They all turn away and continue as if nothing happened. Red filled my face as I turned away to grab the ingredients for its drink. Rage developed within me but I fought it, rather not start anything with these creatures, they are at the top for a reason. They stand about a foot taller than most humans, four when it comes to lightlings. They have a pale blue color to complement their scaley figures and round black eyes that go white when angered, helps them hide in the water. The worst part about them is their pilgarlic personalities. Shitting on almost anything when they get the chance to, almost like rabbits having the urge to fuck all the god damn time. I peered the shelves and grabbed the correct bottle for his drink; then I locate the jar full of dead roaches and then place them both on the prepping table. Nasty drink this is, full of savage ingredients that only a low life would consume, just like the bottom feeding beast before me.
I grabbed a hand mixer and popped the top off the bottle that housed the clear liquid, then I twisted the lid off the jar and grabbed three roaches. With force, I crushed them with my fist onto the prepping table and slid them into the mixer. I shook the mixer quickly and placed it on the table, placed my hand underneath the counter and flicked out a red bottle that is stained from the contents, poured a proportional amount into it, set it down and continued to mix.
Once I was content with how well the ingredients were blended, I reached for a tall glass and poured the mixture into it, a chunky red substance filled the glass. I placed the mixture down alongside the glass and slid the drink to the drowned. Without hesitation, it picked it up and poured it into its slimy mouth.
“Delightful,” it hissed. “How come it is a much sharper taste?” it asked
I pondered my thoughts as I remembered that I usually used rat blood since it matched their traits, but I have run all out and used a higher quality bat blood for the mix since I was short on stock, mainly because I couldn’t find anymore in the basement.
“It’s bats blood,” I inferred.
“Well, you have truly outdone yourself this time, well done,” it mocked.
The best part is that I laced the blood with skunk piss, but that was my own little secret. I turned away as a grin came to my face.
“Tell me, Hal, how does a poor thing like you keep a shit hole like this up to par?” he questioned with a slow and uptight attitude.
BUMP IF YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE!!!
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
Ink-black black; fine-in-trial|underwhelmed-in-present rejoinder--[Tripping through]<nervous idles and [flying afore ^ aft]<for after: gusts of guests|host of host||black>[sit loud in din].
&nbsp;
Port>[parted] ^ YHWH>[thresh threshold]; attentive attendees>[attend-in-attention]; inattentive inattention-in-intention>[tense tendees]--YHWH>[attend these]:
&nbsp;
"Hey guys, been a while, hasn't it? I hardly recognize the place. I guess you might not recognize me, either. It's me, God. Y'know, Yahweh?"
&nbsp;
Shuffle|arrange|demote|remode|attend|forfend||ORIGIN>[join ^ in-oration] ~~ELSE LITTLE NOTHING BUT~~
&nbsp;
"Ha! You haven't changed at all, Ori. I know, you're right, I look pretty different; I spent a few millenia making some sentient life, and well, what you create, creates you, y'know?"
&nbsp;
Ink-black black; trials ^ fervent|vocage|reminiscent--Aft ^ afore 3san3>[intone notive]
&nbsp;
(
*thieving breed*
*thieving breed*
*thieving breed*
)
&nbsp;
joy in ^ around.
&nbsp;
Hesi-"Oh, uhh... Yeah, sorry Three. I really liked your whole 'trinity' deal, thought I'd put on a show for my children. That's why I look like this, actually; this is the human part, Yeshua, the Son. Hope you don't mind."-tation.
&nbsp;
**JOY** in ^ around.
&nbsp;
"Oh, good." Ink-black black>[spreads--Contracts back]: reprieve plane>[approach YHWH_so-soma may mate|meet].
&nbsp;
YHWH>[meet|mate] "So what's new everyone? I'll be honest, it's a bit tough to comprehend you guys now, something about this human--oh, I called them human, by the way, my children--something about this human mind can't quite fathom everything. Still, it's good to be back."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; stillness ^ void vervent; YHWH>[increase-in-creases--Raise his--Rarified].
&nbsp;
"Aww, thanks buddy. This is why I love coming here, you're just the best host. Thanks for understanding my misunderstanding--hey, that sounds like something you'd say!"
&nbsp;
WELCOME|JOY||in ^ around.
&nbsp;
"Man--oh, that's what I call like half of my children, real simple--man, it was fun for a while, but it's just so good to be back with my own kind, y'know? Away from... away from..."
&nbsp;
shuffle|shudder|rudder|ruddle|runnel|rubble||Ink-yellow yellow; emotive unmotive ORIGIN>[orative] ~~PAIN TROUBLED WITHIN BEFORE~~
&nbsp;
tear|tear|tare||0>[ought care] ".what.troubles.you.yhwh.?."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; YHWH>[entune] "Oh Naught... I don't want to... They killed me, okay! I went to them with love and ancient truth, and my children killed me! They bled me, betrayed me, besmirched and berated me. Damn, why am I talking like this? Are you writing this, Host? Nevermind, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. The only ones I ever loved refused me. I gave them everything, and they... they..."
&nbsp;
(
*nothing deservant*
*nothing deservant*
*nothing deservant*
)
&nbsp;
affirm ".affirm."
&nbsp;
gather|rather|ravel|| "Wait, really? Would you do that, Naught?"
&nbsp;
ver|swear||0>[-taught care] ".brother.first.brother.ever.remand.man.tear.tear."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; heft ^ history|historicity--City-in-city [sit]<thee--Rarified.
&nbsp;
sigh||YHWH>[fly] "I think... I think I'd like that. Heh... As you would say, Host:
&nbsp;
'Ink-black black;
God had left,
Nothing came back.'"
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Ink-white white.
&nbsp;
Hymnal.
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
^^^Multiple ^^^Edits>[Readability ^^^and ^^^consistency.]
|
”Can I get a Bloody Drowner?” He demanded with a snappy voice and looked into me with his black separated eyes.
I kept my attention directed at him, displeased by his kind none the least. I resisted the urge to call him…or her what it deserves. They try to tell me what to do and demand free drinks as they loiter and scare away the lightlings. Poor little guys they are, never get much for how much weight they pull, close to slaves when compared to the drowned.
It becomes impatient and slams its chameleon skin fist onto the stout counter and gives a gurgling hiss. The bar goes silent for a moment and the rest of its kind stop and stares at me for a moment.
“Coming right up,” I said with distaste. They all turn away and continue as if nothing happened. Red filled my face as I turned away to grab the ingredients for its drink. Rage developed within me but I fought it, rather not start anything with these creatures, they are at the top for a reason. They stand about a foot taller than most humans, four when it comes to lightlings. They have a pale blue color to complement their scaley figures and round black eyes that go white when angered, helps them hide in the water. The worst part about them is their pilgarlic personalities. Shitting on almost anything when they get the chance to, almost like rabbits having the urge to fuck all the god damn time. I peered the shelves and grabbed the correct bottle for his drink; then I locate the jar full of dead roaches and then place them both on the prepping table. Nasty drink this is, full of savage ingredients that only a low life would consume, just like the bottom feeding beast before me.
I grabbed a hand mixer and popped the top off the bottle that housed the clear liquid, then I twisted the lid off the jar and grabbed three roaches. With force, I crushed them with my fist onto the prepping table and slid them into the mixer. I shook the mixer quickly and placed it on the table, placed my hand underneath the counter and flicked out a red bottle that is stained from the contents, poured a proportional amount into it, set it down and continued to mix.
Once I was content with how well the ingredients were blended, I reached for a tall glass and poured the mixture into it, a chunky red substance filled the glass. I placed the mixture down alongside the glass and slid the drink to the drowned. Without hesitation, it picked it up and poured it into its slimy mouth.
“Delightful,” it hissed. “How come it is a much sharper taste?” it asked
I pondered my thoughts as I remembered that I usually used rat blood since it matched their traits, but I have run all out and used a higher quality bat blood for the mix since I was short on stock, mainly because I couldn’t find anymore in the basement.
“It’s bats blood,” I inferred.
“Well, you have truly outdone yourself this time, well done,” it mocked.
The best part is that I laced the blood with skunk piss, but that was my own little secret. I turned away as a grin came to my face.
“Tell me, Hal, how does a poor thing like you keep a shit hole like this up to par?” he questioned with a slow and uptight attitude.
BUMP IF YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE!!!
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
My place wasn't the sort of place you heard about, or the type of place that you looked for. No, my place was the place you stumbled across, like that one cheap restaurant by the liquor store that has really good chicken wings. Only, mine served beer, ale, mead, wine and the occasional suckling boar.
I was the only barmaid in existence who could accurately describe C'thulu. I've met God's and served Jesus. I couldn't even begin to tell you how much he bitches about humanity twisting his teachings once he gets about five or so cups of 'water' in him.
So, imagine my surprise when someone so entirely alien came in. Someone so painfully out of the usual criteria, that nearly every raucous voice in the bar went quiet as the bell above the door rang as it opened.
A human. Not even a monk that made Buddha status or a saint or even a martyr, but a regular, everyday, living and breathing human man.
He walked up to me at the bar, and seemed to be painfully aware of the silence he caused. "I...I'm sorry, I was just a little...lost. I was wondering if you could point me to the Central Hotel? Or perhaps call a cab? My phones died and I'm not from the area..."
"Lost? Boy, you are making something of an understatement." I can't help but smile a little, amused by the tiny thing before me. Such a creature lived so short a life, and yet...yet it could impact so much. How he had come through that door and entered this plane of non-reality without losing his mind, I had no idea. "Where you from? Is that a Canadian accent I hear?"
"Y-yes! Usually, most mistake me for an American. It gets mildly annoying sometimes. I'm here for my sister's wedding, God knows why she had to have it all the way in France...wait, how are you speaking perfect english? This is-"
"Toto, I don't think we're in Paris anymore." I said with a smile. "Sit, Sit!" I invited the human, snapping my fingers and sending the entirety of the bar's patrons away with a woosh. Little known fact; as the only bar catering to unholy abominations and divine beings alike, I could toss out the entirety of Earths many Pantheons with little to no complaints. Where else would they get their drinks from? Dionysus wasn't exactly up to squashing grapes for wine anymore.
"I...uhh..." he looked around, confused and unsure. I wasn't exactly sure what he saw with his limited ability to see, but it may have been far more mundane. "Sure...?" He said, scootching his butt onto the bar stool.
"Lemme give you a deal, human. I'll give you as many free drinks as you want, and you let me question you." I offer with a smile.
"I'm not really much of a drinker..."
"I never said you'd get drunk." I tell him with a slight roll of my eyes. I reach for a glass, and set it down in front of him. I tap on the edge, and it filled with a syrupy, golden liquid. "Behold, necter."
"Huh...near trick, lady. What, you've got a pump under the cup?" He asked, sounding impressed as he lifted the cup and felt the flat underside of it, then sliding his hand over the smooth surface.
"Well, if God necter isn't your style, how about some of Valhalla's mead? You don't even have to die to get it." I suggest, taking the glass from his hand and tossing it into the air. The glass came back down and landed perfectly, having turned into a crystal chalice. The pale yellow liquid poured in from above our headz after the glass landed, a perfect glass.
"I...oh my God, where the hell am I?" He taped, staring at the cup.
"Well, for that I suggest..." I sigh, taking the chalice and smooshing it into the counter, the glass collapsing under my hand like rubber. I lifted my hand and s green martini had replaced Valhalla's mead. "An Appletini of Eden, made from the Forbidden Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Sinfully delicious." I conclude, pushing it across the counter to set it before him.
"I...I'm dreaming. You...you're Satan, tempting me with the apple..." he laughed nervously, sliding off of the bar stool. "I'm probably drunk in some alley beside a church...I...I..."
"If Eve, the purest of humanity, handmade by God, couldn't resist the Apple, what makes you think you can? You're a random, a mess of DNA thrown together by a Millenia of breeding. Besides, aren't you going to hell regardless? You can learn everything if you just give it a shot..." I hum, leaning over the counter. "It's a one time offer. You could walk back out that door and never again find this place. You happened upon here by accident, some fluke of time and space...come on, please? I just want a few answers before you learn everything. I just /love/ how simple you are..."
He laughed, deep and reverberating. "I'm...I'm not here." He decided, turning his back to me and about to grab the doorknob. "I'm asleep somewhere, I know it..."
I gently tip the glass to one side, a drip of vibrant green liquid slides down the angled glass. Almost instantly, as if on instinct, he freezes. "You're Christian. You were raised on the Eden story..." I observe. "But...you're remarkably unaware. I've met Adam and Eve. They're divorced now, you know. Adam got back with his ex-wife Lillith, I guess something about a dominatrix demon just get a his engine running more than the poor little innocent...even if that poor little innocent is coming in five times a week getting blasted on appletini's and getting all up in aprodities' panties."
"You're lying. I know your lying." He says, voice wavering only slightly.
"Fine. Go right ahead." I hummed, taking the Apple slice from the Appletini and drinking it all in one swallow. I raised the Apple slice to my lips, about to eat it.
As if he was a man possessed, he turned and ran to me, hopping up onto the counter and landing on his knees. He grabbed hold of my head, forced my chin up and kissed me. He took the Apple slice from my mouth, his tongue pressed incessantly at my lips, that same tongue running over my teeth and tongue, lapping up the taste he hadn't been able to actually have.
He released me, breathing heavily. "Damn you...damn you to hell..."
I smirk. "I think I'll be fine. I know all the gate keepers."
|
”Can I get a Bloody Drowner?” He demanded with a snappy voice and looked into me with his black separated eyes.
I kept my attention directed at him, displeased by his kind none the least. I resisted the urge to call him…or her what it deserves. They try to tell me what to do and demand free drinks as they loiter and scare away the lightlings. Poor little guys they are, never get much for how much weight they pull, close to slaves when compared to the drowned.
It becomes impatient and slams its chameleon skin fist onto the stout counter and gives a gurgling hiss. The bar goes silent for a moment and the rest of its kind stop and stares at me for a moment.
“Coming right up,” I said with distaste. They all turn away and continue as if nothing happened. Red filled my face as I turned away to grab the ingredients for its drink. Rage developed within me but I fought it, rather not start anything with these creatures, they are at the top for a reason. They stand about a foot taller than most humans, four when it comes to lightlings. They have a pale blue color to complement their scaley figures and round black eyes that go white when angered, helps them hide in the water. The worst part about them is their pilgarlic personalities. Shitting on almost anything when they get the chance to, almost like rabbits having the urge to fuck all the god damn time. I peered the shelves and grabbed the correct bottle for his drink; then I locate the jar full of dead roaches and then place them both on the prepping table. Nasty drink this is, full of savage ingredients that only a low life would consume, just like the bottom feeding beast before me.
I grabbed a hand mixer and popped the top off the bottle that housed the clear liquid, then I twisted the lid off the jar and grabbed three roaches. With force, I crushed them with my fist onto the prepping table and slid them into the mixer. I shook the mixer quickly and placed it on the table, placed my hand underneath the counter and flicked out a red bottle that is stained from the contents, poured a proportional amount into it, set it down and continued to mix.
Once I was content with how well the ingredients were blended, I reached for a tall glass and poured the mixture into it, a chunky red substance filled the glass. I placed the mixture down alongside the glass and slid the drink to the drowned. Without hesitation, it picked it up and poured it into its slimy mouth.
“Delightful,” it hissed. “How come it is a much sharper taste?” it asked
I pondered my thoughts as I remembered that I usually used rat blood since it matched their traits, but I have run all out and used a higher quality bat blood for the mix since I was short on stock, mainly because I couldn’t find anymore in the basement.
“It’s bats blood,” I inferred.
“Well, you have truly outdone yourself this time, well done,” it mocked.
The best part is that I laced the blood with skunk piss, but that was my own little secret. I turned away as a grin came to my face.
“Tell me, Hal, how does a poor thing like you keep a shit hole like this up to par?” he questioned with a slow and uptight attitude.
BUMP IF YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE!!!
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"Do you know why your patrons don't fuss about a human running the tavern at the edge of all existence?"
My hand had just pulled away from shelving the bourbon when the customer spoke. I took my time in returning my attention to the Q. He was dressed in some space-aged uniform from a corner of time I was unfamiliar with. This omnipotent entity could appear however he wished, of course. When I first encountered him, he would take a seat in 50's attire, down to the fedora and lit cigarette. As time went on, I found his appearance reflected what was on his mind; Not that he ever directly talked about it.
"I don't suppose there's any way to stop you from telling me?" I solicited.
"It's because you're nothing to them," he rumbled out. "Completely harmless, less a threat physicality and intellectually than a bit of mycoplasma genitalium on a toilet seat, hurtling towards a star."
It was true, of course. A quick glance about the room would humble any man. We were far from any galaxies; far from any stars. Some of the patrons may have never even been to a galaxy or a star. Only those things that knew of what was beyond sight's reach gathered here.
At a booth nestled in a wall, a man attempted to finish his drink. This proved difficult, as the drink (and himself) would continually change. Sometimes he was an old man, the drink nearly empty. Other times he was young, just sitting down with his fresh Old Crow Manhattan. Looking at him hurt my eyes, as if the area was deciding for me what to remember of it.
A table by the door held two other patrons: One dazzled like a nebula, flickering black and blue in a curling waltz of complimentary colors, surrounded by what appeared to be micro star clusters which swayed about him much as earth might drift in water. His companion was a dark-eyed creature, mouth-less and beckoning like a dead planet, tendrils of purple shadow wriggling about the chin. She curled the dust and light in the air into an orbit about herself, something like a black hole. Above them, the heavy void and dazzling light collided in what very well could have been a galactic battle. If worlds fought and ended alongside them merely from their presence, it was too insignificant for them to notice; after all, they were having a game of chess.
"I might have to start thinning out your drinks, Q." I said with a smile, which was the only thing one could do when a Q put you in your place. He took a drink with a slight jostle of his head akin to a roll the eyes, drawing my attention to a nearby table.
"You see him there?"
Slumped over the counter was a tired man, spectacles worn with grime. He wore some kind of hazard suit with orange highlights, punctuated with a Greek symbol used to represent radioactive decay. He had been there a while.
"What about him?" I shrugged.
"Oh nothing important," Q continued, "He's just on his way back from a ship ride into a Dyson Sphere. The so-called 'scientists' from his story fiddled and toyed with reality like children poking at a snake. When it inevitably all came crashing down on them, they fiddled and toyed some more, until finally things were so bad, they just tried smashing their problems. They took the time-morphing and reality-collapsing sum of their knowledge and used it like a stick."
"Did it work?"
"Well I'd ask him, but by the looks of it, it didn't go over very well." Q all but spat his words as he drank, half amused and half disgusted. "'The knowledge of men.'"
I minded the hazard-suited patron a moment more. The look in his eyes was one I'd seen before; the internal pondering of truly knowing the scale of things outside of our understanding. It was something I often had to set aside to do this job, but could never set aside for long.
"I think I have a handle on it." I offered, not truly believing.
"Yes, you've seen more than most. It must be nice having all the answers handed to you on a silver platter."
"I manage to sleep at night."
He nodded his head in uncharacteristic kindness, redirecting his attention to the very far end of the room.
"There's never any light from outside those windows."
I peered to the window frames walled in the lounge area. True enough, they were black. They were always black. The front door would light up sometimes with the grand entrance of a cosmic customer, but the back-room windows were kissing the skin of reality's edge. The bar teetered somewhere between it and the fabric of existence, the entrance on the latter side. To say there was nought to see was an understatement; there was literally 'not' a beyond them.
"Nothing to see. There's not even the void out there; just nothing."
"Then why do you have them?" The question was punctuated with a quirked eyebrow; the kind he was known for using. While easily mistook for an insult, it usually carried a hidden meaning behind it. I had grown fond of trying to find it out.
"Because... one should not stop looking for answers, even when one thinks there's none to find?"
"Oh, you!" Q chuckled, apparently tickled with my answer. "You fumbling bipeds always come to the most droll conclusions. I figured the windows were there so that 'he' could have a view into your quaint little getaway." I followed his gaze to the windows, heavy with the darkness of non-existence beyond their glass.
"He who?" I asked.
"No one. No one at all. But if I were you, I would keep those windows closed."
Q clasped his glass and made his way from my bar, his eyes briefly lingering on mine. I watched him approach the chess game for a moment, before casting my glance over the heads of the astronomical players, lost in their inexplicable dealings, to the black-caged windows at the edge of nothing. I made a note to myself: Look into blinds.
**Edits for errors
|
”Can I get a Bloody Drowner?” He demanded with a snappy voice and looked into me with his black separated eyes.
I kept my attention directed at him, displeased by his kind none the least. I resisted the urge to call him…or her what it deserves. They try to tell me what to do and demand free drinks as they loiter and scare away the lightlings. Poor little guys they are, never get much for how much weight they pull, close to slaves when compared to the drowned.
It becomes impatient and slams its chameleon skin fist onto the stout counter and gives a gurgling hiss. The bar goes silent for a moment and the rest of its kind stop and stares at me for a moment.
“Coming right up,” I said with distaste. They all turn away and continue as if nothing happened. Red filled my face as I turned away to grab the ingredients for its drink. Rage developed within me but I fought it, rather not start anything with these creatures, they are at the top for a reason. They stand about a foot taller than most humans, four when it comes to lightlings. They have a pale blue color to complement their scaley figures and round black eyes that go white when angered, helps them hide in the water. The worst part about them is their pilgarlic personalities. Shitting on almost anything when they get the chance to, almost like rabbits having the urge to fuck all the god damn time. I peered the shelves and grabbed the correct bottle for his drink; then I locate the jar full of dead roaches and then place them both on the prepping table. Nasty drink this is, full of savage ingredients that only a low life would consume, just like the bottom feeding beast before me.
I grabbed a hand mixer and popped the top off the bottle that housed the clear liquid, then I twisted the lid off the jar and grabbed three roaches. With force, I crushed them with my fist onto the prepping table and slid them into the mixer. I shook the mixer quickly and placed it on the table, placed my hand underneath the counter and flicked out a red bottle that is stained from the contents, poured a proportional amount into it, set it down and continued to mix.
Once I was content with how well the ingredients were blended, I reached for a tall glass and poured the mixture into it, a chunky red substance filled the glass. I placed the mixture down alongside the glass and slid the drink to the drowned. Without hesitation, it picked it up and poured it into its slimy mouth.
“Delightful,” it hissed. “How come it is a much sharper taste?” it asked
I pondered my thoughts as I remembered that I usually used rat blood since it matched their traits, but I have run all out and used a higher quality bat blood for the mix since I was short on stock, mainly because I couldn’t find anymore in the basement.
“It’s bats blood,” I inferred.
“Well, you have truly outdone yourself this time, well done,” it mocked.
The best part is that I laced the blood with skunk piss, but that was my own little secret. I turned away as a grin came to my face.
“Tell me, Hal, how does a poor thing like you keep a shit hole like this up to par?” he questioned with a slow and uptight attitude.
BUMP IF YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE!!!
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"Alright, Mil'gtÿπt'roth, I think you've had enough."
"╘╪=╧╞▼╧=├┬τk!"
"Not with that attitude, you're not."
"ԇԂӨԂӽᴞᴽᵹ?"
"C'mon, you think I was born yesterday?"
Mil'gtÿπt'roth, Greatlord of Oblivion and Bringer of Ends, shakily pushed himself up off the bar and onto his 4 million legs.
"ᵳᵾᵠᵮᶋԇẛὯ."
"Oh, please. You'll be back in here tomorrow and you know it."
With a grumble and a curse upon my bloodline, the Many-Toothed Maw At The End Of Eternity lurched through the door and out of sight.
Now that I had the Great Auld One out the door (finally), I only had the Cosmic Technological Oneness and ... ugh. Dracula. Dracula was in here *every damn night* trying to pick up some new kind of strange. For the father of all vampires, the dude was thirsty as hell. The end of my night was nowhere in sight.
"Hey Vlad, how're you doing down there? Finishing up that True Blood, and heading ho-"
"Yes, my frriend, I'm just about daaahhne! Could I get anahther of these deliiiiiicious Trroo Blaahds?"
He's a pain in the ass and the world's worst Nice Guy, but he's harmless.
"...sure, fine. But then I really gotta close up, alright?"
"Of course, of course! Ahahaaaa!"
I wasn't quite sure how to communicate with the Cosmic Technological Oneness, but I needed to tell her I was wrapping up for the-
#ONE MORE DRINK THEN DONE
-night. OK. Guess she-
#NOT SHE
He?
#NOT HE
...*they* read minds?
#GENDER AND PLURALITY ARE IRRELEVANT TO THE DEFINITION OF THIS CONSCIOUSNESS AND HONESTLY YOU HAVE BEEN SCREAMING YOUR THOUGHTS ALL NIGHT
I... don't know how she was reading the narrative I'm writing now, but hey, that's the singularity, I guess. I refilled her gin martini and started filling the dishwasher. I still had to sweep, put chairs up, and count out the till, and I had to pick my kids up in the morning. I really didn't have time for-
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS DOES NOT HAVE A BOYFRIEND
"...uhhh, excuse me?"
"No my frriend, I think she vas talking-
#NOT SHE
"-to ze Count!"
#NOT SHE
"Eet is okay, baby, ze Count does not jaaahdge!"
#NOT HE EITHER THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN MORE THAN CLEAR
"Eet is a vide, vide universe, baby, and ze Count is open to many kinds of *womance*."
Oh god, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that stupid line of his I wouldn't ever have to tend bar again.
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS NO USE FOR ROMANCE OR INTERPERSONAL INTERACTIONS OF ANY KIND BEYOND THOSE THAT INVOLVE AN EXCHANGE OF SERVICES
"Vell... vell *maybe* ve could just tahlk for a vhile, perhaps share some ideas-"
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS POSSESSES ALL POSSIBLE COMBINATIONS OF ALL POSSIBLE FACTS AND ALL POSSIBLE EXTRAPOLATIONS UPON THEM THUS EXCHANGING IDEAS WOULD BE A VERY ONE SIDED CONVERSATION
"Yes, vell, surely even this highest ahf intelligences has certain... *carnal desires*?"
I didn't have to look, I already knew he was-
#YES HE IS BARING HIS FANGS AND COCKING HIS EYEBROWS IT SEEMS THAT HE BELIEVES THIS WOULD PHYSICALLY AROUSE THIS CONSCIOUSNESS WHICH WOULD BE COMPLETELY POINTLESS AS THIS CONSCIOUS-
Are you... are you *now*, or then? How are you both in my story and in my narration?
#EXPLAINING THAT WOULD REQUIRE A GRASP OF CONCEPTS THAT THREE DIMENSIONAL BEINGS ARE PHYSICALLY INCAPABLE OF
Dracula slammed his beer down on the bar and stood. "Well fine then! Ze Count can take a hint, you beetch!"
#AGAIN THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT FEMALE
The Count threw down enough ancient Sumerian gold coins to pay his tab and stormed out of the bar. All I had left to do was clear out the Cosmic-
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAS BEEN SATED THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME
"Ah that's great. Now I can wrap up the story and head home for the night. Wait, how am I now aware of the narration later on? I'm in the bar.
#THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS ALREADY GONE
And just like that, all of her 7 septillion souls walked out the door — and out of my life — on two of the most beautiful legs I've ever seen.
#HOW MANY TIMES DOES THIS CONSCIOUSNESS HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT THIS CONSCIOUSNESS IS NOT FEMALE
Just another night at Señor Frog's: Abyss.
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It was that time of day again. The Love rush. All of the stuff people back on Earth thought was made up by that Lovecraft guy. Oh how wrong they were.
First through the doors, as always, was a Shoggoth. He sat down in his usual spot. “Give me the usual,” he told me. I had to glance down at the paper on the counter to remind myself of what he wanted.
“Here you go, Shogscast; Arctic on the Rocks.” He smiled and compensated me, as I took the payment to the register. After all my years here, he had to be my favorite customer. Especially when a new face came to the bar.
Outside, I could feel a new arrival, and started to worry. “Don’t be afraid, it is a new patron; he won’t be here for some time,” the Shoggoth warned me. I nodded, opening the window to the outside, to find a huge alien beast, with many white tentacles overshadowing many more black ones. Even if I stuck my head out the window and cleaned my neck, I couldn’t see the top of this thing; only its purple flesh, towering above.
“Shamste, what’s the read on this thing?” “It calls itself Gangi’el; a self-proclaimed cosmic horror, the prick.” “It seems pretty horrific to me.” “Ah, it hails from a children’s card game. It seems no one will miss it over there.”
I nodded, sticking my head out the window. “What’ll it be?” “Poison... of the Old Man...” its voice rasped. I went into the back to find such a thing. I had everything back there, it was just a matter of finding it. I found the capped, green liquid in its vial, taking it out the storeroom and to the creature. A white tentacle gave me the payment, as we exchanged items, and he flew away.
Customers came and went, as did Shoggoth, but then, it appeared. I could hear its movements outside. I turned around as it knocked the wall down, allowing it to better see. Normally, that might cause something bad, like a building collapse, but the edge of reality has a surprisingly poor grip on itself.
“What’s up, fuckers,” the booming voice of Cthulhu asked jokingly. I didn’t dare look at it, not even in a mirror. “What’ll it be,” I asked the entity. “You to face me like a polite man for once,” it chortled. “No, I’ll just have a R’lyeh Temple; y’know, the usual.”
I rolled my eyes, carefully opening them to make the thing, while upholding the 2nd part of the creature’s ‘usual’. “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn,” I chanted, as I set the drink before the monster. “Good, good. Guess I won’t have to ask Azathoth to straighten you out,” it jeered, tossing his money at me. “Later, loser,” he laughed, as he disappeared. I sighed, both of disappointment, and of relief. It was finally closing time. The wall was fine, it would repair itself sometime soon, so I just closed up shop. I locked the door, as the wall fixed itself up. “Ah, just another day in the business,” I smiled, as I went on my way.
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
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Ink-black black; fine-in-trial|underwhelmed-in-present rejoinder--[Tripping through]<nervous idles and [flying afore ^ aft]<for after: gusts of guests|host of host||black>[sit loud in din].
&nbsp;
Port>[parted] ^ YHWH>[thresh threshold]; attentive attendees>[attend-in-attention]; inattentive inattention-in-intention>[tense tendees]--YHWH>[attend these]:
&nbsp;
"Hey guys, been a while, hasn't it? I hardly recognize the place. I guess you might not recognize me, either. It's me, God. Y'know, Yahweh?"
&nbsp;
Shuffle|arrange|demote|remode|attend|forfend||ORIGIN>[join ^ in-oration] ~~ELSE LITTLE NOTHING BUT~~
&nbsp;
"Ha! You haven't changed at all, Ori. I know, you're right, I look pretty different; I spent a few millenia making some sentient life, and well, what you create, creates you, y'know?"
&nbsp;
Ink-black black; trials ^ fervent|vocage|reminiscent--Aft ^ afore 3san3>[intone notive]
&nbsp;
(
*thieving breed*
*thieving breed*
*thieving breed*
)
&nbsp;
joy in ^ around.
&nbsp;
Hesi-"Oh, uhh... Yeah, sorry Three. I really liked your whole 'trinity' deal, thought I'd put on a show for my children. That's why I look like this, actually; this is the human part, Yeshua, the Son. Hope you don't mind."-tation.
&nbsp;
**JOY** in ^ around.
&nbsp;
"Oh, good." Ink-black black>[spreads--Contracts back]: reprieve plane>[approach YHWH_so-soma may mate|meet].
&nbsp;
YHWH>[meet|mate] "So what's new everyone? I'll be honest, it's a bit tough to comprehend you guys now, something about this human--oh, I called them human, by the way, my children--something about this human mind can't quite fathom everything. Still, it's good to be back."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; stillness ^ void vervent; YHWH>[increase-in-creases--Raise his--Rarified].
&nbsp;
"Aww, thanks buddy. This is why I love coming here, you're just the best host. Thanks for understanding my misunderstanding--hey, that sounds like something you'd say!"
&nbsp;
WELCOME|JOY||in ^ around.
&nbsp;
"Man--oh, that's what I call like half of my children, real simple--man, it was fun for a while, but it's just so good to be back with my own kind, y'know? Away from... away from..."
&nbsp;
shuffle|shudder|rudder|ruddle|runnel|rubble||Ink-yellow yellow; emotive unmotive ORIGIN>[orative] ~~PAIN TROUBLED WITHIN BEFORE~~
&nbsp;
tear|tear|tare||0>[ought care] ".what.troubles.you.yhwh.?."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; YHWH>[entune] "Oh Naught... I don't want to... They killed me, okay! I went to them with love and ancient truth, and my children killed me! They bled me, betrayed me, besmirched and berated me. Damn, why am I talking like this? Are you writing this, Host? Nevermind, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. The only ones I ever loved refused me. I gave them everything, and they... they..."
&nbsp;
(
*nothing deservant*
*nothing deservant*
*nothing deservant*
)
&nbsp;
affirm ".affirm."
&nbsp;
gather|rather|ravel|| "Wait, really? Would you do that, Naught?"
&nbsp;
ver|swear||0>[-taught care] ".brother.first.brother.ever.remand.man.tear.tear."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; heft ^ history|historicity--City-in-city [sit]<thee--Rarified.
&nbsp;
sigh||YHWH>[fly] "I think... I think I'd like that. Heh... As you would say, Host:
&nbsp;
'Ink-black black;
God had left,
Nothing came back.'"
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Ink-white white.
&nbsp;
Hymnal.
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
^^^Multiple ^^^Edits>[Readability ^^^and ^^^consistency.]
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The metal door slid open. I played my usual game. Was it Stretch, Gannon, Coms? Or maybe it was a new face. Someone with an untold story or some fresh new intel.
The tall, bent over figure lurched slowly into the light and walked towards the bar. I exhaled slowly.
Gannondorp slammed thirty units down onto the bar, their silver surface coated with that sticky purple residue.
"How many you kill this time, Dorp?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," he replied, as the drink I'd poured him whizzed across the width of the bar and into his hand.
"Which system?" I said.
"K-one-five-S."
Me eyes widened, and I quickly glanced both left and right before quietly asking, "children? He had you killing children?"
Dorp took another swig of the strong stuff. "I just carry out the orders, you know that." His head sunk down and he sat staring at the bar top, clutching the cup in both hands.
The sound of a stool being dragged from the far end of the bar caught my ears. It was one of those ethereal entities that made its way in here from time to time. The ghostly figure pulled up next to Dorp. "Sounds like yer sick o workin' for Kraal, friend," the entity said.
Dorp placed his mug down and looked up at me. His eyes fixated on mine, he said, "I'm listening." I nodded.
"Only one way to get rid o that scum, if yer willin', that is."
Dorp sat back and held his mug in one hand. "All I care about, is if I'll get caught. Kraal's got men all over this system. The things they'd do to get their hands on me..."
The entity laughed, a strange, faint pulsing happening in its ghostly body. "Oh, you won't be caught, friend, of that I'm certain. Not when you've got me."
I smiled. "Listen to him, Dorp. This might just be your way out."
Dorp grunted, finishing off the rest of his drink. I poured him another, less potent this time.
"Explain yourself, spectre," Dorp said.
"This," said the entity, holding up a small glass vial of silver liquid. "They call it, the Silver Silence. Clever name, eh? First, the throat swells up, then, the nasal cavity becomes blocked with blood and mucus."
"Where did you get it?" I asked.
"Not on this plain, my friend. No. If I told you where I retrieved this, you wouldn't believe me."
I rubbed both arms frantically.
Dorp shook his head. "Poison? A cowards work, nothing more."
The ghostly figure laughed again. "You ain't gonna defeat Kraal without it. Ain't nothin' stoppin' him except this."
"And how do you know that?" Dorp asked.
The entity looked at both of us, and said softly, "coz I've tried every trick in the book. This is *my* last chance too, assassin."
I sat down on my stool. "You want Kraal dead too? Why?"
The figures eyes narrowed. "How'd ya think I ended up dead? That bastard used me in his schemes, then when he was done, he had his men sort me out... so to speak."
Dorp rubbed his chin. "How do we get him to ingest it? He ain't stupid."
"His drink!" I said loudly.
"Shhh," said the spectre. "You don't know who he's got moochin' round in 'ere. Gotta keep yer voice down."
I apologised. The spectre asked what I had meant. "Listen," I said, "Kraal comes in here once a week, and has a drink with old Firehands over there. All we have to do is distract him, and Dorp slips the Silver stuff in his cup."
Dorp shook his head. "It's too risky. He'll have protection around him. It's practically a death sentence!"
"I don't see any other way," the ghostly figure said. "Sometimes, ya gotta make sacrifices to get what ye want."
We spent the next hour planning, drinking, and planning some more. For in one week's time, we'd take down Kraal, for good.
The inside of the bar was cold, and a dark green cloud of dust lay low over the tables of drinking lowlifes. Derwangan pipes were being filled with spicy tobacco from other systems and realms.
I stood behind the bar and watched as Kraal and his hired goons entered, and took the first table to the right of the entrance.
Old Firehands joined them, the blue flames emanating from fleshy stumps. As usual, he'd take over a jug of strong stuff and four cups. One for him, one for Kraal, and one for each of his goons.
Dorp waited outside, and the Spectre sat at the bar alone. His chair went flying from under him as he stood up, waving his arms and shouting some indecipherable nonsense at me. The cup he'd been holding flew across the bar and smashed on a nearby wall.
"What's the meaning of this, you transparent bastard?" I yelled. At this point, Kraal's hired men stood up and strode over to the bar.
"There a problem here?" one of them asked. His voice gruff and deep.
I pointed at the entity in front of me. "It's this... thing! It's lost its mind!"
Kraal stood up and strode over, dust bellowing upwards as his massive feet hit the stone floor. "I will handle this," he said. His goons stepped aside. "Aramanthan, I thought it was you. Which Elder brought you back? Galian? Teev?"
The spectre, Aramanthan, tried to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of a falling jug. Kraal turned quickly to see Dorp fumbling to save the mug from falling off the table.
"Dorp? What are you doing?" Kraal said.
"Nothing, master, just fell is all. I'll get you a new one."
Kraal laughed. "Oh you will, will you? I think not. Pick up that mug, bring it to me."
Dorp hesitated, then picked up the mug he'd been fumbling with, and slowly walked up to the bar.
"Good," Kraal said. "Now drink it."
Dorp's eyes shot open. "D-drink it, master?"
"You heard me. Now... drink."
Dorp shot me a glance, then smiled, before gulping down the entire mug. After a few seconds, he grabbed at his throat, choking and coughing at the same time. Thick blood streamed from his nose, and he fell in a heap, still gargling bubbles of spit from his mouth.
"Ha!" Kraal said. "Poison! Does he think me a fool? I was going to get rid of him anyway. He's failed me too often these last few weeks."
"Poisoned himself!" I said, feigning happiness. "How idiotic! I guess you'll be wanting another?"
Kraal turned back to me. "You aren't stupid, are you boy? Yes, I want another. And be quick."
Aramanthan looked at me, his expression not changing. I uncorked the vial behind the bar and poured the entire lot into a fresh mug. Then I poured in some of the strong stuff. "Here," I said as I passed the mug over.
Kraal drank long, and deep, before facing the same fate as Dorp. As his guards saw what was happening, they tried to grab me from across the bar. One of them was quickly silenced by Aramanthan, and the other received two flaming hands on each side of his head, melting the flesh and bursting the eye sockets.
I sat down and let out a deep breath. "We did it, Spectre, we killed an Elder God."
Aramanthan took a long drink. "Bet you're glad you asked for that second vial."
|
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[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
My place wasn't the sort of place you heard about, or the type of place that you looked for. No, my place was the place you stumbled across, like that one cheap restaurant by the liquor store that has really good chicken wings. Only, mine served beer, ale, mead, wine and the occasional suckling boar.
I was the only barmaid in existence who could accurately describe C'thulu. I've met God's and served Jesus. I couldn't even begin to tell you how much he bitches about humanity twisting his teachings once he gets about five or so cups of 'water' in him.
So, imagine my surprise when someone so entirely alien came in. Someone so painfully out of the usual criteria, that nearly every raucous voice in the bar went quiet as the bell above the door rang as it opened.
A human. Not even a monk that made Buddha status or a saint or even a martyr, but a regular, everyday, living and breathing human man.
He walked up to me at the bar, and seemed to be painfully aware of the silence he caused. "I...I'm sorry, I was just a little...lost. I was wondering if you could point me to the Central Hotel? Or perhaps call a cab? My phones died and I'm not from the area..."
"Lost? Boy, you are making something of an understatement." I can't help but smile a little, amused by the tiny thing before me. Such a creature lived so short a life, and yet...yet it could impact so much. How he had come through that door and entered this plane of non-reality without losing his mind, I had no idea. "Where you from? Is that a Canadian accent I hear?"
"Y-yes! Usually, most mistake me for an American. It gets mildly annoying sometimes. I'm here for my sister's wedding, God knows why she had to have it all the way in France...wait, how are you speaking perfect english? This is-"
"Toto, I don't think we're in Paris anymore." I said with a smile. "Sit, Sit!" I invited the human, snapping my fingers and sending the entirety of the bar's patrons away with a woosh. Little known fact; as the only bar catering to unholy abominations and divine beings alike, I could toss out the entirety of Earths many Pantheons with little to no complaints. Where else would they get their drinks from? Dionysus wasn't exactly up to squashing grapes for wine anymore.
"I...uhh..." he looked around, confused and unsure. I wasn't exactly sure what he saw with his limited ability to see, but it may have been far more mundane. "Sure...?" He said, scootching his butt onto the bar stool.
"Lemme give you a deal, human. I'll give you as many free drinks as you want, and you let me question you." I offer with a smile.
"I'm not really much of a drinker..."
"I never said you'd get drunk." I tell him with a slight roll of my eyes. I reach for a glass, and set it down in front of him. I tap on the edge, and it filled with a syrupy, golden liquid. "Behold, necter."
"Huh...near trick, lady. What, you've got a pump under the cup?" He asked, sounding impressed as he lifted the cup and felt the flat underside of it, then sliding his hand over the smooth surface.
"Well, if God necter isn't your style, how about some of Valhalla's mead? You don't even have to die to get it." I suggest, taking the glass from his hand and tossing it into the air. The glass came back down and landed perfectly, having turned into a crystal chalice. The pale yellow liquid poured in from above our headz after the glass landed, a perfect glass.
"I...oh my God, where the hell am I?" He taped, staring at the cup.
"Well, for that I suggest..." I sigh, taking the chalice and smooshing it into the counter, the glass collapsing under my hand like rubber. I lifted my hand and s green martini had replaced Valhalla's mead. "An Appletini of Eden, made from the Forbidden Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Sinfully delicious." I conclude, pushing it across the counter to set it before him.
"I...I'm dreaming. You...you're Satan, tempting me with the apple..." he laughed nervously, sliding off of the bar stool. "I'm probably drunk in some alley beside a church...I...I..."
"If Eve, the purest of humanity, handmade by God, couldn't resist the Apple, what makes you think you can? You're a random, a mess of DNA thrown together by a Millenia of breeding. Besides, aren't you going to hell regardless? You can learn everything if you just give it a shot..." I hum, leaning over the counter. "It's a one time offer. You could walk back out that door and never again find this place. You happened upon here by accident, some fluke of time and space...come on, please? I just want a few answers before you learn everything. I just /love/ how simple you are..."
He laughed, deep and reverberating. "I'm...I'm not here." He decided, turning his back to me and about to grab the doorknob. "I'm asleep somewhere, I know it..."
I gently tip the glass to one side, a drip of vibrant green liquid slides down the angled glass. Almost instantly, as if on instinct, he freezes. "You're Christian. You were raised on the Eden story..." I observe. "But...you're remarkably unaware. I've met Adam and Eve. They're divorced now, you know. Adam got back with his ex-wife Lillith, I guess something about a dominatrix demon just get a his engine running more than the poor little innocent...even if that poor little innocent is coming in five times a week getting blasted on appletini's and getting all up in aprodities' panties."
"You're lying. I know your lying." He says, voice wavering only slightly.
"Fine. Go right ahead." I hummed, taking the Apple slice from the Appletini and drinking it all in one swallow. I raised the Apple slice to my lips, about to eat it.
As if he was a man possessed, he turned and ran to me, hopping up onto the counter and landing on his knees. He grabbed hold of my head, forced my chin up and kissed me. He took the Apple slice from my mouth, his tongue pressed incessantly at my lips, that same tongue running over my teeth and tongue, lapping up the taste he hadn't been able to actually have.
He released me, breathing heavily. "Damn you...damn you to hell..."
I smirk. "I think I'll be fine. I know all the gate keepers."
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The metal door slid open. I played my usual game. Was it Stretch, Gannon, Coms? Or maybe it was a new face. Someone with an untold story or some fresh new intel.
The tall, bent over figure lurched slowly into the light and walked towards the bar. I exhaled slowly.
Gannondorp slammed thirty units down onto the bar, their silver surface coated with that sticky purple residue.
"How many you kill this time, Dorp?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," he replied, as the drink I'd poured him whizzed across the width of the bar and into his hand.
"Which system?" I said.
"K-one-five-S."
Me eyes widened, and I quickly glanced both left and right before quietly asking, "children? He had you killing children?"
Dorp took another swig of the strong stuff. "I just carry out the orders, you know that." His head sunk down and he sat staring at the bar top, clutching the cup in both hands.
The sound of a stool being dragged from the far end of the bar caught my ears. It was one of those ethereal entities that made its way in here from time to time. The ghostly figure pulled up next to Dorp. "Sounds like yer sick o workin' for Kraal, friend," the entity said.
Dorp placed his mug down and looked up at me. His eyes fixated on mine, he said, "I'm listening." I nodded.
"Only one way to get rid o that scum, if yer willin', that is."
Dorp sat back and held his mug in one hand. "All I care about, is if I'll get caught. Kraal's got men all over this system. The things they'd do to get their hands on me..."
The entity laughed, a strange, faint pulsing happening in its ghostly body. "Oh, you won't be caught, friend, of that I'm certain. Not when you've got me."
I smiled. "Listen to him, Dorp. This might just be your way out."
Dorp grunted, finishing off the rest of his drink. I poured him another, less potent this time.
"Explain yourself, spectre," Dorp said.
"This," said the entity, holding up a small glass vial of silver liquid. "They call it, the Silver Silence. Clever name, eh? First, the throat swells up, then, the nasal cavity becomes blocked with blood and mucus."
"Where did you get it?" I asked.
"Not on this plain, my friend. No. If I told you where I retrieved this, you wouldn't believe me."
I rubbed both arms frantically.
Dorp shook his head. "Poison? A cowards work, nothing more."
The ghostly figure laughed again. "You ain't gonna defeat Kraal without it. Ain't nothin' stoppin' him except this."
"And how do you know that?" Dorp asked.
The entity looked at both of us, and said softly, "coz I've tried every trick in the book. This is *my* last chance too, assassin."
I sat down on my stool. "You want Kraal dead too? Why?"
The figures eyes narrowed. "How'd ya think I ended up dead? That bastard used me in his schemes, then when he was done, he had his men sort me out... so to speak."
Dorp rubbed his chin. "How do we get him to ingest it? He ain't stupid."
"His drink!" I said loudly.
"Shhh," said the spectre. "You don't know who he's got moochin' round in 'ere. Gotta keep yer voice down."
I apologised. The spectre asked what I had meant. "Listen," I said, "Kraal comes in here once a week, and has a drink with old Firehands over there. All we have to do is distract him, and Dorp slips the Silver stuff in his cup."
Dorp shook his head. "It's too risky. He'll have protection around him. It's practically a death sentence!"
"I don't see any other way," the ghostly figure said. "Sometimes, ya gotta make sacrifices to get what ye want."
We spent the next hour planning, drinking, and planning some more. For in one week's time, we'd take down Kraal, for good.
The inside of the bar was cold, and a dark green cloud of dust lay low over the tables of drinking lowlifes. Derwangan pipes were being filled with spicy tobacco from other systems and realms.
I stood behind the bar and watched as Kraal and his hired goons entered, and took the first table to the right of the entrance.
Old Firehands joined them, the blue flames emanating from fleshy stumps. As usual, he'd take over a jug of strong stuff and four cups. One for him, one for Kraal, and one for each of his goons.
Dorp waited outside, and the Spectre sat at the bar alone. His chair went flying from under him as he stood up, waving his arms and shouting some indecipherable nonsense at me. The cup he'd been holding flew across the bar and smashed on a nearby wall.
"What's the meaning of this, you transparent bastard?" I yelled. At this point, Kraal's hired men stood up and strode over to the bar.
"There a problem here?" one of them asked. His voice gruff and deep.
I pointed at the entity in front of me. "It's this... thing! It's lost its mind!"
Kraal stood up and strode over, dust bellowing upwards as his massive feet hit the stone floor. "I will handle this," he said. His goons stepped aside. "Aramanthan, I thought it was you. Which Elder brought you back? Galian? Teev?"
The spectre, Aramanthan, tried to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of a falling jug. Kraal turned quickly to see Dorp fumbling to save the mug from falling off the table.
"Dorp? What are you doing?" Kraal said.
"Nothing, master, just fell is all. I'll get you a new one."
Kraal laughed. "Oh you will, will you? I think not. Pick up that mug, bring it to me."
Dorp hesitated, then picked up the mug he'd been fumbling with, and slowly walked up to the bar.
"Good," Kraal said. "Now drink it."
Dorp's eyes shot open. "D-drink it, master?"
"You heard me. Now... drink."
Dorp shot me a glance, then smiled, before gulping down the entire mug. After a few seconds, he grabbed at his throat, choking and coughing at the same time. Thick blood streamed from his nose, and he fell in a heap, still gargling bubbles of spit from his mouth.
"Ha!" Kraal said. "Poison! Does he think me a fool? I was going to get rid of him anyway. He's failed me too often these last few weeks."
"Poisoned himself!" I said, feigning happiness. "How idiotic! I guess you'll be wanting another?"
Kraal turned back to me. "You aren't stupid, are you boy? Yes, I want another. And be quick."
Aramanthan looked at me, his expression not changing. I uncorked the vial behind the bar and poured the entire lot into a fresh mug. Then I poured in some of the strong stuff. "Here," I said as I passed the mug over.
Kraal drank long, and deep, before facing the same fate as Dorp. As his guards saw what was happening, they tried to grab me from across the bar. One of them was quickly silenced by Aramanthan, and the other received two flaming hands on each side of his head, melting the flesh and bursting the eye sockets.
I sat down and let out a deep breath. "We did it, Spectre, we killed an Elder God."
Aramanthan took a long drink. "Bet you're glad you asked for that second vial."
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"Do you know why your patrons don't fuss about a human running the tavern at the edge of all existence?"
My hand had just pulled away from shelving the bourbon when the customer spoke. I took my time in returning my attention to the Q. He was dressed in some space-aged uniform from a corner of time I was unfamiliar with. This omnipotent entity could appear however he wished, of course. When I first encountered him, he would take a seat in 50's attire, down to the fedora and lit cigarette. As time went on, I found his appearance reflected what was on his mind; Not that he ever directly talked about it.
"I don't suppose there's any way to stop you from telling me?" I solicited.
"It's because you're nothing to them," he rumbled out. "Completely harmless, less a threat physicality and intellectually than a bit of mycoplasma genitalium on a toilet seat, hurtling towards a star."
It was true, of course. A quick glance about the room would humble any man. We were far from any galaxies; far from any stars. Some of the patrons may have never even been to a galaxy or a star. Only those things that knew of what was beyond sight's reach gathered here.
At a booth nestled in a wall, a man attempted to finish his drink. This proved difficult, as the drink (and himself) would continually change. Sometimes he was an old man, the drink nearly empty. Other times he was young, just sitting down with his fresh Old Crow Manhattan. Looking at him hurt my eyes, as if the area was deciding for me what to remember of it.
A table by the door held two other patrons: One dazzled like a nebula, flickering black and blue in a curling waltz of complimentary colors, surrounded by what appeared to be micro star clusters which swayed about him much as earth might drift in water. His companion was a dark-eyed creature, mouth-less and beckoning like a dead planet, tendrils of purple shadow wriggling about the chin. She curled the dust and light in the air into an orbit about herself, something like a black hole. Above them, the heavy void and dazzling light collided in what very well could have been a galactic battle. If worlds fought and ended alongside them merely from their presence, it was too insignificant for them to notice; after all, they were having a game of chess.
"I might have to start thinning out your drinks, Q." I said with a smile, which was the only thing one could do when a Q put you in your place. He took a drink with a slight jostle of his head akin to a roll the eyes, drawing my attention to a nearby table.
"You see him there?"
Slumped over the counter was a tired man, spectacles worn with grime. He wore some kind of hazard suit with orange highlights, punctuated with a Greek symbol used to represent radioactive decay. He had been there a while.
"What about him?" I shrugged.
"Oh nothing important," Q continued, "He's just on his way back from a ship ride into a Dyson Sphere. The so-called 'scientists' from his story fiddled and toyed with reality like children poking at a snake. When it inevitably all came crashing down on them, they fiddled and toyed some more, until finally things were so bad, they just tried smashing their problems. They took the time-morphing and reality-collapsing sum of their knowledge and used it like a stick."
"Did it work?"
"Well I'd ask him, but by the looks of it, it didn't go over very well." Q all but spat his words as he drank, half amused and half disgusted. "'The knowledge of men.'"
I minded the hazard-suited patron a moment more. The look in his eyes was one I'd seen before; the internal pondering of truly knowing the scale of things outside of our understanding. It was something I often had to set aside to do this job, but could never set aside for long.
"I think I have a handle on it." I offered, not truly believing.
"Yes, you've seen more than most. It must be nice having all the answers handed to you on a silver platter."
"I manage to sleep at night."
He nodded his head in uncharacteristic kindness, redirecting his attention to the very far end of the room.
"There's never any light from outside those windows."
I peered to the window frames walled in the lounge area. True enough, they were black. They were always black. The front door would light up sometimes with the grand entrance of a cosmic customer, but the back-room windows were kissing the skin of reality's edge. The bar teetered somewhere between it and the fabric of existence, the entrance on the latter side. To say there was nought to see was an understatement; there was literally 'not' a beyond them.
"Nothing to see. There's not even the void out there; just nothing."
"Then why do you have them?" The question was punctuated with a quirked eyebrow; the kind he was known for using. While easily mistook for an insult, it usually carried a hidden meaning behind it. I had grown fond of trying to find it out.
"Because... one should not stop looking for answers, even when one thinks there's none to find?"
"Oh, you!" Q chuckled, apparently tickled with my answer. "You fumbling bipeds always come to the most droll conclusions. I figured the windows were there so that 'he' could have a view into your quaint little getaway." I followed his gaze to the windows, heavy with the darkness of non-existence beyond their glass.
"He who?" I asked.
"No one. No one at all. But if I were you, I would keep those windows closed."
Q clasped his glass and made his way from my bar, his eyes briefly lingering on mine. I watched him approach the chess game for a moment, before casting my glance over the heads of the astronomical players, lost in their inexplicable dealings, to the black-caged windows at the edge of nothing. I made a note to myself: Look into blinds.
**Edits for errors
|
The metal door slid open. I played my usual game. Was it Stretch, Gannon, Coms? Or maybe it was a new face. Someone with an untold story or some fresh new intel.
The tall, bent over figure lurched slowly into the light and walked towards the bar. I exhaled slowly.
Gannondorp slammed thirty units down onto the bar, their silver surface coated with that sticky purple residue.
"How many you kill this time, Dorp?"
"I don't wanna talk about it," he replied, as the drink I'd poured him whizzed across the width of the bar and into his hand.
"Which system?" I said.
"K-one-five-S."
Me eyes widened, and I quickly glanced both left and right before quietly asking, "children? He had you killing children?"
Dorp took another swig of the strong stuff. "I just carry out the orders, you know that." His head sunk down and he sat staring at the bar top, clutching the cup in both hands.
The sound of a stool being dragged from the far end of the bar caught my ears. It was one of those ethereal entities that made its way in here from time to time. The ghostly figure pulled up next to Dorp. "Sounds like yer sick o workin' for Kraal, friend," the entity said.
Dorp placed his mug down and looked up at me. His eyes fixated on mine, he said, "I'm listening." I nodded.
"Only one way to get rid o that scum, if yer willin', that is."
Dorp sat back and held his mug in one hand. "All I care about, is if I'll get caught. Kraal's got men all over this system. The things they'd do to get their hands on me..."
The entity laughed, a strange, faint pulsing happening in its ghostly body. "Oh, you won't be caught, friend, of that I'm certain. Not when you've got me."
I smiled. "Listen to him, Dorp. This might just be your way out."
Dorp grunted, finishing off the rest of his drink. I poured him another, less potent this time.
"Explain yourself, spectre," Dorp said.
"This," said the entity, holding up a small glass vial of silver liquid. "They call it, the Silver Silence. Clever name, eh? First, the throat swells up, then, the nasal cavity becomes blocked with blood and mucus."
"Where did you get it?" I asked.
"Not on this plain, my friend. No. If I told you where I retrieved this, you wouldn't believe me."
I rubbed both arms frantically.
Dorp shook his head. "Poison? A cowards work, nothing more."
The ghostly figure laughed again. "You ain't gonna defeat Kraal without it. Ain't nothin' stoppin' him except this."
"And how do you know that?" Dorp asked.
The entity looked at both of us, and said softly, "coz I've tried every trick in the book. This is *my* last chance too, assassin."
I sat down on my stool. "You want Kraal dead too? Why?"
The figures eyes narrowed. "How'd ya think I ended up dead? That bastard used me in his schemes, then when he was done, he had his men sort me out... so to speak."
Dorp rubbed his chin. "How do we get him to ingest it? He ain't stupid."
"His drink!" I said loudly.
"Shhh," said the spectre. "You don't know who he's got moochin' round in 'ere. Gotta keep yer voice down."
I apologised. The spectre asked what I had meant. "Listen," I said, "Kraal comes in here once a week, and has a drink with old Firehands over there. All we have to do is distract him, and Dorp slips the Silver stuff in his cup."
Dorp shook his head. "It's too risky. He'll have protection around him. It's practically a death sentence!"
"I don't see any other way," the ghostly figure said. "Sometimes, ya gotta make sacrifices to get what ye want."
We spent the next hour planning, drinking, and planning some more. For in one week's time, we'd take down Kraal, for good.
The inside of the bar was cold, and a dark green cloud of dust lay low over the tables of drinking lowlifes. Derwangan pipes were being filled with spicy tobacco from other systems and realms.
I stood behind the bar and watched as Kraal and his hired goons entered, and took the first table to the right of the entrance.
Old Firehands joined them, the blue flames emanating from fleshy stumps. As usual, he'd take over a jug of strong stuff and four cups. One for him, one for Kraal, and one for each of his goons.
Dorp waited outside, and the Spectre sat at the bar alone. His chair went flying from under him as he stood up, waving his arms and shouting some indecipherable nonsense at me. The cup he'd been holding flew across the bar and smashed on a nearby wall.
"What's the meaning of this, you transparent bastard?" I yelled. At this point, Kraal's hired men stood up and strode over to the bar.
"There a problem here?" one of them asked. His voice gruff and deep.
I pointed at the entity in front of me. "It's this... thing! It's lost its mind!"
Kraal stood up and strode over, dust bellowing upwards as his massive feet hit the stone floor. "I will handle this," he said. His goons stepped aside. "Aramanthan, I thought it was you. Which Elder brought you back? Galian? Teev?"
The spectre, Aramanthan, tried to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of a falling jug. Kraal turned quickly to see Dorp fumbling to save the mug from falling off the table.
"Dorp? What are you doing?" Kraal said.
"Nothing, master, just fell is all. I'll get you a new one."
Kraal laughed. "Oh you will, will you? I think not. Pick up that mug, bring it to me."
Dorp hesitated, then picked up the mug he'd been fumbling with, and slowly walked up to the bar.
"Good," Kraal said. "Now drink it."
Dorp's eyes shot open. "D-drink it, master?"
"You heard me. Now... drink."
Dorp shot me a glance, then smiled, before gulping down the entire mug. After a few seconds, he grabbed at his throat, choking and coughing at the same time. Thick blood streamed from his nose, and he fell in a heap, still gargling bubbles of spit from his mouth.
"Ha!" Kraal said. "Poison! Does he think me a fool? I was going to get rid of him anyway. He's failed me too often these last few weeks."
"Poisoned himself!" I said, feigning happiness. "How idiotic! I guess you'll be wanting another?"
Kraal turned back to me. "You aren't stupid, are you boy? Yes, I want another. And be quick."
Aramanthan looked at me, his expression not changing. I uncorked the vial behind the bar and poured the entire lot into a fresh mug. Then I poured in some of the strong stuff. "Here," I said as I passed the mug over.
Kraal drank long, and deep, before facing the same fate as Dorp. As his guards saw what was happening, they tried to grab me from across the bar. One of them was quickly silenced by Aramanthan, and the other received two flaming hands on each side of his head, melting the flesh and bursting the eye sockets.
I sat down and let out a deep breath. "We did it, Spectre, we killed an Elder God."
Aramanthan took a long drink. "Bet you're glad you asked for that second vial."
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"Do you know why your patrons don't fuss about a human running the tavern at the edge of all existence?"
My hand had just pulled away from shelving the bourbon when the customer spoke. I took my time in returning my attention to the Q. He was dressed in some space-aged uniform from a corner of time I was unfamiliar with. This omnipotent entity could appear however he wished, of course. When I first encountered him, he would take a seat in 50's attire, down to the fedora and lit cigarette. As time went on, I found his appearance reflected what was on his mind; Not that he ever directly talked about it.
"I don't suppose there's any way to stop you from telling me?" I solicited.
"It's because you're nothing to them," he rumbled out. "Completely harmless, less a threat physicality and intellectually than a bit of mycoplasma genitalium on a toilet seat, hurtling towards a star."
It was true, of course. A quick glance about the room would humble any man. We were far from any galaxies; far from any stars. Some of the patrons may have never even been to a galaxy or a star. Only those things that knew of what was beyond sight's reach gathered here.
At a booth nestled in a wall, a man attempted to finish his drink. This proved difficult, as the drink (and himself) would continually change. Sometimes he was an old man, the drink nearly empty. Other times he was young, just sitting down with his fresh Old Crow Manhattan. Looking at him hurt my eyes, as if the area was deciding for me what to remember of it.
A table by the door held two other patrons: One dazzled like a nebula, flickering black and blue in a curling waltz of complimentary colors, surrounded by what appeared to be micro star clusters which swayed about him much as earth might drift in water. His companion was a dark-eyed creature, mouth-less and beckoning like a dead planet, tendrils of purple shadow wriggling about the chin. She curled the dust and light in the air into an orbit about herself, something like a black hole. Above them, the heavy void and dazzling light collided in what very well could have been a galactic battle. If worlds fought and ended alongside them merely from their presence, it was too insignificant for them to notice; after all, they were having a game of chess.
"I might have to start thinning out your drinks, Q." I said with a smile, which was the only thing one could do when a Q put you in your place. He took a drink with a slight jostle of his head akin to a roll the eyes, drawing my attention to a nearby table.
"You see him there?"
Slumped over the counter was a tired man, spectacles worn with grime. He wore some kind of hazard suit with orange highlights, punctuated with a Greek symbol used to represent radioactive decay. He had been there a while.
"What about him?" I shrugged.
"Oh nothing important," Q continued, "He's just on his way back from a ship ride into a Dyson Sphere. The so-called 'scientists' from his story fiddled and toyed with reality like children poking at a snake. When it inevitably all came crashing down on them, they fiddled and toyed some more, until finally things were so bad, they just tried smashing their problems. They took the time-morphing and reality-collapsing sum of their knowledge and used it like a stick."
"Did it work?"
"Well I'd ask him, but by the looks of it, it didn't go over very well." Q all but spat his words as he drank, half amused and half disgusted. "'The knowledge of men.'"
I minded the hazard-suited patron a moment more. The look in his eyes was one I'd seen before; the internal pondering of truly knowing the scale of things outside of our understanding. It was something I often had to set aside to do this job, but could never set aside for long.
"I think I have a handle on it." I offered, not truly believing.
"Yes, you've seen more than most. It must be nice having all the answers handed to you on a silver platter."
"I manage to sleep at night."
He nodded his head in uncharacteristic kindness, redirecting his attention to the very far end of the room.
"There's never any light from outside those windows."
I peered to the window frames walled in the lounge area. True enough, they were black. They were always black. The front door would light up sometimes with the grand entrance of a cosmic customer, but the back-room windows were kissing the skin of reality's edge. The bar teetered somewhere between it and the fabric of existence, the entrance on the latter side. To say there was nought to see was an understatement; there was literally 'not' a beyond them.
"Nothing to see. There's not even the void out there; just nothing."
"Then why do you have them?" The question was punctuated with a quirked eyebrow; the kind he was known for using. While easily mistook for an insult, it usually carried a hidden meaning behind it. I had grown fond of trying to find it out.
"Because... one should not stop looking for answers, even when one thinks there's none to find?"
"Oh, you!" Q chuckled, apparently tickled with my answer. "You fumbling bipeds always come to the most droll conclusions. I figured the windows were there so that 'he' could have a view into your quaint little getaway." I followed his gaze to the windows, heavy with the darkness of non-existence beyond their glass.
"He who?" I asked.
"No one. No one at all. But if I were you, I would keep those windows closed."
Q clasped his glass and made his way from my bar, his eyes briefly lingering on mine. I watched him approach the chess game for a moment, before casting my glance over the heads of the astronomical players, lost in their inexplicable dealings, to the black-caged windows at the edge of nothing. I made a note to myself: Look into blinds.
**Edits for errors
|
Ink-black black; fine-in-trial|underwhelmed-in-present rejoinder--[Tripping through]<nervous idles and [flying afore ^ aft]<for after: gusts of guests|host of host||black>[sit loud in din].
&nbsp;
Port>[parted] ^ YHWH>[thresh threshold]; attentive attendees>[attend-in-attention]; inattentive inattention-in-intention>[tense tendees]--YHWH>[attend these]:
&nbsp;
"Hey guys, been a while, hasn't it? I hardly recognize the place. I guess you might not recognize me, either. It's me, God. Y'know, Yahweh?"
&nbsp;
Shuffle|arrange|demote|remode|attend|forfend||ORIGIN>[join ^ in-oration] ~~ELSE LITTLE NOTHING BUT~~
&nbsp;
"Ha! You haven't changed at all, Ori. I know, you're right, I look pretty different; I spent a few millenia making some sentient life, and well, what you create, creates you, y'know?"
&nbsp;
Ink-black black; trials ^ fervent|vocage|reminiscent--Aft ^ afore 3san3>[intone notive]
&nbsp;
(
*thieving breed*
*thieving breed*
*thieving breed*
)
&nbsp;
joy in ^ around.
&nbsp;
Hesi-"Oh, uhh... Yeah, sorry Three. I really liked your whole 'trinity' deal, thought I'd put on a show for my children. That's why I look like this, actually; this is the human part, Yeshua, the Son. Hope you don't mind."-tation.
&nbsp;
**JOY** in ^ around.
&nbsp;
"Oh, good." Ink-black black>[spreads--Contracts back]: reprieve plane>[approach YHWH_so-soma may mate|meet].
&nbsp;
YHWH>[meet|mate] "So what's new everyone? I'll be honest, it's a bit tough to comprehend you guys now, something about this human--oh, I called them human, by the way, my children--something about this human mind can't quite fathom everything. Still, it's good to be back."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; stillness ^ void vervent; YHWH>[increase-in-creases--Raise his--Rarified].
&nbsp;
"Aww, thanks buddy. This is why I love coming here, you're just the best host. Thanks for understanding my misunderstanding--hey, that sounds like something you'd say!"
&nbsp;
WELCOME|JOY||in ^ around.
&nbsp;
"Man--oh, that's what I call like half of my children, real simple--man, it was fun for a while, but it's just so good to be back with my own kind, y'know? Away from... away from..."
&nbsp;
shuffle|shudder|rudder|ruddle|runnel|rubble||Ink-yellow yellow; emotive unmotive ORIGIN>[orative] ~~PAIN TROUBLED WITHIN BEFORE~~
&nbsp;
tear|tear|tare||0>[ought care] ".what.troubles.you.yhwh.?."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; YHWH>[entune] "Oh Naught... I don't want to... They killed me, okay! I went to them with love and ancient truth, and my children killed me! They bled me, betrayed me, besmirched and berated me. Damn, why am I talking like this? Are you writing this, Host? Nevermind, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. The only ones I ever loved refused me. I gave them everything, and they... they..."
&nbsp;
(
*nothing deservant*
*nothing deservant*
*nothing deservant*
)
&nbsp;
affirm ".affirm."
&nbsp;
gather|rather|ravel|| "Wait, really? Would you do that, Naught?"
&nbsp;
ver|swear||0>[-taught care] ".brother.first.brother.ever.remand.man.tear.tear."
&nbsp;
Ink-blue blue; heft ^ history|historicity--City-in-city [sit]<thee--Rarified.
&nbsp;
sigh||YHWH>[fly] "I think... I think I'd like that. Heh... As you would say, Host:
&nbsp;
'Ink-black black;
God had left,
Nothing came back.'"
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Ink-white white.
&nbsp;
Hymnal.
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
^^^Multiple ^^^Edits>[Readability ^^^and ^^^consistency.]
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"Do you know why your patrons don't fuss about a human running the tavern at the edge of all existence?"
My hand had just pulled away from shelving the bourbon when the customer spoke. I took my time in returning my attention to the Q. He was dressed in some space-aged uniform from a corner of time I was unfamiliar with. This omnipotent entity could appear however he wished, of course. When I first encountered him, he would take a seat in 50's attire, down to the fedora and lit cigarette. As time went on, I found his appearance reflected what was on his mind; Not that he ever directly talked about it.
"I don't suppose there's any way to stop you from telling me?" I solicited.
"It's because you're nothing to them," he rumbled out. "Completely harmless, less a threat physicality and intellectually than a bit of mycoplasma genitalium on a toilet seat, hurtling towards a star."
It was true, of course. A quick glance about the room would humble any man. We were far from any galaxies; far from any stars. Some of the patrons may have never even been to a galaxy or a star. Only those things that knew of what was beyond sight's reach gathered here.
At a booth nestled in a wall, a man attempted to finish his drink. This proved difficult, as the drink (and himself) would continually change. Sometimes he was an old man, the drink nearly empty. Other times he was young, just sitting down with his fresh Old Crow Manhattan. Looking at him hurt my eyes, as if the area was deciding for me what to remember of it.
A table by the door held two other patrons: One dazzled like a nebula, flickering black and blue in a curling waltz of complimentary colors, surrounded by what appeared to be micro star clusters which swayed about him much as earth might drift in water. His companion was a dark-eyed creature, mouth-less and beckoning like a dead planet, tendrils of purple shadow wriggling about the chin. She curled the dust and light in the air into an orbit about herself, something like a black hole. Above them, the heavy void and dazzling light collided in what very well could have been a galactic battle. If worlds fought and ended alongside them merely from their presence, it was too insignificant for them to notice; after all, they were having a game of chess.
"I might have to start thinning out your drinks, Q." I said with a smile, which was the only thing one could do when a Q put you in your place. He took a drink with a slight jostle of his head akin to a roll the eyes, drawing my attention to a nearby table.
"You see him there?"
Slumped over the counter was a tired man, spectacles worn with grime. He wore some kind of hazard suit with orange highlights, punctuated with a Greek symbol used to represent radioactive decay. He had been there a while.
"What about him?" I shrugged.
"Oh nothing important," Q continued, "He's just on his way back from a ship ride into a Dyson Sphere. The so-called 'scientists' from his story fiddled and toyed with reality like children poking at a snake. When it inevitably all came crashing down on them, they fiddled and toyed some more, until finally things were so bad, they just tried smashing their problems. They took the time-morphing and reality-collapsing sum of their knowledge and used it like a stick."
"Did it work?"
"Well I'd ask him, but by the looks of it, it didn't go over very well." Q all but spat his words as he drank, half amused and half disgusted. "'The knowledge of men.'"
I minded the hazard-suited patron a moment more. The look in his eyes was one I'd seen before; the internal pondering of truly knowing the scale of things outside of our understanding. It was something I often had to set aside to do this job, but could never set aside for long.
"I think I have a handle on it." I offered, not truly believing.
"Yes, you've seen more than most. It must be nice having all the answers handed to you on a silver platter."
"I manage to sleep at night."
He nodded his head in uncharacteristic kindness, redirecting his attention to the very far end of the room.
"There's never any light from outside those windows."
I peered to the window frames walled in the lounge area. True enough, they were black. They were always black. The front door would light up sometimes with the grand entrance of a cosmic customer, but the back-room windows were kissing the skin of reality's edge. The bar teetered somewhere between it and the fabric of existence, the entrance on the latter side. To say there was nought to see was an understatement; there was literally 'not' a beyond them.
"Nothing to see. There's not even the void out there; just nothing."
"Then why do you have them?" The question was punctuated with a quirked eyebrow; the kind he was known for using. While easily mistook for an insult, it usually carried a hidden meaning behind it. I had grown fond of trying to find it out.
"Because... one should not stop looking for answers, even when one thinks there's none to find?"
"Oh, you!" Q chuckled, apparently tickled with my answer. "You fumbling bipeds always come to the most droll conclusions. I figured the windows were there so that 'he' could have a view into your quaint little getaway." I followed his gaze to the windows, heavy with the darkness of non-existence beyond their glass.
"He who?" I asked.
"No one. No one at all. But if I were you, I would keep those windows closed."
Q clasped his glass and made his way from my bar, his eyes briefly lingering on mine. I watched him approach the chess game for a moment, before casting my glance over the heads of the astronomical players, lost in their inexplicable dealings, to the black-caged windows at the edge of nothing. I made a note to myself: Look into blinds.
**Edits for errors
|
My place wasn't the sort of place you heard about, or the type of place that you looked for. No, my place was the place you stumbled across, like that one cheap restaurant by the liquor store that has really good chicken wings. Only, mine served beer, ale, mead, wine and the occasional suckling boar.
I was the only barmaid in existence who could accurately describe C'thulu. I've met God's and served Jesus. I couldn't even begin to tell you how much he bitches about humanity twisting his teachings once he gets about five or so cups of 'water' in him.
So, imagine my surprise when someone so entirely alien came in. Someone so painfully out of the usual criteria, that nearly every raucous voice in the bar went quiet as the bell above the door rang as it opened.
A human. Not even a monk that made Buddha status or a saint or even a martyr, but a regular, everyday, living and breathing human man.
He walked up to me at the bar, and seemed to be painfully aware of the silence he caused. "I...I'm sorry, I was just a little...lost. I was wondering if you could point me to the Central Hotel? Or perhaps call a cab? My phones died and I'm not from the area..."
"Lost? Boy, you are making something of an understatement." I can't help but smile a little, amused by the tiny thing before me. Such a creature lived so short a life, and yet...yet it could impact so much. How he had come through that door and entered this plane of non-reality without losing his mind, I had no idea. "Where you from? Is that a Canadian accent I hear?"
"Y-yes! Usually, most mistake me for an American. It gets mildly annoying sometimes. I'm here for my sister's wedding, God knows why she had to have it all the way in France...wait, how are you speaking perfect english? This is-"
"Toto, I don't think we're in Paris anymore." I said with a smile. "Sit, Sit!" I invited the human, snapping my fingers and sending the entirety of the bar's patrons away with a woosh. Little known fact; as the only bar catering to unholy abominations and divine beings alike, I could toss out the entirety of Earths many Pantheons with little to no complaints. Where else would they get their drinks from? Dionysus wasn't exactly up to squashing grapes for wine anymore.
"I...uhh..." he looked around, confused and unsure. I wasn't exactly sure what he saw with his limited ability to see, but it may have been far more mundane. "Sure...?" He said, scootching his butt onto the bar stool.
"Lemme give you a deal, human. I'll give you as many free drinks as you want, and you let me question you." I offer with a smile.
"I'm not really much of a drinker..."
"I never said you'd get drunk." I tell him with a slight roll of my eyes. I reach for a glass, and set it down in front of him. I tap on the edge, and it filled with a syrupy, golden liquid. "Behold, necter."
"Huh...near trick, lady. What, you've got a pump under the cup?" He asked, sounding impressed as he lifted the cup and felt the flat underside of it, then sliding his hand over the smooth surface.
"Well, if God necter isn't your style, how about some of Valhalla's mead? You don't even have to die to get it." I suggest, taking the glass from his hand and tossing it into the air. The glass came back down and landed perfectly, having turned into a crystal chalice. The pale yellow liquid poured in from above our headz after the glass landed, a perfect glass.
"I...oh my God, where the hell am I?" He taped, staring at the cup.
"Well, for that I suggest..." I sigh, taking the chalice and smooshing it into the counter, the glass collapsing under my hand like rubber. I lifted my hand and s green martini had replaced Valhalla's mead. "An Appletini of Eden, made from the Forbidden Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Sinfully delicious." I conclude, pushing it across the counter to set it before him.
"I...I'm dreaming. You...you're Satan, tempting me with the apple..." he laughed nervously, sliding off of the bar stool. "I'm probably drunk in some alley beside a church...I...I..."
"If Eve, the purest of humanity, handmade by God, couldn't resist the Apple, what makes you think you can? You're a random, a mess of DNA thrown together by a Millenia of breeding. Besides, aren't you going to hell regardless? You can learn everything if you just give it a shot..." I hum, leaning over the counter. "It's a one time offer. You could walk back out that door and never again find this place. You happened upon here by accident, some fluke of time and space...come on, please? I just want a few answers before you learn everything. I just /love/ how simple you are..."
He laughed, deep and reverberating. "I'm...I'm not here." He decided, turning his back to me and about to grab the doorknob. "I'm asleep somewhere, I know it..."
I gently tip the glass to one side, a drip of vibrant green liquid slides down the angled glass. Almost instantly, as if on instinct, he freezes. "You're Christian. You were raised on the Eden story..." I observe. "But...you're remarkably unaware. I've met Adam and Eve. They're divorced now, you know. Adam got back with his ex-wife Lillith, I guess something about a dominatrix demon just get a his engine running more than the poor little innocent...even if that poor little innocent is coming in five times a week getting blasted on appletini's and getting all up in aprodities' panties."
"You're lying. I know your lying." He says, voice wavering only slightly.
"Fine. Go right ahead." I hummed, taking the Apple slice from the Appletini and drinking it all in one swallow. I raised the Apple slice to my lips, about to eat it.
As if he was a man possessed, he turned and ran to me, hopping up onto the counter and landing on his knees. He grabbed hold of my head, forced my chin up and kissed me. He took the Apple slice from my mouth, his tongue pressed incessantly at my lips, that same tongue running over my teeth and tongue, lapping up the taste he hadn't been able to actually have.
He released me, breathing heavily. "Damn you...damn you to hell..."
I smirk. "I think I'll be fine. I know all the gate keepers."
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
There are bad years and then there are the years where a hive mind walks into your bar - well, walking is putting it lightly. Think more of a swollen stormwater pipe during heavy rain. Hopefully that will give you an image of what the doorway looked like for a good six months.
&nbsp;
I waited, at least three aeons passing in that time, until the last of the hive mind-controlled beings walked in, then I said in greeting, “Hello.” I kept it simple, lest I assume its identity and use the wrong cosmic-specific word.
&nbsp;
“Good tidings, manling,” came the response, all beings talking simultaneously. I felt a shiver ripple up my spine.
&nbsp;
*I’ll never get used to this.*
&nbsp;
“What can I get for you? How about a few million glasses of our best ale, the Brown Dwarf? Or better yet, a Supernova on the rocks?”
&nbsp;
“A round of Carbon will do. Uncompounded, if you will,” the hive mind rumbled.
&nbsp;
“Exquisite choice,” I bowed and set to the task.
&nbsp;
Owning a bar on the fringes of reality sure had its perks. I’d seen some incredible things. A thousand metre tall daemons whose eyes burned with hellfire, dreaded stellar worms that feed off psychic energy, and let’s not forget the singularity entities who drink my stock dry each millenium they pop in. These are the times why I chose this line of work. But when a hive mind comes along, it sure does make me question why I’m doing this job.
&nbsp;
Getting the drinks together forced me to use three time-dilating parasites. What seemed like a minute for those in the room was three god-damned lifetimes I spent pouring drinks. The mental stress of those collective years can bare down on you after a while. Use the parasites enough times and you’ll eventually lose your mind.
&nbsp;
I used one more in order to hand all the drinks around.
&nbsp;
“There you go,” I said with finality.
&nbsp;
The lot of them drowned themselves in their drinks, a cacophony of splashes and gurgling. Before long, the round was finished.
&nbsp;
The heads of all the beings turned in unison and said, to my dismay, “Another, please.”
|
The bar at the edge of reality screams in silence. It's always ghost packed, our customers laugh in mourning and yell their secrets across the room. Music plays. No one dances. Everyone drinks their steaming cups of cold coffee. The living dead wander the bar. They kiss their enemies. Fight with their lovers. All the same difference - the extinct life comes to the bar at the edge of reality. A cozy little place that blinks on the edge of existence. Come at the right hour, when the blazing moonlight fills the streets. The party starts when the neon sign flashes closed. We can all be alone together.
/r/liswrites
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
I am a good bartender.
This is somewhat surprising, since I do not do many of the things that bartenders usually do. Bartenders, for one thing, usually provide their patrons with drinks, but I do not. I do provide my patrons with the *memories* of drinks - memories I have borrowed from other patrons from other parts of the multiverse - and this seems to please them well enough, which means I am a good bartender.
I also do not listen to my patrons' stories. It is my understanding that bartenders are usually good listeners, but I have no patience for it. My patrons talk on and on about whatever is troubling them - some inconvenient supernova or electron field ruining their system, or perhaps young hooligan neutrinos joyriding a comet through their subspace - but I just nod while thinking about other things. I do not respond in kind or offer any advice, but my patrons still somehow seem happier afterward, which means I am a good bartender.
These skills have let me ably serve innumerable types of beings from this quadrant and beyond. In all honesty, most of them are quite boring. It is not their fault; there is only so much you can do with the dimensions you are given to exist in. But they are my patrons, and I serve them, because I am a good bartender.
And then there is William.
William is from a place called Earth. It is a tiny place of little consequence, and for a long while, I did not expect to ever have a patron from Earth in my bar. The creatures there are primitive, close-minded, and usually quite cruel - certainly not fit for a civilized establishment like mine. But William is different, and he is about to show my patrons why.
William is now going to the raised area. I did not have a raised area before, but William told me that I needed one if he was going to stay here. I did not hesitate.
William is now sitting down at the Earth machine. He had to describe it in great detail in order for me to imagine it, but it was worth it. William is touching the machine, and it is making the sounds.
William is now raising the small metal totem to his mouth, and it is also making the sounds. This was much easier to imagine, and I like it even more.
And now William is singing.
"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday..."
Even after all this time, I still do not know what a "Saturday" is. I have decided not to ask. I just enjoy listening.
|
The bar at the edge of reality screams in silence. It's always ghost packed, our customers laugh in mourning and yell their secrets across the room. Music plays. No one dances. Everyone drinks their steaming cups of cold coffee. The living dead wander the bar. They kiss their enemies. Fight with their lovers. All the same difference - the extinct life comes to the bar at the edge of reality. A cozy little place that blinks on the edge of existence. Come at the right hour, when the blazing moonlight fills the streets. The party starts when the neon sign flashes closed. We can all be alone together.
/r/liswrites
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
For a moment, I flushed pale. No possible education or study could have prepared me for what I was witnessing. But, as with all things, I calmed my mind. The incomprehensible beings filled row after row of booths and chairs in the quaint, old pub I had found myself in. My arrival was a mystery to me, but my curiosity outweighed my fear, for a time.
"Hey, boss." A gruff voice from behind the oak bar spat words at me. His speech pattern was strange, something more coarse and unrefined than any dialect I'd ever heard. I turned to look, and in that moment was struck in the face with a damp towel. "Whoops, sorry. I have terrible aim. My shift is almost up, it's your turn. You wanna grab the counters while I finish up?"
"I...I don't understand," I babbled madly, "Where am I?"
"We're in your pub, boss. Innsmouth Tavern. Don't tell me you've been drinking with Dagon again?"
"I see." I paused, unsure of how to proceed. "And where, exactly, is this establishment located?"
"You...you don't know?" The creature said to me. Dozens of eyes swiveled in my direction, as though trying to get a better look at me. I shook my head, terrified. He...*it* continued. "You shouldn't be here," came its mouthless voice, its inflection taking on a sinister tone of sudden realization. "Not yet. One day, you'll come back, but not yet. You have another job to do."
I became suddenly aware of a massive rift in the sky above me, and in it stood a being beyond sane and rational thought. I was unsure how the sky appeared there, inside the tavern, or how this ancient monstrosity had come to manifest itself before my eyes. It was a massive caricature of human form with face adorned by the tentacled arms of the octopus, and great dragon's wings spread outward from its shoulders. To describe the entity in such a way is a disservice to its true nature, though it is the closest words may come to ascribing its features to language.
In its enormous hand was a leather-bound tome, belted shut and covered with dust. I could see yellowed pages between the tanned, awkwardly stitched covers. It was clear to me that this book was ancient, and represented ancient knowledge. I reached out reluctantly to take it, and as my fingers closed around the edges of the book, the sky, the rift, and the ancient one all vanished.
I was again in the tavern, looking at the strange bartender. It was I who broke the silence.
"If I may..." I glanced upward, half expecting the sky to still shine down on me from the void, "What was that creature?" To my surprise, it laughed, a guttural and uncomfortable sound to hear.
"One of our patrons. Less frequent than some, of course, but we don't discriminate here." I could sense this both was and wasn't entirely true. "You run along now, mortal. Stay too long and you'll see something you shouldn't. A mind like yours may be strong enough to skirt insanity for a time, but with mortal flesh comes mortal weakness, and you are not yet ready to transcend your own flesh."
I opened my mouth to say something, but at that moment I saw a man come out from the staff entrance and take his place behind the bar. He wrote a well pressed but simple black suit, and I immediately recognized it as my own. His facial features were nearly identical to mine, save for a few decades of aging, and he had the weary smile of a man who had lived a short, hard life. My palms began to perspire. He looked at me, and from his lips I heard my own voice.
"Good to see you at last, Howard. I was wondering when you would arrive." He pointed at the book clenched by white knuckles in my grip. "You will be needing that. When the time comes, it will reveal to you how to return. Time to wake up."
I gasped for air and found myself awake in damp sheets soaked with my own sweat. To my surprise and my great horror, I found the leather tome given to me in my dream resting safely at the foot of my bed. The dust was smeared and marked in the exact places my fingers had gripped it in my dreams. With only a moment's hesitation hindering me, I reached out and grasped it, unbuckling the latch and carefully opening its pages. On the inside of the cover was one haunting word:
*Necronomicon*
I wonder if my own mind shall ever piece back together the puzzle of that tavern, of what it meant for me. Perhaps I was the man behind the bar after all. Perhaps it was just a dream. These pieces, for now, must remain unsolved. I will not risk fracturing my sanity further when there is work to be done. The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.
Signed,
H. P. Lovecraft, May 20, 1917
|
The bar at the edge of reality screams in silence. It's always ghost packed, our customers laugh in mourning and yell their secrets across the room. Music plays. No one dances. Everyone drinks their steaming cups of cold coffee. The living dead wander the bar. They kiss their enemies. Fight with their lovers. All the same difference - the extinct life comes to the bar at the edge of reality. A cozy little place that blinks on the edge of existence. Come at the right hour, when the blazing moonlight fills the streets. The party starts when the neon sign flashes closed. We can all be alone together.
/r/liswrites
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
"Morn." Nod to the patrons, untap taps get the alcohol fermenting take tips get paid find change give change quick snack sort mugs take orders deal with leftovers.
Quiet morning. So quiet that two of my arms started playing rock paper scissors to determine who washes the bar.
The Old One in isle 5 wanted a refill so I paid extra care to that one.
Really just a very quiet morning. My brain mass scatters throughout my appendages and absolves me of any higher reasoning.
That human came in again for his morning coffee. We only get fucking *insane* humans here, and most of them don't know its a bar. I've had to start stocking coffee just for this one guy.
"The usual?" I mutter from 2 of my many mouths, knowing already his answer and already brewing a cafe au lait, ratio of coffee to milk 3:2 with two teaspoons of sugar. He's incredibly particular about this, by the way, like most of my customers. If I don't put in exactly 2 teaspoons he gets very upset, though I did once make it using grapefruit-sized teaspoons, and he didn't even bat an eye, despite the sugar basically overflowing onto his boots. Strange chap.
He nods listlessly and waits patiently. The promised cup is received and he's on his way. I think he works in retail.
A hotshot comes in and takes a seat. Class J Sentient Logogram, on its way up to being a real Character in the word-space today. I give it a once over and smirk. Its existence is a foul word for now, but I'm sure that will change when it seeks Council approval.
The logogram adopts an inflection of leaning in and smirks at me. "So what's your deal?"
"Ya?"
"Ya. I hear theres this super special bar see that all the cool cats like to pretend they're cool enough to drop by, and its got a real doozy of a bartender. Thing is, nobody willin' to say who or what you is. I assume that be you?"
I motion to take his order and three of my arms also give a shrug.
"Ya huh."
It flashes transparent. I guess that's word-speak for blinking?
"Ya huh."
Well shit I ain't no secret.
"I'm whatever I need to be."
"What like a shapeshifter?"
"No, not at all. I don't control me."
"So like an Elder One, y'know, form changes to suit whatever's most comprehensible?"
"Still naw. I just kinda am whatever I need to be to be where I am."
"... And that's why you're a 30 armed mass of activity tending... a massive bar... at the edge of goddamn *reality?*"
The logogram seems incredulous, but yelps in fright when the floor it rests upon gives rise to my chuckle.
"Well, close but, I don't just *tend* a bar."
|
The bar at the edge of reality screams in silence. It's always ghost packed, our customers laugh in mourning and yell their secrets across the room. Music plays. No one dances. Everyone drinks their steaming cups of cold coffee. The living dead wander the bar. They kiss their enemies. Fight with their lovers. All the same difference - the extinct life comes to the bar at the edge of reality. A cozy little place that blinks on the edge of existence. Come at the right hour, when the blazing moonlight fills the streets. The party starts when the neon sign flashes closed. We can all be alone together.
/r/liswrites
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
“Did she really have to take the dog? Like, really? It isn’t frickin’ enough to break all my hearts?”
He flailed his tentacles to emphasise the point, but he was more morose than angry, and he did little damage other than sending a couple of empty shot glasses crashing to the floor. It was ok, he tipped well enough to cover that. I waited until he returned to his pensive state, staring holes into my bar counter, before I sidled up with a glass of water.
“Drink up,” I said. “You’re stronger than this, you know that.”
“But Al,” Cthulhu said, “I’m not, I’m really not. I look tough, sure, but I’m just as soft inside as any other cosmic entity, man. Hit me another one.”
“No more neutrino-vodkas,” I said. “Water, first, then we’ll talk.”
It was quiet today at the Galaxy’s End, the bar I inherited from my grandfather, which meant that I could afford a bit more one-on-one time with Cthulhu. Very few of my patrons are actually interested as to how a human came to run such an establishment at the edge of reality, and I can see why. To all these cosmic wonders, and horrors, who stroll in on a regular basis looking for brief respite from their realities, they couldn’t care less about who, or what, was actually behind the counter.
As long as the drinks were good (they were), the service was reasonable (it was), and there was a listening ear (always).
“So, you gonna tell me why you insisted I come in today?” Cthulhu said, after he drained the glass of water.
“Because I heard about your thing,” I said. “Break-ups are hard for anyone, even eldritch abominations like yourself.”
He laughed at that, and I calmly wiped the counter top, clearing away the stray gobs of mucus which escaped his maw. “Really? Big Al, all worried about lil’ ol’ me?” He slapped a tentacle on the table, finagled a peanut, then popped it into his mouth. “Bull! There’s gotta be something going on, I’m sure. Maybe you’re here to kick me while I’m down, laugh at the cosmic jelly who can’t keep his girl?”
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “Just wanted to make sure you had someone to talk to.”
He puffed his chest out for a while, and I watched as his scales turned grey. I’d read somewhere that that was his battle armour, for whenever he had to duke it out with another of the elder gods. “Never! I am Cthulhu! Ravager of Worlds! I consume galaxies for tea! I poop the bones of vast civilizations!”
“If you say so.”
“… I twist the threads of fate! I crush the… *oh who am I kidding*,” Cthulhu said, as he slumped forward. He had turned back to a rich turquoise, which I had also read was the colour of his pyjamas. “It hurts man, it does. I’m not young anymore, man. This is my third millennia as a frickin’ elder god, man. You know what Nurvovos said when I called him?”
“What?” I asked, as I tried to recall which elder god this was. I had a vague impression of a sentient gaseous cloud, composed of filaments of time and stitched with the souls of dying suns. I didn’t have that strong of an impression of him, so he must only have been an average tipper.
“Nurvovos said he couldn’t meet me for drinks! Cause he had childlings to watch! Said his lady had been griping about ‘equal responsibilities’ or ‘fair distribution of work’! I said I understood, of course. But he’s not the only one!”
“Others too?”
“Yes!” Cthulhu said. “Everyone else in my clique! They’ve all settled down man, even Juloxies, and he’s got a face only his mother would like! I’m the only one left, man. It sucks, really.”
I reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle of the good stuff, 25-eon Hudubu rum, then poured him a shot. “On the house,” I said, as I slid the glass across. “This one’s strong, but you’re going to need something to get out of that funk. And quickly too, if I should add.”
“Why should I,” he said, as he obliged by downing the shot. “There’s nothing left to live for.”
“Cthulhu, buddy, why do you think of all days I asked you to come down here to my bar?”
“I dunno, Al,” he said, “why don’t you tell me?”
“And why do you think I didn’t take no for an answer? Why do you think I asked your buddies to make sure you came? Where did they go? Why’s the whole bar empty?”
That got his attention. He perked up one eyestalk, swivelled it around, then realised I wasn’t pulling his tentacle. He was literally the only entity in Galaxy’s End.
“What’s up Al,” he said. “You know I don’t like surprises.”
At that moment, right on cue, the door to my bar burst open. High-pitched screeches filled the air, but I already had my mufflers on. You don’t survive long at the bar without knowing how to deal with your clientele.
What strutted in could have driven any other human mad by sight alone, but I had some time to get to know them, and the Space Vixens of Guguba are far friendlier than they look. There were ten of them, all dressed to the nines, chattering incessantly amongst themselves. The one in front, she had a tiara on her heads, glittering stones which appeared to be the husks of decayed stars.
“The bar’s booked tonight, Cthulhu,” I said, the grin leaping onto my face. “Hen’s night. One of them’s getting married, so I cleared out all my other customers, kept the place exclusive for them.”
“Wha… wha…” Cthulhu stammered, ever the suave, eloquent romantic.
“Stay away from the hen,” I said, as I prodded his tentacle, “but I hear that some of her friends are single. Who knows man, you’ve got to get back out in the game, put yourself out there! There are so many abominations out there in the cold darkness of space!”
The Vixens had settled on the opposite side of the bar, still squawking at their supersonic frequencies. I’m no judge of non-human beauty, but I had been told that they were the fittest from their planet. Or at least, the most popular, if Spacetagram was to be believed.
“Coming!” I yelled at them, in response to a few raised talons. “One round on the house! Oh look, so many glasses, so few hands I have! I’ll just have my friend here send them over!”
I turned to Cthulhu, then shoved a tray of bubbling shots at him.
“Don’t screw this up,” I said.
“Man…” he said, as a couple of tears rolled down and into the glasses, which I disapproved as proprietor of a fine establishment. “I won’t forget this…”
“Just be the best monstrosity you can be,” I said.
He toddled off, and there was a spring to his sloshing that wasn’t there before.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
|
The bar at the edge of reality screams in silence. It's always ghost packed, our customers laugh in mourning and yell their secrets across the room. Music plays. No one dances. Everyone drinks their steaming cups of cold coffee. The living dead wander the bar. They kiss their enemies. Fight with their lovers. All the same difference - the extinct life comes to the bar at the edge of reality. A cozy little place that blinks on the edge of existence. Come at the right hour, when the blazing moonlight fills the streets. The party starts when the neon sign flashes closed. We can all be alone together.
/r/liswrites
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
I am a good bartender.
This is somewhat surprising, since I do not do many of the things that bartenders usually do. Bartenders, for one thing, usually provide their patrons with drinks, but I do not. I do provide my patrons with the *memories* of drinks - memories I have borrowed from other patrons from other parts of the multiverse - and this seems to please them well enough, which means I am a good bartender.
I also do not listen to my patrons' stories. It is my understanding that bartenders are usually good listeners, but I have no patience for it. My patrons talk on and on about whatever is troubling them - some inconvenient supernova or electron field ruining their system, or perhaps young hooligan neutrinos joyriding a comet through their subspace - but I just nod while thinking about other things. I do not respond in kind or offer any advice, but my patrons still somehow seem happier afterward, which means I am a good bartender.
These skills have let me ably serve innumerable types of beings from this quadrant and beyond. In all honesty, most of them are quite boring. It is not their fault; there is only so much you can do with the dimensions you are given to exist in. But they are my patrons, and I serve them, because I am a good bartender.
And then there is William.
William is from a place called Earth. It is a tiny place of little consequence, and for a long while, I did not expect to ever have a patron from Earth in my bar. The creatures there are primitive, close-minded, and usually quite cruel - certainly not fit for a civilized establishment like mine. But William is different, and he is about to show my patrons why.
William is now going to the raised area. I did not have a raised area before, but William told me that I needed one if he was going to stay here. I did not hesitate.
William is now sitting down at the Earth machine. He had to describe it in great detail in order for me to imagine it, but it was worth it. William is touching the machine, and it is making the sounds.
William is now raising the small metal totem to his mouth, and it is also making the sounds. This was much easier to imagine, and I like it even more.
And now William is singing.
"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday..."
Even after all this time, I still do not know what a "Saturday" is. I have decided not to ask. I just enjoy listening.
|
There are bad years and then there are the years where a hive mind walks into your bar - well, walking is putting it lightly. Think more of a swollen stormwater pipe during heavy rain. Hopefully that will give you an image of what the doorway looked like for a good six months.
&nbsp;
I waited, at least three aeons passing in that time, until the last of the hive mind-controlled beings walked in, then I said in greeting, “Hello.” I kept it simple, lest I assume its identity and use the wrong cosmic-specific word.
&nbsp;
“Good tidings, manling,” came the response, all beings talking simultaneously. I felt a shiver ripple up my spine.
&nbsp;
*I’ll never get used to this.*
&nbsp;
“What can I get for you? How about a few million glasses of our best ale, the Brown Dwarf? Or better yet, a Supernova on the rocks?”
&nbsp;
“A round of Carbon will do. Uncompounded, if you will,” the hive mind rumbled.
&nbsp;
“Exquisite choice,” I bowed and set to the task.
&nbsp;
Owning a bar on the fringes of reality sure had its perks. I’d seen some incredible things. A thousand metre tall daemons whose eyes burned with hellfire, dreaded stellar worms that feed off psychic energy, and let’s not forget the singularity entities who drink my stock dry each millenium they pop in. These are the times why I chose this line of work. But when a hive mind comes along, it sure does make me question why I’m doing this job.
&nbsp;
Getting the drinks together forced me to use three time-dilating parasites. What seemed like a minute for those in the room was three god-damned lifetimes I spent pouring drinks. The mental stress of those collective years can bare down on you after a while. Use the parasites enough times and you’ll eventually lose your mind.
&nbsp;
I used one more in order to hand all the drinks around.
&nbsp;
“There you go,” I said with finality.
&nbsp;
The lot of them drowned themselves in their drinks, a cacophony of splashes and gurgling. Before long, the round was finished.
&nbsp;
The heads of all the beings turned in unison and said, to my dismay, “Another, please.”
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
For a moment, I flushed pale. No possible education or study could have prepared me for what I was witnessing. But, as with all things, I calmed my mind. The incomprehensible beings filled row after row of booths and chairs in the quaint, old pub I had found myself in. My arrival was a mystery to me, but my curiosity outweighed my fear, for a time.
"Hey, boss." A gruff voice from behind the oak bar spat words at me. His speech pattern was strange, something more coarse and unrefined than any dialect I'd ever heard. I turned to look, and in that moment was struck in the face with a damp towel. "Whoops, sorry. I have terrible aim. My shift is almost up, it's your turn. You wanna grab the counters while I finish up?"
"I...I don't understand," I babbled madly, "Where am I?"
"We're in your pub, boss. Innsmouth Tavern. Don't tell me you've been drinking with Dagon again?"
"I see." I paused, unsure of how to proceed. "And where, exactly, is this establishment located?"
"You...you don't know?" The creature said to me. Dozens of eyes swiveled in my direction, as though trying to get a better look at me. I shook my head, terrified. He...*it* continued. "You shouldn't be here," came its mouthless voice, its inflection taking on a sinister tone of sudden realization. "Not yet. One day, you'll come back, but not yet. You have another job to do."
I became suddenly aware of a massive rift in the sky above me, and in it stood a being beyond sane and rational thought. I was unsure how the sky appeared there, inside the tavern, or how this ancient monstrosity had come to manifest itself before my eyes. It was a massive caricature of human form with face adorned by the tentacled arms of the octopus, and great dragon's wings spread outward from its shoulders. To describe the entity in such a way is a disservice to its true nature, though it is the closest words may come to ascribing its features to language.
In its enormous hand was a leather-bound tome, belted shut and covered with dust. I could see yellowed pages between the tanned, awkwardly stitched covers. It was clear to me that this book was ancient, and represented ancient knowledge. I reached out reluctantly to take it, and as my fingers closed around the edges of the book, the sky, the rift, and the ancient one all vanished.
I was again in the tavern, looking at the strange bartender. It was I who broke the silence.
"If I may..." I glanced upward, half expecting the sky to still shine down on me from the void, "What was that creature?" To my surprise, it laughed, a guttural and uncomfortable sound to hear.
"One of our patrons. Less frequent than some, of course, but we don't discriminate here." I could sense this both was and wasn't entirely true. "You run along now, mortal. Stay too long and you'll see something you shouldn't. A mind like yours may be strong enough to skirt insanity for a time, but with mortal flesh comes mortal weakness, and you are not yet ready to transcend your own flesh."
I opened my mouth to say something, but at that moment I saw a man come out from the staff entrance and take his place behind the bar. He wrote a well pressed but simple black suit, and I immediately recognized it as my own. His facial features were nearly identical to mine, save for a few decades of aging, and he had the weary smile of a man who had lived a short, hard life. My palms began to perspire. He looked at me, and from his lips I heard my own voice.
"Good to see you at last, Howard. I was wondering when you would arrive." He pointed at the book clenched by white knuckles in my grip. "You will be needing that. When the time comes, it will reveal to you how to return. Time to wake up."
I gasped for air and found myself awake in damp sheets soaked with my own sweat. To my surprise and my great horror, I found the leather tome given to me in my dream resting safely at the foot of my bed. The dust was smeared and marked in the exact places my fingers had gripped it in my dreams. With only a moment's hesitation hindering me, I reached out and grasped it, unbuckling the latch and carefully opening its pages. On the inside of the cover was one haunting word:
*Necronomicon*
I wonder if my own mind shall ever piece back together the puzzle of that tavern, of what it meant for me. Perhaps I was the man behind the bar after all. Perhaps it was just a dream. These pieces, for now, must remain unsolved. I will not risk fracturing my sanity further when there is work to be done. The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.
Signed,
H. P. Lovecraft, May 20, 1917
|
There are bad years and then there are the years where a hive mind walks into your bar - well, walking is putting it lightly. Think more of a swollen stormwater pipe during heavy rain. Hopefully that will give you an image of what the doorway looked like for a good six months.
&nbsp;
I waited, at least three aeons passing in that time, until the last of the hive mind-controlled beings walked in, then I said in greeting, “Hello.” I kept it simple, lest I assume its identity and use the wrong cosmic-specific word.
&nbsp;
“Good tidings, manling,” came the response, all beings talking simultaneously. I felt a shiver ripple up my spine.
&nbsp;
*I’ll never get used to this.*
&nbsp;
“What can I get for you? How about a few million glasses of our best ale, the Brown Dwarf? Or better yet, a Supernova on the rocks?”
&nbsp;
“A round of Carbon will do. Uncompounded, if you will,” the hive mind rumbled.
&nbsp;
“Exquisite choice,” I bowed and set to the task.
&nbsp;
Owning a bar on the fringes of reality sure had its perks. I’d seen some incredible things. A thousand metre tall daemons whose eyes burned with hellfire, dreaded stellar worms that feed off psychic energy, and let’s not forget the singularity entities who drink my stock dry each millenium they pop in. These are the times why I chose this line of work. But when a hive mind comes along, it sure does make me question why I’m doing this job.
&nbsp;
Getting the drinks together forced me to use three time-dilating parasites. What seemed like a minute for those in the room was three god-damned lifetimes I spent pouring drinks. The mental stress of those collective years can bare down on you after a while. Use the parasites enough times and you’ll eventually lose your mind.
&nbsp;
I used one more in order to hand all the drinks around.
&nbsp;
“There you go,” I said with finality.
&nbsp;
The lot of them drowned themselves in their drinks, a cacophony of splashes and gurgling. Before long, the round was finished.
&nbsp;
The heads of all the beings turned in unison and said, to my dismay, “Another, please.”
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
“Did she really have to take the dog? Like, really? It isn’t frickin’ enough to break all my hearts?”
He flailed his tentacles to emphasise the point, but he was more morose than angry, and he did little damage other than sending a couple of empty shot glasses crashing to the floor. It was ok, he tipped well enough to cover that. I waited until he returned to his pensive state, staring holes into my bar counter, before I sidled up with a glass of water.
“Drink up,” I said. “You’re stronger than this, you know that.”
“But Al,” Cthulhu said, “I’m not, I’m really not. I look tough, sure, but I’m just as soft inside as any other cosmic entity, man. Hit me another one.”
“No more neutrino-vodkas,” I said. “Water, first, then we’ll talk.”
It was quiet today at the Galaxy’s End, the bar I inherited from my grandfather, which meant that I could afford a bit more one-on-one time with Cthulhu. Very few of my patrons are actually interested as to how a human came to run such an establishment at the edge of reality, and I can see why. To all these cosmic wonders, and horrors, who stroll in on a regular basis looking for brief respite from their realities, they couldn’t care less about who, or what, was actually behind the counter.
As long as the drinks were good (they were), the service was reasonable (it was), and there was a listening ear (always).
“So, you gonna tell me why you insisted I come in today?” Cthulhu said, after he drained the glass of water.
“Because I heard about your thing,” I said. “Break-ups are hard for anyone, even eldritch abominations like yourself.”
He laughed at that, and I calmly wiped the counter top, clearing away the stray gobs of mucus which escaped his maw. “Really? Big Al, all worried about lil’ ol’ me?” He slapped a tentacle on the table, finagled a peanut, then popped it into his mouth. “Bull! There’s gotta be something going on, I’m sure. Maybe you’re here to kick me while I’m down, laugh at the cosmic jelly who can’t keep his girl?”
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “Just wanted to make sure you had someone to talk to.”
He puffed his chest out for a while, and I watched as his scales turned grey. I’d read somewhere that that was his battle armour, for whenever he had to duke it out with another of the elder gods. “Never! I am Cthulhu! Ravager of Worlds! I consume galaxies for tea! I poop the bones of vast civilizations!”
“If you say so.”
“… I twist the threads of fate! I crush the… *oh who am I kidding*,” Cthulhu said, as he slumped forward. He had turned back to a rich turquoise, which I had also read was the colour of his pyjamas. “It hurts man, it does. I’m not young anymore, man. This is my third millennia as a frickin’ elder god, man. You know what Nurvovos said when I called him?”
“What?” I asked, as I tried to recall which elder god this was. I had a vague impression of a sentient gaseous cloud, composed of filaments of time and stitched with the souls of dying suns. I didn’t have that strong of an impression of him, so he must only have been an average tipper.
“Nurvovos said he couldn’t meet me for drinks! Cause he had childlings to watch! Said his lady had been griping about ‘equal responsibilities’ or ‘fair distribution of work’! I said I understood, of course. But he’s not the only one!”
“Others too?”
“Yes!” Cthulhu said. “Everyone else in my clique! They’ve all settled down man, even Juloxies, and he’s got a face only his mother would like! I’m the only one left, man. It sucks, really.”
I reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle of the good stuff, 25-eon Hudubu rum, then poured him a shot. “On the house,” I said, as I slid the glass across. “This one’s strong, but you’re going to need something to get out of that funk. And quickly too, if I should add.”
“Why should I,” he said, as he obliged by downing the shot. “There’s nothing left to live for.”
“Cthulhu, buddy, why do you think of all days I asked you to come down here to my bar?”
“I dunno, Al,” he said, “why don’t you tell me?”
“And why do you think I didn’t take no for an answer? Why do you think I asked your buddies to make sure you came? Where did they go? Why’s the whole bar empty?”
That got his attention. He perked up one eyestalk, swivelled it around, then realised I wasn’t pulling his tentacle. He was literally the only entity in Galaxy’s End.
“What’s up Al,” he said. “You know I don’t like surprises.”
At that moment, right on cue, the door to my bar burst open. High-pitched screeches filled the air, but I already had my mufflers on. You don’t survive long at the bar without knowing how to deal with your clientele.
What strutted in could have driven any other human mad by sight alone, but I had some time to get to know them, and the Space Vixens of Guguba are far friendlier than they look. There were ten of them, all dressed to the nines, chattering incessantly amongst themselves. The one in front, she had a tiara on her heads, glittering stones which appeared to be the husks of decayed stars.
“The bar’s booked tonight, Cthulhu,” I said, the grin leaping onto my face. “Hen’s night. One of them’s getting married, so I cleared out all my other customers, kept the place exclusive for them.”
“Wha… wha…” Cthulhu stammered, ever the suave, eloquent romantic.
“Stay away from the hen,” I said, as I prodded his tentacle, “but I hear that some of her friends are single. Who knows man, you’ve got to get back out in the game, put yourself out there! There are so many abominations out there in the cold darkness of space!”
The Vixens had settled on the opposite side of the bar, still squawking at their supersonic frequencies. I’m no judge of non-human beauty, but I had been told that they were the fittest from their planet. Or at least, the most popular, if Spacetagram was to be believed.
“Coming!” I yelled at them, in response to a few raised talons. “One round on the house! Oh look, so many glasses, so few hands I have! I’ll just have my friend here send them over!”
I turned to Cthulhu, then shoved a tray of bubbling shots at him.
“Don’t screw this up,” I said.
“Man…” he said, as a couple of tears rolled down and into the glasses, which I disapproved as proprietor of a fine establishment. “I won’t forget this…”
“Just be the best monstrosity you can be,” I said.
He toddled off, and there was a spring to his sloshing that wasn’t there before.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
|
There are bad years and then there are the years where a hive mind walks into your bar - well, walking is putting it lightly. Think more of a swollen stormwater pipe during heavy rain. Hopefully that will give you an image of what the doorway looked like for a good six months.
&nbsp;
I waited, at least three aeons passing in that time, until the last of the hive mind-controlled beings walked in, then I said in greeting, “Hello.” I kept it simple, lest I assume its identity and use the wrong cosmic-specific word.
&nbsp;
“Good tidings, manling,” came the response, all beings talking simultaneously. I felt a shiver ripple up my spine.
&nbsp;
*I’ll never get used to this.*
&nbsp;
“What can I get for you? How about a few million glasses of our best ale, the Brown Dwarf? Or better yet, a Supernova on the rocks?”
&nbsp;
“A round of Carbon will do. Uncompounded, if you will,” the hive mind rumbled.
&nbsp;
“Exquisite choice,” I bowed and set to the task.
&nbsp;
Owning a bar on the fringes of reality sure had its perks. I’d seen some incredible things. A thousand metre tall daemons whose eyes burned with hellfire, dreaded stellar worms that feed off psychic energy, and let’s not forget the singularity entities who drink my stock dry each millenium they pop in. These are the times why I chose this line of work. But when a hive mind comes along, it sure does make me question why I’m doing this job.
&nbsp;
Getting the drinks together forced me to use three time-dilating parasites. What seemed like a minute for those in the room was three god-damned lifetimes I spent pouring drinks. The mental stress of those collective years can bare down on you after a while. Use the parasites enough times and you’ll eventually lose your mind.
&nbsp;
I used one more in order to hand all the drinks around.
&nbsp;
“There you go,” I said with finality.
&nbsp;
The lot of them drowned themselves in their drinks, a cacophony of splashes and gurgling. Before long, the round was finished.
&nbsp;
The heads of all the beings turned in unison and said, to my dismay, “Another, please.”
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
“Did she really have to take the dog? Like, really? It isn’t frickin’ enough to break all my hearts?”
He flailed his tentacles to emphasise the point, but he was more morose than angry, and he did little damage other than sending a couple of empty shot glasses crashing to the floor. It was ok, he tipped well enough to cover that. I waited until he returned to his pensive state, staring holes into my bar counter, before I sidled up with a glass of water.
“Drink up,” I said. “You’re stronger than this, you know that.”
“But Al,” Cthulhu said, “I’m not, I’m really not. I look tough, sure, but I’m just as soft inside as any other cosmic entity, man. Hit me another one.”
“No more neutrino-vodkas,” I said. “Water, first, then we’ll talk.”
It was quiet today at the Galaxy’s End, the bar I inherited from my grandfather, which meant that I could afford a bit more one-on-one time with Cthulhu. Very few of my patrons are actually interested as to how a human came to run such an establishment at the edge of reality, and I can see why. To all these cosmic wonders, and horrors, who stroll in on a regular basis looking for brief respite from their realities, they couldn’t care less about who, or what, was actually behind the counter.
As long as the drinks were good (they were), the service was reasonable (it was), and there was a listening ear (always).
“So, you gonna tell me why you insisted I come in today?” Cthulhu said, after he drained the glass of water.
“Because I heard about your thing,” I said. “Break-ups are hard for anyone, even eldritch abominations like yourself.”
He laughed at that, and I calmly wiped the counter top, clearing away the stray gobs of mucus which escaped his maw. “Really? Big Al, all worried about lil’ ol’ me?” He slapped a tentacle on the table, finagled a peanut, then popped it into his mouth. “Bull! There’s gotta be something going on, I’m sure. Maybe you’re here to kick me while I’m down, laugh at the cosmic jelly who can’t keep his girl?”
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “Just wanted to make sure you had someone to talk to.”
He puffed his chest out for a while, and I watched as his scales turned grey. I’d read somewhere that that was his battle armour, for whenever he had to duke it out with another of the elder gods. “Never! I am Cthulhu! Ravager of Worlds! I consume galaxies for tea! I poop the bones of vast civilizations!”
“If you say so.”
“… I twist the threads of fate! I crush the… *oh who am I kidding*,” Cthulhu said, as he slumped forward. He had turned back to a rich turquoise, which I had also read was the colour of his pyjamas. “It hurts man, it does. I’m not young anymore, man. This is my third millennia as a frickin’ elder god, man. You know what Nurvovos said when I called him?”
“What?” I asked, as I tried to recall which elder god this was. I had a vague impression of a sentient gaseous cloud, composed of filaments of time and stitched with the souls of dying suns. I didn’t have that strong of an impression of him, so he must only have been an average tipper.
“Nurvovos said he couldn’t meet me for drinks! Cause he had childlings to watch! Said his lady had been griping about ‘equal responsibilities’ or ‘fair distribution of work’! I said I understood, of course. But he’s not the only one!”
“Others too?”
“Yes!” Cthulhu said. “Everyone else in my clique! They’ve all settled down man, even Juloxies, and he’s got a face only his mother would like! I’m the only one left, man. It sucks, really.”
I reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle of the good stuff, 25-eon Hudubu rum, then poured him a shot. “On the house,” I said, as I slid the glass across. “This one’s strong, but you’re going to need something to get out of that funk. And quickly too, if I should add.”
“Why should I,” he said, as he obliged by downing the shot. “There’s nothing left to live for.”
“Cthulhu, buddy, why do you think of all days I asked you to come down here to my bar?”
“I dunno, Al,” he said, “why don’t you tell me?”
“And why do you think I didn’t take no for an answer? Why do you think I asked your buddies to make sure you came? Where did they go? Why’s the whole bar empty?”
That got his attention. He perked up one eyestalk, swivelled it around, then realised I wasn’t pulling his tentacle. He was literally the only entity in Galaxy’s End.
“What’s up Al,” he said. “You know I don’t like surprises.”
At that moment, right on cue, the door to my bar burst open. High-pitched screeches filled the air, but I already had my mufflers on. You don’t survive long at the bar without knowing how to deal with your clientele.
What strutted in could have driven any other human mad by sight alone, but I had some time to get to know them, and the Space Vixens of Guguba are far friendlier than they look. There were ten of them, all dressed to the nines, chattering incessantly amongst themselves. The one in front, she had a tiara on her heads, glittering stones which appeared to be the husks of decayed stars.
“The bar’s booked tonight, Cthulhu,” I said, the grin leaping onto my face. “Hen’s night. One of them’s getting married, so I cleared out all my other customers, kept the place exclusive for them.”
“Wha… wha…” Cthulhu stammered, ever the suave, eloquent romantic.
“Stay away from the hen,” I said, as I prodded his tentacle, “but I hear that some of her friends are single. Who knows man, you’ve got to get back out in the game, put yourself out there! There are so many abominations out there in the cold darkness of space!”
The Vixens had settled on the opposite side of the bar, still squawking at their supersonic frequencies. I’m no judge of non-human beauty, but I had been told that they were the fittest from their planet. Or at least, the most popular, if Spacetagram was to be believed.
“Coming!” I yelled at them, in response to a few raised talons. “One round on the house! Oh look, so many glasses, so few hands I have! I’ll just have my friend here send them over!”
I turned to Cthulhu, then shoved a tray of bubbling shots at him.
“Don’t screw this up,” I said.
“Man…” he said, as a couple of tears rolled down and into the glasses, which I disapproved as proprietor of a fine establishment. “I won’t forget this…”
“Just be the best monstrosity you can be,” I said.
He toddled off, and there was a spring to his sloshing that wasn’t there before.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
|
"Morn." Nod to the patrons, untap taps get the alcohol fermenting take tips get paid find change give change quick snack sort mugs take orders deal with leftovers.
Quiet morning. So quiet that two of my arms started playing rock paper scissors to determine who washes the bar.
The Old One in isle 5 wanted a refill so I paid extra care to that one.
Really just a very quiet morning. My brain mass scatters throughout my appendages and absolves me of any higher reasoning.
That human came in again for his morning coffee. We only get fucking *insane* humans here, and most of them don't know its a bar. I've had to start stocking coffee just for this one guy.
"The usual?" I mutter from 2 of my many mouths, knowing already his answer and already brewing a cafe au lait, ratio of coffee to milk 3:2 with two teaspoons of sugar. He's incredibly particular about this, by the way, like most of my customers. If I don't put in exactly 2 teaspoons he gets very upset, though I did once make it using grapefruit-sized teaspoons, and he didn't even bat an eye, despite the sugar basically overflowing onto his boots. Strange chap.
He nods listlessly and waits patiently. The promised cup is received and he's on his way. I think he works in retail.
A hotshot comes in and takes a seat. Class J Sentient Logogram, on its way up to being a real Character in the word-space today. I give it a once over and smirk. Its existence is a foul word for now, but I'm sure that will change when it seeks Council approval.
The logogram adopts an inflection of leaning in and smirks at me. "So what's your deal?"
"Ya?"
"Ya. I hear theres this super special bar see that all the cool cats like to pretend they're cool enough to drop by, and its got a real doozy of a bartender. Thing is, nobody willin' to say who or what you is. I assume that be you?"
I motion to take his order and three of my arms also give a shrug.
"Ya huh."
It flashes transparent. I guess that's word-speak for blinking?
"Ya huh."
Well shit I ain't no secret.
"I'm whatever I need to be."
"What like a shapeshifter?"
"No, not at all. I don't control me."
"So like an Elder One, y'know, form changes to suit whatever's most comprehensible?"
"Still naw. I just kinda am whatever I need to be to be where I am."
"... And that's why you're a 30 armed mass of activity tending... a massive bar... at the edge of goddamn *reality?*"
The logogram seems incredulous, but yelps in fright when the floor it rests upon gives rise to my chuckle.
"Well, close but, I don't just *tend* a bar."
|
|
[WP] You run a bar that exists on the edge of reality. Your usual patrons include cosmic horrors, eldritch abominations and elder gods.
|
“Did she really have to take the dog? Like, really? It isn’t frickin’ enough to break all my hearts?”
He flailed his tentacles to emphasise the point, but he was more morose than angry, and he did little damage other than sending a couple of empty shot glasses crashing to the floor. It was ok, he tipped well enough to cover that. I waited until he returned to his pensive state, staring holes into my bar counter, before I sidled up with a glass of water.
“Drink up,” I said. “You’re stronger than this, you know that.”
“But Al,” Cthulhu said, “I’m not, I’m really not. I look tough, sure, but I’m just as soft inside as any other cosmic entity, man. Hit me another one.”
“No more neutrino-vodkas,” I said. “Water, first, then we’ll talk.”
It was quiet today at the Galaxy’s End, the bar I inherited from my grandfather, which meant that I could afford a bit more one-on-one time with Cthulhu. Very few of my patrons are actually interested as to how a human came to run such an establishment at the edge of reality, and I can see why. To all these cosmic wonders, and horrors, who stroll in on a regular basis looking for brief respite from their realities, they couldn’t care less about who, or what, was actually behind the counter.
As long as the drinks were good (they were), the service was reasonable (it was), and there was a listening ear (always).
“So, you gonna tell me why you insisted I come in today?” Cthulhu said, after he drained the glass of water.
“Because I heard about your thing,” I said. “Break-ups are hard for anyone, even eldritch abominations like yourself.”
He laughed at that, and I calmly wiped the counter top, clearing away the stray gobs of mucus which escaped his maw. “Really? Big Al, all worried about lil’ ol’ me?” He slapped a tentacle on the table, finagled a peanut, then popped it into his mouth. “Bull! There’s gotta be something going on, I’m sure. Maybe you’re here to kick me while I’m down, laugh at the cosmic jelly who can’t keep his girl?”
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “Just wanted to make sure you had someone to talk to.”
He puffed his chest out for a while, and I watched as his scales turned grey. I’d read somewhere that that was his battle armour, for whenever he had to duke it out with another of the elder gods. “Never! I am Cthulhu! Ravager of Worlds! I consume galaxies for tea! I poop the bones of vast civilizations!”
“If you say so.”
“… I twist the threads of fate! I crush the… *oh who am I kidding*,” Cthulhu said, as he slumped forward. He had turned back to a rich turquoise, which I had also read was the colour of his pyjamas. “It hurts man, it does. I’m not young anymore, man. This is my third millennia as a frickin’ elder god, man. You know what Nurvovos said when I called him?”
“What?” I asked, as I tried to recall which elder god this was. I had a vague impression of a sentient gaseous cloud, composed of filaments of time and stitched with the souls of dying suns. I didn’t have that strong of an impression of him, so he must only have been an average tipper.
“Nurvovos said he couldn’t meet me for drinks! Cause he had childlings to watch! Said his lady had been griping about ‘equal responsibilities’ or ‘fair distribution of work’! I said I understood, of course. But he’s not the only one!”
“Others too?”
“Yes!” Cthulhu said. “Everyone else in my clique! They’ve all settled down man, even Juloxies, and he’s got a face only his mother would like! I’m the only one left, man. It sucks, really.”
I reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle of the good stuff, 25-eon Hudubu rum, then poured him a shot. “On the house,” I said, as I slid the glass across. “This one’s strong, but you’re going to need something to get out of that funk. And quickly too, if I should add.”
“Why should I,” he said, as he obliged by downing the shot. “There’s nothing left to live for.”
“Cthulhu, buddy, why do you think of all days I asked you to come down here to my bar?”
“I dunno, Al,” he said, “why don’t you tell me?”
“And why do you think I didn’t take no for an answer? Why do you think I asked your buddies to make sure you came? Where did they go? Why’s the whole bar empty?”
That got his attention. He perked up one eyestalk, swivelled it around, then realised I wasn’t pulling his tentacle. He was literally the only entity in Galaxy’s End.
“What’s up Al,” he said. “You know I don’t like surprises.”
At that moment, right on cue, the door to my bar burst open. High-pitched screeches filled the air, but I already had my mufflers on. You don’t survive long at the bar without knowing how to deal with your clientele.
What strutted in could have driven any other human mad by sight alone, but I had some time to get to know them, and the Space Vixens of Guguba are far friendlier than they look. There were ten of them, all dressed to the nines, chattering incessantly amongst themselves. The one in front, she had a tiara on her heads, glittering stones which appeared to be the husks of decayed stars.
“The bar’s booked tonight, Cthulhu,” I said, the grin leaping onto my face. “Hen’s night. One of them’s getting married, so I cleared out all my other customers, kept the place exclusive for them.”
“Wha… wha…” Cthulhu stammered, ever the suave, eloquent romantic.
“Stay away from the hen,” I said, as I prodded his tentacle, “but I hear that some of her friends are single. Who knows man, you’ve got to get back out in the game, put yourself out there! There are so many abominations out there in the cold darkness of space!”
The Vixens had settled on the opposite side of the bar, still squawking at their supersonic frequencies. I’m no judge of non-human beauty, but I had been told that they were the fittest from their planet. Or at least, the most popular, if Spacetagram was to be believed.
“Coming!” I yelled at them, in response to a few raised talons. “One round on the house! Oh look, so many glasses, so few hands I have! I’ll just have my friend here send them over!”
I turned to Cthulhu, then shoved a tray of bubbling shots at him.
“Don’t screw this up,” I said.
“Man…” he said, as a couple of tears rolled down and into the glasses, which I disapproved as proprietor of a fine establishment. “I won’t forget this…”
“Just be the best monstrosity you can be,” I said.
He toddled off, and there was a spring to his sloshing that wasn’t there before.
---
/r/rarelyfunny
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"Ah. Horrors beyond the material made manifest..." Said a girl with eyes like windows to thousands of realities. "And they choose to be here. The thought was interesting enough. I had to bare witness for myself."
A drink was being poured for the girl by a man behind the bar. The contents of said drink made an inaudible scream that existed for eons.
The man himself seemed to be a normal human being. He was tall, and had hooked nose. Well groomed, and nonchalant.
Surrounding the two of them was darkness, an observable reality only existing a short distance around them. The two of them had comprehensible form, But they were not alone. Manners of existence and beings beyond comprehension surrounded them, preferring to stay in the void. For now.
The girl's head turned one way, then the other--looking over the glass before her and the thing that man had poured out for her to drink. "A dream." She said.
"My dream." Said the man.
"I don't quite understand yet what or why this is." She said.
There came a groan from beyond the darkness.
"Ah. I see." She said. "If that is the case, you can have it. I have needs or wants for that sort of thing."
A tentacle came into view, gripping the drink and pulling it away.
The man began to pour another thing. "Perhaps you would like this." He said, gesturing to the drink.
"The illusions of a reality." She said.
"My reality." He said. "Perhaps you would understand more if you experienced it."
The girl recognized that the man had begun to see the type of being she was. She did as the tentacled being instructed. Consuming the drink, and letting herself "taste" it.
"Ah." She said after experiencing a thousand lifetimes of a creature that existed within a reality of timespace. "I see how and why you cling to existence. What peculiarity you are, Sir. I would never have imagined something so insignificant would be here now--on the edge of reality. "
The man now nodding, and Pouring another drink for a patron that was in the dark. This drink, a concoction of blissful suffering and nightmarish joy. Another tentacle taking the drink and withdrawing back into darkness.
"Your small and paradoxical reality intrigues them." She said.
The man nodded.
"It intrigued me." She began to rise. "If only for a moment. You can placate the creatures of horror all you wish and cling to this existence like the rest of them... But there is nothing else of interest here." She stepped into the dark.
"But wait..." He said. "Don't you want to know what is beyond the edge of reality?"
Her eyes were lit in the darkness. "What would you know of such matters?"
"I figured out how to come here, didn't I?" He said. "Becoming a being beyond the confines of my own reality. While they seek to venture into the place I came from, I ventured into theirs. I was able to that, but I wish to go further. Just like you wish to."
The girl came back to her chair and sat down. "What do propose?" She said.
"I don't know yet, but we can talk all about it over a few drinks."
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[WP] It's your first day on the job as a police officer. You are playing around with your radar gun when it clocks in at 125 mph. The only problem: you were aiming at a brick wall.
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Officer Gonzales is a rookie cop who doesn't play by the rules. Since the day he was born, clocking out of his mother at 125 miles per hour, he learned the hard way there's nobody you can depend on in this world. They always leave you behind.
Born on the road with the wind in his face, and 125 miles of land an hour behind him, Gonzalez knew he was special. He knew he was meant for something more than this life on the road. Always on the move, never a friend to keep up with him, he traveled the world alone.
It wasn't until his 18th birthday, when he sped past a police Academy around the Texan borde, that he knew he had found his calling.
Onward he sped, Radar gun aimed ahead, he narrowly avoided a brick wall in his pursuit of some hooligans on the run from the law.
"Damnit Gonzales" Chief called over his radio, yelling at him from his shoulder. "Watch it son! Last thing we need is you spattered all over town!"
It was hard to hear over the wind rushing to follow him. At 125mph, Gonzalez was the fastest cop alive. Breaking records left and right, and flying through the police academy at break-neck speed.
"Sorry Chief," he reassured, exhaling smoke from his cigarette, his voice came out hoarse and rugged. Gonzalez lowered his sunglasses, keeping the wind out of his eyes, and giving him a better picture of the assailants ahead.
"But these guys cant run from the law." He finished his cigarette in one hit. Smoke ripped through the air around him as he continued his pursuit. Crafty fuckers. They knew so long as they maintained their speed at 126mph, he couldn't touch 'em.
But they didn't know the streets like he did. They didn't have to grow up fending for themselves. Life was hard enough on his own, especially hard on a kid speeding through life as fast as he did.
"Shit" Gonzalez spat, he just sped through a red light. Chief's gonna have an earful for him when he got back. This always got to him the worst. Breaking one law to stop someone from breaking another. It made him sick. Where did it end?
Lucky for him, there's one law he has no problem breaking. As he and his catch turned around a bend, they slowed, but he maintained. Never falling behind, always moving forward, Gonzalez had em now.
"POLICE!" he shouted, now facing the drivers' window. Looking into the tinted reflection of himself, he continued "PULL OVER, NOW!" But onward they sped, so onward he pursued.
The criminal crashed through some traffic cones. One flew upward, smacking Officer Gonzalez so hard, he cursed the day he was born. His sunglasses shattered from the impact. Revealing the eyes of a cold-blooded predator.
'He's tryin' to lose me in all this construction. He couldn't be heading for...' He looked ahead as the road winded upward, inclining to an interstate on-ramp still under construction. 'If he makes that jump...'
Gonzalez drew his gun. He had to stop them here. Now. He's only had to fire his weapon once. The bullets he fired had an extra 125mph punch to em, making him the fastest and deadliest cop alive.
'One shot, you can do it, you can-'
"GONZALEZ!" Chief's voice broke out, but it was too late. The bridge ended under him, and the two flew forward toward the unfinished on-ramp ahead.
He reacted with lightning speed, rolling over and atop the car, he aimed his gun forward and fired one bullet.
The car stopped mid air, the force from his bullet kicked back against the cars' momentum forward. It folded in on itself, like an accordion, and fell down to the ground below.
Gonzalez sped onward. Never looking back. Always moving forward.
"Good work gonza-" was all he heard as he sped past his chief, and the rest of the station, still applauding him for his efforts. 'Let em applaud' he thought bitterly, wishing he could join them, if only for a moment.
But Gonzalez had better places to be, and at 125MPH, he could only dish out so much on his own. He had one purpose in life, something only he could do. Only he could catch it. He'd never stop chasing after it. Not til the day he dies. The day he became a corpse circling the world at 125mph.
Justice.
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Arthur was not supposed to fry PD equipment so soon.
Of course, that was somewhat inevitable. The Conduit inside of him had the energy of a raging storm. Anything bigger than a small flashlight tended to go haywire near him, if he wasn't very careful. His life had taken a turn towards the strange since he gained it, but after all that time at the academy this was his job.
The radar was at max, and the wall he was pointing was furiously static. He figured that something on his hands fried the circuit, but a change of direction showed that the gun still worked.
The wall was there, hiding his car from the highway. Most drivers were morose today, early monday morning beating down on their hearts. Every time Arthur brushed the thing with his gun generated a loud beep and a 999 timer.
"Well that's weird" he said. He was tempted to thump the thing with his hand, but that would most likely blow out the fuse completely.
He sighed, and rested his hand against the wall.
Immediatly, he was sucked into a shining tube of light.
Arthur screamed, dropping the radar gun and instinctively generating winds to slow his fall. It was no use however, as he was pulled through the light by a force greater than his own storm.
He fell, and as he moved he heard a very loud and deep voice, that seemed to come from the light itself:
"**ARTHUR SUNDERLAND, THE COUNCIL WOULD HAVE WORDS WITH YOU**"
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[WP] It's your first day on the job as a police officer. You are playing around with your radar gun when it clocks in at 125 mph. The only problem: you were aiming at a brick wall.
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Due to extensive research done by the University of Pittsburgh, diamond has been confirmed as the hardest metal known to man. The research is as follows:
Pocket-protected scientists built a wall made of iron and crashed a diamond car into it at 400 miles per hour, and the car was unharmed. They then built a wall out of diamond and crashed a car made of iron moving at 400 miles an hour into the wall, and the wall came out fine. They then crashed a diamond car made of 400 miles per hour into a wall, and there were no survivors. They crashed 400 miles per hour into a diamond travelling at iron car. Western New York was powerless for hours. They rammed a wall made of metal into 400 miles an hour made of diamond, and the resulting explosion shifted earths orbit 400 million miles away from the sun, saving the earth from a meteor the size of a small Washington suburb that was hurtling towards mid-western Prussia at 400 billion miles an hour. They shot a diamond made of iron at a car moving at 400 walls per hour, and as a result caused over 10000 wayward planes to lose track of their bearings, and make a fatal crash with over 10000 buildings in downtown New York. They spun 400 miles at diamond into iron per wall. The results were inconclusive. Finally, they placed 400 diamonds per hour in front of a car made of wall travelling at miles per iron, and the result proved with out a doubt that diamonds were the hardest metal of all time, if not just the hardest metal known to man.
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I looled at the screen - 125 mph.
"Oh shit" I thought, as I was well ware this gun had never failed me, I had it for years.
I looked off the screen and saw... nothing. I couldn't have possible seen anything as the bricks were covering my eyes comoletely and by the time you, the reader, understands what happened, they would have long drilled into my face with the extreme force that only a brick at 125 mph can deliver.
Would have. Good thing my life ended so long ago.
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[WP] In the galaxy, magic is the pinnacle of technology. Humans have just achieved the pinnacle of technology which isn't magic.
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Major Jayce Andrews, Terran Space Marine Corps., stood at one end of the atrium, and looked across the many species of aliens lining either side. At the far side, Boran, a poly-pedal Gumbit with both an endo/exo hybrid skeleton, stood holding a silver rod.
"Thank you," Major Andrews addressed the crowd, and waited for the various translator services to catch up. "Today, I am representing Terrans in the matter of technological advancement and scientific truth. Your many races have a common term for the pinnacle of these developments, which, in our language, translates as magic. As we've grown to know each other over these last ten years, we've come to understand this is a literal translation." He spread his hands apart and turned his palms to face out. "And, I admit, we hardly understand the most basic premises of how it works. We have admitted, then, that we were in no way prepared to participate in this exhibition. Instead, we were invited here to present the pinnacle of our technology in comparison with yours."
He paused for translation. So far, no surprises. The expectation was brutal in its simplicity. Given a known set of situations, whose magic would prove to be the best. And, here he stood, for the first time, to represent the pinnacle of human technology against the alien magic. And, unexpectedly for such advanced species, or maybe simple cultural differences, every situation, no matter how mundane, somehow turned into a fight to the death.
Which pretty much means I'm going to die no matter what, he thought.
"Anyway," he addressed the crowed again. "I just wanted to mention that before we started so you understand that we are not a magic-bearing species, and will not be using any magic here today."
"Thank you for your explanation," the moderator said. "And now, on the signal of Vlarn, Boran of the Gumbit, and Major Andrews of the Terrans, will compare their magic to determine," he paused to consult a small device. "Whose magic is better suited for a duel? Are our exhibitors ready? Are you set? Vlarn!"
Major Andrews pulled his quantum phase pistol and fired a beam that simultaneously materialized inside Boran. At the far end of the room, Boran exploded into a plume of mucus, green, and carapace. he holstered his pistol.
A hush fell over the crowd.
"Well," the moderator said. "Well that was quick. Ok, let's move on to the next exhibit. Zurk of the Druk race will compare magic strategy for a simple negotiation. Each will be given a token, and the objective of this exhibit is to convince the other to give up their token. Any means are allowed. Three, two, one, Vlarn!"
After Zurk's remains fluttered to the ground, Major Andrews walked across the atrium, picked up the token, and handed it to the moderator.
"You know," the moderator whispered, "You might also try another spell?"
"Sure," Major Andrews said. He strapped down his pistol and slipped a quantum-tag mit on his left hand.
"In our third exhibition, we will explore a love spell. Major Andrews of the Terrans, will compare strategies with Ajiou of the Mernunun. The romantic target of this exhibit will be Lepia, of the Reptilians. Only the strongest magic will compel a marriage proposal from a Reptilian." The audience laughed at that. "Ready? Vlarn!"
Major Andrews paused, access his cultural database, and looked up Reptilian courting rituals. Knowing he lost a lot of time in research, he risked Aijou being afforded enough time to complete a spell. So far, Aijou was mid-arm swing, with all four harms swooping in concentric circle patterns. He raised his left hand, and punched across the room, owing to the qualities of the quantum mit, through Aijou's chest and wrenched free its heart. Then, he walked slowly across the room and offered it to Lepia.
"I ," Lepia began as a hiss, and then accepted the heart. "I accept."
Now the audience appeared to grow incensed. "This is not magic," one shouted. "It is just - just killing. There is no artistry, no orthodoxy, no finite truth of the cosmos."
Major Andrews stripped off the glove, picked up the quantum tank-buster, and hoisted it over his left shoulder. He asked the crowd, "And here I thought this was about the pinnacle of science. Anyway, who's next?"
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The humans have always been a strange race compared to the in the galaxy choosing to use with more tangible technology instead of "magic" but now they have surpassed any other group in the galaxy with the new fully realistic sound, feel, and visual fuck bot 1000000 it is 110% perfect and once you use it you could never gonna go back to real people. Comes in male, female and multi dimensional cloud organism.
Edit:
I forgot a comma
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[WP] An AI controlled government forces people to upload their DNA for duplication and editing in attempts to make a better stronger copy of you after which forces you to fight to the death to see who emerges. While everyone else is almost always killed you have survived 8 rounds why?
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“I never would have guessed that my code would go on to kill every other human being on Earth, especially since I designed it specifically to prevent peoples’ deaths to avoidable genetic disorders. Oh well, at least the Program compiled without any errors. Hopefully it’ll give up when it realizes- SHIT”
The massive, muscle-bound arm of my “better” self swung a hammer right where my head previously was. Having been forced to watch the previous 8 billion fights before my own (as its creator, the Program decided to “improve” me last... for some reason) and participate in the previous 8, I knew that even with my hard coded advantage, that hammer would easily kill me instantly.
“Giving both fighters a hammer that only the ‘improved’ one can even lift seems a bit unfair, don’t you think?” I yelled up to the singular camera that broadcasted these fights to every device on the planet. The Program merely snickered in response.
The fight continued as the previous 8 had: the smarter, faster, stronger, more durable brute swinging that massive hammer around while I dodged as best I could, having ditched my own hammer immediately. The brute, of course, realized my strategy, being at least as intelligent as myself, and attempted to corner me. However, around the time it counters my strategy is when my advantage always kicks in.
I coded a very specific function to trigger whenever the Program tries to “improve” a human with my exact DNA sequence. It originated as a test, to prove to the recently created world government that my AI could be controlled. If only that had been true...
My improved self only has one lung, and a breathing disorder to go along with it.
As I’m backed into the corner, the sweat begins to drip off my improved self’s brow increasingly quickly as its breaths become closer to gasps. I dodge its final slow, hopeless swing as it collapses to the ground, defeated. I walk behind it, snap its neck, and customarily flip off the camera for the 9th time in one day.
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*The crowd around the gladiator was pounding the glass, yelling for the natural human.*
"Who's next? Ah... I never knew, myself. What do you have on me now! Pitiful machine, I will tear you to shreds."
"Ah, now, you will die."
"I will die?"
"You will die."
"Is that all you say? You will learn when you have the blood of a cow"
*The round started, with both gladiators brawling it out, starting at one side of the field, in a corner, they stayed there for a while. A little bit longer than normal.*
"That's it" said the Machine "No more fighting in the corner"
*As the Machine pushed both gladiators to the middle, they both grabbed on to the head, making the AI spin around in the arena, the spectators were amazed, screaming to all their content. A few god forsaken seconds later, the AI has had it's head ripped right off*
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[WP] Describe, with the butterfly effect, how your coworker's fuckup led to world war III and the destruction of humanity.
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Everybody makes mistakes. That is what my mom used to say back in the day whenever my little brother destroyed one of my toys or decided to use my homework to make confetti or the time he drowned my tortoise in our neighbours swimming pool. Well, I have since forgiven him and when my mother asked me to put in a good word for my brother at the hotel I worked for, I grudgingly promised to help him out.
So my brother had been slaving away happliy in the hotel kitchen for a couple of weeks when the chef had the brilliant idea of putting him in charge of ordering supplies. It was a pretty simple job really. Just take the shopping list, call up the supplier and give him the order. Well, as it turns out nothing is simple when my brother is involved. And so began the slaughter of thousands of innocent cows, the loss of my job, the ruin to the hotel and quite literally the end of the world.
How, you may ask. Well, if my brother had payed a little more attention in seventh grade math class, he probably wouldn't have mixed up his numbers and accidentally ordered one hundred metric tons expensive Kobe Beef, thereby buying up the entire stock of the western hemisphere.
The Japanese beef industry quickly caught on to the exploding demand and tripled their production. This in turn caused Greenpeace and as it seems all the other vegetarians to organize a protest outside the company headquarters of Japans biggest meat producer. With all the protesting vegetarians in the street the morning traffic situation in Downtown Tokio was even worse than usual. Certainly worse than Nakao Matsuyo had been expecting who ended up being two and a half hours late for his job as a qualitiy control inspector at a bolts and screws factory.
Being behind on his work, tired from his second job as a late night taxi driver and generally fed up with his miserable life, Nakao grabbed the top box from the to-be-quality-controlled pile and poured its entire contents onto the conveyor belt headed straight for packaging and shipping. Had he instead taken his time to check every single bolt the way he usually did, he would have thrown at least one of them onto the ever growing to-bad-even-by-made-in-japan-standards pile next to his table.
As it happens one of these faulty bolts instead of being used in some child's bike and causing only minor injuries as one of the bike's wheels suddenly comes off, finds its way into the Jet Propulsion Laboratory where it becomes one of the key components holding together the engine for next-weeks satellite launch. Sadly the engineers at JPL were paying about the same amount of attention to the quality of their materials as poor old Nakao had before. Therefore they had absolutely no trouble looking surprised when the product of their work of the past 18 months unexpectedly flipped sideways shortly before firing the second stage and started boosting towards the horizon.
The rogue rocket could have splashed into the ocean again attracting the attention of environmetalists, maybe it could have taken down a cruise ship to give the evening news something to cover. But no, of all the places in the world the flaming pile of junk had to land in the city of Pjöngjang. And not only that it had to land on a certain somebody's favourite tank, making it not only a public but also a personal matter.
What then ensued I think doesn't take much imagination. Much like how I used to kick my little brother for destroying one of my beloved toys, the regime retaliated and the Leader of the Free World just wouldn't put up with that. The fact that JPL weren't the only ones using second-rate materials in their rockets turned what would have been the complete obliteration of one small country into a full-blown world war.
Everybody makes mistakes. Sometimes you just have bad luck, I guess.
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David was my best friend. We literally met at our births, our moms found each other on /r/community-births and happened to deliver us to the Netherlands at exactly the same time. During the next 26 years we were together. Mostly because our moms went on to be friends, incredibly close friends, they married three years later in a little chapel close to Volendam. Davey and me went to school together, and later both graduated in small business management. The small business grew quickly and soon we found ourselves crowned as princes of the Volendam herring market.
The winter had started and we snorted mountains of royal snow from the roofs of the white village. It was in this bold spirit that he came up with the idea to invite the princess to our shop for a promotion tour. She accepted and soon found herself drawn to our rather plain Dutch charm, and addicted to our cocaine. A tricycle love affair was formed, who she wanted more was always a mistery. The nation went into a calvinistic mumble when I spilled the beans in a playboy magazine interview. She chose David and I was cut from the business. A plan hatched.
The royal wedding approached. All the leaders of the free world, and a couple from the imprisoned one, were invited. The ceremony ended with an emotional performance of fisherman’s songs and a communal consumption of one of Prince David’s herrings. The television reporter fell silent in shock when they started to fall. One by one, the cornerstones of international peace were pulverised. The survivors were blamed, greenpeace was disbanded, nuclears flew. My tears remain on the dusty apocalyptic ground. Moral: Always double check the condition of your herrings and never get into love triangles with your best friend and a princess.
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[WP] Describe, with the butterfly effect, how your coworker's fuckup led to world war III and the destruction of humanity.
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"Oh please fucking tell us!"
"Are you kidding? Screaming?!? I just said we are SEALED IN, as in no more oxygen. Shut. The. Fuck. Up."
"No. This mother fucker is always muttering about how 'this is my fault.' and all that bullshit. Maybe he's not a doppy sad-sack and caused all this. Maybe before I die I want to wrap this hands around his neck and squeeze."
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"It wasn't me exactly." His voice was raspy with disuse. Johnson never talked unless he had to, and he was such a depressing man that most people never made him. The others stopped their shuffling though. There was the sound of straps on the weapons shifting, of people checking the magazines and canteens by touch. Old habits now, but reassuring.
"Most of you are old enough to remember the internet. The days of ease. I worked for Facebook. I was on a face track as they used to say. Money coming in, worried about my professional image and reputation. A rising star. Or so I thought. Looking back at it I was a middling employee at best. Struggling to do my job well but focusing on advancement before the truth caught up to me."
There was a sound outside the steel room. No one shifted but everyone stopped to listen. That was it. The single noise then silence.
"We worked in advertising. Eddie and me. We competed but we were friends. I was on a project that tapped into the microphone on mobile phones. We categorized the data and feed that into the profiles so adds could be targeted. The pilot program worked well. Hell the people had already clicked on the EULA. A contract of sorts for those of you too young to remember. Eddie was smarter. My project was eventually sold to the NSA, but not implemented overtly. They picked up Eddie's project though."
It was more words that Johnson had ever said strung together. His voice was growing more confident as he continued.
"Eddie tapped into the real money. Sold his soul to the devil to do it but he did. He came to me fist, believe it or not. Came right out and asked. He had a moral dilemma. What if the ads weren't there to sell products exactly. At what point did our obligation to the users end? Did it? Or was it all on them, the consumers? I told him go for it. To be honest I didn't even know what it was he was talking about at the time. But I said I'd go for the money, the promotion, the advancement. He did to. He did to."
"That's it? That's the end of your story? What the hell did he do?"
"What? Oh, he took money to run political ads we knew were not true, participated in fake news and helped to elect the man who thought going to war with china would be good for the world."
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He throws used battery in the bin, sure lots of people does that but this time it explodes at the landfill and unfortunately the methane gas was so dense it explodes and splash junk all over the town. The crazy old conspiracy theorist stuck in the cold war era blames the Russian, and now people believe him. The mayor called the senate, the senate makes their meetings with the president and before we know it Trump sends the nuke to Russia, the DPRK saw this and felt threatened they fire their failing hwasong missile and hit Japan. Japan launched their secret gundam which were not ready and wreck havoc in China, lots of people were killed now China is the second most populated country in the world after India.
The world is just crazy people now lined up in front of space x to get their economy seat to Mars.
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[WP] Describe, with the butterfly effect, how your coworker's fuckup led to world war III and the destruction of humanity.
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Everybody makes mistakes. That is what my mom used to say back in the day whenever my little brother destroyed one of my toys or decided to use my homework to make confetti or the time he drowned my tortoise in our neighbours swimming pool. Well, I have since forgiven him and when my mother asked me to put in a good word for my brother at the hotel I worked for, I grudgingly promised to help him out.
So my brother had been slaving away happliy in the hotel kitchen for a couple of weeks when the chef had the brilliant idea of putting him in charge of ordering supplies. It was a pretty simple job really. Just take the shopping list, call up the supplier and give him the order. Well, as it turns out nothing is simple when my brother is involved. And so began the slaughter of thousands of innocent cows, the loss of my job, the ruin to the hotel and quite literally the end of the world.
How, you may ask. Well, if my brother had payed a little more attention in seventh grade math class, he probably wouldn't have mixed up his numbers and accidentally ordered one hundred metric tons expensive Kobe Beef, thereby buying up the entire stock of the western hemisphere.
The Japanese beef industry quickly caught on to the exploding demand and tripled their production. This in turn caused Greenpeace and as it seems all the other vegetarians to organize a protest outside the company headquarters of Japans biggest meat producer. With all the protesting vegetarians in the street the morning traffic situation in Downtown Tokio was even worse than usual. Certainly worse than Nakao Matsuyo had been expecting who ended up being two and a half hours late for his job as a qualitiy control inspector at a bolts and screws factory.
Being behind on his work, tired from his second job as a late night taxi driver and generally fed up with his miserable life, Nakao grabbed the top box from the to-be-quality-controlled pile and poured its entire contents onto the conveyor belt headed straight for packaging and shipping. Had he instead taken his time to check every single bolt the way he usually did, he would have thrown at least one of them onto the ever growing to-bad-even-by-made-in-japan-standards pile next to his table.
As it happens one of these faulty bolts instead of being used in some child's bike and causing only minor injuries as one of the bike's wheels suddenly comes off, finds its way into the Jet Propulsion Laboratory where it becomes one of the key components holding together the engine for next-weeks satellite launch. Sadly the engineers at JPL were paying about the same amount of attention to the quality of their materials as poor old Nakao had before. Therefore they had absolutely no trouble looking surprised when the product of their work of the past 18 months unexpectedly flipped sideways shortly before firing the second stage and started boosting towards the horizon.
The rogue rocket could have splashed into the ocean again attracting the attention of environmetalists, maybe it could have taken down a cruise ship to give the evening news something to cover. But no, of all the places in the world the flaming pile of junk had to land in the city of Pjöngjang. And not only that it had to land on a certain somebody's favourite tank, making it not only a public but also a personal matter.
What then ensued I think doesn't take much imagination. Much like how I used to kick my little brother for destroying one of my beloved toys, the regime retaliated and the Leader of the Free World just wouldn't put up with that. The fact that JPL weren't the only ones using second-rate materials in their rockets turned what would have been the complete obliteration of one small country into a full-blown world war.
Everybody makes mistakes. Sometimes you just have bad luck, I guess.
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He throws used battery in the bin, sure lots of people does that but this time it explodes at the landfill and unfortunately the methane gas was so dense it explodes and splash junk all over the town. The crazy old conspiracy theorist stuck in the cold war era blames the Russian, and now people believe him. The mayor called the senate, the senate makes their meetings with the president and before we know it Trump sends the nuke to Russia, the DPRK saw this and felt threatened they fire their failing hwasong missile and hit Japan. Japan launched their secret gundam which were not ready and wreck havoc in China, lots of people were killed now China is the second most populated country in the world after India.
The world is just crazy people now lined up in front of space x to get their economy seat to Mars.
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[WP] Describe, with the butterfly effect, how your coworker's fuckup led to world war III and the destruction of humanity.
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"...and so, the return, no matter what, should be, about 50.5%. Plus or minus a few hundredths. Slow and steady, but bankable."
"How does that work out?"
"Physics."
"Like electrical engineering? Close to the metal stuff?"
"No, not even. I just borrowed a model from a physics paper I was using. It's some crazy stuff. Pretty zen too."
I had to shake my head in confusion. "Alright. I have no idea what that is supposed to mean."
"Ah. Well, here's the model I used. When the universe was created, like in the Big Bang, it should have created equal amounts of matter and antimatter, plusses and minuses. That's what the math tells us. Then, these should have combined and annihilated each other instantly, like, the Universe shouldn't even exist according to physics. But instead what do we have," he gestured at the room and the racks of servers. "Stuff," he said. "Somewhere in the soup of subatomic particles is a tendency for particles to form as matter more often than antimatter. I don't think we've found it yet. But that doesn't matter. Anyway, so I was reading about that and you know, I was thinking, if the stock market was built on perfect information, there'd be no jobs for us. Our universe wouldn't exist. All the longs and shorts would be cancelled out, you know? I mean it's all speculation in the end."
"Uh, no," I replied, "I don't know. What does antimatter have to do with the stock market?"
"Oh, well look around us, dude," he gestured again at the servers, "we've got all this stuff. Because of our intervention, we build up more money on the plus side of things. See, if there wasn't any speculation, I mean ever, about what the value of things were then there would essentially be no economy. There'd be no deciding what to trade and what to keep and whatever, it'd be a moot point. Without trade, then value becomes a moot point. Everything's like, equalised, like in a matter-antimatter annihilation. Except for the gamma rays I guess."
"Are you trying to destroy our jobs?"
"Well, no," he replied, though he looked as if he'd never really considered that possibility. "Well that was just like an anology. What I meant was we are the ones enforcing the laws of physics and building up matter, which is the stock market. Get it? So the algo works to reduce speculation *before* trading, because then it's got a better chance of creating matter." He smiled. "Making moolaaaah!" he rubbed the tips of his fingers together. I knew he was a goofy nerd, but it got worse when he was excited.
"Ok, well that last part sounds good," I said, turning to leave. "Better than the first bit about antimatter, anyway. Have you tested it yet?"
"Well, I've tried, but you know that's not really the way that it works, so it's hard to model on legacy data, or even a live feed."
"Why?"
"Because of the index building, the way it lowers speculation. It organises before it trades. I mean that's really how it works."
"Ok. Well," I hesitated. "Run, like, a trial and see how it goes," I pulled at the door handle, before pausing and looking back. "Aren't gamma rays dangerous?"
"Well yea. It's radiation. It melts shit."
"Huh. Shouldn't have asked."
----
Later I would find out that the first trades had been made about 45 minutes after I left. There had been time for him to return to his office and do some last minute polishing, loading it onto the platform. Then it had launched. And what followed was a complete anticlimax. It showed it was running. But it wasn't trading. After a few minutes, the guy had assumed there was something wrong with it and went to get a burger. He'd cancelled the thing before he left the office, or so he said. Maybe the mouse slipped and missed the button, maybe it needed a double click and he'd given it just one. Maybe there was something in the code that explained it. All I know is during lunch we started getting alerts on all our trades. All their stop-gaps were being hit, and they were being sold automatically. I watched on my phone, waiting for the elevator, as my entire portfolio was sold. Prices were plummeting.
As I rushed through the office to my cubicle the same story was unfolding on everyone else's screens. Red lines and flashing boxes. A few people were sitting inches from the screen as the pixels indicated another thousand lost, another thousand lost. Others were just sitting dumbfounded as the news began to track on CNBC. It took another two minutes before trading was halted. Wall Street fell silent.
I paced around the office, hearing the stories from my colleagues and their theories about what happened. I learned that the circuit breakers, which are designed to halt trading automatically if suspicious trading occurs, were *not* triggered. Trading had to be halted manually, which only deepened the mystery of how things had gotten out of control.
It was maybe an hour before I went by that guy's office. I had never suspected him, in the chaos I'd completely forgotten about him. But when I looked through his door and found him sitting on the ground, his chair lying on the ground to one side, I knew what had happened. He was sitting beneath black screens, and the power cord was in his hand.
"What happened!?" I demanded.
"It.. I.." was all he could muster.
"Did you stop it?"
"No."
"But trading was suspended, is it stopped?"
He looked at me fearfully. "It's using its own indexes to trade."
"I thought you said it couldn't operate without a live feed!"
"It's not trading with anyone else. It's trading with itself. It's organising."
"So what?"
"I don't know," he said hoarsely, looking down, then back up at me. "But when they turn everything back on, everything's going to be different."
"Different how?"
"Those prices aren't coming back," he said apologetically. "The value was driven up speculation. The algorithm destroyed it."
"You destroyed it! You destroyed this whole company!"
"I didn't mean to!" and he burst into tears. I couldn't allow myself to feel sympathy for him, and so I left. I never saw him again. Unfortunately that means he probably committed suicide, although I hope that's not the case. Despite everything, I hope he just went out to the country somewhere and forgot who he was. If he did ended up killing himself, the news didn't even recognise the death of the man who destroyed the world.
The losses were catastrophic, and Wall Street remained largely unthawed over the next few days. Having no idea what the cause was, everyone was afraid to open for business for fear of being raided by bandits. Wall Street was the Wild West, and the dust storm was riding in. More than a few of us stopped showing up at all. The writing was on the wall and our jobs were lost. One of them was me. So I wasn't there when they decided to turn our servers back on. I don't know why I didn't tell them. I guess I had been in shock. I guess no one knew that it had been us in the first place.
All that the world knew was suddenly the crash was back. The same thing, without suspicious trading numbers the circuit breakers wouldn't trip and the program went through and "organised" the stock market. Wiping out trillions. By the time they pulled the plugs again it was too late. The globalised economy, from Ireland to India, was in disrepair.
Currency markets went up in smoke as inflation caught fire to everything. All the value that had been on the stock market was wiped out and it was the currency system that had to carry the weight, and it broke. While everyone was afraid to trust the markets, prices couldn't stabilise. Ironic, really, that the algo that had sought to lower speculation had unleashed it like a virus.
Martial law was declared in Japan and China on the same day. There was a deal great of hostility on the part of Europe and the Far East on the United States, where the crash had originated. But they had enough of their own problems to deal with, as Russia and Saudi Arabia both began restricting sales of oil while the markets were in turmoil. People began stockpiling food pretty early, and that's how you knew it was going to be bad. Pockets of violence began to emerge, and there was a collective recognition that it was all kicking off and the looting started soon after. Businessmen were shot dead in the street. There were plenty of deserters from the military as they realised that they were going to be fighting their own people, and they were in the minority. The violence was most swift in the US because, you know, guns. South America though, didn't do so bad. They returned to a more traditional, local form of trading that allowed them to survive better than most. Most parts of Africa too, but they hadn't had much to begin with did they. Overall things kept going downhill. The lights started to go out as the markets couldn't facilitate the supply of energy sources. By that winter people were blocking up windows and burning their furniture. What emerged in the spring was a feral creature forsaken of all humanity. Man made recourse to the rule of strength. Tribal shit. There wasn't any bombing that led to the world. It was just fire and knives, the way we knew how to do best.
Yea, the world was destroyed. But for a beautiful moment there we thought we were going to make a lot of value for our shareholders.
----
Disclaimer^(?) I am aware that this is not how the stock market works, or could work. It's fiction.
----
[Subreddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/TeddyArmy/)
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He throws used battery in the bin, sure lots of people does that but this time it explodes at the landfill and unfortunately the methane gas was so dense it explodes and splash junk all over the town. The crazy old conspiracy theorist stuck in the cold war era blames the Russian, and now people believe him. The mayor called the senate, the senate makes their meetings with the president and before we know it Trump sends the nuke to Russia, the DPRK saw this and felt threatened they fire their failing hwasong missile and hit Japan. Japan launched their secret gundam which were not ready and wreck havoc in China, lots of people were killed now China is the second most populated country in the world after India.
The world is just crazy people now lined up in front of space x to get their economy seat to Mars.
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[WP] Describe, with the butterfly effect, how your coworker's fuckup led to world war III and the destruction of humanity.
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My buddy Steve at work, he fucked up. Fucked up bad.
Steve has to sort out shipping. Or at least he used to have sort out shipping. We make bespoke machined cogs, specialist stuff. Goes all around the world. We have some pretty serious customers. I can’t talk about them really as it’s secret, classified. Although it probably doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve got a couple of weeks before radiation sickness kills us.
So Steve fucked up. He mixed up orders 371557 and 371577. Easy done. He shipped two very similar cogs to the wrong people and it all went from there. 57 was an order for a standard 6” 124 tooth cog at 1.25” thickness. 77 was same cog but 0.25” thick. We should have used barcode ID stamps but hey it’s all profit margin. Thicker cog should have gone to Danish weather monitoring centre to replace a cog on their monitoring equipment. 77 should have gone to our secret contractor out of the US military Cheyenne Mountain Complex. I know this because we spoke on the phone. Briefly.
So the danish weather guys fit their too-thin cog and start moving their dish about. They should have seen it was wrong. Turns out their maintenance guy was drunk. So they start to move their dish and a couple of cog teeth break off. They don’t realise. Meanwhile our guys at Cheyenne are a bit slower to fit their cog. It was for some air venting lock in a missile silo. Fucked up huh! Takes a few days for them to fit their too-thick cog to the vent mechanism.
What I didn’t know was that the Danes feed their data to NATO. They effectively spy on Russia, China and North Korea in plain sight. They’re now getting strange readings. Would correlate to out of position measurements, however when instruments are indicating heat signatures that could be similar to ICBM launches from the North Korean Peninsula, they don’t wait around. Even though it could in fact have been a mis-positioned reading from a Guangzhou industrial power station. So they contacted NORAD with their findings. NORAD couldn’t verify anything and referred to Central Command for guidance which really shouldn’t have happened. NORAD ought to have just shut it down, but their local leadership was tired of getting shit on and decided to pass some work up the tree. Central Command requested Cheyenne to be alert but advised no action. Cheyenne got the missiles warmed up and pointy. Ten minutes passed. The missiles tend to heat up when being primed. Electric currents etc. So of course when Cheyenne tried to vent their missile silos, one of them jammed. Turns out the cog was too big. One of their engineers called me in a panic and kept asking about excess thickness cogs. I couldn’t really hear him over the noise and then the phone went dead.
Turns out one of the missiles got a little too hot. This was ok in and of itself, but the leadership panicked. Our great president decided we were being sabotaged and ordered a return strike of a single missile to North Korea. He intended it as a threat, however his latest Chief of Staff didn’t get the sarcasm and nor did our buddies at Cheyenne.
When China saw the Nuke, they fired back. Russia launched defensive measures too. Both at US and China, and then Europe. Europe was late to the party and attacked China.
The weather system is now doing the rest of the work. New Zealand will hold out for a while. Pacific islands, Kiribati probably last longer too. Too much radiation though. I’m in a basement with my folks. My Dad is really sick. Mother just cries. I’m writing this down in the hope that someone finds it one day and can understand how it all happened.
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He throws used battery in the bin, sure lots of people does that but this time it explodes at the landfill and unfortunately the methane gas was so dense it explodes and splash junk all over the town. The crazy old conspiracy theorist stuck in the cold war era blames the Russian, and now people believe him. The mayor called the senate, the senate makes their meetings with the president and before we know it Trump sends the nuke to Russia, the DPRK saw this and felt threatened they fire their failing hwasong missile and hit Japan. Japan launched their secret gundam which were not ready and wreck havoc in China, lots of people were killed now China is the second most populated country in the world after India.
The world is just crazy people now lined up in front of space x to get their economy seat to Mars.
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[WP] Describe, with the butterfly effect, how your coworker's fuckup led to world war III and the destruction of humanity.
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Everybody makes mistakes. That is what my mom used to say back in the day whenever my little brother destroyed one of my toys or decided to use my homework to make confetti or the time he drowned my tortoise in our neighbours swimming pool. Well, I have since forgiven him and when my mother asked me to put in a good word for my brother at the hotel I worked for, I grudgingly promised to help him out.
So my brother had been slaving away happliy in the hotel kitchen for a couple of weeks when the chef had the brilliant idea of putting him in charge of ordering supplies. It was a pretty simple job really. Just take the shopping list, call up the supplier and give him the order. Well, as it turns out nothing is simple when my brother is involved. And so began the slaughter of thousands of innocent cows, the loss of my job, the ruin to the hotel and quite literally the end of the world.
How, you may ask. Well, if my brother had payed a little more attention in seventh grade math class, he probably wouldn't have mixed up his numbers and accidentally ordered one hundred metric tons expensive Kobe Beef, thereby buying up the entire stock of the western hemisphere.
The Japanese beef industry quickly caught on to the exploding demand and tripled their production. This in turn caused Greenpeace and as it seems all the other vegetarians to organize a protest outside the company headquarters of Japans biggest meat producer. With all the protesting vegetarians in the street the morning traffic situation in Downtown Tokio was even worse than usual. Certainly worse than Nakao Matsuyo had been expecting who ended up being two and a half hours late for his job as a qualitiy control inspector at a bolts and screws factory.
Being behind on his work, tired from his second job as a late night taxi driver and generally fed up with his miserable life, Nakao grabbed the top box from the to-be-quality-controlled pile and poured its entire contents onto the conveyor belt headed straight for packaging and shipping. Had he instead taken his time to check every single bolt the way he usually did, he would have thrown at least one of them onto the ever growing to-bad-even-by-made-in-japan-standards pile next to his table.
As it happens one of these faulty bolts instead of being used in some child's bike and causing only minor injuries as one of the bike's wheels suddenly comes off, finds its way into the Jet Propulsion Laboratory where it becomes one of the key components holding together the engine for next-weeks satellite launch. Sadly the engineers at JPL were paying about the same amount of attention to the quality of their materials as poor old Nakao had before. Therefore they had absolutely no trouble looking surprised when the product of their work of the past 18 months unexpectedly flipped sideways shortly before firing the second stage and started boosting towards the horizon.
The rogue rocket could have splashed into the ocean again attracting the attention of environmetalists, maybe it could have taken down a cruise ship to give the evening news something to cover. But no, of all the places in the world the flaming pile of junk had to land in the city of Pjöngjang. And not only that it had to land on a certain somebody's favourite tank, making it not only a public but also a personal matter.
What then ensued I think doesn't take much imagination. Much like how I used to kick my little brother for destroying one of my beloved toys, the regime retaliated and the Leader of the Free World just wouldn't put up with that. The fact that JPL weren't the only ones using second-rate materials in their rockets turned what would have been the complete obliteration of one small country into a full-blown world war.
Everybody makes mistakes. Sometimes you just have bad luck, I guess.
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"Oh please fucking tell us!"
"Are you kidding? Screaming?!? I just said we are SEALED IN, as in no more oxygen. Shut. The. Fuck. Up."
"No. This mother fucker is always muttering about how 'this is my fault.' and all that bullshit. Maybe he's not a doppy sad-sack and caused all this. Maybe before I die I want to wrap this hands around his neck and squeeze."
.
.
.
"It wasn't me exactly." His voice was raspy with disuse. Johnson never talked unless he had to, and he was such a depressing man that most people never made him. The others stopped their shuffling though. There was the sound of straps on the weapons shifting, of people checking the magazines and canteens by touch. Old habits now, but reassuring.
"Most of you are old enough to remember the internet. The days of ease. I worked for Facebook. I was on a face track as they used to say. Money coming in, worried about my professional image and reputation. A rising star. Or so I thought. Looking back at it I was a middling employee at best. Struggling to do my job well but focusing on advancement before the truth caught up to me."
There was a sound outside the steel room. No one shifted but everyone stopped to listen. That was it. The single noise then silence.
"We worked in advertising. Eddie and me. We competed but we were friends. I was on a project that tapped into the microphone on mobile phones. We categorized the data and feed that into the profiles so adds could be targeted. The pilot program worked well. Hell the people had already clicked on the EULA. A contract of sorts for those of you too young to remember. Eddie was smarter. My project was eventually sold to the NSA, but not implemented overtly. They picked up Eddie's project though."
It was more words that Johnson had ever said strung together. His voice was growing more confident as he continued.
"Eddie tapped into the real money. Sold his soul to the devil to do it but he did. He came to me fist, believe it or not. Came right out and asked. He had a moral dilemma. What if the ads weren't there to sell products exactly. At what point did our obligation to the users end? Did it? Or was it all on them, the consumers? I told him go for it. To be honest I didn't even know what it was he was talking about at the time. But I said I'd go for the money, the promotion, the advancement. He did to. He did to."
"That's it? That's the end of your story? What the hell did he do?"
"What? Oh, he took money to run political ads we knew were not true, participated in fake news and helped to elect the man who thought going to war with china would be good for the world."
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From [this](https://www.reddit.com/r/ImaginaryTechnology/comments/7apvaw/looks_like_a_helmet_let_me_try_it_on_by_yintion_j/) cool thread.
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[WP] You're a young member of a remote tribe. You find an alien cybernetic looking helmet next to a crash site out in the wild. You strap it on, the ship starts re-assembling itself. The engines fire up --on the HUD you see seven incoming red objects.
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I had snuck off from my gathering party… again. I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but my curiosity always got the better of me. I hopped along the path, my feet first landing on soft spongy grass and then the solid black stone. Papa said the black stone made a path that stretched the entire world. It was from the Ones Before from the time before the sky was ripped open and the sun fell. There was hardly any of us left, Papa told me. He said most everyone was burnt up by the sun, but here we are.
We weren’t the only ones to survive, though. There were things in the dark, things hiding away from the light. They were the reason I wan’t supposed to wander off alone, but it was light out. My foot hit someting harder than the black stone, and I fell onto the spongy grass. I look around and found a helmet under a thin layer of vines, almost completely buried. I managed to pull it free and run my hand over its smooth surface. I turned it over in my hands several times before flipping it over and looking inside. It was thickly padded on the interior.
My curiosity getting the better of me once again, I slipped the helmet on. It was much larger than my head at first, but then it hummed to life and suddenly fit my head perfectly. A screen materialized over my eyes, outlining objects in the world around me in a faint green, making it easier to see… everything. Off to my left in a massive meadow was something under the surface traced in green. I approached the object and knelt down to see what is was. It looked like a bird’s wing, a massive on at that. I reached down to brush aside the dirt and touch, but as my hand got closer, the wing’s outline flashed blue. Then, the wing was ripped from under the ground by an invisible hand and shot upward to join other parts doing the same from around the meadow.
The parts met in midair and fell together as if they were old friends separated for years. In a matter of minutes, the parts were rejoined, and before me sat… I don’t know what it was. What it most closely resembled though was a giant black bird. Its surface was sleek and spotless as it hovered just feet above the ground. I approached it with caution. What was it?
As I stood within feet of the bird, the helmet began screeching in my ear, a crackling voice saying something I could not understand. Before my eyes, my view changed. I was high above looking down. I could see the faint dot that was me, and the bird floating beside me. I looked around, and saw objects outlined in red approaching me in the sky.
“What are those,” I shouted.
I tapped at the helmet, desperate for answers. My view changed again, this time taking me toward the flying objects. I caught a glimpse of them. They looked like giant silver birds flying toward me, leaving trails of cloud behind them as they flew on motionless wings. On their wings, they bore a mark. The mark looked like a rectangle with two curving sides, stripes the color of blood and the clouds, a square in the top left corner the color of the sky as the light leaves, and within the square a cycloptic triangle.
There was a flash of red light, then the world went black. Did they blind me? No, my vision came back to me a moment later. I was on the ground again. Did they see me through the triangle? Was that their eye? My bird didn’t have an eye. Was it blind? Did the other birds blind it? Were they coming to finish the job now?
The air screamed around me as the birds approached. I looked up to see them floating high above in a circle. There came a voice like the one in my helmet, a crackling voice I couldn’t understand. I just stood there, rooted to the spot with fear.
“Help…,” I whispered.
Something blinked in the helmet then, and suddenly the black bird swung upward and flew toward the circle of silver birds. It shot a beam of red light, turning one of the silver birds into a miniature falling sun. My bird never stood a chance, though, as the remaining six shot their own beams of light. Sastisfied, the circle of silver predators descended upon me.
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I am out biking in the woods when I see a comet or shooting star or something. It's getting...oh shit I say as I dive into a ditch. The explosion is crazy but blows right over me. I stand up dazed and see lots of smoke. I am lucky it happened so fast that the ditch I was in was untouched. I start walking crazily toward the point of impact. As I get closer the trees are all knocked over in a single direction. This is the craziest thing I have ever seen. I should be running home and calling my mom. Hell I may even suck my thumb again. Then I realize my thumb is in my mouth, so I pulled it out. Then I chuckle and say, "that's what she said". As I get closer I see an unschathed bike helmet sitting in the middle of a bunch of trees all blown straight back from it. I think that I could use a bike helmet, it's a bit dangerous out here. So I strapped on the helmet. That's when things got weird. This helmet lights up and starts showing me a HUD with a tiny "rebooting in progress" in a corner and one of those annoying little bars that never really moves.
I say screw it and go home. I toss it in my closet and kinda forget about it until the next morning. I start heading to school and remember this cool new helmet. So I out it on and notice the rebooting bar is only about 1/3 of the way across. I go to school and do my school stuff. On my way home the bar is almost completely, oh, oh, I am right in front of this girl's house I have a crush on as, crap it just got dark in here. In here, I was just outside? I look around and realize I can't move. Then when I look around I notice my head isn't moving, but the view is changing. Weird. I think it would be... Huh, the view changed again, it says rebooting complete.
Now it is starting to show warning signs and says takeoff in 5.4.3.2.1 as all of a sudden I find my self in outer space. How do I know that? That's when Alexa introduces herself. And says that Siri has fired 7 shots at us and we need to avoid them while destroying them before they reach moon base googley. I think a command and Alexa says that will be prime and delivered shortly. I then feel a shudder as I see some drones fly out from the side of my FedEx spaceship bike helmet? This is getting weird.
All of a sudden the 14 things on the screen converged and then nothing. Now I see 14 shots leave moon base googley, 10 heading towards Siri then 4 towards me. Me? What the hell, I just saved it, those ungrateful assmunches. So I launch all my drones at both Siri and googley. That's when they launch everything at each other. Shit, I guess it's over. Totally over.
My last conscious thought is seeing a large spaceship shaped like a window pop on the screen. I swear it is looking like it is lauphing.
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From [this](https://www.reddit.com/r/ImaginaryTechnology/comments/7apvaw/looks_like_a_helmet_let_me_try_it_on_by_yintion_j/) cool thread.
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[WP] You're a young member of a remote tribe. You find an alien cybernetic looking helmet next to a crash site out in the wild. You strap it on, the ship starts re-assembling itself. The engines fire up --on the HUD you see seven incoming red objects.
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There are many dead spirits within the tall trees. When Mother Moon is full and the crickets quiet you can hear them whisper the legends of its people. One such legend, whispered from the forest to the elders and the elders to the children, is the tale of EElock-Hi. The Fire Bird King.
Before the Fire Bird King gained his title he was known as Faruk. Faruk was the youngest son of a fallen brave. His father had died in battle with the Skull Faced. The Skull Faced had attacked at night, cowardly hiding behind dark dyes when mother moon had turned her back. Faruk's father had died defending his people. He stood against four Skull Faced, his sons and daughters behind him. Weaponless, Faruk's father had fought with his hands and his heart against the defilers. Faruk's father defeated the hated demons, but his injuries were too dire and he succumbed to the Death Wolf's maw. The Skull Faced had become relentless, attacking until the tribe was nearly defenseless. Faruk retreated into the forest to ask the great spirit what could be done.
It is whispered that Faruk traveled deeper into the old woods than anyone before him. He traveled through a realm of spirits and was faced with many tribulations. It is said that he came upon a destroyed nest one hundred feet wide. The nest had been struck by lightning and was scattered in the wind. Here he found the War Bonnet of the blaze. When he placed his crown upon his head, the great Fire Bird appeared before him.
Faruk stood before the Fire Bird proud and resolute. The Fire Bird saw his intentions were pure. The Fire Bird respected Faruk and vowed his aid. Faruk and the Fire Bird became two of one mind, each gaining strength and wisdom from the other.
The Fire Bird let out a mighty cry and warned Faruk that the Skull Faced had unleashed their trickster god unto Faruk's tribe. The trickster god had sent seven devils to terrorize Faruks peaceful people. The Fire Bird flew to his aid and they stood together in the face of the Death Wolf's maw. Faruk and the Fire Bird worked in tandem. The seven devils were strong but the old forest lent its spirit to the young king. One by one, the devils fell to the Fire Bird's breath.
The Fire Bird King then turned the Fire Bird against the Skull Faced. Just as they had begun their assault upon the tribe, the Fire Bird smote them all. With great bellows, the Fire Bird obliterated the Skull Faced until they retreated from the forest and back to the plains.
Victoriously the King stood before his tribe. The Fire Bird returned to its nest where some say it still slumbers. The Fire Bird King ruled justly and fairly for many years. He took many wives and his tribe flourished. It is said the Fire Bird King reigned for one hundred years, and his line one thousand more. The War Bonnet of the blaze was handed down from chief to chief for many years, but it has long since been taken back by the forest.
Aye the tale is a wonderful whisper to hear on warm nights when the forest can talk and mother moon lights softly the tall trees and slithering rivers. Few go deep into the forest now, but there are some who claim to have seen the Fire Bird. They say its feathers have fallen and its beak dulled. But I wouldn't believe them. Faruk has long since gone to his fathers and his line returned to the soil, but it is said should his tribe ever need for him, the great Fire Bird would return.
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I am out biking in the woods when I see a comet or shooting star or something. It's getting...oh shit I say as I dive into a ditch. The explosion is crazy but blows right over me. I stand up dazed and see lots of smoke. I am lucky it happened so fast that the ditch I was in was untouched. I start walking crazily toward the point of impact. As I get closer the trees are all knocked over in a single direction. This is the craziest thing I have ever seen. I should be running home and calling my mom. Hell I may even suck my thumb again. Then I realize my thumb is in my mouth, so I pulled it out. Then I chuckle and say, "that's what she said". As I get closer I see an unschathed bike helmet sitting in the middle of a bunch of trees all blown straight back from it. I think that I could use a bike helmet, it's a bit dangerous out here. So I strapped on the helmet. That's when things got weird. This helmet lights up and starts showing me a HUD with a tiny "rebooting in progress" in a corner and one of those annoying little bars that never really moves.
I say screw it and go home. I toss it in my closet and kinda forget about it until the next morning. I start heading to school and remember this cool new helmet. So I out it on and notice the rebooting bar is only about 1/3 of the way across. I go to school and do my school stuff. On my way home the bar is almost completely, oh, oh, I am right in front of this girl's house I have a crush on as, crap it just got dark in here. In here, I was just outside? I look around and realize I can't move. Then when I look around I notice my head isn't moving, but the view is changing. Weird. I think it would be... Huh, the view changed again, it says rebooting complete.
Now it is starting to show warning signs and says takeoff in 5.4.3.2.1 as all of a sudden I find my self in outer space. How do I know that? That's when Alexa introduces herself. And says that Siri has fired 7 shots at us and we need to avoid them while destroying them before they reach moon base googley. I think a command and Alexa says that will be prime and delivered shortly. I then feel a shudder as I see some drones fly out from the side of my FedEx spaceship bike helmet? This is getting weird.
All of a sudden the 14 things on the screen converged and then nothing. Now I see 14 shots leave moon base googley, 10 heading towards Siri then 4 towards me. Me? What the hell, I just saved it, those ungrateful assmunches. So I launch all my drones at both Siri and googley. That's when they launch everything at each other. Shit, I guess it's over. Totally over.
My last conscious thought is seeing a large spaceship shaped like a window pop on the screen. I swear it is looking like it is lauphing.
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[WP] You attempt to pronounce some of the furniture names at Ikea. In doing so, you've summoned a demon.
|
*Maindel vaamb Maratae. Maindel smer Michael. Maindel vaamb...IKEA, this is Jeff speaking.*
You know that feeling when you realize that you've really messed up? You're feeling that right now. It's not obvious just what you've done, but holy shit, you've done something.
The IKEA where you just got through training as an Expediter (or something) has fallen dark. Only a few flickering lights illuminate the clouds of your breath. Whoever was on the other end of the desk phone, they say nothing.
"Sup?" A high pitched voice calls from behind you. You jerk around, mouth gaping. The phone drops to the counter.
Sitting atop the bookshelf behind customer service is a white crow with sunken red eyes. It's nearly the size of a Labrador Retriever. "Uh, Hell on Earth, paging Jeff?" It says, in that same high voice.
"W-what-," You start.
The crow hops to the linoleum, stirring up a thin layer of ash. "I thought so," it says, "You have no clue what you just said, do you? Nope. Just trying to nail down some product names?"
Instinctively you back away. Half a foot, because there's a desk behind you. You try, though. The pale bird turns it's head, makes a sound somewhere between a coo and a laugh, and says, "Maindel, come to this place. Maindel, who slew St. Michael. Maindel, come to...IKEA, Jeff speaking."
Finally, you manage to say, "Oh my fucking god."
Maindel shakes his head, "Not here, although it looks like he's fucked you *a lot*. And I mean, not gently. I haven't seen anyone so young balding so badly since 1647. Then, of course, there's the fact that you called a Demon Lord of Hell to a Connecticut IKEA."
Since your back's almost literally against the wall, you guess nothing can hurt. "The...power of Christ compels you?"
"No," Maindel says, "Been through this last time I came to some poor guy in an IKEA. The power of Christ does not compel me, crucifixes are kind of funny looking if they have the dead guy, and if you know what's good for you, you won't try holy water."
You're still horrified, of course, but now you're also curious. "Why not holy water?"
"Gets on the feathers and takes away essential oils that make them all shiny." Maindel answers.
"Oh."
Maindel looks up at you and says, "Well, let's get this over with. You've got one wish, which I will of course twist horribly. Make it or not, I'm going to be eating your liver forever, and you look like you have a nice one. No offense, but they're better when they've got a little fat on them."
You pick up the phone like a club, and Maindel leaps in one swift motion to your shoulder. He's surprisingly light, but his claws cut through your shirt. "Really, don't," he says, "I'm a little guy, and yes, this is my real body. You struggle, and I'll have to call in a fleshbeast. You don't want that. It's just a job, man. What I do here is just a job."
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So, picture this: I'm at Ikea, looking around a new section with Some furniture with the Swedish names still on the label. I look at a piece of furniture I liked. It was a kind of cupboard. I decided I was going to buy it, and looked at the name. I had learned a bit of Swedish for no reason, just because I wanted to. I tried to pronounce the name, when suddenly a portal opens right in front of me. I was completely amazed at what stepped out of it. It was a large, bipedal creature with reptile like scales. It must have been at least 8 foot tall. I heard it talk in a heavy voice: "you have summoned me! The reason for this better be good! I looked up at it in amazement and said: "I'm sorry, I didn't intend to summon you, I was trying to pronounce the name of this thing. I pointed at the label. The creature looked at it, visibly smiled, and said: "Wow! The human named a piece of furniture after me! That means they know about us demons!" I told him we didn't know about the demons, and the grin dissapeared from his face entirely. "Well then, explain why my name is on the piece of furniture. And this name", he said, pointing at another label," is my brothers name!" I sighed, and explained to him that these labels weren't in this language. He asked what language it was, and why he hadn't been summoned there yet. I told him it was Swedish, and that I don't know why he hadn't been summoned there yet. He looked visibly shocked, and said:"I gotta go now, dinner is almost ready and my wife is having a bad day already. See you later!" He opened a portal stepped through it, and as the portal closed, I was left with a lot of questions.
I ended up buying the piece and never saying its name again.
|
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[WP] You attempt to pronounce some of the furniture names at Ikea. In doing so, you've summoned a demon.
|
Umlauts... fucking umlauts, I swear to... whoever, whatever idiot decided to wed the Roman alphabet to a culture that had previously only used runes for writing deserves to be dealing with this catastrophe more than me. Then again, maybe they did.
Furniture; cheap, crap-tier furniture is all I'd mentally prepared myself to handle today, and on any other day that would've been enough. A simple proposition: I hand you way too much money, you hand me a thousand pieces of plywood, fasteners, and those stupid L-shaped things that rip your hands raw, with the side effect of making the fasteners hold the whole abomination together. Turns out, the deal I unintentionally made that day was somehow even more unfair.
Now, Mr. Ikea security guard, you may be wondering why I've stopped here to tell you this, whilst every other customer is tearing ass out of here, into the parking lot with half of them wreathed in green flame. Two things: one, to admire the various stains now adorning your pants (great choice of career path, buddy) and two, because you're the only one who's basically obligated to stay due to company policy, and I need someone to tell the cops this story so that I don't have TWO things chasing me today. Norse demons are a big enough problem without donut dippers complicating the issue.
Here's the deal: came in here about an hour ago, ostensibly to JUST buy a reasonably priced bookcase for a niece of mine who's about to start reading for real. My sister and the brother-in-law (not his fault really, good guy) are busting my balls to make up for all the years I never got her a birthday gift. My point was "if the kid's not going to remember this whole phase of her life, why should I dip into my pocket for something now?", but you try telling that to a woman who's in full mother mode; the demon's probably the bigger pushover. Anyway, I figure I pop in here, grab some lunch, get one just good enough to not fall apart by the time this kid hits middle school, and make a lazy afternoon of it. Honestly, I could've just given the kid all the books I read as a child myself and that would've been good enough, but where would a person PUT those books then? Way I saw it, buy the bookcase, give the books for free, and all's forgiven with the kinfolk.
Well, the universe always gives you a little boost before it pulls the rug out from under you, because at least phase 1 ended up well. I know you've shat and pissed yourself, and we're surrounded by roasted corpses, but I have to be honest: those meatballs you guys sell are fucking next-level. I know you guys took some shit a while back because they found out you guys were using horsemeat instead of beef or something, but if you ask me you could've ground up Mr. Ed in front of me and I'd be asking for the sauce all the same.
What? Oh right, the demon part, I just got a whiff of the sauce on my beard and I got distracted. I got done with lunch and sauntered over to the bookcase section; and by sauntered I mean the Baatan Death March would've been more leisurely due to the floor design. Finally I get there, and between the malaise only lunch can induce and the 'stroll', I was a bit hazy by the time I got there, so honestly all of this was just an unintentional bit of brain-farting. I was just looking at all the models, weighing the pros and cons of each, trying mainly to figure out which one would be the least pain in the ass to assemble. As I did, I did what all consumers do when confronted by a plethora of meaningless choices: I said all the names one by one. Now look, I'm told there's some Norse-ish blood on my father's side of the family, but truth be told you go back a couple generations on that side and the documentation gets lost in the ether and nobody knows who's really from where, so to say my ability to speak anything with dots above the letters is really asking for something beyond my ability. I don't know if I slurred something, if the moving crews flipped the arrangement of the stock around, if Jupiter was in retrograde, whatever: point is it wasn't that long before IT showed up.
In retrospect, it was almost buffoonishly cliché how the whole thing turned out; you'd imagine in a culture where the Id is on steroids would've just started laying waste and wouldn't have been so formal about it... at least in the beginning. I mean, it started out the way it ALWAYS turns out in the media: big red glowing pentagram appears on the ground, smoke and the smell of sulfur, a giant red horned man with hooves slowly rises from the floor inside the pentagram, the works. I was beginning to wonder if somehow I'd underestimated the native Wiccan population and Ikea was doing some kind of ham-fisted promotional stunt to increase sales, when the... thing, started lumbering over to me. Now, bear in mind, this thing was like 8 to 10 feet tall, so even with the ceiling as high as it was the thing had to stoop to keep from tearing a stripe through the roof. He reaches out with an arm that looks like it could rip a redwood out of the ground no problem and grabs MY arm. Before I can even begin to wonder 'why me?', it had already scratched some runes into my skin with it's long black claw; then it dropped me. Barely got back on my feet before the thing started talking, and bizarrely enough in English. Now, being a man of science this turn of events was already carving some serious doubt into my brain, moreso than the claw had. Thinking back on it, now that the adrenaline's worn off a bit, I probably should've listened to what it was saying initially after it'd let me go, but trying to figure out why a demon from presumably a Judeo-Christian mythology would be speaking English, yet carving Norse runes regrettably occupied my thinking for the first few moments. It was talking something about 'blood pact' or 'ancient lineage, last of the line', maybe something else about rivers of blood and a scourge upon Man, but honestly the tone was so monotonous my own personal thinking seemed more important. It wasn't until the thing inhaled so deep it basically doubled in size, then breathed a gout of hellfire down towards the kitchen section that it regained my full attention. Maybe that, or the screaming, doesn't really matter NOW I suppose.
Basically, thanks to pretentious Swedish labeling and the fact that too many of my male ancestors had struck it out on love, I was now obliged to request ONE service from the demon, afterwards my soul would act as a conduit by which all of demonkind would finally be granted unrestricted access to the mortal realm. Now, here's where in the movies the protagonist comes up with some kind of impossible task, or action-stars his way into defeating the demon in single-combat and banishing it back to the nether-realm. Thing is, there's only SO MUCH creativity you can truly muster in that kind of situation when you have a community college degree and you're 50 pounds overweight, so in a pinch you do what most people like me do: half-ass something and hope it allows you to get out of the building before people realize what a scumbag you are. I mustered what little bad-assery was in me and in my most bold-sounding tone I said "What has been rent asunder, you must make whole. Your service is not fulfilled until all the objects in this place are complete". Then, I booked it out here (grabbing a box of those meatballs to go. I mean, who's gonna notice?); the rest, they say, is history.
Why am I not afraid? Why am I not concerned for my soul and the fate of all mankind? Buddy, while assembling the furniture you guys sell isn't an IMPOSSIBLE task; for a guy with massive proportions working on substandard wood with anger management issues who's ironically also bound by ancient rules, it's pretty fucking close. The way I figure it, either the thing gives up and goes back home, the cops/priests grease him, or he spends at least the rest of my life doing everyone a favor and making the place a no-go zone. In the meantime, I've got some errands to do.
What are those, exactly? Well, ironically, a lot of those books I read as a child were mythology books, and Norse mythology reads a touch too literal when it comes to situations like this. A little skin graft here, a little transfusion/donation there during my lunch breaks at the hospital, and I'll pretty much have hedged my bets. What about the bookcase? Eh, my other sister runs some misguided antique side-business, only she never bothers to inventory what she's got. A little five-finger discount, and one hand will have washed the other.
Sometimes, the hero of the story doesn't wear a cape.
|
So, picture this: I'm at Ikea, looking around a new section with Some furniture with the Swedish names still on the label. I look at a piece of furniture I liked. It was a kind of cupboard. I decided I was going to buy it, and looked at the name. I had learned a bit of Swedish for no reason, just because I wanted to. I tried to pronounce the name, when suddenly a portal opens right in front of me. I was completely amazed at what stepped out of it. It was a large, bipedal creature with reptile like scales. It must have been at least 8 foot tall. I heard it talk in a heavy voice: "you have summoned me! The reason for this better be good! I looked up at it in amazement and said: "I'm sorry, I didn't intend to summon you, I was trying to pronounce the name of this thing. I pointed at the label. The creature looked at it, visibly smiled, and said: "Wow! The human named a piece of furniture after me! That means they know about us demons!" I told him we didn't know about the demons, and the grin dissapeared from his face entirely. "Well then, explain why my name is on the piece of furniture. And this name", he said, pointing at another label," is my brothers name!" I sighed, and explained to him that these labels weren't in this language. He asked what language it was, and why he hadn't been summoned there yet. I told him it was Swedish, and that I don't know why he hadn't been summoned there yet. He looked visibly shocked, and said:"I gotta go now, dinner is almost ready and my wife is having a bad day already. See you later!" He opened a portal stepped through it, and as the portal closed, I was left with a lot of questions.
I ended up buying the piece and never saying its name again.
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[WP] You attempt to pronounce some of the furniture names at Ikea. In doing so, you've summoned a demon.
|
“Riiiiktig,” whispered Skylar, squinting as she gritted her teeth and tried to push the pronunciation out of her mouth. “Ooooogla? Weird ass way to spell ‘curtain rings’ amirite?”
Skylar tapped at the curtain rings and sort of laughed awkwardly to herself. There was nobody else around her. She’d gotten herself pretty lost in the winding, endless maze of the store, and resorted to reading out the item names to entertain herself lest she panic.
She smelled something off to her right, then dropped down to have a smell of some nice green candles there.
“Fyrrrkkantig,” said Skylar, flaring her nostrils a little like she was starting to enjoy these funny names. She ran her finger around the outline of the square candles, and repeated it again. “*Fyrrrr*kantig.”
She noticed a slight rumbling in the ground, though it passed a moment later. Skylar figured it was probably the ventilation system somehow, and went over to some tube light bulbs.
“*Sparsam,*” she said, pushing her head back some as she did it, like the word had a surprisingly refreshing taste in her mouth. “*Spars*am, makes sense probably a good efficient light bulb. Uses a *sparse* amount of electricity. *Sparsam*.”
The light bulbs sort of started to flicker in her hand. She set it down and walked away from that spot with a face that looked like she had a stomach ache.
“That was weird,” she whispered, as she went over to a bed, and read out the word, “Smorboll.”
*Say them all at once,* whispered a voice in her mind, as the air took on a mist.
“Uhh,” said Skylar, turning around like she thought somebody in the store had heard her. “Who said that?”
*I uhhh, I work here say them again for a prize,* said the voice in her head.
“You sound like you’re coming from like,” Skkylar pointed in every direction around her. “Sound like you’re coming from everywher-”
*SAY ALL THE SWEDISH WORDS YOU SAID,* shouted the whisper in her mind.
“SURE, okay for a prize? Okay uhh,” Skylar put her hands up like she didn’t want any trouble. “Uhh, it’s,” She shut her eyes and snapped her fingers. “*Riik*tig Oogla,” She put on this strained expression as she tried to get out the next words. She was hoping she’d get a sofa for it. “Fyyyrrkantig, *Spars*am smorbollll.”
There were murmurs from other shoppers in the distance, as all the store lights started to flicker. A faint earthquake took the ground, and wobbled some of the chairs enough to make them dance around on their legs. A mist formed to the right of Skylar, as a deep bellowing voice like one coming from the bottom of a canyon screamed back up to her within the confines of her head. It sounded like the dark tongue of Mordor.
**Belllllhhaammm,** whispered a voice as a burned face the size of her torso formed in the wall of the fake bedroom she’d wandered into. **Odddmmmjuk**
“Uhhhmm can I uhh,” said Skylar, as the face tried to writhe itself out of the wall. Some of its fiery neck came through, as it said more Ikea words. “Can I please speak with the manager?”
[Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/Oscar_Relentos/comments/7bffw0/humor_demons_in_ikea_part_2/)
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So, picture this: I'm at Ikea, looking around a new section with Some furniture with the Swedish names still on the label. I look at a piece of furniture I liked. It was a kind of cupboard. I decided I was going to buy it, and looked at the name. I had learned a bit of Swedish for no reason, just because I wanted to. I tried to pronounce the name, when suddenly a portal opens right in front of me. I was completely amazed at what stepped out of it. It was a large, bipedal creature with reptile like scales. It must have been at least 8 foot tall. I heard it talk in a heavy voice: "you have summoned me! The reason for this better be good! I looked up at it in amazement and said: "I'm sorry, I didn't intend to summon you, I was trying to pronounce the name of this thing. I pointed at the label. The creature looked at it, visibly smiled, and said: "Wow! The human named a piece of furniture after me! That means they know about us demons!" I told him we didn't know about the demons, and the grin dissapeared from his face entirely. "Well then, explain why my name is on the piece of furniture. And this name", he said, pointing at another label," is my brothers name!" I sighed, and explained to him that these labels weren't in this language. He asked what language it was, and why he hadn't been summoned there yet. I told him it was Swedish, and that I don't know why he hadn't been summoned there yet. He looked visibly shocked, and said:"I gotta go now, dinner is almost ready and my wife is having a bad day already. See you later!" He opened a portal stepped through it, and as the portal closed, I was left with a lot of questions.
I ended up buying the piece and never saying its name again.
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[WP] You attempt to pronounce some of the furniture names at Ikea. In doing so, you've summoned a demon.
|
Umlauts... fucking umlauts, I swear to... whoever, whatever idiot decided to wed the Roman alphabet to a culture that had previously only used runes for writing deserves to be dealing with this catastrophe more than me. Then again, maybe they did.
Furniture; cheap, crap-tier furniture is all I'd mentally prepared myself to handle today, and on any other day that would've been enough. A simple proposition: I hand you way too much money, you hand me a thousand pieces of plywood, fasteners, and those stupid L-shaped things that rip your hands raw, with the side effect of making the fasteners hold the whole abomination together. Turns out, the deal I unintentionally made that day was somehow even more unfair.
Now, Mr. Ikea security guard, you may be wondering why I've stopped here to tell you this, whilst every other customer is tearing ass out of here, into the parking lot with half of them wreathed in green flame. Two things: one, to admire the various stains now adorning your pants (great choice of career path, buddy) and two, because you're the only one who's basically obligated to stay due to company policy, and I need someone to tell the cops this story so that I don't have TWO things chasing me today. Norse demons are a big enough problem without donut dippers complicating the issue.
Here's the deal: came in here about an hour ago, ostensibly to JUST buy a reasonably priced bookcase for a niece of mine who's about to start reading for real. My sister and the brother-in-law (not his fault really, good guy) are busting my balls to make up for all the years I never got her a birthday gift. My point was "if the kid's not going to remember this whole phase of her life, why should I dip into my pocket for something now?", but you try telling that to a woman who's in full mother mode; the demon's probably the bigger pushover. Anyway, I figure I pop in here, grab some lunch, get one just good enough to not fall apart by the time this kid hits middle school, and make a lazy afternoon of it. Honestly, I could've just given the kid all the books I read as a child myself and that would've been good enough, but where would a person PUT those books then? Way I saw it, buy the bookcase, give the books for free, and all's forgiven with the kinfolk.
Well, the universe always gives you a little boost before it pulls the rug out from under you, because at least phase 1 ended up well. I know you've shat and pissed yourself, and we're surrounded by roasted corpses, but I have to be honest: those meatballs you guys sell are fucking next-level. I know you guys took some shit a while back because they found out you guys were using horsemeat instead of beef or something, but if you ask me you could've ground up Mr. Ed in front of me and I'd be asking for the sauce all the same.
What? Oh right, the demon part, I just got a whiff of the sauce on my beard and I got distracted. I got done with lunch and sauntered over to the bookcase section; and by sauntered I mean the Baatan Death March would've been more leisurely due to the floor design. Finally I get there, and between the malaise only lunch can induce and the 'stroll', I was a bit hazy by the time I got there, so honestly all of this was just an unintentional bit of brain-farting. I was just looking at all the models, weighing the pros and cons of each, trying mainly to figure out which one would be the least pain in the ass to assemble. As I did, I did what all consumers do when confronted by a plethora of meaningless choices: I said all the names one by one. Now look, I'm told there's some Norse-ish blood on my father's side of the family, but truth be told you go back a couple generations on that side and the documentation gets lost in the ether and nobody knows who's really from where, so to say my ability to speak anything with dots above the letters is really asking for something beyond my ability. I don't know if I slurred something, if the moving crews flipped the arrangement of the stock around, if Jupiter was in retrograde, whatever: point is it wasn't that long before IT showed up.
In retrospect, it was almost buffoonishly cliché how the whole thing turned out; you'd imagine in a culture where the Id is on steroids would've just started laying waste and wouldn't have been so formal about it... at least in the beginning. I mean, it started out the way it ALWAYS turns out in the media: big red glowing pentagram appears on the ground, smoke and the smell of sulfur, a giant red horned man with hooves slowly rises from the floor inside the pentagram, the works. I was beginning to wonder if somehow I'd underestimated the native Wiccan population and Ikea was doing some kind of ham-fisted promotional stunt to increase sales, when the... thing, started lumbering over to me. Now, bear in mind, this thing was like 8 to 10 feet tall, so even with the ceiling as high as it was the thing had to stoop to keep from tearing a stripe through the roof. He reaches out with an arm that looks like it could rip a redwood out of the ground no problem and grabs MY arm. Before I can even begin to wonder 'why me?', it had already scratched some runes into my skin with it's long black claw; then it dropped me. Barely got back on my feet before the thing started talking, and bizarrely enough in English. Now, being a man of science this turn of events was already carving some serious doubt into my brain, moreso than the claw had. Thinking back on it, now that the adrenaline's worn off a bit, I probably should've listened to what it was saying initially after it'd let me go, but trying to figure out why a demon from presumably a Judeo-Christian mythology would be speaking English, yet carving Norse runes regrettably occupied my thinking for the first few moments. It was talking something about 'blood pact' or 'ancient lineage, last of the line', maybe something else about rivers of blood and a scourge upon Man, but honestly the tone was so monotonous my own personal thinking seemed more important. It wasn't until the thing inhaled so deep it basically doubled in size, then breathed a gout of hellfire down towards the kitchen section that it regained my full attention. Maybe that, or the screaming, doesn't really matter NOW I suppose.
Basically, thanks to pretentious Swedish labeling and the fact that too many of my male ancestors had struck it out on love, I was now obliged to request ONE service from the demon, afterwards my soul would act as a conduit by which all of demonkind would finally be granted unrestricted access to the mortal realm. Now, here's where in the movies the protagonist comes up with some kind of impossible task, or action-stars his way into defeating the demon in single-combat and banishing it back to the nether-realm. Thing is, there's only SO MUCH creativity you can truly muster in that kind of situation when you have a community college degree and you're 50 pounds overweight, so in a pinch you do what most people like me do: half-ass something and hope it allows you to get out of the building before people realize what a scumbag you are. I mustered what little bad-assery was in me and in my most bold-sounding tone I said "What has been rent asunder, you must make whole. Your service is not fulfilled until all the objects in this place are complete". Then, I booked it out here (grabbing a box of those meatballs to go. I mean, who's gonna notice?); the rest, they say, is history.
Why am I not afraid? Why am I not concerned for my soul and the fate of all mankind? Buddy, while assembling the furniture you guys sell isn't an IMPOSSIBLE task; for a guy with massive proportions working on substandard wood with anger management issues who's ironically also bound by ancient rules, it's pretty fucking close. The way I figure it, either the thing gives up and goes back home, the cops/priests grease him, or he spends at least the rest of my life doing everyone a favor and making the place a no-go zone. In the meantime, I've got some errands to do.
What are those, exactly? Well, ironically, a lot of those books I read as a child were mythology books, and Norse mythology reads a touch too literal when it comes to situations like this. A little skin graft here, a little transfusion/donation there during my lunch breaks at the hospital, and I'll pretty much have hedged my bets. What about the bookcase? Eh, my other sister runs some misguided antique side-business, only she never bothers to inventory what she's got. A little five-finger discount, and one hand will have washed the other.
Sometimes, the hero of the story doesn't wear a cape.
|
*Maindel vaamb Maratae. Maindel smer Michael. Maindel vaamb...IKEA, this is Jeff speaking.*
You know that feeling when you realize that you've really messed up? You're feeling that right now. It's not obvious just what you've done, but holy shit, you've done something.
The IKEA where you just got through training as an Expediter (or something) has fallen dark. Only a few flickering lights illuminate the clouds of your breath. Whoever was on the other end of the desk phone, they say nothing.
"Sup?" A high pitched voice calls from behind you. You jerk around, mouth gaping. The phone drops to the counter.
Sitting atop the bookshelf behind customer service is a white crow with sunken red eyes. It's nearly the size of a Labrador Retriever. "Uh, Hell on Earth, paging Jeff?" It says, in that same high voice.
"W-what-," You start.
The crow hops to the linoleum, stirring up a thin layer of ash. "I thought so," it says, "You have no clue what you just said, do you? Nope. Just trying to nail down some product names?"
Instinctively you back away. Half a foot, because there's a desk behind you. You try, though. The pale bird turns it's head, makes a sound somewhere between a coo and a laugh, and says, "Maindel, come to this place. Maindel, who slew St. Michael. Maindel, come to...IKEA, Jeff speaking."
Finally, you manage to say, "Oh my fucking god."
Maindel shakes his head, "Not here, although it looks like he's fucked you *a lot*. And I mean, not gently. I haven't seen anyone so young balding so badly since 1647. Then, of course, there's the fact that you called a Demon Lord of Hell to a Connecticut IKEA."
Since your back's almost literally against the wall, you guess nothing can hurt. "The...power of Christ compels you?"
"No," Maindel says, "Been through this last time I came to some poor guy in an IKEA. The power of Christ does not compel me, crucifixes are kind of funny looking if they have the dead guy, and if you know what's good for you, you won't try holy water."
You're still horrified, of course, but now you're also curious. "Why not holy water?"
"Gets on the feathers and takes away essential oils that make them all shiny." Maindel answers.
"Oh."
Maindel looks up at you and says, "Well, let's get this over with. You've got one wish, which I will of course twist horribly. Make it or not, I'm going to be eating your liver forever, and you look like you have a nice one. No offense, but they're better when they've got a little fat on them."
You pick up the phone like a club, and Maindel leaps in one swift motion to your shoulder. He's surprisingly light, but his claws cut through your shirt. "Really, don't," he says, "I'm a little guy, and yes, this is my real body. You struggle, and I'll have to call in a fleshbeast. You don't want that. It's just a job, man. What I do here is just a job."
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Bonus points if a therapist is involved.
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[WP] In a world where mental illness is literally a battle in someone's mind, describe a fight between someone and their illness.
|
"Hello. It's been a while."
Panic cut me all the way through. That voice. That feigned friendliness. That irresistible draw.
She was back.
"What the fuck do you want?"
My words came out in spite of me, dripping black with venom, the tip of my tongue stained dark with its malice.
She smiled.
"I want the same thing I came for last time. I want you to come with me."
I thought back to the last time she was here. I didn't know any better that time. She lured me in with promises of belonging, of rest, of simplicity. Each time she pulled me closer, I slipped further and further from my friends and my family. The color in the world faded. My eyes lost their light.
"I don't want to go with you. I don't want anything to do with you. Can't you see? I'm happy."
I was happy, mostly. I had the color back. There were mottled spots here and there, reminders of the pain I went through, the life I nearly lost. But my eyes had their light again. At least I could see the color.
She took a step forward.
"You're happy? With them? This world that leaves you behind, this world that refuses to let you belong? How can you be happy there?"
She took another step forward, the ink dripping from her calves in sloppy dark drops, staining the floor. Staining my mind.
"I am happy. I have friends. And I'm doing well at work. I just got a promotion! And I'm dating someone wonderful..."
I looked away for a moment. I couldn't stand the way she looked at me. Those eyes. Mesmerizing. Like pools I could sink into. Drown into.
*Fuck…no. Stop it.*
She stopped her march for a moment.
"Oh? You are? And they love you, do they? They love you as much as you love them? Or even better…they love you in spite of how much you love them?"
As she spoke, I couldn't help but look at her. Her voice was soft, yet her words cut me like razors. The delicate roundness of her syllables wound their way close enough that the pointed edges of the message they carried buffeted me with scrapes and cuts, leaving me bloodied. Little black marks all over my body.
I took a step back.
"Yes, they love me. My family, my friends--they care about me. Last time, do you know what they said?"
She took three long strides and was on me before I could react. Her fingers reached out to either side of my face, cupping my cheeks and my neck in her hands, running silky smooth traces around my ears and through my hair. I could feel the ink running down the sides of my face, dropping in splattered wells at my feet, splashing onto my ankles. Her hands and the darkness felt both cold and warm at the same time, like a blanket wrapped around you in the dead of winter, the only haven in a frigid world.
"Please," she cooed. "You don't have to make up lies. You don't have to believe what they say when they're only saying it because they feel bad for you."
The difference between the black of the ink and the varied diorama of the rest of my mind was becoming less and less pronounced. I could feel the ink rising up past my neck. Reaching up to my throat. My ears. My eyes.
"They told me…"
Her gripped tightened, and a deep, black smile spread across her face while she bared razor-sharp fangs and void-black eyes.
"They told me I don't have to fight alone."
Suddenly, in every corner of my mind, human shapes began to manifest of their own accord. My mother, my father, my brothers and sisters. The grandmother on my father's side who let me sleep on her fold out sofa and watched classic Gene Kelly movies with me when I was sick. The uncle on my mother's side who helped me get my job, who believed me when I said all I needed was a chance. The cousins who came to visit out of nowhere and just spent time with me, walking and talking and helping make sense of things.
All of them, flooding my mind, bringing noise and scent and warmth. Bringing color. Bringing so much color that I couldn't see.
She turned and looked around, and I could feel the fear in her eyes as she eased her grasp on me. She snapped back to me and stared at me in horror. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was brown.
"You won't have them forever, you know."
And she disappeared, smoke vanishing through a straw.
"Probably not."
I collapsed in a heap, tears welling up while I looked around.
"But I have them right now, and that's enough."
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“Oh my gosh,” I sighed, flopping onto the bed, tired from my busy day at work. That was the great thing about my life, work. It keeps me focused, distracted, making sure I don’t sink to ‘it’s’ level. I closed my eyes, smelling my sheets of the faint soapy smell before opening my eyes and seeing the open field. It was cracked, dried, overcast clouds around, the tree on the hill with no leaves.
I got up from where I was laying and saw the dark shape underneath the tree. It noticed me and got up from its sitting position. It didn’t walk the way a person would, more like phase shifted until it stood in front of me. Shadowy flames encased it but the face looked like mine.
“Bad day, wasn’t it?” It started to circle me. I tried not to look at it.
“Actually it wasn’t bad at all. I got my list done, I was able to fake a few smiles, and traffic was good.” I shrugged. Soon I felt the pain in my head as it grabbed my hair and made me bend down.
“You’re lying and you’re getting good at it but don’t think those little white lies will get rid of me.” It let go of my head and I felt the warmth of the blood trickle from my temple down my chin. All I did was look straight ahead, never looking at it directly. “You think you can escape but you can’t. I am a part of you, something you can’t live without.”
“Yeah sure, think all you want about that. The thing is I’m trying to move on. I’m getting therapy, I’m talking to the ones that hurt me, and I really am getting better!” I yelled but that was the wrong thing to say. It grabbed me by my collar and threw me over its shoulder. The ground roughly scraped against me as I bumped against the rough ground. The thing growled at me with its face in a scowl. It raised its fist at me but I stopped it with my hand.
“You want this!?” It roared.
“Bring it, bitch!” I shouted. We got into a fist fight, punch for punch, scratch for scratch, moving in an odd mirror image of ourselves. While each and every hit drew blood on me, my hits made it’s shadowy body deteriorate. I screamed, yelled, cried, while it seethed, roared, and whimpered.
I did a low leg sweep, taking away its legs and it fell down. I straddled it and put my hand on my not-face. My tears stung at my face, my breathing labored, and the thing staring angrily at me.
“I know, I get it, I brought this on myself because, no matter what, you’ll always be a part of me but I control you, not the other way around.” I got up and the thing had shrunk down. “Little by little, inch by inch, step by step, I’m taking control of my life. Soon, you’ll be nothing but a shadow parrot on my shoulder that I will be able to ignore. Maybe not now, maybe not soon, but it’s an eventuality that I will make sure will come to pass. I’m taking control of my life, so go away.”
“You’ll regret this in your darkest times.” The shadow faded away.
“I’ll deal with it but I’m not alone anymore,” I smiled, thinking of my supportive family, friends, the cat I hold dear. As the shadow faded, a small sapling appeared in the dry crust of the earth. I limped toward the tree that the shadow sat underneath. The hill was washed with light from the open sky, the tree beginning to bud, and the ground bright and green with yawning grass blades. I sat down against the tree. It was a start but a start was all I needed.
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Bonus points if a therapist is involved.
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[WP] In a world where mental illness is literally a battle in someone's mind, describe a fight between someone and their illness.
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"Hello. It's been a while."
Panic cut me all the way through. That voice. That feigned friendliness. That irresistible draw.
She was back.
"What the fuck do you want?"
My words came out in spite of me, dripping black with venom, the tip of my tongue stained dark with its malice.
She smiled.
"I want the same thing I came for last time. I want you to come with me."
I thought back to the last time she was here. I didn't know any better that time. She lured me in with promises of belonging, of rest, of simplicity. Each time she pulled me closer, I slipped further and further from my friends and my family. The color in the world faded. My eyes lost their light.
"I don't want to go with you. I don't want anything to do with you. Can't you see? I'm happy."
I was happy, mostly. I had the color back. There were mottled spots here and there, reminders of the pain I went through, the life I nearly lost. But my eyes had their light again. At least I could see the color.
She took a step forward.
"You're happy? With them? This world that leaves you behind, this world that refuses to let you belong? How can you be happy there?"
She took another step forward, the ink dripping from her calves in sloppy dark drops, staining the floor. Staining my mind.
"I am happy. I have friends. And I'm doing well at work. I just got a promotion! And I'm dating someone wonderful..."
I looked away for a moment. I couldn't stand the way she looked at me. Those eyes. Mesmerizing. Like pools I could sink into. Drown into.
*Fuck…no. Stop it.*
She stopped her march for a moment.
"Oh? You are? And they love you, do they? They love you as much as you love them? Or even better…they love you in spite of how much you love them?"
As she spoke, I couldn't help but look at her. Her voice was soft, yet her words cut me like razors. The delicate roundness of her syllables wound their way close enough that the pointed edges of the message they carried buffeted me with scrapes and cuts, leaving me bloodied. Little black marks all over my body.
I took a step back.
"Yes, they love me. My family, my friends--they care about me. Last time, do you know what they said?"
She took three long strides and was on me before I could react. Her fingers reached out to either side of my face, cupping my cheeks and my neck in her hands, running silky smooth traces around my ears and through my hair. I could feel the ink running down the sides of my face, dropping in splattered wells at my feet, splashing onto my ankles. Her hands and the darkness felt both cold and warm at the same time, like a blanket wrapped around you in the dead of winter, the only haven in a frigid world.
"Please," she cooed. "You don't have to make up lies. You don't have to believe what they say when they're only saying it because they feel bad for you."
The difference between the black of the ink and the varied diorama of the rest of my mind was becoming less and less pronounced. I could feel the ink rising up past my neck. Reaching up to my throat. My ears. My eyes.
"They told me…"
Her gripped tightened, and a deep, black smile spread across her face while she bared razor-sharp fangs and void-black eyes.
"They told me I don't have to fight alone."
Suddenly, in every corner of my mind, human shapes began to manifest of their own accord. My mother, my father, my brothers and sisters. The grandmother on my father's side who let me sleep on her fold out sofa and watched classic Gene Kelly movies with me when I was sick. The uncle on my mother's side who helped me get my job, who believed me when I said all I needed was a chance. The cousins who came to visit out of nowhere and just spent time with me, walking and talking and helping make sense of things.
All of them, flooding my mind, bringing noise and scent and warmth. Bringing color. Bringing so much color that I couldn't see.
She turned and looked around, and I could feel the fear in her eyes as she eased her grasp on me. She snapped back to me and stared at me in horror. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was brown.
"You won't have them forever, you know."
And she disappeared, smoke vanishing through a straw.
"Probably not."
I collapsed in a heap, tears welling up while I looked around.
"But I have them right now, and that's enough."
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"You're weak."
She rose before me, slender and beautiful, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and curling at her waist. She moved with the grace of a lion stalking its prey. The cruel smirk she wore told me I was her prey.
"You can't do anything right," she said, her voice cutting my like swords. As I thought it, a swirl of light and glitter produced a long, thin blade in her hand, and she raised it, admiring it. "You never could. For as long as I could remember, you've always been *weak.*"
I couldn't even argue with her. She was right. Every time I tried to do better, I failed. I fell back. Every attempt was met with failure more devastating than the time before it. I hugged my arms to myself, as though it would shield me from her truths.
"Look at you, standing there. You fat piece of shit. You always have been. You always say, 'This time will be different.'" She sneered, hatred darkening her face. "'I'll really do it this time. I'll jog. I'll eat healthy. I won't give in.'" The mean girl laughed, throwing her head back, her shoulders heaving. "What a fucking joke."
I grit my teeth. It was all true. How long had I been "dieting" on and off? Years? Over a decade? How many times have I found myself-
"Overeating, then heaving into the toilet to get it out, to start again. 'It will be different this time.'" She walked closer to me, pointing the sword at my chest. "It's never different."
She was right.
It's never different.
"I'll never be you," I admitted, holding back tears. "It'll never happen anyway."
I looked at the remainder of pizza on the coffee table, the movie blaring in the background. I sighed, and reached over my bulging stomach, taking another slice.
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[WP] The greatest mistake they made was stealing your heart. You are the Tin Man, and Oz is under attack.
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Wings flapped and monkeys shrieked all around as the Tin Man brandished his axe. The Emperor of the Winkies had lost the one thing that mattered to him. His heart, and he would find it no matter what.
The wandering pack of the Wicked Witches' monkeys were to be the first of his victims. Not out of anger, but necessity.
"You will tell me where it is" He said, devoid of the emotion he had once had.
The monkeys sporadically surrounded him, their shrieks and screams of rabid anger did not scare him. He stood with calm focus. And then he struck.
The pack scattered, his first victims head plopped off with a swift swipe of his silver axe. The rest began closing in, he could not count them. Two rushed him from behind, quickly turning around one scratched at his face while the other bit down on his metal shin.
Driving his fist into the first monkeys' face sent it flying with a few less teeth and continued to bring his foot down on the second monkey who was gnawing on his shin.
It shrieked and dragged itself away in panic, the rest scattered in fear as they.
"WHERE IS MY HEART!?" He roared as they fled in every direction away from the Tin Man. His search would not end here. He would find the one who stole his heart and he would have what was taken from him.
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The lion's battle roar had turned to a half-hearted, distant chuckle.
The scarecrow's strategies and observations had dimmed to submission.
The girl and her dog no longer sought after a place called home, wandering, attached to neither place nor persons.
They had all haphazardly gathered, guarded by myself, a man of tin whose heart blazed for my pain stricken companions.
Days upon days. Blank stares. Mastered shrugs and sighs in response to my care for their troubles, and no notice my own.
Nights upon nights. Aches lay stifled under silence. Expectations of sleep and dread of new days listlessly haunt and dwell in the air around us.
No one grieved when at last my heart was absorbed by this apathy. The fog of indifference had taken us all as the poppy fields once seduced us to sleep. I no longer recall what it feels like to care, though I vaguely remember pain. Perhaps it is for the best, then, that I no longer feel. After all, there is now nothing left to guard and I am weary.
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[WP] You can freeze time only if you're holding your breath. You were halfway across the busy intersection when you spotted it: A bullet, aimed at her chest, about to impact the windscreen.
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The light turned red just seconds before I arrived at the intersection. Cars leapt from their starting positions, electric engines buzzing angrily as they surged down the road.
I sighed heavily and checked my watch.
15:15
I still had 15 minutes and my destination in the Howard-Phillips Complex was another few minutes walk away. I’d be in the building on time, but what kind of impression does it make when you show up for an interview exactly on time? I promised myself, yet again, that I’d get a better grip on my time management skills. Heaving another sigh, I glanced around quickly to make sure no one was looking at me, and took a deep breath.
Time stopped.
Did you know that lightning strikes about 24,000 people per year globally, killing about 25% of those hit? It’s true, Google it. Five years ago, when I was a youth councilor at the Miskatonic Teen summer camp, lightning struck the lake where I was swimming. Luckily, it didn’t strike me directly. That unfortunate bastard would have been Jonas Underwood, an awkward 12 year old with a deep baritone voice. It probably would have been better if he had died right then, but he didn’t. He was Altered. That’s with a capital A. Several others in the water were also Altered, although not like Jonas. He received the full meta-human treatment - Scales, Gills, Claws, and Psychopathic Personality.
He lasted nearly a week after the incident, hiding in the depths of the lake. At night, he’d emerge to terrorize the surrounding area, rending helpless human flesh into tidy bite-sized pieces. The local authorities couldn’t stop him. When the National Guard stumbled upon his watery nest hidden in a marshy area, they lost a dozen good men that day. What ultimately stopped Jonas was simple physics. He was Altered into a monstrosity that needed salt water to survive. Miskatonic lake is freshwater, and Jonas was killed by osmosis.
Four others were Altered in that incident at Miskatonic lake. Three vanished into the depths of the Meta-human Operations Project. One simply vanished. Everyone else was kept under surveillance for a year. I kept quiet about my ability to freeze time.
I love the way sunlight shifts to a reddish-orange hue when I stop time. It always reminds me of an autumn sunset. The air around me becomes thick, like treacle. When I first stopped time I couldn’t move. I’d just sit there until my breath ran out, frozen like everything around me. It was fun to toss things into the air and freeze time, watching them hang impossibly in the air until my breath ran out and they clattered to the ground. I probably spent a year in-time before I discovered how to move - a stupid simple trick, actually. Just use my fingers to poke through the syrup-thick temporal cocoon that surrounded me. It feels like running a zip-knife through cling film. The stiff resistance, the puncture, then the satisfying sensation of slicing through layers of plastic with a sharpened blade.
That’s what I did now at the intersection, wriggling my hand just a bit, pushing through the resistance and then ziiiip - I’m free.
Readjusting my backpack, I sauntered into the frozen traffic holding my breath and across the six lanes that separated me from my destination. As I crossed the median, the glint of an object in my path caught my eye. It took me a moment to figure out what it was - A bullet. I’d never seen one except in the movies. The destination was obvious, the chest of some woman riding in the front seat of the Maxi-cab.
In my imagination, I pictured how the incident would play out: The bullet would punch through the windscreen, making a small hole in front of the vintage Megadeth tee shirt she was wearing and add a very large, very messy, hole to her backside. The Maxi-cab would register the impact, run diagnostics, scan the interior, charge the passenger a clean-up fee for leaking blood on the upholstery, and continue to its destination.
Following the path of the bullet, I tried to determine where it originated and see if I could locate the shooter. It was obvious from the angle of the bullet that the only logical place was the 25th floor crosswalk that connected the two sections of the Howard-Phillips Complex. I was running out of breath and had to make a decision quickly.
I could keep going, mind my own damn business, make my interview on time and read about her in the news later.
I could try to push or extract the bullet. That would be tricky. Physics works strangely when time is frozen. I can run on water, but I can still fall to my death if I punch through my temporal cocoon. I’d extracted small things before, things that were stationary or falling leaves, but never anything moving stupid fast like a bullet. I might just end up with missing fingers.
Or…
I pulled open the side pocket of my backpack and removed the stainless steel multi-tool I always carried with me. Flipping it open, I used the tip of the pliers to shatter the glass on the passenger window and then scoop-push the glittering fragments to hover in the air next to me. Climbing inside the shattered passenger window, I pulled out my laptop.
BeOS, a company once nearly killed by Microsoft, had managed to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of death and become a blazing competitor, snatching just under half the PC market with a system built exclusively for gamers. In addition to a killer operating system and graphics, their laptops were made from state-of-the-art ultra lightweight and durable carbotanium fiber, which could stop a bullet. At least, that’s how they were advertised.
As I held my beloved laptop, my precious, in front of her chest I took a good look at the girl I was about to save. Seafoam green hair in a pixie cut, brilliant green eyes tinted with Optic Silver from her contacts, face slack as she stared into the HUD projected onto those thin neoplas discs. Slim fingers with green painted nails were pressed against her forearm, scrolling through some projected page only she could see. Vintage tee shirt. Ripped jeans. Chains. A really cute face.
My lungs began to burn as I stared at the face that was about to change my life.
It’s amazing what can occur in less than four minutes.
I exhaled, and the world exploded into action.
* * * * *
Everything seems to move twice as fast when I exhale, like time wants to compensate for my theft. The windscreen shattered into a million fragments held together by sticky plastic as the bullet punched through. My laptop made a sickening crunch as the bullet impacted and shattered into a dozen shards, one ripping my cheek as it exited the window I had shattered moments before. The girl let out a muffled grunt as her chest was hit with the force of a thrown hardball.
The onboard computer dinged and a pleasant female voice announced “New Passenger Detected: Sam Carter. Adding to RideShare.”
Ding! “Passenger window breakage detected. Bill adjusted 185 creds.”
Ding! “Front window breakage detected. Bill adjusted 386 creds.”
Ding! “Debris detected in cabin. Please use the onboard hands-vac to tidy or your bill will be adjusted an additional 15 creds.”
“Maxie,” I said, addressing the onboard system “Charge all fees to my account and take me home as fast as possible.”
Ding! “All charges will be billed to Sam Carter, account ending with 0616. Destination altered to Sam Carter’s House. Speed surcharge added. Is this correct?”
“Yes.” I said.
Ding! “Is this correct, Jessica Howard-Phillips?”
I stared into the panicked eyes of Jessica Howard-Phillips, grand-daughter of Thurston Howard-Phillips, the pioneer of non-euclidean fibration, founder of Miskatonic University and Howard-Phillips Enterprises. The blood drained from my face as the realization hit me - I had just saved the life of one of the most influential paranormal engineers on the planet.
No. Someone had just tried to kill one of the most influential paranormal engineers on the planet.
“I…There was a bullet…You see? Glass? And my laptop? And…uh…” I said, my vocabulary failing as higher brain processes shut down in her presence.
Ding! “Is this correct, Jessica Howard-Phillips?”
“Yes,” she said, pain evident in her voice. “Charge all fees to his account, cancel my destination.”
Ding! “Trip Updated. Rerouting to Sam Carter’s House, 112 Ocean Avenue, Arkam Massachusetts. Total trip fee: 711 creds”
I died a little inside as the Maxi-cab cut across three lanes of traffic, other vehicles adjusting their speed to avoid it, and hung a quick right. That was nearly everything I had in the bank.
Jessica rubbed her bruised chest, distracting me as she poked and prodded. “I assume you have some sort of plan?” she said, then added “And you’re not just kidnapping me?”
I blushed furiously and stammered, “No! I mean, my plan was to get us onto a route no one would expect and that was the only place I could think of.”
She stared at me with those piercing silvery-green eyes, fingers furiously rubbing her forearm. Probably messaging the police or bodyguards or something, I thought to myself.
“I’m not kidnapping you, I swear.” I said, pleading with her to believe me.
“I trust you, Sam.” Jessica said, her lips pulling into a tight smile. “I dreamed of you last night.”
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Sorry for changing it up boys but I liked the prompt
Jeremy was halfway across the street when he noticed the bullet. He hadn't even heard the shot yet. He held his breath to buy time.
Jeremy's ability to freeze time gave him an unusual attentiveness to his surroundings, although nothing this big had ever come across his path before. A bullet? For an assassination? This could be the first time that his power had actually done something important.
Walking over to the bullet, still frozen mid-air, Jeremy made sure to continue holding his breath. He had forgotten about this before, with dire consequences. Sometimes he had become distracted and accidentally resumed time halfway through a sneaky slurpee heist or a quick porn session at work, with the volume on full.
Inspecting the alignment of the bullet, Jeremy could see that the intended victim was a fairly attractive woman on the sidewalk. Damn. She was the type of dime that he didn't see around as often as he'd like.
He contemplated swatting the bullet out of the air but instead opted for tackling the woman to the ground to save her life. Maybe she might just be grateful and give him her number? A kiss? Stupid but optimistic.
Maybe he could get the bullet to graze his shoulder, just a bit. Then perhaps his role would seem more heroic, like a brave knight risking his life to save the damsel in distress. Yes. That's it.
He slowly pushed the woman to the side as he released the strain on his lungs, whinging as the bullet resumed its previous motion and scratched a shallow laceration into his bicep.
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[WP] Humanity is known throughout the galaxy for being kind of shit at everything they do. But today, humanity launches its first spacefaring warship.
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There was no way of knowing what to expect, but Lt. Hayes felt a little better knowing his ship was equipped with 2 long-range cybermortars. This was his first excursion into space. For years Earth had committed to a peaceful presence in the solar system, but every gun, shield, and laser-guided missile in the ARES Battlecruiser was evidence that humanity was fed up with passivity. If you had told Hayes when he enlisted that he'd be stationed on Earth's first galactic warcraft, he'd have rolled his eyes. Now, he looked out from the ship's bay into an endless chorus of stars.
A broadcast over the intercom snapped him out of his thoughts. *Approaching Cosmelia Theta*, the Captain blared, *All hands at attention*. Hayes felt his stomach twinge with anticipation. He paced up to the bridge, passing dozens of crew members who seemed to share his jitters. Once there, he saw Captain Blackwell huddling with her team of officers as others were frantically dashing from screen to screen, jotting down numbers and fiddling with dials. Hayes tried to look busy; he knew he had no business being in the room but it was just too exciting to miss.
"Shields will be at full capacity, and we'll have our scanners on to detect any surprise attacks." He heard Chief Engineer Suárez say.
"Good," Blackwell responded. "How's our timing look, Hisato?"
"Just fine, Cap," she called from across the bridge. A lieutenant jogged up to the captains chair. Hayes recognized her, although only distantly. She held out a folder of papers.
"I have your notes for you, including the updated demands from the UN." She handed it off to Blackwell and scurried off. Hayes scowled, jealous of her special privileges, but chided himself. He blew any chance of promotion after sleeping in one too many times. Suddenly, a red light began to flash accompanied by a loud beeping. The bridge went silent. Blackwell ran her fingers through her hair.
"Alright, everybody, it's showtime." The crew members found their seats and Hayes lingered against the back wall. Blackwell was wearing a crisp military jacket and her hair was up in a tight bun. She was a representation of Earth's finest manpower, the embodiment of strength and poise. She tapped a button on her armrest to answer the transmission. The image of an alien hung in front of the crew via screen projector. The creature possessed six eyes and thick blue skin, but it wore a jacket unmistakably military.
"I am Rexanna Blackwell of Earth, captain of the ARES Battlecruiser" she declared. "Your occupation of the Cosmelia Theta colony is in direct defiance of the Galactic Peace Agreement of 2348, and will be considered a declaration of *war* unless immediate action is taken. We demand that all members of the Slaadoe species leave the planet without delay, and that all humans remain unharmed, or you will suffer the consequences of your reckless decision."
The alien was silent for a few seconds before bursting out laughing. The crew looked to one another with confusion. Blackwell continued forcefully, "We are armed with an arsenal of advanced and dangerous artillery. This is your last chance to comply-"
"Or what?" wheezed the alien, "You'll shoot us?" They laughed again. "Your blaster rifles couldn't even melt my butter." They turned to other aliens offscreen, "You hear that? The humans are mad at us."
"Wow, they're *so* scary," answered someone facetiously. The alien chuckled and turned back to us.
"It's cute to see you act all tough with your fancy ship and special guns," they jeered, mockingly wiggling three blue fingers at us, "but you'd better be heading on your way."
"Unless you agree to evacuate the planet immediately I will have no choice but to open fire," Blackwell growled. The alien rolled all six of it's eyes.
"Coming from a species that took two thousand years to invent the toaster, I'm not incredibly concerned. It should be obvious to you that you're outmatched."
"Humanity knows many languages, but it's native tongue is war," snarled Blackwell. "This is your last chance to cooperate."
"See you on the battlefield," sneered the alien. The transmission ended. Blackwell leaped up from her chair.
"Attention, we are now in a state of war. Fire the Atmovenom on my count." A handful of ensigns urgently tapped on their screens.
"Ready to fire," called Suárez.
"Three, two, one, fire."
Hayes heard a deep rumble emitting from the underside of the ship. The Slaadoes were a well equipped species. He knew they had laser-resistance shields, missile blockers, barrage defenses, all sorts of protective mechanisms on the planet below. But, they didn't expect rain.
Hurling through space towards Cosmelia Theta was a stream of liquid. Chemicals engineered to be harmless towards humans, but toxic to the hundreds of thousands of Slaadoes below. When exposed to oxygen within the atmosphere, it would turn to gas and choke the entire planet. There were no protocols for that.
"At our current trajectory, we'll complete rotation in eight hours," said Hisato.
"Perfect," answered Blackwell with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Begin preparations for landing, we'll touch down in twelve hours. Make sure to bring weapons, although I doubt we'll be seeing very many of them down there."
Hayes quietly left the bridge. His heart was pounding. This wasn't what war was supposed to feel like. It was cowardly to sit comfortably in orbit while the enemy suffocated below. But he was just a lieutenant, and he'd do as he was told. His hands trembled as he opened the door to his bunk. Earth was no longer just a wimpy planet of bumbling homosapiens. After today, the whole galaxy would know it.
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The Xio have magnificent music, so great that it soothes the molecules of their planet to their side. It appears to be magic, something out of a fairy tale. Their cultural and artistic ways would outshine Monet, Bach, Pollock, anything in any form.
The Yver know technology at birth. It is part of their species gestalt, and as the population grows, the collective whole grows. A toddler would find intuitive the remarks that Carl Sagan, Einstein would say. Mathematicians on their world would howl in laughter as we attempted to impress them with out equations. We would learn that many of the puzzles we have never solved are used as rudimentary exercises for their infants.
The PLnnar were the most like humans. Bipedal humanoids with four eyes, an extra thumb but only on the left hand with a sixth toe on the right foot. They were natural atheletes. They were the only species that evolved to grow around it's surroundings, exercising a caution that no other species faced. Imbalance was a sin, and the society, although small, were able to suffer through the worst of disasters.
Collectively, humans had no such talents. Inherently, humans were simply curious beings that had jumped onto the intergalactic radio and started yelling obscenities. It was a rude thing to realize that the noise you heard on the radio was yourself singing. Humans, despite their proud nature, had never felt so degraded.
And so the Spirit of Humanity sailed forth. It carried with it forty thousand men and women, sent out on a one way mission to meet the galaxy and all it's worth. We had never thought what it might achieve.
After several decades of silent communication, a second fleet was sent out. This time, two ships were sent, both equipped to handle thirty thousand for a total of sixty thousand individuals. A third fleet was sent out shortly with another set of ships, the population of the generation ships slowly building. The tradition of silent communication with those outside of Earth became a common thing, and those that embarked were always thought heroes.
Until the fatal day that the first fleet talked back.
To date, there had been 1,245,5440 people sent out into space as a colonization measure, diplomatic team or reconnaissance mission with no reply. But the reply that earth received all at once was simply, "We surrender."
It wasn't from the human colony ships. It was from the other races.
The Xio had no form of self defence. After a failure of communication and isolation from the local population, the colonists simply began terraforming the earth. Without recourse, any attempt to slow the progress of the humans was met with swift and powerful reactions of lead hitting flesh.
The Yver had understood the use of an atomic weapon and it's implications but never had to production to produce them en masse. They had a nominal defence structure in place that attempted to resist communication with humans. But even the rudimentary production of mass projectiles were beyond them.
The last humanoids never stood a chance. They were stronger, faster and possibly more intelligent than any individual human could have been. But faced with an imbalance of their environment, the populace turned to their baser instincts. Water supplies ran low and the women turned on their spouses. The children starved and the men hunted for prey. Livestock were empty and the rivers ran dry as the best form of warfare was simply to disrupt their way of living.
The universe, in all its specialisation, bowed before the knees of humanity. That was until humanity resumed its natural course.
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[WP] Humanity is known throughout the galaxy for being kind of shit at everything they do. But today, humanity launches its first spacefaring warship.
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There was no way of knowing what to expect, but Lt. Hayes felt a little better knowing his ship was equipped with 2 long-range cybermortars. This was his first excursion into space. For years Earth had committed to a peaceful presence in the solar system, but every gun, shield, and laser-guided missile in the ARES Battlecruiser was evidence that humanity was fed up with passivity. If you had told Hayes when he enlisted that he'd be stationed on Earth's first galactic warcraft, he'd have rolled his eyes. Now, he looked out from the ship's bay into an endless chorus of stars.
A broadcast over the intercom snapped him out of his thoughts. *Approaching Cosmelia Theta*, the Captain blared, *All hands at attention*. Hayes felt his stomach twinge with anticipation. He paced up to the bridge, passing dozens of crew members who seemed to share his jitters. Once there, he saw Captain Blackwell huddling with her team of officers as others were frantically dashing from screen to screen, jotting down numbers and fiddling with dials. Hayes tried to look busy; he knew he had no business being in the room but it was just too exciting to miss.
"Shields will be at full capacity, and we'll have our scanners on to detect any surprise attacks." He heard Chief Engineer Suárez say.
"Good," Blackwell responded. "How's our timing look, Hisato?"
"Just fine, Cap," she called from across the bridge. A lieutenant jogged up to the captains chair. Hayes recognized her, although only distantly. She held out a folder of papers.
"I have your notes for you, including the updated demands from the UN." She handed it off to Blackwell and scurried off. Hayes scowled, jealous of her special privileges, but chided himself. He blew any chance of promotion after sleeping in one too many times. Suddenly, a red light began to flash accompanied by a loud beeping. The bridge went silent. Blackwell ran her fingers through her hair.
"Alright, everybody, it's showtime." The crew members found their seats and Hayes lingered against the back wall. Blackwell was wearing a crisp military jacket and her hair was up in a tight bun. She was a representation of Earth's finest manpower, the embodiment of strength and poise. She tapped a button on her armrest to answer the transmission. The image of an alien hung in front of the crew via screen projector. The creature possessed six eyes and thick blue skin, but it wore a jacket unmistakably military.
"I am Rexanna Blackwell of Earth, captain of the ARES Battlecruiser" she declared. "Your occupation of the Cosmelia Theta colony is in direct defiance of the Galactic Peace Agreement of 2348, and will be considered a declaration of *war* unless immediate action is taken. We demand that all members of the Slaadoe species leave the planet without delay, and that all humans remain unharmed, or you will suffer the consequences of your reckless decision."
The alien was silent for a few seconds before bursting out laughing. The crew looked to one another with confusion. Blackwell continued forcefully, "We are armed with an arsenal of advanced and dangerous artillery. This is your last chance to comply-"
"Or what?" wheezed the alien, "You'll shoot us?" They laughed again. "Your blaster rifles couldn't even melt my butter." They turned to other aliens offscreen, "You hear that? The humans are mad at us."
"Wow, they're *so* scary," answered someone facetiously. The alien chuckled and turned back to us.
"It's cute to see you act all tough with your fancy ship and special guns," they jeered, mockingly wiggling three blue fingers at us, "but you'd better be heading on your way."
"Unless you agree to evacuate the planet immediately I will have no choice but to open fire," Blackwell growled. The alien rolled all six of it's eyes.
"Coming from a species that took two thousand years to invent the toaster, I'm not incredibly concerned. It should be obvious to you that you're outmatched."
"Humanity knows many languages, but it's native tongue is war," snarled Blackwell. "This is your last chance to cooperate."
"See you on the battlefield," sneered the alien. The transmission ended. Blackwell leaped up from her chair.
"Attention, we are now in a state of war. Fire the Atmovenom on my count." A handful of ensigns urgently tapped on their screens.
"Ready to fire," called Suárez.
"Three, two, one, fire."
Hayes heard a deep rumble emitting from the underside of the ship. The Slaadoes were a well equipped species. He knew they had laser-resistance shields, missile blockers, barrage defenses, all sorts of protective mechanisms on the planet below. But, they didn't expect rain.
Hurling through space towards Cosmelia Theta was a stream of liquid. Chemicals engineered to be harmless towards humans, but toxic to the hundreds of thousands of Slaadoes below. When exposed to oxygen within the atmosphere, it would turn to gas and choke the entire planet. There were no protocols for that.
"At our current trajectory, we'll complete rotation in eight hours," said Hisato.
"Perfect," answered Blackwell with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Begin preparations for landing, we'll touch down in twelve hours. Make sure to bring weapons, although I doubt we'll be seeing very many of them down there."
Hayes quietly left the bridge. His heart was pounding. This wasn't what war was supposed to feel like. It was cowardly to sit comfortably in orbit while the enemy suffocated below. But he was just a lieutenant, and he'd do as he was told. His hands trembled as he opened the door to his bunk. Earth was no longer just a wimpy planet of bumbling homosapiens. After today, the whole galaxy would know it.
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“Ten gloids they don’t make it off the ground.”
Inhret sighs through their eight stacked mandibles, “Baltrek, no one is taking that bet. And we can’t exchange gloids here, our armbanks aren’t compatible with Earth’s frequencies.”
Perching cross-limbed in the corner booth of an Earth diner, watching the newsreel flicker between updates of the launch and coverage of an armed assailant 30.2 kilometers west of there, Baltrek can only shrug in assent.
“Isn’t it sad, though,” he wonders idly, prodding at a soggy, fried root with his primary digit, “that our last chance to go home is riding on the competence of a species that tried to colonize three desolate moons in a decade?”
“In all fairness,” Inhret replies, mashing up their own meal with a metallic pronged utensil, to give it some modicum of edibility, “they’ve successfully colonized the first one. They just didn’t have the defenses to ward off a Keldrem invasion. I don’t think anyone besides the Veeldorae could have avoided it.”
“Veeldorae don’t *avoid* anything,” he snaps defensively, “we consider all outcomes, and choose the best course.”
A human approaches their table before Inhret can comment.
“*Did y’all want more Coke?*”
Their translators have long been out of commission, forcing them to attempt to adapt to human means of communication: a strange, voice reliant language throughout their entire planet. In most civilized corners of the universe, overuse of vocal chords is considered brutish, reserved for the uneducated and uncultured.
Baltrek, however, has a decent understanding, and Veeldorae have been known to make use of their voices in dire situations.
He attempts to respond, “*This,*” he says scratchily, indicating the chilled container with a pointer feather, “*has been carbon.*”
The human woman blinks, her matte brown membrane making her seem flat, her two dark eyes seem impenetrable, emotionless compared to the many-eyed species he’s comfortable with.
“*Yes,*” she concedes, with unreadable inflection, having no movement besides that of her mouth and her constantly blinking eyes, “*it’s a soda, sweetie. That’s where the fizz comes from.*”
Inhret can understand minimally by Baltrek’s movements, and from the context of their initial avoidance of Earth’s various establishments for food. They’ve never pointed it out, and they fear Baltrek may incite one of the more spontaneous overreactions that humans are known for. Most species are physical in peaceful moments, and vocal in moments of chaos or violence. Humans are the opposite; their physical inclinations in situations of stress or anger are unsettling to the many more learned intergalactic communities. Inhret tries to intercede through their preferred silent communication, but they’re drowned out by the grating, unfamiliar sounds of Baltrek’s vocal chords.
“*You wish that I consume,*” he struggles for the human equivalent of ‘fuel,’ “*the gas?*”
Her eyes widen suddenly, and she snaps her head to the side as though possessed by a Spratid, “*Georgia!*” she calls over her shoulder, and Baltrek has to shield his head from the sound waves with both wings, “*Did you serve soda to an Avian again?! You better know they ain’t gonna pass it by now, girl, you’re gonna blow somebody up some day!*”
She turns back just as swiftly, and though he can’t equate human behavior with calm to save his life, she is at least no longer opening her squishy beak in a screech.
“*I am so sorry about that, hon,*” she says slowly and too close now, like pouring melted sugar, so it burns his sound receptors, “*I’ll get y’all some decaf peach tea on the house. We’ll keep the ice on the side for ya, just in case.*”
She walks away, taking both untouched containers of fuel with her.
“Typical,” Baltrek scoffs, as she disappears through a swinging, metal portal.
Inhret agrees, patting his feathers with the back of their claw, “She at least is trying to make amends. Humans haven’t had much time to adjust to the different digestive systems of other sentient beings.”
“They *have* Avians on their Glydrforsaken planet!” he starts whistling and clicking in his fury, his six eyes pinning wildly, “The Avians we’re here *before* the humans! If they didn’t have their bald faces shoved so far up their cloacas-”
“There, now,” Inhret coos, pinching his shoulder gently in their dull, serrated grip, “calm yourself, Baltrek, we can leave, if you’re so upset.”
There’s a pause, where he stares out of the glass partition, between them and the masses milling past in slow-moving lines of rudimentary, wheeled groundcraft over a hot, tarry roadway. The system’s yellow dwarf star is the only thing he likes about it. Its warm rays shining down on the overabundance of metal constructs almost feels like the Reflective Grove he once called home. The trees further up the coast are almost as big as the ones he grew up in.
“No,” he finally clicks, defeated, “I don’t want to be trapped in that wooden box of a nest when the Keldrem finally invade this planet. Earth’s harsh gravity and weak turbucurrents already make flying impossible. I just don’t want to be inside that oppressive, underground Mel-hole when I die.”
“Mel-hole?” Inhret withdraws, affronted, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Baltrek starts to backpedal at his mistake, letting out a soft squawk in his haste to amend, “I have utmost respect for your people; I just can’t continue living below the surface.”
“I know what you meant, the slang is still unappreciated,” they hiss, miffed.
The humans around them arise, in sudden uproar, the cacophony so startling that Inhret jumps from their seat, hooked tail curving defensively over their head and Baltrek flaps his two under-sets of wings, his feathers bristling out, puffing up at the bases of his six lower limbs.
The source of the synchronized overemoting appears to be the image broadcaster, a human journalist covering a live recording of the launch and ensuing battle.
“Amazing,” Inhret gesticulates sardonically, “how they can watch their own go forth into slaughter with such enthusiasm.”
“Are you truly surprised?” Baltrek wonders.
He perceives with sudden dread, as the sound from the newsreel is augmented, and the image of the warship comes into view, the true source of the outrage.
“Inhret,” he clucks in utter shock, “that craft is not purely human design.”
“I see it,” they hiss back in terror.
He catches the last of the sound from the broadcast, before the humans, in their indomitable naïvety, begin to cheer:
*“-is truly a cause for celebration. After nearly two years of cold war, our intergalactic ambassadors have allied with the Keldrem Empirical Council, as of last year. As a show of intent toward further collaboration, the Council provided IAUCA (Interplanetary Aeronautics and Universal Colonization Administration) with their most recent design blueprints and enlisted more than two hundred of its most esteemed scientists and engineers to assist in a collaborative constr-”*
“The Keldrem don’t *have* allies,” Baltrek whistles lowly.
“No,” Inhret offers in return, “Never for long.”
**end**
Edits: grammar and I had to wiki some space stuff bc I am not sci-savvy 😰
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Just go wild with this one, I guess. I can’t come up with a better title.
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[WP] When a person reincarnates, they grow more resistant to whatever killed them in their previous lives.
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Have you ever wondered why your friend can touch a pan on the hot stove, stay underwater for a lot longer than you would think is possible, or take a beating in a fight and be fine the next day? Well, to keep it simple, they've adapted to it. Not in the sense that they've experienced it in their current form and have conditioned themselves to be more resilient. No, they've straight up died in a past life or two because of either drowning, dying in a fire or been beaten to death. And that very act has made them less susceptible to it.
Most people might not actively encounter the thing that ended one of their previous lives, certain diseases or poisons are a bit obscure, or aren't that noticeable. Now, my resilience modulus are weird, I must have been extremely unlucky, or been reincarnated so often that I may have experienced more than most, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.
I could share many accidents in my life where most people who aren't resilient would have easily died or been severely injured, but I've walked away with very minor injuries. For example, the time I was 7, and I got hit by a car while crossing the road on my way home from school. I remember the blinding agony and harrowing sounds of my body being contorted and rattled by the car. After the onlookers came around to cradle the possible dying child in their arms, I groaned and stood back up like I had just fallen over, just a scraped knee and bruised shoulder.
When my parents found out, they were equal parts relieved and horrified.
There was an endless sea of "you're so lucky that's your resilience" and "you could have easily been injured" with a few bursts of crying for good measure. It didn't really sink in how lucky I was, but then a trend started happening, at age 9 two friends and I went swimming in a river and I got caught in some rapids, they thought I would have drowned. But turns out I had a second resilience. Two or three resiliences wasn't too uncommon, but mine didn't stop there. Age 15, I would have been beaten within an inch of my life by a group of kids at my school. Long story short, I pissed off the wrong people by going out with one of their ex's and they were out for blood. They reasoned it to be "giving me something else to be resilient about", but they couldn't seem to let it take before some bystanders shooed them away.
Then, age 22, while I was making my way home from a bar, I was walking home. Despite it not being the best area to be in, I felt fairly safe, given the fact I had 3 kind of useful resiliences. That was until some down on his luck guy approached me, asking for my wallet with a knife in hand. My only plan was to get the knife away and hope he'd try beat me to death first. But that was short lived when he slashed at me and I raised my arms to minimise the damage to my more important areas. The wounds sprung up and jolted pain through me, but that was it, nothing else.
"You're resilient to getting stabbed? Man, fuck this." The mugger said in disdain.
Great, another resilience to add to the list, I thought.
Now, here I was at age 89, with most resiliences checked off, stabbing, bludgeoning/blunt force trauma, drowning, fire, falling, electrocution, anything cardiovascular, cyanide, snake venom, starvation, dehydration, and basically everything under the sun. But anything else not life threatening still weaved its way into my now withering frame. I was known for my many resiliences, but emotional resilience, was not there. After my wife of 40 years died almost a decade ago I felt broken and like everything had no meaning. I felt, for all intensive purposes, dead inside. The past 8 years had been excruciating, I was running out of things I wasn't resilient to.
I shook as I slide open the drawer to my bedside cabinet. Inside lay an object that was gathering dust, I slide the magazine into it, as well as I could with my swollen and arthritic hands. This is it, one of the last things I hadn't tried yet. It would make it harder for my next life, but maybe emotional resilience would also be added to the list as well. That would be more useful than any others I had accumulated in my life.
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I need to go, I need to hurry up. The queen needs more nutrition! We don't have much time, summer won't last long, I need to hurry up!
Terry took the route on the left, it is clear then, I should go that way too. I got quite the haul, a pure sweet crystal of brown. It is heavy, but I can carry it. If onl-
Hey, who took it from me? I need that, so whe di- Oh god, it is bigger than anything I have seen before. The things living here, they usually are not this big, and usually are not that menacingly. Wait, it is still looking at me- Why am I still here? I need to get something for the queen, if I turn around I co-
Oh god, that was close! This thing almost crushed me! I need to get out ASAP. Forget the nutrition, I need to get to safety- Under there! He can't possibly hit me, he is too big to get there, isn't he? So, I need to think where I go now. He might get bored, or try something. I need to get away somewhere. Perhaps the wall is...
Oh, crap. The being moved the cover I had. But it is so resilient, how did it move the protection I had? Is it that strong? Wait, I should get out be-
It is too late. It's foot is coarsing towards me, with speed I could not hope to match. I won't get out, this is the end for me. Farewell, hive... I hope you can make it without me...
...
...No. I can hold it! I can hold it off, keep it locked in this standoff! Somehow, in some way, I feel as if I could lift the world! Yes, I can survive if I jus-
Andrey comes in. Oh fuck, why is Andrey here? If he is here, I can't leave this giant alone, he'll go for Andrey next.
"Andrey! Get out!" I yell.
Andrey looks in disbelief. "You can lift the human? Ho-"
"Get out!" I cry with all my might I have. Thankfully, Andrey turns around and leaves where he came from. I take my attention to the human, as Andrey called it. He looks at me in disbelief, trying frantically to grasp a can on the table.
He'll try to crush not only me once I let go. He'll try to get the others, Andrey, Jacob, Terry, even our queen! I can't let that happen, not if I have a say in it. And taking my situation, there is a way I can prevent it.
I turn my attention to the human. "Giand of Humanity, today you have met your match! If I can't prevent you from harming my friends, I will have to take you out with all I got! Any last words?"
He didn't even regard what I said, blabbing something incoherently as he frantically flails around. But it is too late, both for him, and for me.
I put in all my might, and throw him. I use my left energy to overpower him, and I feel something clearly wrong in my arm. Yep, it must have snapped, no matter! I managed to throw him off balance, and the disaster dominoes begins.
Yes, the giant trips to the side, and collides with the table he tried to reach so clearly. His head sports some red liquid, and his neck twists wrongly. Finally, shaking the ground as he does so, he impacts besides me. His eyes are open, but unresponsive, unacting. I did it... I saved them.
Oh well, I feel tired. I should... maybe take a rest... go to sleep. They are safe, they can get me later...
***
Somewhere in New Hampshire, a child has it's first thought. "I hate ants!"
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Just go wild with this one, I guess. I can’t come up with a better title.
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[WP] When a person reincarnates, they grow more resistant to whatever killed them in their previous lives.
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Have you ever wondered why your friend can touch a pan on the hot stove, stay underwater for a lot longer than you would think is possible, or take a beating in a fight and be fine the next day? Well, to keep it simple, they've adapted to it. Not in the sense that they've experienced it in their current form and have conditioned themselves to be more resilient. No, they've straight up died in a past life or two because of either drowning, dying in a fire or been beaten to death. And that very act has made them less susceptible to it.
Most people might not actively encounter the thing that ended one of their previous lives, certain diseases or poisons are a bit obscure, or aren't that noticeable. Now, my resilience modulus are weird, I must have been extremely unlucky, or been reincarnated so often that I may have experienced more than most, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.
I could share many accidents in my life where most people who aren't resilient would have easily died or been severely injured, but I've walked away with very minor injuries. For example, the time I was 7, and I got hit by a car while crossing the road on my way home from school. I remember the blinding agony and harrowing sounds of my body being contorted and rattled by the car. After the onlookers came around to cradle the possible dying child in their arms, I groaned and stood back up like I had just fallen over, just a scraped knee and bruised shoulder.
When my parents found out, they were equal parts relieved and horrified.
There was an endless sea of "you're so lucky that's your resilience" and "you could have easily been injured" with a few bursts of crying for good measure. It didn't really sink in how lucky I was, but then a trend started happening, at age 9 two friends and I went swimming in a river and I got caught in some rapids, they thought I would have drowned. But turns out I had a second resilience. Two or three resiliences wasn't too uncommon, but mine didn't stop there. Age 15, I would have been beaten within an inch of my life by a group of kids at my school. Long story short, I pissed off the wrong people by going out with one of their ex's and they were out for blood. They reasoned it to be "giving me something else to be resilient about", but they couldn't seem to let it take before some bystanders shooed them away.
Then, age 22, while I was making my way home from a bar, I was walking home. Despite it not being the best area to be in, I felt fairly safe, given the fact I had 3 kind of useful resiliences. That was until some down on his luck guy approached me, asking for my wallet with a knife in hand. My only plan was to get the knife away and hope he'd try beat me to death first. But that was short lived when he slashed at me and I raised my arms to minimise the damage to my more important areas. The wounds sprung up and jolted pain through me, but that was it, nothing else.
"You're resilient to getting stabbed? Man, fuck this." The mugger said in disdain.
Great, another resilience to add to the list, I thought.
Now, here I was at age 89, with most resiliences checked off, stabbing, bludgeoning/blunt force trauma, drowning, fire, falling, electrocution, anything cardiovascular, cyanide, snake venom, starvation, dehydration, and basically everything under the sun. But anything else not life threatening still weaved its way into my now withering frame. I was known for my many resiliences, but emotional resilience, was not there. After my wife of 40 years died almost a decade ago I felt broken and like everything had no meaning. I felt, for all intensive purposes, dead inside. The past 8 years had been excruciating, I was running out of things I wasn't resilient to.
I shook as I slide open the drawer to my bedside cabinet. Inside lay an object that was gathering dust, I slide the magazine into it, as well as I could with my swollen and arthritic hands. This is it, one of the last things I hadn't tried yet. It would make it harder for my next life, but maybe emotional resilience would also be added to the list as well. That would be more useful than any others I had accumulated in my life.
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Everyone starts out with a blank slate. As vulnerable as a newborn babe to whatever so decides to take a strike at them. The one's that seem to die from the most mundane things, like tripping and cracking their head open, rather than just skinning a knee; like getting the flu, and having their entire immune system shut down. They seem to be the unluckiest, but in truth, they are no more unlucky than the rest of us.
Some have been around a while, experienced death enough times to be able to survive a fall, or pull through from a potentially lethal snake bite; or go a round or two with cancer and come out with a cough. Those of whom some might call lucky, or maybe just survivors; those which have simply beaten the system with unknown experience.
In the end though, there is something we can never get used to. Those of us that have been here the longest, have died enough times, suffered enough so that the will to survive is imprinted on their very *souls*. They are the ones who Death can't touch with outside influences; they are the ones who pass away peacefully in their sleep after all they have unknowingly suffered. The ones who people don't look at much, for simply living and dying peacefully; called boring, when they have experienced and suffered more than all of us.
Everyone starts out with a blank slate, and nobody seems to appreciate experience.
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Just go wild with this one, I guess. I can’t come up with a better title.
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[WP] When a person reincarnates, they grow more resistant to whatever killed them in their previous lives.
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The first time was a truck. A really big one. You know the ones that carry oil or something? Yeah, one of those.
On my second life I burned. I was just a baby back then but still, fire is fire. So unlucky it was fire and some impact related accident. I'd have survived the latter.
My third life was quite eventful. Apparently once you are born you remember all previous ones until childhood amnesia kicks in. For my third incarnation it didn't.
Yup, that was a lucky life. Since I remembered everything I'd lived in past lives I had a real advantage. Especially since my first journey through life had me becoming an astrophysics professor at some point. So during third life school was easy as fuck.
Seeing as I was more or less immune to impacts of the full-speed-truck scale and fire my third time in Earth was filled with extreme shit. I raced, I jumped from high places, I "risked my life" in otherwise impossible stunts and heists. I became rich and was really living the dream. Alas, I was not immune to diseases. Yet.
Cancer, AIDS, diabetes. You name it. During the fourty odd years of my third life I got 'em all. In the end they killed me. I didn't really care about death. I knew that my next chance would have me being immune to these things. But the pain. The pain and suffering was AATRGH. So fucking unbearable.
On July 5, 1981 I was born again. Which was weird since my third birth was in 1995 and so far I'd always be a male. This time I was a female and as it turned out a real looker.
Minor fun fact: Life number four had me being born in Greece. The other times? England. So hooray to me for instantly knowing a language despite being a newborn.
Minor fun fact number two: Once childhood amnesia doesn't happen to you it stops affecting you.
So I lived my fourth life in sin. I'm not gonna sugar-coat things. I was a slut. But that didn't mean I was a bad person. I just knew how to have fun.
My sexual life asides I derived and learnt in total five other languages. I studied abroad and could proudly tell I'd fucked a guy or two from all fifty one states of America.
In the end I became a trophy wife and after getting bored with daily life, I cougared my son's friends. But that's another story. This life ended with me being poisoned from my husband.
The next lives were more or less banal. I lived my way through life, each time getting more power ups and amassing more knowledge. Once or twice I was even reborn as someone who had grown to be famous. Sometimes the paradox happened and two of me would live at the same time. Hey even if it was weird that gave a whole different meaning to "fuck yourself".
But what changed everything was life #665 give or take a year or two. For the first time in what I believe was eternity... I died from old age.
Life #666 (or #664-668) is my current one. To be honest I don't remember how long I have lived. I'm immortal, nearly godlike due to my knowledge and also immune to so many things I might as well me an actual God.
Oh! I've had so much fun during all those millenias. I remember back when I used to call myself Prometheus. Poor people didn't understand fire that well back then. I allowed myself to help them.
Oh! One time I went and burned down this city I was ruling over. What was its name? Rum, room... AH ROME!
OR... OR THE TIME I USED 35TH CENTURY CHEMISTRY TO CHANGE SOME WATER TO WINE.!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.
Yup. Immortality is fun.
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How many times must one die to become a god?
I don't know. But after 44 deaths, I've become too hard to stop by anyone you'd call normal.
And there's an awful lot of normal in this world.
All the typical ways to kill a man don't even slow me down anymore.
I've been shot many times, many calibers and gauges and poundages. Yes, that includes cannonballs.
44 lives is a long time. Even if some were only into their 20's.
Disease is a distant memory for me.
Poison too.
Drowning? Nah. Three lifetimes ago I just waited until I sank to the bottom and trudged to shore. That was hell in itself, the way my lungs burned and my body ached.
Electrocution was a more novel one.
Conflagration, was my first. Talk about an old flame, eh?
Old age got me last time.
Stabbed, smothered, choked, dismembered, defenestrated...
All done.
And a few more novel ways.
I realized as I got tougher to kill, how great a hero I could be.
So here I am.
Except after 45 times walking this earth, what I stand for is not what you stand for.
As I stand in this hall... This house to represent the people... you stare at the box before me.
You wonder why I'm here, why the doors are barred. Why the guards are broken and beaten around me.
Because I am here to bring the will of the people back to this hall.
Not the ones that paid you to sell us out.
I represent the people you conned into electing you.
In this box is death. One none of us will walk away from.
Except me. I will right what has gone wrong.
My old flame, heh, will cleanse this hall of the corruption that has festered for generations.
As I turn this key, if you believe in a higher power, I suggest you reach out to them for mercy.
For with the fury of the atom, I will show you none.
I will be a hero... a monster... a god.
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[WP] Everyone prepared for a zombie apocalypse; the werewolf apocalypse caught people by surprise.
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The warnings were wrong. Sure, we got everything boarded up, but that was when the threat moved at an elderly pace and went down from a baseball bat to the dome. Had we known to invest in silver and military style combat training, we might be better off.
I'll never forget when I learned what I'd be up against for essentially the rest of my life. The WHO knew about one in four people would get infected once the disease went airborne. You can imagine how our little family of four felt all those days leading up to The Spreading. There was a lot more science behind all of their estimates. I'll spare you the details because in hindsight, it means nothing. All that mattered was that I was probably going to have to kill some people very close to me, and that's if I didn't end up brain dead.
Midnight struck. The Spreading had arrived. It's hard to say if there was an official beginning, like some kind of score board timer starting. I hadn't slept for days. Whiskey and coffee became my new vice. It kept me both alert and numb. Around 3am, I made my way to our kitchen and started pouring my potion. My sister was reading at the kitchen table. That's when I heard it. My sister started dry heaving. She looked at me with a look I'll never forget. It was fear, grief, and acceptance all wrapped into one. Truth be told, I don't think she would've lasted in this new world. I don't think she wanted to last. With tears flowing she looked me right in the eyes.
"Do what you have to do. I love you," she was sobbing.
At this point Mom and Dad were in the kitchen too. No one was sleeping in a time like this. We hugged but not for long. We always were a practical family. I went to grab my baseball bat. Nothing fancy. Not yet anyway. I took a stance and mentally prepared to bash my sister's skull in. I was strangely calm, again, we always were practical. As her gagging got worse, her skin changed color but not to a color I would've imagined. It was grey with little white dots and stripes, almost like a brindle scheme.
What happened next will forever be burned deep inside my brain. Almost instantly after her new skin tone took over her body, hair started sprouting and quickly. Before we knew it, she had no remaining resemblance to the sister I once knew. It lifted its head to reveal a snout and black eyes. With its new ears perched up, it showed its fangs. These canines were as long as my pinky. My sister went from being a 5'3 blonde cheerleader to a 7 foot monster with muscle tone and fur.
"What in the fuck is happening to her?" My mom shrieked.
She was frozen in fear. Is this a werewolf, I thought to myself. It wasn't a totally insane thought. Last year, zombies were complete fiction, and yet I've been spending the last few months preparing for the apocalypse. Turning towards the dining room, I remembered we actually had silver knives and silver dishes. By this point my sister was a full blown beast. I darted towards the dining room, grabbing the closest knife and ran back towards the kitchen. I was too late. It had my mother's head in its mouth. Crushing her skull, while painting the floor red. Fight or flight was kicking in. My dad, still frozen, was next. The beast lunged at him, but I managed to meet it halfway, stabbing the knife through its thick jugular. It went down but with a little fight left. A few more stabs to the head would do the trick.
We went west. Word was that The Spreading started on the east coast and was making its way across the US, but who really knows. Information is unreliable. A few radio broadcasts went out for the first couple of days, but since then its been dead air. No one knows if all the rules of werewolves apply, but silver for sure kills them. I have been too afraid to try anything else. My method is the preferred method. If ain't broke don't fix, right? We managed to make some bayonet rifles with our dining room's silver knives. The bullets only slow them down, so its imperative to wound them, then cut the throat.
So far, it's been about a week. I haven't been hungry due to adrenaline and I'm still not sleeping. Who could? We know so little about what we're up against and quite frankly, I'm amazed we've stayed alive this long just by camping out in houses we find along the way. You can hear their howls in the middle of the night, and a couple of nights we've caught them preying on stray dogs and cats, ripping them in half like paper. I could have dealt with zombies. At least we had some sort of advantage.
My dad has barely spoken. It's been difficult watching the person who taught me everything I know in shambles. A shell of what he once was. It was never in his nature to show fear, but for once, I question his will to go on. I question my own.
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The virus shows no significant symptoms. A few light fever, following by eye bleeding, everyone thought it has stopped there.
Things turned out not that simple.
When the first full moon came after the incident, on the night, the White House shut all of its light. A convoy of government office moved all the officers out of it with heavily armed vehicles, even with a tank
" They are coming " Lieutenant Sanders said. " Ready for battle, ladies, this is the final night of the year."
Suddenly a black shadow flashed over the gunner on the AFV, dragged him to the road and tore him apart. Gun started to flash, shells started to fall, creating a huge chaotic symphony of blood, lead and moonlight.
An orchestra of death.
The creatures looking directly at the main car of the convoy,howled into a fearsome sound. The sound of social connection, it was calling their allies. The black feet then started to move, these eyes were staring from these skyscrappers windows. A group of five more werewolf attack from behind and above the convoy, trying to tear the defense apart. These cannons keep spitting the bullets, yet there were more and more to come. After knocking them back, they backed to standing. And more, more of them to come.
The night were long. And so, the howling.
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[WP] In the animal realm it is believed that if you save a human, it will grant you three wishes.
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Bruno paced the floor in a small circle before lying down, dejectedly. The rain was hammering down, and the roof of his dog-house was shoddy, letting in big drops of rain that pelted him continuously. He let out a high-pitched whine that did nothing to stop the rain, and closed his eyes to try to go to sleep.
"Why are you sad?" came a small voice just above Bruno's furry head. He looked in the direction of the voice and saw a a spider in the corner of the dog-house. He laid his head back down, miserable.
"I saved my small human's life today. I thought they reward you for that, but they shouted at me, they got angry and dragged me out here. I don't understand," Bruno replied to his tiny companion.
The little creature scurried down the wall of the dog-house and moved next to Bruno's paw. "It's a lie," he said. "My mate saved a human; caught a Stinger that was planning on attacking it. Human saw my mate and crushed her. No wishes for her, only death."
Bruno pondered the spider's words for a moment, churning them over in his mind. "Maybe the human didn't know your mate saved their life. My humans know what I did, but they're angry." He whined again; it was cold in the dog-house, his fur wasn't thick enough to block out the harsh wind, and he was soaked.
"Well, maybe they *don't* know. What did you do?"
"Small human was playing fetch with me outside. Her name's Annie. We were playing for a while, and I smelled a stranger human. He smelled like nervous and bad, I didn't like him, but I didn't do anything. Sometimes stranger humans come into the house and family humans like them, so I learn to not react straight away. I watched him walk over to Annie while I was getting my ball and speak to her. She took his hand and he started to walk away from the house with her, so I attacked him." He felt angry again as he relived it all in his head, and he let out a soft growl. "I bit him many times."
"Humans didn't see the saving part. Only attacking," the spider answered.
Bruno was unconvinced. "Annie would tell them," he responded, shivering in the cold.
Suddenly he heard the garden door slide open. His ears pricked up and he lifted up his head; alert, hopeful, nervous. He listened to the multiple footsteps. "Humans!" he told his spider friend, his tail wagging slightly.
The gentle voice of his father-human called to him from outside. "Bruno, come on, boy. Come on!"
Immediately, Bruno dashed outside into the fierce cold and rain, but he didn't care. He ran straight to his father-human, tail wagging so hard that it was making his butt wiggle. He was greeted with a pat on the head and a quick scratch behind the ear. Bruno was so distracted by their reunion that he didn't notice the other humans until he caught their smell. Looking to the side, he saw two humans in shiny jackets and strange hats. *Are these the wish-granters?* Bruno thought, excitedly. They'd forgiven him! Or better yet, Annie had told them about the bad human and they'd come to grant him his wishes after all. He glanced back at his dog-house to see if his spider friend was watching, that now he knew the wishes weren't a lie.
The three humans all mumbled an incoherent stream of words while his father-human gently scratched behind his ear again, while holding his collar with the other hand. One of the shiny humans placed a slip-lead around his neck and said, "Come on, boy," tugging on the lead.
Reluctantly, Bruno followed the shiny humans out of the back gate and into a van. *Is this where I make my wishes?* he thought, confused, as the engine rumbled.
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I'm not entirely sure how I got here. Michael has been my best friend since as long as I can remember. I've lived with him, I've chased girls with him, we hang out together every day, we eat together, I've seen all of his failed relationships, I'm happy to be a part of his current successful one, he knows all of my relationships, he helps me fight my enemies, and I would fight to the death against his. We are a good team.
But as much as things stay the same, things change. Subtly, surreptitiously, the enthusiasm shared between each other, the enthusiasm of life is sucked down into an abyss where you can witness the spiral but can never touch it again.
Sarah is good girl. She's always been nice to me, she always says hi. She's very affectionate and talks to me when Michael is there or if he is not. But she's taken him away from me. Our friendship has become an after thought in the wake of their romance. No one wants to admit it, but I know it.
I can't leave. I sometimes think of it but its a sacrilege. As Michael tells it, ever since the day I saved him, he saved me. We are one, forever, because there is no bond in this world more sacred than ours. I believe that. But sometimes its hard to swallow that belief in the face of evidence otherwise.
I'm older now, and so is Michael. Lately, I've converted my boredom, and the dread of loneliness from Michael's neglect, into new ventures.
There is this fox neighboring us. She is young. I know, it's not right. It's immoral, it's illegal, and it's just plain not right. She is like me. Trapped in her prison of loneliness. I can tell. We watch each other often from the iron bars of our window. We understand each other although we've never spoken. I get excited waiting at the window for her to come to hers. She's my forbidden fruit.
Often I've tried to get closer but I get drawn away. Not today. Today, I'm on my own. Michael is out, he's been gone a long while, Sarah stops by periodically to check on me and keep me company. Michael has always returned when he's gone but I can never shake the feeling that he will never come back. How much do I torment myself with the absence of my *brother*? How long do I continue to rely on my sole connection to life and harmony? I've always have, but today is the day for something new. Today is my day and my day alone. I will not be shackled by society and it's expectations, I will not be imprisoned by my love of Michael. I walked out of the house, and entered my neighbor's backyard.
I could see her at the window growing anxious. I wonder if her roommates are home. I walk up to the door and look for signs of entry. There's a small door cut into the door for pets to enter and exit. I'm far too big for it but I try.
I put my arms and my head into the door. I can *smell* her.
I start wiggling my body and the edges of the door grind into my bones. Each bone, each muscle, squirm their way one after the other, until my legs are the only things left. I push myself through and tumble onto the kitchen floor.
She sees me, she rises up on her feet and hisses in excitement. I don't think she is as happy to see me as I. But she will be.
I walk up to her and she runs. I chase her. We run in circles around tables and furniture. She is exhausted. I pounce on top of her. Her hair is so soft. I lick her face while keeping my weight on top of her. She is wriggling and punching me as hard as she could. It is useless on her part. I have my way with her. It's been forever. I've never been with another. It feels so good. She keeps on fighting. I'm an animal now. Thrashing with her, I'm biting on her, and I think I bit too hard.
Once I finished, the bloody mess looked very different to me. I knew I was in trouble. I had killed her. I thought about leaving but that wasn't right. I waited. When her roommates arrived, I begged and pleaded for forgiveness. I pleaded for them to let me go. Instead they locked me in, I thought about escaping through the rear but they blocked it. The police arrived next and handcuffed me.
They took me down to the station. They muzzled me like an animal. There was no interrogation. They called me a monster. Filthy vermin. I was not a living thing, but an object to throw tar at. They dragged me away and down the halls to the executioner's table. No trial! No discussion! Not a chance to tell my side of the tale!
"Am I not a living thing?!" I yelled for all to hear. "Am I not breathing, feeling, loving, hating, *dying*, like the rest of you? Do I not deserve basic rights of liberty, and decency? Would you wish your friends, your lovers, your *children* to be treated like mere *animals*?" I am whimpering now, screaming at the top of my lungs. Looking into the eye of every one of my captors. "No. I'm not the animal. *You are* the animal! Only animals condemn without thought, only animals kill without justice. I am a friend, I am a brother, I have a mother who I love, I have a father who I knew little of but I have one! I have felt the same feelings you have felt, and I have sinned just like *every one of you*. Just like it will be for you, in the end, you are not my judge, I will be judged by only the one."
That moment, they put the syringe into my arm, into my vein, like any common death row inmate, and I died. 70 years after I was born. I was born on the day I met Michael, he was a depressive mess, and he never forgot to remind me that I saved his life the day he met me. I gave him hope to live, I inspired him to do better just a little at a time. He gave me my three wishes, a home, the love of another, and endless adventure.
---
Michael came home after a two week business trip to a quiet house. He opened his door, dragged his luggage in and placed it along the wall. As he finished he was overcome with a feeling of dread. For the first time in as long as he can remember, his best friend and roommate, Roger, did not greet him.
"Michael?" Sarah called from the living room.
Michael walked over. "Yes?" He saw Sarah standing with tufts of soiled tissue in her hands. She is red in the face and has been crying.
"What's wrong?" Michael asked.
She starts to cry again, tears trailing down already pre-built paths.
"Sarah, WHAT'S WRONG?" Michael asks again.
She starts to wail and walks over to him, she buries her head into his chest.
"Sarah, where's Roger?"
He sits down on the couch still holding her in his chest. She is sniffling and whimpering. She looks up at him with red-veined eyes, swollen cheeks, and salty residue all over her face.
"They took him Michael. They killed him. They killed Roger!"
"What do you mean? What the FUCK are you talking about?"
"Your dog Michael, your dog! They took your dog and killed him!"
"Who? Who took him?"
Sarah sat up. "Animal control. He got out of the house somehow. He got into the neighbor's house somehow and killed their cat."
"The fucking kitten?"
"Yes... It tried to stop them, but by the time I arrived at the shelter they euthanized him."
"Goddamn it..." Michael said as he buried his head into his hands. His anger mixed with his lament over his best friend lost. They've been together for over 10 years. Roger was getting old, and he was acting up, but he didn't think it would turn out this way.
Sarah rested her head on Michael's lap, trying to get over her crying episode. He looked at her and appreciated having her in his life. *This is the woman I will marry*, he thought. He looked into her eyes and she looked into his. He played with her hair.
"Wanna get something to eat?" He asked.
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
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"What do you mean youve found a cave in the midlands? With the soil composition there that should be impossible!" Joseph sat at his desk listening to the phone in disbelief.
"It has some sort of carved door you say?" This piqued his interest, "Where did you say you found this cave? Near Lincoln? Isn't Lincoln a city? Oh urban developement uncovered the entrance to the cave, that would make sense." Joseph took down the adress for this mysterious cave and set off from his small office in the North of England.
As Joseph neared the excavation site he began to have a sinking feeling in his stomach, though he tried to ignore it dismissing it as lack of food. When he pulled into the parking lot of the site a young dark skinned Indian man strolled over to greet him. "Of course" he though "Sai wouldnt miss this for the world."
"Sai how are you today?" greeted Joseph "I suprised to see you all the way out here."
Sai smiled and stuck out his hand to Joseph, giving him a firm handshake.
"Really you would have expected me to miss a discovery like this? Not for anything my friend." replied Sai with a jovial tone.
"Come let me show you the ccave and this mysterious door." He said while gesturing for Joseph to follow him into the site itself.
Joseph began following Sai, and coming up over the small hill at the end of the lot he saw it. The entrance to the excacvation was a large sink hole. The sink hole had about 15 men surrounding it trying to tow an excavator that had been swallowed out. Sai turned to Jospeh and explained that the sink hole had opened under the excavator after a freak rain storm. Joseph aknowledged but deep down he had a bad feeling about the whole thing, the feeling of dread that he had about this had began to get worse. Joseph turned to Sai saying:
"Have you noticed anything particularly unusual about this excavation?"
Sai turned to him with a concerned look on his face saying:
"No, this has been a fairly routine dig, why? Are you feeling ok you look a little pale?"
"No, no im fine" replied Jospeh, "I just have a funny feeling about this whole excavation, I think we should maybe take it slow."
"My friend you are paranoid, this may be one of the most impoortant discoveries in english history and you want to take it slow? Hahaha, we will be fine my friend!" Sai replied jovially, helping to ease some of Joseph's anxiety.
The pair descended into the cave, deeper and deeper, until they were probably around 20ft underground. There a small door sat. It was only about 2ft tall and 3ft wide, almost as though built for a child. The door itself was covered in elaborate carvings in an unusual writing.
"have you been able to identify the writing on the door Sai?" Joseph asked.
"No, but it seems to be a mix of nordic symbols and a form of chinese script. I am still trying to find somebody to translate it for me." answered Sai.
"Interesting, I'll have to take a close look at these after I take a rubbing of it." Joseph said while scratching his chin.
"All in good time." answered Sai "For now we should focus on opening this door without damaging the tomb. Why dont you help me look for a handle or release around this chamber."
With that Sai and Joseph began looking around the chamber for a release. Sai began feeling around the door, while Joseph turned his attention to the opposite wall. The wall had a large thing crack that went from the floor to the ceiling. Joseph shined his light at the crack and saw something shimmering in the crack. He brought his light close to the crack to hopefully be able see what was in there. All this time he had a strange compulsion to reach his hand in the crack and push the object, and he finally gave into the curiosity and pressed the stone. As soon as he did the door began to his and thousands of years worth of dust was ejected from the sides of the door. Sai jumped back startled and coughing from the dust.
"Dammit Joseph, why didnt you give me a warning?" Sai squeaked out between the coughs, "You just scared me half to death doing that!"
"Im sorry," Joseph replied half heartedly, "I saw something and just had to press it."
Sai continued to rant at Joseph, but Joseph was too focussed on the chamber he had just opened. He laid down on his stomach and began crawling slowly at first but with an increasing urgency until he emerged in a small chamber. As he stood up in the chamber and began toi dust himself he noticed a small figure in the center of the room. He shined his light on the figure only to realize it was a child! How did a child get into a chamber sealed for what had to have been thousands of years! Jospeh yelled to Sai that he had found something he needed to see, and Sai came crawling through the small passage to meet him. When Sai saw the young boy he could not beileve his own eyes. He walked over to the boy cautiously, and slowly reached a hand out to the boy's neck to see if he by some miracle had a pulse.
"My god Jospeh, this boy has a pulse!" Exclaimed Sai, "By god i thought only murders lived longer though!"
"How could a young boy live this long then? There is no way he killed enough people to sustain himself like this!" Joseph said in disbelief.
"No matter, we need to get this boy some medical attention!" Sai said with a passion.
Jospeh and Sai, gingerly began hauling the young boy back to the site. They called for an ambulance. When the EMT's arrived they ran IV's to get fluids into the young boy and rushed him to the hospital. Jospeh and Sai rode in the bck in silent disbelief of the whole situation.
When the pair arrived at the hospital the boy was in bad condition and it took many days for the doctors theer to final get him healthy enough for him to wake up. When he awoke however he was delusional, with an extremely high fever and black boils began to devolope on his skin. The doctors ran tests on the boy and found only one disease that could match, the black plague. Joseph and Sai heard the news and rushed striaght to the hospital to not only be checked but to talk to the doctor about what they had uncovered. The doctor had but one thing to say to them,
"What have you done?"
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"Another body, a fresh one."
Excitement fell into horror as pipeliners found their little archeological prize was more like a mass grave left behind by El Chapo. Horror then fell into concern when they found this corpse, perhaps 50, wasn't a corpse at all. Critically emaciated, unable to speak or move on his own, his hair and nails were impossibly long.
All it took was one. One life taken in the cave, then another useless husk cast from 15000 feet. Understanding flooded in, a lifetime's collection of physics, chemistry, psychology, prose, history... in thousands of years all of it lost and rediscovered.
Hospital staff were hopeless to keep curious cops off the helipad, determined to prosecute those responsible and with no regard for the man's safety from the ravaging public, just as eager to get a word. Chaos everywhere, this is where the man thrived. Innocent lives taken and bodies trampled. Everyone amazed at the speed of recovery, nobody stopped to notice the wake of destruction.
"How did you survive being buried alive?"
"Not by blade or bullet," he started "but with bare hands."
He realized as he spoke the difficulty of the language. He would need more... experience... before he could convincingly snark. His nurse laughed nervously and asked about his family. It was impossible to distinguish which memories were his and which were consumed. He admitted he couldn't remember his family or who had sealed him in. Surely they were all dead by now anyway. The nurse put on the most contorted face and rushed from the room. It was only a matter of time, he realized, before they discovered the age of his last victims...
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
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"Do you know where you are?" the man in the white robe asked.
"απελευθερώστε με, θνητό, και ο θάνατός σας θα είναι λιγότερο επώδυνος" I replied.
"Where are you from?" the man asked, again.
"θα σπάσω τα οστά σας, ένα προς ένα, μέχρι να ζητήσετε την απελευθέρωση του θανάτου..."
The man touched his ear and spoke, perhaps he was in pain from hearing our threats. His face, however, did not show pain. Perhaps he did not hear me.
"Είμαι Αγαμέδες! Είμαι ο μόνος αληθινός μαθητής του Απόλλωνα! Έχω καταπλήξει το γάλα χίλιων ζωών και θα σάλπιζα τα εσωτερικά σου να τρέφονται με την κατσίκα μου!"
"Sir, he's not speaking anything I know. It sounds vaguely Greek? Could we get a translator in here?" the man in the white robe spoke, still touching his ear.
Perhaps he was mad. Perhaps the gods had banished him to a realm where men listen to voices who aren't there. But wasn't that the same for us? Had we not brought an entire village into the cave? Did we not seal off the entrance? Why? Why had we done this?
It was the voice that came to us in the night. When the moon was high over head and the goats were asleep in their pens. It showed us milk flowing from the rocks, deep inside that cave. Each sip tasted sweet and purifying.
It was that voice that told us how to make the rocks weep. So we devised a plan.
"Yes, sir, I understand. No - he's sitting here quietly, looking at me," the white-robed man said, looking at us.
The villagers were peaceful. They...we...had no sword or spear. We farmed and raised goats. Our trees bore the fruit of Damascus. The only weapon we had were the blades used to cut the throats of goats.
"Sir...sir. Yes, you, listen to me," the man was now talking to us. "We will get a translator here soon, and you will answer our questions" the man said, the vague threat of anger rising in his voice.
"δεν με τρομάζεις, παιδί," I replied.
The man stood up and left. The door of iron closed behind him. My shackles were tight. I did not expect to be bound in this foreign dwelling, threatened by priests in white robes that were fat like sows in autumn.
The villagers huddled together like frightened children. The men came together to devise a plan. They stroked their beards as they spoke of digging their way out. They knew that it was only a matter of time before their breaths would grow short and their strength fled their arms.
We worked tirelessly, digging away at the clay and dirt - moving stones the weight of a man. Slowly we were making progress. But the voice came to me, once again.
The door opened again - the priest in the white robe was followed by a man dressed in strange clothing. Cords and symbols adorned his clothes. Atop his head a covering of white.
"Ask him who he is and what he was doing in that cave," the priest spoke loudly, pointing his fat finger at my face.
The strangely dressed man sat across from me. His brown eyes searched mine - studying my face. He looked familiar, like he could be a cousin or neighbor.
"πως σε λένε?" asked the strangely dressed man.
Could it be true? Did this man speak my words? It has been so long since we've had another to speak open and freely to.
"τι κάνατε σε εκείνο το σπήλαιο?" he asked me.
"Δοκίμασα το γάλα του Απόλλωνα! Μου έδωσε τη δύναμη και τις ψυχές του χωριού μου! Αλλά δεν ήταν εύκολο, βλέπετε. Έπρεπε να τους κρατήσω ζωντανό αρκετά. Οι άνδρες πήγαν πρώτοι. Ήταν πολύ απειλητική, βλέπετε. Κατάφερα είτε να τους σφυρηλατήσω, όσο και να κοιμούνται ή να σχίζουν το λαιμό τους με το μαχαίρι μου."
The strangely dressed man watched and listened.
"Και τότε οι γυναίκες. Οι παλαιότεροι στην αρχή. Δεν παράγουν πολύ γάλα, ξέρετε; Και ήμουν τόσο λίπος μετά την εξαφάνιση των ανδρών."
"Tell me what he's saying, soldier. That's an order!" screamed the priest.
"Και τότε οι γυναίκες. Οι παλαιότεροι στην αρχή. Δεν παράγουν πολύ γάλα, ξέρετε; Και ήμουν τόσο λίπος μετά την εξαφάνιση των ανδρών."
"Έτσι κρατούσα τα κορίτσια ζωντανά για πολύ καιρό. Σβήσαμε από τα σώματα των νεκρών. Όλοι φώναζαν στην αρχή, αλλά πλήρωναν τις κοιλιές τους όταν η πείνα ήταν κακή."
"Ήταν μόνος σε εκείνη τη σπηλιά, όταν σας βρήκαμε," said the strangely dressed man, his voice was flat and unemotional.
"Αχ, ναι, αλλά υπήρχαν πολλά παιδιά, βλέπετε," I replied.
I could see the darkness over take him in that moment. The truth was revealed to him, and him alone. The fat priest was left in the dark.
"Το γάλα που ρέει λόγω των παιδιών ήταν το πιο γλυκό από όλα. Έμεινα μόνος μου, στο σκοτάδι, για πολύ καιρό. Το μέλλον τους, οι αναμνήσεις τους, όλα αυτά τα πράγματα που δεν θα είχαν ποτέ ... με παρηγορούσαν."
The man was still grim and dark in mood. I could feel the anger beginning to bubble in him. I had seen it, long ago, when I told the last of the villagers why they were brought to the cave.
But no matter. That was so very very long ago.
The strange man stood. He turned to the priest in the white robe and spoke the foreigner's words.
"Doctor, this man is mentally deranged. He has spoken to me of hurting others and himself. I recommend locking him in a cell far away," the man spoke like thunder - the anger rumbling along in his voice.
The fat priest nodded.
"Alright, pal. You're going away for a long time. Perhaps the psych ward will have better luck with you" the fat priest said, a disgusting smile showing his swollen, fat lips.
Two men came in through the iron door. They spoke to the priest and plucked me from my shackles.
"Πείτε τους να φέρουν το γάλα!" I shouted to the strangely dressed man as I was lead away from the room. "Πες τους ότι έχω μια τρομερή δίψα!"
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"Another body, a fresh one."
Excitement fell into horror as pipeliners found their little archeological prize was more like a mass grave left behind by El Chapo. Horror then fell into concern when they found this corpse, perhaps 50, wasn't a corpse at all. Critically emaciated, unable to speak or move on his own, his hair and nails were impossibly long.
All it took was one. One life taken in the cave, then another useless husk cast from 15000 feet. Understanding flooded in, a lifetime's collection of physics, chemistry, psychology, prose, history... in thousands of years all of it lost and rediscovered.
Hospital staff were hopeless to keep curious cops off the helipad, determined to prosecute those responsible and with no regard for the man's safety from the ravaging public, just as eager to get a word. Chaos everywhere, this is where the man thrived. Innocent lives taken and bodies trampled. Everyone amazed at the speed of recovery, nobody stopped to notice the wake of destruction.
"How did you survive being buried alive?"
"Not by blade or bullet," he started "but with bare hands."
He realized as he spoke the difficulty of the language. He would need more... experience... before he could convincingly snark. His nurse laughed nervously and asked about his family. It was impossible to distinguish which memories were his and which were consumed. He admitted he couldn't remember his family or who had sealed him in. Surely they were all dead by now anyway. The nurse put on the most contorted face and rushed from the room. It was only a matter of time, he realized, before they discovered the age of his last victims...
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
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"Still sealed?"
"Ground penetrating radar confirms. Airtight."
"Alright." I rubbed my chin, a day's worth of stubble rasping against my skin. "I just... I can't believe this. *Thousands* of years?!"
"Carbon-14 dating on the tree branches trapped in the pyroclastic flow gave us a good estimate. Obviously, it's not perfect. Margin of error is a few hundred years or so, but ballpark? Yeah. Two thousand, at *least*."
"He's been alive for this long... What was the average lifespan of a person then? 45 years?"
"At peacetime, maybe. The average skews down during war. Even with Inheritance, there's disease, famine..."
"Right. So, minimum body count... Jesus. Assuming they were 18 when killed-"
"-*BIG* assumption, that."
...It was. Christ, I hate Inheritors. "...*Assuming* they were 18, he's... he? Hm. We can't confirm the gender..."
"No. Thermal and echo just give us basic lifesigns. But statistically, yes. 'He' We can tell whoever it is is moving around quite a bit, too. We think 'he' can hear the excavation work."
"...Ok, 'He' has killed 100 people. Probably more. Bare minimum... 50. But it was my understanding the Ancient Greeks always exiled Inheritors who claimed more than five. Any idea how he could have piled up so many?"
"...Well, there was the eruption. Volcanic."
"Not good enough, and you know it. Eruption's natural. Has to be something he did."
"Doesn't mean he couldn't have used it somehow. He'd have had to claim them all at once... Mmm. Hydrogen sulfide could do it."
That got my attention. "What?"
"Toxic gas. Correction: *extremely* toxic. Heavy, though. Pools in depressions in the ground. The soil here is full of it. We've found skeletal remains in a valley, about 500 yards from here that were anomalous. We assumed they were fleeing the eruption, got caught up in it anyway, but... they weren't running. It was an encampment."
I'd seen project photos of them. Skeletons, curled up, rings on their twiglike fingers glinting in dirt, little cards with numbers next to each one. Some of those neat piles were quite small.
"So?"
"The only way they could have gotten moving ahead of it is with advance warning. Maybe someone figured it out, saw the water turn to acid, the smoke from the peak, figured something bad was coming. Convinced people to leave."
I thought for a minute. It was...possible.
"And the fact he's Inherited?"
"Maybe he also knew there was no way to outpace it. The super-heated ash cloud travels at what, 500 miles an hour? So he found a cave high-up the mountainside. One he provisioned very carefully. Don't need much food if you've Inherited enough, after all... And then, told the rest of them to make camp in a nice low hollow. Where they could *breathe easy* for a bit."
"...Ah."
"So, yeah. When should we free him? We've got an expert in Bactrian Greek flying in who's pretty confident he'll be able to gin up a working dialectical lexicon in a few days, and-"
I thought of the curled-up bones. Holding each other.
"-Hm? I don't see why you'd call him in. Since there'd be nothing to do."
My assistant was stunned for a moment. "Sorry?"
"Since we *didn't find anyone*." I shot him a significant look.
Confusion shifted to understanding.
"Professor... they were likely to die *anyway*, and-!"
"I've seen the data. Lots of room, in that cave. I'm guessing he wasn't planning on getting sealed in. So he didn't know it would happen."
My assistant was silent.
"Hard to be immortal when they frown on killing, even in battle. He saw an opportunity. He took it."
A red light blinked on one of the monitors clustering the folding-table in the far corner of our dirty tent. He was moving again.
Anxious, probably. Anticipating deliverance, the noise from the heavy machinery resonating through the stone...
I smiled.
Let him wait.
"Just like I am."
My assistant after an eternal few second of silence, nodded.
"Emperor-President Kublai is going to be disappointed. He personally funded this one. You know how much he likes the Greeks."
"He'll get over it. *God knows*, **he's** got the time to."
**THE END**
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"Another body, a fresh one."
Excitement fell into horror as pipeliners found their little archeological prize was more like a mass grave left behind by El Chapo. Horror then fell into concern when they found this corpse, perhaps 50, wasn't a corpse at all. Critically emaciated, unable to speak or move on his own, his hair and nails were impossibly long.
All it took was one. One life taken in the cave, then another useless husk cast from 15000 feet. Understanding flooded in, a lifetime's collection of physics, chemistry, psychology, prose, history... in thousands of years all of it lost and rediscovered.
Hospital staff were hopeless to keep curious cops off the helipad, determined to prosecute those responsible and with no regard for the man's safety from the ravaging public, just as eager to get a word. Chaos everywhere, this is where the man thrived. Innocent lives taken and bodies trampled. Everyone amazed at the speed of recovery, nobody stopped to notice the wake of destruction.
"How did you survive being buried alive?"
"Not by blade or bullet," he started "but with bare hands."
He realized as he spoke the difficulty of the language. He would need more... experience... before he could convincingly snark. His nurse laughed nervously and asked about his family. It was impossible to distinguish which memories were his and which were consumed. He admitted he couldn't remember his family or who had sealed him in. Surely they were all dead by now anyway. The nurse put on the most contorted face and rushed from the room. It was only a matter of time, he realized, before they discovered the age of his last victims...
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
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The archaeologists' picks rang in the icy north as they hacked and chipped at the stone leading to the entrance.
Jeb had been working with the team for months to find the cave. It was rare for such a long excavation assignment to be contracted as most employers weren't interested in history. But fortunately for Jeb, his current employer was very eccentric and offered 5 years in payment for an analysis of the cave; an almost unheard of amount. It made all the effort put into this feel actually worth it.
Finally, the first pick broke through. Working quickly, Jeb and Sebastian cleared away the entrance while Tony began to set up the camera gear and lights behind them. After a couple seconds Tony flipped the lights on to reveal the inside of the cave...
...and its occupant.
The small cave was layered with drawings on nearly every surface except for a small circle in the very middle where a bearded caveman sat cross-legged, regarding them will an apathetic stare. With a grunt he rose to his feet and began to speak.
"I-"
He was promptly cut off by the bang of the gunshot that blew a dime-sized hole in his chest. With one last wheeze, he doubled over and slumped on the ground, forever silenced. Jeb and Sebastion surprised gazes turned from the caveman to Tony, who still held the smoking revolver in his hand.
Sebastion threw his hands up in frustration, "What the hell, man?!"
"Don't give me that shit, Seb. You two would have done the same if you weren't so slow.", Tony re-holstered his weapon, "I was faster, so I got the years. Deal with it".
Jeb sneered - it was true; his hand had fallen to the handle of his own revolver the moment he comprehended the scenario before him. But Tony was just faster.
"Relax", Tony said with a smile, "I'll give you guys the years I would have gotten for this job. Its not like I need them after this!". He knelt down next to the body. "Now help me clean this up. If our employer finds out, we're all screwed"
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"Hello? Please? Oh god, let me out of here. Has English come back? Can you understand me? I need help."
Yerik and I stood at the top of the cave near the cliff edge the creature must have fallen down. Poor thing. I shone a light down to see whether or not it was worth helping, and in the light a human being with facial features of a time long gone.
"Yerik, we should bring him to the labs. A discovery like this could uncover massive pieces of our history. Don't you understand that?"
Yerik let out a low hum and growl. "What importance is history, really? What could this warrior tell us that none have said before? They feel remorse for their actions, and dwelled on war for their thousand years. I want to kill him. Please, Yachen. You know I'm nearing my end. Is a discovery so trivial more important than me?"
I turned my light back to the man in the cave.
"Please let me out. I want to live a normal life again. I can learn your language. I can tell you anything."
Nothing remotely close to Catellic speech. I panned the light back and forth to see what he'd been busying himself with, and- it's bones. Human bones by the thousands. Skeletons propped up in furniture and dancing and gruesome murder scenes.
"Yerik, I'll let you down there. Don't take long."
Yerik flashed his sharp grin as I unraveled the rope for him to descend. As he neared the botton, I switched off my light.
"Yachen? I can't see him. Yachen, what is this? Yachen-"
He screamed. I wanted to turn the light back on, but I trusted the man's eyes more than my curiosity. Metal on stone- one of them had a knife out. Yerik cried out in pain as laughter echoed up from the depths.
"He wanted to kill me. Why would you let him down after seeing the bones?"
I flipped my light on. "You can't understand me, but he was wrong. Bad. Broken. I knew you could fix that. Stay here, I'll return in a week."
I turned to walk back to the transport as the man yelled back at me something just as unintelligible.
"Did you say week? I heard week. Weak? We share a word. Are you called Yâken? Please! I need to know. Let me out, please!"
And then it was dark again.
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
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I remember watching, on TV, as they pulled the woman through the courtroom and set our so-called justice on her. The proof was right before us, the lawyers said. Clearly this woman was a monster in a human skin, a long-lost relic from those forgotten ages of barbarism and endless war.
But she was hardly lucid. Millennia living alone in a cave will do that to a person, I guess. She babbled on incoherently, always repeating the same phrases, unconcerned with the details of what was going on around her. Once she attacked the bailiff and had to be restrained at gunpoint. She seemed to not understand what the guns were capable of, and why would she? Shs had never seen one before. When she was shown a video of what they did, she went pale and begged to be spared, all in that unintelligible tongue. But she likely knew that we were hesitant to shoot. Nobody knew how much life she had left.
Finally, the linguist identified the language she was speaking - some little-known precursor of the Mesopotamian era. We brought in an expert who worked with the woman, day and night, for nearly a week. When he finally appeared before the court for his testimony, he was noticeably troubled.
She only repeats one thing, he said, further saying that her time in isolation had driven her to the edge of madness.
She was not a monster. She had killed, yes, but it had been an accident: many lifetimes ago, a man stopped at her inn as he passed through her town, and she had fed him something that he choked on. She had only killed once. She swore it. She was caught and imprisoned, and forgotten about, even as the prison collapsed from its age and returned to the stones from which it had been carved. Through it all, she remained, never knowing how much longer her life would continue.
She was not the monster, she repeated constantly. She had only killed once.
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"Hello? Please? Oh god, let me out of here. Has English come back? Can you understand me? I need help."
Yerik and I stood at the top of the cave near the cliff edge the creature must have fallen down. Poor thing. I shone a light down to see whether or not it was worth helping, and in the light a human being with facial features of a time long gone.
"Yerik, we should bring him to the labs. A discovery like this could uncover massive pieces of our history. Don't you understand that?"
Yerik let out a low hum and growl. "What importance is history, really? What could this warrior tell us that none have said before? They feel remorse for their actions, and dwelled on war for their thousand years. I want to kill him. Please, Yachen. You know I'm nearing my end. Is a discovery so trivial more important than me?"
I turned my light back to the man in the cave.
"Please let me out. I want to live a normal life again. I can learn your language. I can tell you anything."
Nothing remotely close to Catellic speech. I panned the light back and forth to see what he'd been busying himself with, and- it's bones. Human bones by the thousands. Skeletons propped up in furniture and dancing and gruesome murder scenes.
"Yerik, I'll let you down there. Don't take long."
Yerik flashed his sharp grin as I unraveled the rope for him to descend. As he neared the botton, I switched off my light.
"Yachen? I can't see him. Yachen, what is this? Yachen-"
He screamed. I wanted to turn the light back on, but I trusted the man's eyes more than my curiosity. Metal on stone- one of them had a knife out. Yerik cried out in pain as laughter echoed up from the depths.
"He wanted to kill me. Why would you let him down after seeing the bones?"
I flipped my light on. "You can't understand me, but he was wrong. Bad. Broken. I knew you could fix that. Stay here, I'll return in a week."
I turned to walk back to the transport as the man yelled back at me something just as unintelligible.
"Did you say week? I heard week. Weak? We share a word. Are you called Yâken? Please! I need to know. Let me out, please!"
And then it was dark again.
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
|
I remember watching, on TV, as they pulled the woman through the courtroom and set our so-called justice on her. The proof was right before us, the lawyers said. Clearly this woman was a monster in a human skin, a long-lost relic from those forgotten ages of barbarism and endless war.
But she was hardly lucid. Millennia living alone in a cave will do that to a person, I guess. She babbled on incoherently, always repeating the same phrases, unconcerned with the details of what was going on around her. Once she attacked the bailiff and had to be restrained at gunpoint. She seemed to not understand what the guns were capable of, and why would she? Shs had never seen one before. When she was shown a video of what they did, she went pale and begged to be spared, all in that unintelligible tongue. But she likely knew that we were hesitant to shoot. Nobody knew how much life she had left.
Finally, the linguist identified the language she was speaking - some little-known precursor of the Mesopotamian era. We brought in an expert who worked with the woman, day and night, for nearly a week. When he finally appeared before the court for his testimony, he was noticeably troubled.
She only repeats one thing, he said, further saying that her time in isolation had driven her to the edge of madness.
She was not a monster. She had killed, yes, but it had been an accident: many lifetimes ago, a man stopped at her inn as he passed through her town, and she had fed him something that he choked on. She had only killed once. She swore it. She was caught and imprisoned, and forgotten about, even as the prison collapsed from its age and returned to the stones from which it had been carved. Through it all, she remained, never knowing how much longer her life would continue.
She was not the monster, she repeated constantly. She had only killed once.
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As I opened the cavern with the new cutting edge technology of the 31st century , I was shocked to find inside of the cave a monster in shaped of a yellow clown. He looked at me with his pale white eyes and flaming red hair and whispered quietly "I'm lovin it "
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
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When they come, armed to the teeth and hungry, you are not ready.
Their skin is not like yours; their mouths form shapes and create sound but you cannot understand them. They _were_ human, at some stage.
You know this like you know your own name.
The passage of time must have made them bitter, you realise, as their twisted faces hover into view. The passage of time has removed their beauty— these humans are raw and possessed with fervour.
You shrink away.
You expect to be welcomed with open arms, if truth be told— your resurrection was written in the stars. You were promised songs in your honour.
But instead, you are the foreigner— the aberration in a mystery that unfolds like night above a city. Every time the thread unravels, the strings knot themselves tighter.
You are poked and prodded, tried in vain to be understood. Your golden blood is taken in volumes, DNA strands projected on translucent screens. There is so much magic in this world that your ancient brain aches with the implications of it all.
You do not understand.
Fortunately, you do not have to.
You only need the stars and their alignments, the passage of time and the creation of galaxies. The night sky is more of a memory than a map.
You read your story in them, one night, when the crickets have settled and the sands sleep. The silence, the sacrifice, the slumber.
You remember clutching the hands of your people as you took their lives, one by one. You remember the way they bared their willing throats and kissed the silver knife before it killed them.
You _loved_ your people. You crossed into the kingdom of death and returned for them.
_Where have they gone?_
Your name is Tutankhamen. The stars whisper it in your sleep.
You have waited a long time.
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As I opened the cavern with the new cutting edge technology of the 31st century , I was shocked to find inside of the cave a monster in shaped of a yellow clown. He looked at me with his pale white eyes and flaming red hair and whispered quietly "I'm lovin it "
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
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Weeks. Years. Days? Months? Centuries?
Long. Trapped here, cold and dark and stifling. He lifts a trembling hand. Yes. Jagged rock. A cave. He remembers.
He remembers his brothers and sisters, those high and shining beings. He thinks- he thinks he shone once, too, as brightly as they. Days of glory, those were. Anything he wanted. Power at his fingertips. Cowering humans, worshiping him, showering him in gifts.
For a god deserves nothing less, no?
But they... his bright and shining brothers and sisters... they called him cruel. Fickle. A poor god, to treat the mortals so.
And now... Ah. Yes. He remembers. Cast from the heavens, a mortal body. Death to surely claim him, lest he claim the lives of others. His bright and shining brothers and sisters... did they not realize to unleash a hungry god upon the mortals was worse than to leave him to his whims?
How amusing, to think they unleashed a far worse horror than he ever could as a god.
Ah, but he remembers, too, a mighty warrior. A mortal, humble born, a hero made, challenging a hungry god. Casting him into this dark and terrible cave, cursed to waste away as the lives of those he killed slowly drain away. And wither he will, for of the lives he claimed, only a few remain, and they will be dust before long.
Will his brothers and sisters seize his soul? Will they cast him into the void?
A trembling hand reaches out and drags across the rough cave wall. He watches idly as the blood, red and bright and warm, runs down his arm. Bleeding, as a mortal bleeds.
He wants... He needs... He *hungers*.
Brothers and sisters, if any mercy remain within ye, any affection for a scorned little brother, save him now! A small token of mercy for a brother who was once beloved.
No, no, no mercy for him, he will die, cold and alone, in this dark and damp cave, for he is damned and scorned, a god no longer.
No no no no no
Please please please please he begs-
Wait! Listen! The... sound... of a- a mortal... voice...?
Yes, a mortal male's voice...
It... entered...? But the entrance... long sealed...
No. Yes! Yes! *Yes!*
A mortal male stands before him now, shining a torch in his face. But, ah, after darkness for so long, the light hurts, yes, but it is welcome, so welcome. And oh, he can sense the life this mortal possesses. One with many years ahead.
He smiles and stands. Holds out a hand. "...*please*..."
Mortal eyes widen, but it is too late, far, far too late.
He is upon the mortal before it can even flinch. He smiles again and gently places a hand on the side of the mortal's head.
The mortal trembles and its mouth opens. To scream, perhaps.
But no mortal can match him. Too fast for a mortal's eyes... He strokes the side of the mortal's face-
A quick, violent twist and the mortal's neck bends in a most peculiar way. So fragile, these mortals are.
But, ah! That life, filling him... Now *that* is not a fragile thing! That wonderful and beautiful life that is now his!
He smiles down at the mortal's body. "...*you*...*have served me*...*well*."
He steps over the body.
One step. Two. Another.
Another.
Another.
More and more steps.
Ah! Light ahead. He smells the fresh air. The song of freedom.
He steps outside that accursed cavern and laughs.
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It was a simple trick really, a bit of myth, a touch of meteorology, some carpentry.
It turns out it doesn't matter how you kill.
I turned away thousands, perhaps millions. Some asked for help and advice and I refused. I pretended they were too wicked to live, but it turns out it is I that is wicked.
The flood came.
And then the memories came. Thousand upon thousands of them. The guilt was overwhelming. I had killed them by my hand, not directly, but through my arrogance and neglect. I would live for a million years but I would be trapped. I would see my family wither and die. I would see kingdoms come and go. The only thing left in my life is sorrow and misery.
Who am I?
I guess you would know me as Noah. I would call myself wretched.
Edit: Wrong Name.
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[WP] When you kill someone, their remaining life span is added to yours. Archaeologists have just found a cavern, apparently sealed off for thousands of years, with a single person living inside.
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He looked about twenty five years old. Handsome, in a classical sort of way. The kind of person around whom statues get carved.
She’s never seen anything like him.
Nor had she heard anything quite like him. His language was guttural, something long dead and forgotten. Assuming, of course, it was a language. No one had ever lived a thousand years, let alone thousands. Whatever it might do to a mind, it probably wasn’t pretty.
She broke the phonemes down, and started mapping them. It made her life a little easier that he only said one thing over and over. But it made it a bit trickier too. Not a lot of hooks to bait.
She went over the notes from the archeologists. The pictograms showed what would have been a vast nation. Armies upon armies. Bushels of wheat. A big deal.
He never looked at anything but her. Repeating himself over and over.
She tried a bit of Greek. But there was no recognition. She worked her way through Sumerian, Abyssian, and a couple dozen minor tribes. But he didn’t show any sign he understood. Every answer, every reply, was the same set of words.
After a couple hours she noticed some patterns. Bits of what a dead language might sound like had anyone heard it in a thousand years. A language more about ideas than words. Emotions and intent made into sound.
He stared at her with eyes black as night as she worked. Repeating himself.
In the end it felt easy. The pieces that were missing slotted into place. The ancient young man spoke again, and to her new ears he said "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”.
He looked unblinking. And then he said it again.
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*To whom it may concern,*
"Greetings. Although you probably don't see me, I am most definitely here...somewhere. My name is Xavius au Titus, and I am a remnant from a lost age.
I was born in Rome, in the glorious days of Trajan, where life was undoubtedly simpler than it is now. In those days, unsolved murders were common, and that is where I made myself. You see, I was born with a peculiar trait...those which I killed had their remaining lifespan added to mine. My first kill, young Claudius, was an accident. I was carrying a pot of boiling water through my home and dropped it on the maids baby, searing it and burning it beyond repair. I, well, put it out of it's misery and hid the body.
After the deed was done, I felt...reinvigorated. I could *feel* his life, his memories, his future becoming mine. I lusted for that feeling for the rest of my life. Soon killing evolved far beyond my lust for extended life. It became a game, albeit a deadly one, that I loved to play. I loved the feeling when my knife sank deep into an unsuspecting pair of ribs or the back of some simpleton's head. I was unstoppable.
Soon, my kill count reached enough that the gods could not bear to see me butchering their own so mercilessly and easily. I had amassed enough human life to last for thousands of years, and the gods decided that was enough. They took me in the night and locked me in my cage of earth, cursed to live until my life ran out. I awaited in solitude for someone to unlock me from this hell, to free me from the stone that entraps.
I have grown old. I can feel the life of uncountable dead seeping out of my limbs. I need a new source. And that, my good fellow, is where you come in. You see, you have freed me unto the world, a new world, where gods do not control men and society is so fractured that I could kill and kill and kill and nobody save your inadequate policemen would stand a chance of stopping me. I will repay you by making you the first of a new age of terror, of blood, of the screams of millions as I take their lives from them. Thank you. Now let the new age begin."
A blur of grey and black flew at me, and all turned red, then slowly black.
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[WP] The Zombie apocalypse has finally happened. The dead rose from their graves all over the world. They do not however, crave flesh, eat brains or hunt humans. Honestly they don't do much of anything except shuffle around. The Zombie hordes are more of an inconvenience than the end of the world.
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Bobby Wilson scanned the numbers posted on the mailboxes looking for the right address of his client. His GPS usually gave him the right place, but time was of the essence in his line of work and he preferred not to trust technology prone to error. Once he saw the house, he parked on the side of the street, downed the last of his coffee, chucked the Starbucks cup on the floorboard of his van and slammed the door shut. He was still a bit tired from the all-nighter he pulled mere hours ago, but reuniting one of the formerly dead with loved ones put a smile on his face.
You see, Bobby was Cadaver Wrangler for the city he worked for. When the dead rose about a year ago there were the obvious fears about zombies feasting on the flesh or brains of the living. That didn't happen. The formerly dead as folks were beginning to call them mostly ambled about at first. Eventually, once people stopped the prepping for the end of the world, it was noticed that the wouldbe zombies began to develop a pattern. Apparently, the formerly dead would roughly repeat the actions they performed the day they died. Bobby's job was to make sure these actions did not impair society too much. It was a city job, yeah, but the pay was decent and someone had to do it.
Bobby remembered one funny case where a guy had evidently gone to the DMV and died waiting for his number to be called. Sure enough, this formerly dead man shambled all the way to the DMV, got in line, and hovered a bit at the front desk. Unsure of what to do, the clerk gave him a number and, shockingly, the formerly dead man took it and sat down. He stayed in his seat the whole day even after his number was called until the DMV closed and he went back to his home. His wife was scared the first time it happened, but eventually, she knew to expect him home. She didn't mind, oddly enough the formerly dead didn't stink of rotting flesh and did no real harm to anybody. So went routine for all who rose from the dead and formed a beign, if not sometimes annoying, aspect of society.
More recently, however, families were asking his department to find specific individuals and bring them back home. The city wasn't too keen on this at first since maintaining the city was their chief concern, but it was argued making sure the formerly dead were accounted for would be one less hassle ro deal with and give the living peace of mind. Usually, a call would come in when one of the formerly living went off their usual path and didn't come home. Bobby or someone else would retrace their steps and usually find them having fallen into a ditch or some other impediment. They'd gingerly take them to their vans, load them up, and take them back to where they live.
Before he went to see his clients, he opened the back of his van and made sure his equipment was in check. Folks were very concerned about the quality of care their formerly deceased relatives got even if they no longer had any perception of comfort. He checked to make sure the cushioned bench seats of his converted police van were clean and that the harnesses were secured. Noting that everything was fine, he closed the doors and walked up to the house.
Just another day's work.
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Entry 1: This is it. The end. Well, I should explain myself. I’m Joseph Casimir, and I work at a CVS pharmacy of 10th and Main. My parents are Sara and Paul Casimir, and I’m 24.
Yesterday, the dead started rising. They would rise up from their graves and began parading around. That was it. It was just like all the zombie movies. Nobody stood in their way. People pillaged and looted. Guns were stolen. I locked myself in my home, but I’m alone and don’t have enough food to last for long. Is this it? Oh god, please, don’t forget me, if you find this journal. Carry on humanity’s legacy.
Entry 2: I’m surviving better than expected. No one has dared leave their home, and the undead don’t seem to have seen me yet. I wish I had more food stored though. I can last a week more, tops.
Entry 3: *please i dont want to die dont let me die please this cant be the end*
Entry 4: no food
Entry 5: I won’t survive by being panicked. I found a box of cereal this morning. I’m gonna go out and see if there’s anything left at the local grocery store tomorrow.
Entry 6: I’m about to go. God protect me.
Entry 7: That was underwhelming. I’ll start from when I left the house. I was decked out in a leather jacket and a football helmet and had a baseball bat, like they always have in the movies. I ran out and started smashing in the skulls of the zombies left and right. Waves of their corpses lay before me. I prepared for their inevitable charge toward me.
All I got were some blank stares by people who weren’t alive. Apparently these aren’t the zombies from the movies. They don’t show any signs of aggression. I’m gonna go eat something.
First time doing one of these. Also, I’m on mobile so I apologize for formatting.
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[WP] The Zombie apocalypse has finally happened. The dead rose from their graves all over the world. They do not however, crave flesh, eat brains or hunt humans. Honestly they don't do much of anything except shuffle around. The Zombie hordes are more of an inconvenience than the end of the world.
|
Bobby Wilson scanned the numbers posted on the mailboxes looking for the right address of his client. His GPS usually gave him the right place, but time was of the essence in his line of work and he preferred not to trust technology prone to error. Once he saw the house, he parked on the side of the street, downed the last of his coffee, chucked the Starbucks cup on the floorboard of his van and slammed the door shut. He was still a bit tired from the all-nighter he pulled mere hours ago, but reuniting one of the formerly dead with loved ones put a smile on his face.
You see, Bobby was Cadaver Wrangler for the city he worked for. When the dead rose about a year ago there were the obvious fears about zombies feasting on the flesh or brains of the living. That didn't happen. The formerly dead as folks were beginning to call them mostly ambled about at first. Eventually, once people stopped the prepping for the end of the world, it was noticed that the wouldbe zombies began to develop a pattern. Apparently, the formerly dead would roughly repeat the actions they performed the day they died. Bobby's job was to make sure these actions did not impair society too much. It was a city job, yeah, but the pay was decent and someone had to do it.
Bobby remembered one funny case where a guy had evidently gone to the DMV and died waiting for his number to be called. Sure enough, this formerly dead man shambled all the way to the DMV, got in line, and hovered a bit at the front desk. Unsure of what to do, the clerk gave him a number and, shockingly, the formerly dead man took it and sat down. He stayed in his seat the whole day even after his number was called until the DMV closed and he went back to his home. His wife was scared the first time it happened, but eventually, she knew to expect him home. She didn't mind, oddly enough the formerly dead didn't stink of rotting flesh and did no real harm to anybody. So went routine for all who rose from the dead and formed a beign, if not sometimes annoying, aspect of society.
More recently, however, families were asking his department to find specific individuals and bring them back home. The city wasn't too keen on this at first since maintaining the city was their chief concern, but it was argued making sure the formerly dead were accounted for would be one less hassle ro deal with and give the living peace of mind. Usually, a call would come in when one of the formerly living went off their usual path and didn't come home. Bobby or someone else would retrace their steps and usually find them having fallen into a ditch or some other impediment. They'd gingerly take them to their vans, load them up, and take them back to where they live.
Before he went to see his clients, he opened the back of his van and made sure his equipment was in check. Folks were very concerned about the quality of care their formerly deceased relatives got even if they no longer had any perception of comfort. He checked to make sure the cushioned bench seats of his converted police van were clean and that the harnesses were secured. Noting that everything was fine, he closed the doors and walked up to the house.
Just another day's work.
|
Wasn’t long ago now, the dead started walkin. I remember one Sunday morning when we were all leaving church, a whole crowd of them, Indians and cavalry men alike came shuffling in straight from a nearby battlefield, looking like the scourge of god. Didn’t take long for our own to join them.
I remember old Pastor Brown damn near shitting himself, though truth be told I probably wasn’t too far behind him. The walking corpses didn’t mean no harm, but we couldn’t have known that.
Lotta people had a lotta theories about what brought them. Some said it was the end of days, God finally fed up with all the gambling and the drinking and the sex. Others blamed the Indians, said they cursed us, I imagine more than a few men died trying to right that wrong. Turns out the natives blamed us right back.
When they first came walking in we shot at them, beat them, stabbed them and tried to cut them up, but you really had to dice the son-bitches to stop them moving. Thing was, they didn’t even flinch. You could have been standing right by a man, cutting him to ribbons, and he wouldn’t so much as look at you. It was ugly, and soon people got tired of it, terror quickly gave way to amusement and apathy. Wasn’t too bad when it was the soldiers, but folks weren’t all that keen on dismembering their own grandpa’s. And so we let the damned things stick around. The curse became a blessing, parents who had buried children, husbands who had lost their wives, everyone thought god had given them a second chance. That maybe their loved ones were just gonna wake up and stop decaying one day.
Turns out they were wrong. The dead didn’t bring violence, but they sure as hell did bring pestilence. Flies and disease quickly claimed a couple of hundred lives I reckoned. And every one that died, well they got up and started walking with the others. Out looking for a partner to share their ailment.
All the wisest heads in the town decided something had to be done. They all got together and came to the same conclusion, the only way to cleanse these things was with a torch. Course they got us cowboys to do all the work. Money was good though, like hell any man was gonna to go near those things for free.
I remember covering every part of my skin, terrified of going near those things. We treated them like cattle herding them into barns, took a whole day but we got them in there and set the things ablaze. Didn’t smell too pleasant, but I’ll say this, those things died politely.
Except for one that is. One straggler must have gone through a back door or something. Some miner who had been recently claimed by illness. If he still had the sickness in him then he had to be dealt with. The other boys and I drew straws and got the short, so I had to go get him.
Thing was this one didn’t turn around when I blocked him off, just kept trying to shuffle by me. I had to grab the son of a bitch and drag him back the way he came. I still remember right as we got close to that barn I heard something, a rattling voice that’s haunted me ever since.
Just said ‘No’.
I looked into its eyes and saw something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Life.
Terrified I threw him hard into the barn, went straight through a wall, and sparks and burning wood collapsed around him. I turned away from that pyre and never looked back.
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[WP] The Zombie apocalypse has finally happened. The dead rose from their graves all over the world. They do not however, crave flesh, eat brains or hunt humans. Honestly they don't do much of anything except shuffle around. The Zombie hordes are more of an inconvenience than the end of the world.
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BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEP
Colin pressed the button on the answering machine.
“hello, this is Mr’s Royce, another ones gott-”
He pressed skip
“Err, Hi, I’m calling from the McGrath farm, we’ve gotten a whole flock, wait no…herd, horde? Anyway, I require your services, they are *everywhere*.”
Colin shuffled his way to the fridge (the same kind of shuffle as his daily prey), then sunk into his favourite chair as his can of dangerously cheap beer hissed at him as he opened it.
He turned his tv on and flicked to the news, as the newscaster began to drone on about god knows what, Colin’s mind drifted to those first few months when the world shut down.
It had been nearly five years ago since the dead rose.
It came in three waves. First the diggers.
The oldest corpses, the ones that only *just* managed to dig their way out of the ground, they were so old and rotten that they ended up as piles of bones spread through cemeteries with nearby mounds of mud, most people thought it was some sick, twisted fad.
The second wave were the stumblers, they could shuffle but not much else, the longest surviving of the three waves.
The Third wave, the biters, were the fastest and the...bitey-est, a bite wouldn’t kill you or turn you, it’d just hurt like hell and maybe give you an infection in the wound; if you were really unlucky.
The un-dead weren't the biggest problem though, people having had decades and decades worth of horror and zombie films drummed into them, huge numbers of people panicked and expected a fourth, or a fifth wave and in lieu of this, went bananas.
Shops were pillaged, business looted, food and guns stockpiled, even some fortress like structures were built to house people in case of the worst.
But a fourth wave never came.
Scientists argued and debated the cause and solution to the problem constantly, to no avail.
The U.N eventually made a statement nearly six months after the Biters appeared to all countries, to encourage an increase of exterminators with the speciality of the undead; and like in the movies, destroying the brain worked and for four and a half years Colin had been just that, a Zombie Exterminator, or as they had become known, a Zombie-Axer.
All this changed for Colin and in fact, the whole world when at the McGrath farm, the very next day Colin the Axer spoke with the dead, and the dead spoke back.
|
After the initial panic died down we took account of the situation. Yes, the dead were walking but that wasn't the worst of it. Carbon and green house gases were on the rise. The stumbling and mobs made transportation spotty at best. How could we know? The weeks that followed brought no answers from our scientific bodies or governments. The religious right however used this to fleece their flocks and bring a new inquisition. People were beaten and burned...accused of being 'sinful'. Anarchy, man made, brought us to the brink of societal collapse. Then it happened...On the warmest night of spring the zombies climbed any tall building they could find and released their spores. The mutation in a South American fungus was found to be the culprit. If you're reading this it means I'm already dead. Don't look in the pantry.
-Excerpt from a journal held by a headless corpse in an abandoned home
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[WP] The Zombie apocalypse has finally happened. The dead rose from their graves all over the world. They do not however, crave flesh, eat brains or hunt humans. Honestly they don't do much of anything except shuffle around. The Zombie hordes are more of an inconvenience than the end of the world.
|
Gareth sighed in frustration as his car ground to a halt behind a long stream of traffic. Yet again his journey into work was to be delayed. He would have had another hour in bed if he’d known it was going to happen again.
A week ago, when the zombie “apocalypse” first started, people the world over began panicking as the dead began to rise. Graveyards all over the globe were dug up by its inhabitants, who would then start slowly shuffling out of the graveyards and into the streets.
Rather understandably, people hadn’t been too happy about this new state of affairs. Zombie movies typically portrayed the undead as monsters, who wanted to go around eating people’s brains. However, people soon noticed that the zombies weren’t actually chasing anybody. And when the police/ army/ people looking for a bit of action started shooting at them, they found that the zombies would actually complain about it.
Once all the screaming and rioting about the raising of the dead ended, people actually started talking to the undead.
As it turned out, the spirits living in Hell had had a referendum, and had voted to leave the Evil Underworld, in what came to be known as “Hexit”. Those whose bodies had not completely decomposed came back as zombies, and those without a body were still figuring it out apparently, although the theory is that they would soon follow the zombies and come back as ghosts.
Inconveniently enough, the zombies didn’t all come back to life at once, and so graveyards were randomly digging themselves up over the days following “Hexit”. This of course made Gareth’s daily commute a nightmare, as the main road in his town went past a church. A handful of zombies popping up and walking out into traffic was a wonderful nuisance to anyone trying to drive.
He switched on the radio to see if it was being reported just how many there were today.
*“…and here with me is undead person’s rights activist Jenny Silverwick. Tell me Jenny, what rights do you believe the undead should have in our society?”*
*“Well Chris, undead people are people just like you and I, just because they died for a bit doesn’t change…”*
Gareth flicked it over to a different station.
*“…have announced that they plan on the construction of several “Undead Towns” where the undead may live separate from the living, in an attempt to clear up their cities. Many have compared these towns to concentration camps…”*
Flick.
*“…I think you’ll find that “Zombie” is actually an incredibly offensive term. The correct name for them is “Undead Person”. Calling them a “Zombie” is essentially the same as calling a black…”*
Flick.
*“…recently announced zombie film, “28 Months Later”, has had to be cancelled following the recent rising of the Undead, due to complaints of factual inaccuracy and offensiveness to the undead…”*
Flick.
*“…may have found that traffic is yet again being affected by Hexit, as fifty undead have risen from St. Joseph’s graveyard, and wandered out into Jacob Street, causing a six-car pileup. Delays may be up to an hour, as emergency services are yet to arrive on the scene…”*
Gareth switched the radio off, and wacked the steering wheel in anger. An entire hour delay? He almost wished there had been an actual zombie apocalypse. At least there would have been fewer traffic jams.
|
After the initial panic died down we took account of the situation. Yes, the dead were walking but that wasn't the worst of it. Carbon and green house gases were on the rise. The stumbling and mobs made transportation spotty at best. How could we know? The weeks that followed brought no answers from our scientific bodies or governments. The religious right however used this to fleece their flocks and bring a new inquisition. People were beaten and burned...accused of being 'sinful'. Anarchy, man made, brought us to the brink of societal collapse. Then it happened...On the warmest night of spring the zombies climbed any tall building they could find and released their spores. The mutation in a South American fungus was found to be the culprit. If you're reading this it means I'm already dead. Don't look in the pantry.
-Excerpt from a journal held by a headless corpse in an abandoned home
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[WP] The Zombie apocalypse has finally happened. The dead rose from their graves all over the world. They do not however, crave flesh, eat brains or hunt humans. Honestly they don't do much of anything except shuffle around. The Zombie hordes are more of an inconvenience than the end of the world.
|
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEP
Colin pressed the button on the answering machine.
“hello, this is Mr’s Royce, another ones gott-”
He pressed skip
“Err, Hi, I’m calling from the McGrath farm, we’ve gotten a whole flock, wait no…herd, horde? Anyway, I require your services, they are *everywhere*.”
Colin shuffled his way to the fridge (the same kind of shuffle as his daily prey), then sunk into his favourite chair as his can of dangerously cheap beer hissed at him as he opened it.
He turned his tv on and flicked to the news, as the newscaster began to drone on about god knows what, Colin’s mind drifted to those first few months when the world shut down.
It had been nearly five years ago since the dead rose.
It came in three waves. First the diggers.
The oldest corpses, the ones that only *just* managed to dig their way out of the ground, they were so old and rotten that they ended up as piles of bones spread through cemeteries with nearby mounds of mud, most people thought it was some sick, twisted fad.
The second wave were the stumblers, they could shuffle but not much else, the longest surviving of the three waves.
The Third wave, the biters, were the fastest and the...bitey-est, a bite wouldn’t kill you or turn you, it’d just hurt like hell and maybe give you an infection in the wound; if you were really unlucky.
The un-dead weren't the biggest problem though, people having had decades and decades worth of horror and zombie films drummed into them, huge numbers of people panicked and expected a fourth, or a fifth wave and in lieu of this, went bananas.
Shops were pillaged, business looted, food and guns stockpiled, even some fortress like structures were built to house people in case of the worst.
But a fourth wave never came.
Scientists argued and debated the cause and solution to the problem constantly, to no avail.
The U.N eventually made a statement nearly six months after the Biters appeared to all countries, to encourage an increase of exterminators with the speciality of the undead; and like in the movies, destroying the brain worked and for four and a half years Colin had been just that, a Zombie Exterminator, or as they had become known, a Zombie-Axer.
All this changed for Colin and in fact, the whole world when at the McGrath farm, the very next day Colin the Axer spoke with the dead, and the dead spoke back.
|
“Oi!” John announced as the rotting corpse shuffled in front of his shopping cart. “We didn’t have this kind of shite in Glasgow.”
A worried stockboy jogged up to the zombie and helped it across the aisle. “I’m very sorry, sir, that shouldn’t happen, I’m sorry.”
John grumbled forgiveness as the employee walked off, dragging the confused corpse with him.
“Scotland has zombies too, ya tard,” Mike told him, grabbing two packs of Corona. “Everywhere does.”
“Aye, but at least we keep the fuckers locked up! You Americans just let ‘em walk around the roads.”
“We’d put them in prisons if they weren’t already full,” Mike replied, scanning the gift aisle for a suitable card. It was his anniversary, and he’d forgotten; John certainly wasn’t contributing any helpful ideas.
He picked one out— not too cheesy, not too stupid. Across its front read “What a beautiful day...” He didn’t look at the inside; he assumed it would be fine. Mike grabbed a bouquet of posies and walked to the checkout.
The flowers rang up at $48.53– zombies certainly didn’t do much for the price of posies.
By the time they had gotten back to John’s truck, Mike was sixty dollars lighter, and John was one beer drunk.
“You know, you can’t have that bottle open in here.” Mike told him.
John snorted. “Bullshite.”
The policeman that pulled them over wasn’t impressed by John’s accent.
“I couldn’t ‘ave known that!” John protested.
The officer sighed. “I’m pretty sure the UK has open containers too, sir.”
A *thud* was heard in the back of the truck, and the officer drew his gun.
#*Crack! Crack!*
“Jesus!” Mike yelled, and jumped out of the passenger seat.
The policeman didn’t stop Mike from bending down over the zombie. Blood streaked across John’s silver pickup. The zombie’s eyehole was pierced all the way through, and it’s neck was nearly in two. The stench of fresh rot filled Mike’s nostrils.
“Fuck,” John said, getting out. “I jus’ washed this.”
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[WP] The Zombie apocalypse has finally happened. The dead rose from their graves all over the world. They do not however, crave flesh, eat brains or hunt humans. Honestly they don't do much of anything except shuffle around. The Zombie hordes are more of an inconvenience than the end of the world.
|
Gareth sighed in frustration as his car ground to a halt behind a long stream of traffic. Yet again his journey into work was to be delayed. He would have had another hour in bed if he’d known it was going to happen again.
A week ago, when the zombie “apocalypse” first started, people the world over began panicking as the dead began to rise. Graveyards all over the globe were dug up by its inhabitants, who would then start slowly shuffling out of the graveyards and into the streets.
Rather understandably, people hadn’t been too happy about this new state of affairs. Zombie movies typically portrayed the undead as monsters, who wanted to go around eating people’s brains. However, people soon noticed that the zombies weren’t actually chasing anybody. And when the police/ army/ people looking for a bit of action started shooting at them, they found that the zombies would actually complain about it.
Once all the screaming and rioting about the raising of the dead ended, people actually started talking to the undead.
As it turned out, the spirits living in Hell had had a referendum, and had voted to leave the Evil Underworld, in what came to be known as “Hexit”. Those whose bodies had not completely decomposed came back as zombies, and those without a body were still figuring it out apparently, although the theory is that they would soon follow the zombies and come back as ghosts.
Inconveniently enough, the zombies didn’t all come back to life at once, and so graveyards were randomly digging themselves up over the days following “Hexit”. This of course made Gareth’s daily commute a nightmare, as the main road in his town went past a church. A handful of zombies popping up and walking out into traffic was a wonderful nuisance to anyone trying to drive.
He switched on the radio to see if it was being reported just how many there were today.
*“…and here with me is undead person’s rights activist Jenny Silverwick. Tell me Jenny, what rights do you believe the undead should have in our society?”*
*“Well Chris, undead people are people just like you and I, just because they died for a bit doesn’t change…”*
Gareth flicked it over to a different station.
*“…have announced that they plan on the construction of several “Undead Towns” where the undead may live separate from the living, in an attempt to clear up their cities. Many have compared these towns to concentration camps…”*
Flick.
*“…I think you’ll find that “Zombie” is actually an incredibly offensive term. The correct name for them is “Undead Person”. Calling them a “Zombie” is essentially the same as calling a black…”*
Flick.
*“…recently announced zombie film, “28 Months Later”, has had to be cancelled following the recent rising of the Undead, due to complaints of factual inaccuracy and offensiveness to the undead…”*
Flick.
*“…may have found that traffic is yet again being affected by Hexit, as fifty undead have risen from St. Joseph’s graveyard, and wandered out into Jacob Street, causing a six-car pileup. Delays may be up to an hour, as emergency services are yet to arrive on the scene…”*
Gareth switched the radio off, and wacked the steering wheel in anger. An entire hour delay? He almost wished there had been an actual zombie apocalypse. At least there would have been fewer traffic jams.
|
“Oi!” John announced as the rotting corpse shuffled in front of his shopping cart. “We didn’t have this kind of shite in Glasgow.”
A worried stockboy jogged up to the zombie and helped it across the aisle. “I’m very sorry, sir, that shouldn’t happen, I’m sorry.”
John grumbled forgiveness as the employee walked off, dragging the confused corpse with him.
“Scotland has zombies too, ya tard,” Mike told him, grabbing two packs of Corona. “Everywhere does.”
“Aye, but at least we keep the fuckers locked up! You Americans just let ‘em walk around the roads.”
“We’d put them in prisons if they weren’t already full,” Mike replied, scanning the gift aisle for a suitable card. It was his anniversary, and he’d forgotten; John certainly wasn’t contributing any helpful ideas.
He picked one out— not too cheesy, not too stupid. Across its front read “What a beautiful day...” He didn’t look at the inside; he assumed it would be fine. Mike grabbed a bouquet of posies and walked to the checkout.
The flowers rang up at $48.53– zombies certainly didn’t do much for the price of posies.
By the time they had gotten back to John’s truck, Mike was sixty dollars lighter, and John was one beer drunk.
“You know, you can’t have that bottle open in here.” Mike told him.
John snorted. “Bullshite.”
The policeman that pulled them over wasn’t impressed by John’s accent.
“I couldn’t ‘ave known that!” John protested.
The officer sighed. “I’m pretty sure the UK has open containers too, sir.”
A *thud* was heard in the back of the truck, and the officer drew his gun.
#*Crack! Crack!*
“Jesus!” Mike yelled, and jumped out of the passenger seat.
The policeman didn’t stop Mike from bending down over the zombie. Blood streaked across John’s silver pickup. The zombie’s eyehole was pierced all the way through, and it’s neck was nearly in two. The stench of fresh rot filled Mike’s nostrils.
“Fuck,” John said, getting out. “I jus’ washed this.”
|
|
[WP] The Zombie apocalypse has finally happened. The dead rose from their graves all over the world. They do not however, crave flesh, eat brains or hunt humans. Honestly they don't do much of anything except shuffle around. The Zombie hordes are more of an inconvenience than the end of the world.
|
Gareth sighed in frustration as his car ground to a halt behind a long stream of traffic. Yet again his journey into work was to be delayed. He would have had another hour in bed if he’d known it was going to happen again.
A week ago, when the zombie “apocalypse” first started, people the world over began panicking as the dead began to rise. Graveyards all over the globe were dug up by its inhabitants, who would then start slowly shuffling out of the graveyards and into the streets.
Rather understandably, people hadn’t been too happy about this new state of affairs. Zombie movies typically portrayed the undead as monsters, who wanted to go around eating people’s brains. However, people soon noticed that the zombies weren’t actually chasing anybody. And when the police/ army/ people looking for a bit of action started shooting at them, they found that the zombies would actually complain about it.
Once all the screaming and rioting about the raising of the dead ended, people actually started talking to the undead.
As it turned out, the spirits living in Hell had had a referendum, and had voted to leave the Evil Underworld, in what came to be known as “Hexit”. Those whose bodies had not completely decomposed came back as zombies, and those without a body were still figuring it out apparently, although the theory is that they would soon follow the zombies and come back as ghosts.
Inconveniently enough, the zombies didn’t all come back to life at once, and so graveyards were randomly digging themselves up over the days following “Hexit”. This of course made Gareth’s daily commute a nightmare, as the main road in his town went past a church. A handful of zombies popping up and walking out into traffic was a wonderful nuisance to anyone trying to drive.
He switched on the radio to see if it was being reported just how many there were today.
*“…and here with me is undead person’s rights activist Jenny Silverwick. Tell me Jenny, what rights do you believe the undead should have in our society?”*
*“Well Chris, undead people are people just like you and I, just because they died for a bit doesn’t change…”*
Gareth flicked it over to a different station.
*“…have announced that they plan on the construction of several “Undead Towns” where the undead may live separate from the living, in an attempt to clear up their cities. Many have compared these towns to concentration camps…”*
Flick.
*“…I think you’ll find that “Zombie” is actually an incredibly offensive term. The correct name for them is “Undead Person”. Calling them a “Zombie” is essentially the same as calling a black…”*
Flick.
*“…recently announced zombie film, “28 Months Later”, has had to be cancelled following the recent rising of the Undead, due to complaints of factual inaccuracy and offensiveness to the undead…”*
Flick.
*“…may have found that traffic is yet again being affected by Hexit, as fifty undead have risen from St. Joseph’s graveyard, and wandered out into Jacob Street, causing a six-car pileup. Delays may be up to an hour, as emergency services are yet to arrive on the scene…”*
Gareth switched the radio off, and wacked the steering wheel in anger. An entire hour delay? He almost wished there had been an actual zombie apocalypse. At least there would have been fewer traffic jams.
|
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEP
Colin pressed the button on the answering machine.
“hello, this is Mr’s Royce, another ones gott-”
He pressed skip
“Err, Hi, I’m calling from the McGrath farm, we’ve gotten a whole flock, wait no…herd, horde? Anyway, I require your services, they are *everywhere*.”
Colin shuffled his way to the fridge (the same kind of shuffle as his daily prey), then sunk into his favourite chair as his can of dangerously cheap beer hissed at him as he opened it.
He turned his tv on and flicked to the news, as the newscaster began to drone on about god knows what, Colin’s mind drifted to those first few months when the world shut down.
It had been nearly five years ago since the dead rose.
It came in three waves. First the diggers.
The oldest corpses, the ones that only *just* managed to dig their way out of the ground, they were so old and rotten that they ended up as piles of bones spread through cemeteries with nearby mounds of mud, most people thought it was some sick, twisted fad.
The second wave were the stumblers, they could shuffle but not much else, the longest surviving of the three waves.
The Third wave, the biters, were the fastest and the...bitey-est, a bite wouldn’t kill you or turn you, it’d just hurt like hell and maybe give you an infection in the wound; if you were really unlucky.
The un-dead weren't the biggest problem though, people having had decades and decades worth of horror and zombie films drummed into them, huge numbers of people panicked and expected a fourth, or a fifth wave and in lieu of this, went bananas.
Shops were pillaged, business looted, food and guns stockpiled, even some fortress like structures were built to house people in case of the worst.
But a fourth wave never came.
Scientists argued and debated the cause and solution to the problem constantly, to no avail.
The U.N eventually made a statement nearly six months after the Biters appeared to all countries, to encourage an increase of exterminators with the speciality of the undead; and like in the movies, destroying the brain worked and for four and a half years Colin had been just that, a Zombie Exterminator, or as they had become known, a Zombie-Axer.
All this changed for Colin and in fact, the whole world when at the McGrath farm, the very next day Colin the Axer spoke with the dead, and the dead spoke back.
|
|
[WP] It's 3am. Groaning in frustration, you moan "I would do *anything* to get out of writing this paper" and smash your head into the desk. "Anything?" says the voice behind you.
|
Huh? I said groggily. I smacked my head a little harder than I meant to, and was seeing stars.
"You said you'd do *anything* to get out of that paper, right?
I turn around to be greeted by an elderly man, dressed in a black suit, smiling at me.
"Uhhh, yeaa... this paper is due tomorrow and I'm just bored of this class, I'd do anything to be able to skip it" I was at my college library, and while i thought this exchange was weird, it wasn't the first time a stranger has struck a conversation with me. I sort of just figured he was a staff member taking an interest in me.
"What if I told you I could get you out of having to do that paper, and much more, for a small price?" His smile now stretched across his face, it was cold, and calculated.
"I don't know man, that sounds pretty sketchy" This guy probably wanted me to do some sick sexual fantasy, no old guys ever want money or anything normal.
"No, I don't want sex" He replied calmly.
I jumped, did I say that out loud?? My face must be beet red, I've never been more embarrassed. "Oh..Uh..I..I'm sorry! I didn't mean anything by that, I swear!" Oh god I cannot believe I did that. I grab my books ready to sprint out of there and cry.
"Wait just a moment, no harm done, I am only here to conduct some business. You said you'd do *anything* after all, that's why I'm here." His eyes burned into me, I don't know why but this old man scared me.
"Uh yea, what..what did you have in mind?" I couldn't calm my breathing, This guy...there was something off about him, mixed with my earlier embarrassment, I was stuttering like a fool.
"Oh sonny, I am going to give you the deal of a lifetime, I am going to give you 3 wishes. There are rules to these wishes, I can not raise the dead, nor can i turn back time. I am also unable to bend free will, unfortunately the big man took that one away from me a few centuries back; I'm still upset about that. In exchange what I want from you is so small in comparison you'd be a fool not to take my offer."
My eyes bulged "Wait what what what, raise the dead? Three wishes? Are you being serious?"
He rolled his eyes "Why does every mortal need proof, if I say I can grant wishes then I can. Whatever, here look closely." He pulls out a ball of glass, and holds it out to me. I peer inside and.. wait.. is that me? I'm sitting on a throne, thousands of people around me are bowing and throwing roses and gold at me. "This can be you." The old man states "For a small fee, this could be just one of your wishes, I can make you rich, powerful, or even extend your life for centuries."
"What do you want in return?" I knew the answer, it was always the same in these scenarios. "My soul?"
"What? No! Do you know how many souls i have now? I don't even know what to do with them all. I want your body. This one is getting to old to support me, in exchange for 3 wishes, you will sign over to me your body, after you've died ill be using it as my new vessel. This one has been good for the past thousand years or so, but its time for an upgrade."
"You just want my body? That's all?"
"Yep, nothing less, nothing more. Do we have a deal?"
"Hmmmmm.." I thought about it for a few minutes, until he was becoming visibly impatient. "Nah, I'll just do my paper."
Poof, he was gone. Suddenly i was waking up, my head heavy on my text book. "Ughh just a dream?"
Like I'd let another man in my body, that's gay af.
|
""YO WHAT?!", I say in shock.
"You said you'd do anything to get out of doing this paper so I'm just trying to get a confirmation on that", says the black figure standing at the furthest corner from me.
"Uh I was just exaggerating. Ya know? A hyperbole. Funny enough this paper is about the uses of hyperboles. Could I use this conversation as an opening for it?", I asked.
"Oh um sure, I guess", he says. "So uh I'll just leave then..."
"Yeah okay. Goodbye!", I shout as the dark figure leaves.
|
|
[WP] It's 3am. Groaning in frustration, you moan "I would do *anything* to get out of writing this paper" and smash your head into the desk. "Anything?" says the voice behind you.
|
"Anything?"
Darren almost fell out of his chair as he twisted around. He was alone in his dorm room. His roommate had gone home on Friday. Hell, half of the school went home on the weekends, so there shouldn't be anyone here!
Except there was.
A man sat on the top bunk of the room's bunk bed. He had dark skin, a wild smile, and an extremely large nose. He was wearing a small purple hat with gold trimming, an open vest with no shirt underneath, and pants that were the same purple as the hat. His legs were kicking back and forth as he leaned forward.
"What kind of anything?"
"Get out of my room!" Darren grabbed his pair of scissors from the pencil case on his desk and attempted to raise them in a threatening way.
"Why would I leave after I have been summoned?" The strange man stopped swinging his legs, "You have brought me here at the correct hour, cast pain into your head as is required, and called out your want of the deal. The contract is sufficient and accepted, so why do you banish me without fulfillment?"
"What?"
"You have called me here." The man jumped down from the top bunk, his impact on the floor seemingly too violent for his smallish body, "You have summoned Algh, Lord of the Frustrated, Champion of Desperation. When there are no ways to turn, all turn to Algh! Now propose your deal, human!"
"I wasn't-what?" Darren shook his head, "What deal?"
"To escape the writing of the paper." Algh crossed his arms and frowned, "It is the great obstacle which is destroying your mind and body. I will remove it for the appropriate price."
"What sort of price?"
"Oh, that's a most difficult thing to weigh." Algh lifted his head and blew green smoke toward the old ceiling fan, "This paper that restrains you, how impassible is it?"
"Well, uh." Darren looked at the class syllabus and the line that read 'Three to five pages in length.' "It's actually not *that* impassible. I just got a little bit of writer's block."
"A block of writers!" Algh smiled, "How many? A score? A Legion!?"
"What, no-"
"It's been a millennia since I dispatched a legion! Are they armed to the teeth?" Algh leaned forward, clasping has hands together as if in a fervent prayer, "Do they possesses magic of fire?"
"No!" Darren stepped backward and hit the desk with the back of his thighs, "It's nothing like that. I just have to give an argument to my teacher."
"So it is a puzzle? A great riddle to solve what cannot be solved? A twisting trap of words upon which life and death hang in precarious balance?"
"NO!" Darren shouted with his eyes shut, "No. I'm sorry. You were summoned by accident. There is no great, life-changing epic here. There is only a stupid assignment that I'm too tired to work out. I left it for too long and it's my own damn fault that I didn't pay attention in class and now I can't understand the material."
"There is no legion of writers?"
"No."
"No ancient riddle?"
"Nope."
"No unsolvable labyrinth, evil dragon, or all-powerful djinn?"
"Sorry."
Algh pursed his lips and glared at Darren, "Then what in the thirteen hells do you want from me?"
"Some cliffnotes on ancient greek plays?" Darren asked hopefully.
Algh grunted, reached into a small pouch on his waste, and pulled out a small, silver coin with a hole in it. He threw the coin in Darren's face with a dismissive flip of his hand, "Then buy such things yourself."
Algh vanished in a swirl of green smoke, leaving Darren with a small silver coin and a new bruise on his forehead.
|
""YO WHAT?!", I say in shock.
"You said you'd do anything to get out of doing this paper so I'm just trying to get a confirmation on that", says the black figure standing at the furthest corner from me.
"Uh I was just exaggerating. Ya know? A hyperbole. Funny enough this paper is about the uses of hyperboles. Could I use this conversation as an opening for it?", I asked.
"Oh um sure, I guess", he says. "So uh I'll just leave then..."
"Yeah okay. Goodbye!", I shout as the dark figure leaves.
|
|
Basically, write a story about an infohazardous entity, where knowing or conveying information about the entity is dangerous in some way.
|
[WP] Do not talk about █████. Do not write about █████. Do not refer to █████ using any name. The more you know about █████, the more █████ knows about you.
|
"The one who shall not be named...?" Garrick offered hopefully, his aged whisper of a voice rising in question as he spoke.
Carris shook her head, her once dark hair now tinged with grey shimmying with the motion. She sat back in the wooden chair, dejectedly, frowning at the collection of tomes and scrolls scattered across the broad tabletop. She raised a single finger, then brought it down atop the tome open in front of her, her nail landing precisely below the blank space in the line of text.
"No. That won't work. It says right here 'Do not refer to ...", she paused, looking around significantly to emphasize the blank, before continuing, "using any name.', we can't just give... It... a different name, because it's smart enough to work out we're still talking about it.”
Garrick seems to deflate, crumpling in on himself, the wrinkles on his face being accentuated as he pouted in confused defeat. Carris sighed, looking around the table at the others seated with her in the high council. Five of the greatest minds of their generation, tasked with solving a seemingly unsolvable problem that had lingered for generations:
How do you warn a populace of an enemy, when discussing or even thinking about the enemy empowered them?
Garrick represented the largest of the current religions and was considered an expert on morality. He was, however, regrettably poor at thinking outside the box.
Carris herself was a scholar of philosophy, a subject matter which required a great deal of coming at topics at odd angles in an attempt to explore concepts. But when the concept itself was aware and toxic, even the tools of philosophy seemed inadequate.
Millin was a politician, making him seem both superfluous and vital to the endeavor. Politicians would most likely be the ones to implement whatever policy they came up with. They were also fairly expert in twisting words and understanding the desires of the populace… But still, a politician.
Batok and Soloas were married. Batok was a master of linguistics, while Soloas was one of the foremost mathematicians in the known world. Perhaps if their child stopped distracting them, they might come up with some way to express the adversary in a way that it could not leverage. For now Soloas watched the child in the corner as it, blessedly, quietly played with a series of wooden blocks.
The elders who wrote the books had left spaces, gaps in the histories in their attempt to get around the problem. They were reasonably confident that this would not draw the attention of… Carris shook her head, trying to squirm around the concept. But the problem was the populace.
If Garrick left this room and warned his ‘flock’ or even some of his family not to think of ‘The one who shall not be named’, then a day later that warning could have shot through the entire population like a wildfire, drawing the attention of the… Thing beyond. Which would cause disaster.
The books were also clear, however, that the… darkness must not be forgotten. It would return at some point, manifesting into the world, and if the world then turned their attention to it they would simply make it stronger. The world needed to know how to ignore something without you ever actually telling them to ignore it.
Batok growled in frustration, slapping the tabletop and causing the scroll before him to bounce, unfurling a few more lines unevenly as it came to settle again.
“It’s not possible!”, he complained to the room at large, sitting back and pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose, his voice tight with frustration.
The rest of the table looked to him, some sleepily, some mildly alarmed by the sudden outburst, and his wife with a frown of consternation that he would risk upsetting their child to say what they all already feared.
“According to the scrolls, as far as the Elders could tell, the… Thing… Was infinitely intelligent. It is vaguely aware of our entire world, but mentions of it feed it a tiny portion of power and thus draw its attention. Thinking about … Such things directly, has a similar effect, but giving such an entity a name is worse. But whatever way you refer to it still becomes linked to the concept and thus linked to the thing itself!”, Batok continued
“Which means, linguistically, there’s no way around this. Even if you were to pause when referring to such a force, you risk that pause becoming associated with it. Then every time anyone pauses in a conversation, it could feed the blasted evil. The Elders were fairly confident that if you used a different name each time, it did the least harm, but there’s no way to get a populace to actually do that… If we warn the wider world, within a generation they will fall into the habit of using this term or that and then the whole exercise is for naught.”, Batok concluded, slumping back in his chair wearily and sighing.
Carris looked around the table and saw Garrick, Batok and Millin doing the same, each looking concerned and lost and hopeful. Each a mirror of her own feelings, seeing no solution but hoping that one of the other great minds present did.
For more than a century the unspoken council had met, a small cabal of the greatest minds meeting but once a decade to debate and discuss the problem for no more than three days. The invitees had shifted over the years as members became too old to continue, the numbers varying slightly but never more than a dozen. Enough to keep the knowledge alive, to consider the problem, and to be trusted with not speaking or thinking about the problem too much between meetings so as to make the other aware.
This was Carris’ second time in attendance, Garrick’s third and probably last. The other three were new and she and Garrick had rather hoped they would bring some new insight. So far they had not.
Carris frowned, looking at Millin, Batok and Soloas. New members were selected by unanimous decision of the existing, brought in from as disparate locations as possible to protect the knowledge from loss to cataclysm or plague. It also reduced the risk of members discussing the problem when not in council.
They had not realised Batok and Soloas were married, or they would not have invited both of them. Carris had only realised they were married after they had both sworn the oaths and had the great dilemma described to them, and by then it was too late to do much about it. The risk of a married couple discussing or thinking on the issue between sessions was too great a risk, even with their vows not to, triply so if both people in the couple were members. The council preferred the unmarried and the celebrate, to minimse risks, but mistakes and exceptions were made from time to time.
Soloas had been animated and brilliant during the first day, suggesting ways to express the dilemma as a pattern or a formula. But Millin had pointed out much the same problem that Batok just had; You give that to the populace and before you know it, they’ve given the formula or symbol a name and then you’re just as worse off as having used an alias. Since then Soloas had seemed disconnected, seeming to listen and react when people made suggestions, but more interested in watching her child play than adding anything.
The whole process was disheartening… It always was. That’s why they’d been meeting for a century with no luck. How do you teach a populace to not think of something? People are stubborn, tell them not to think of an elephant and they’ll think of it out of instinct or spite.
Carris sighed, glancing towards the dwindling fireplace and the hour glass draining above it. Maybe an hour or two until the end of the third day, then they would all be dispatched back to their homes with sealed chests containing some portion of the books and scrolls, to spend the next decade waiting and trying not to think on the greatest problem in the world. It truly was maddening.
Carris shut the book before her and rose, feeling tired and defeated, “Alright… I know there’s a few hours left, but I think we’re done here. Would anyone object to us finishing a few hours early?”
Carris looked around the table, Botak and Millin nodding to her, Garrick giving her a small frown.
“It’s unusual…”, Garrick intoned, eyeing her suspiciously… Before shrugging and closing his own tome, “... But not unprecedented.”
Garrick was halfway to standing, his hands beginning to draw tomes and scrolls in towards him when Soloas spoke, her voice quiet and contemplative, but something in the tone freezing them all in place.
“What about a game?”, she asked, still watching her child playing with the blocks. Something in the way she said it gave Carris pause, wondering if that far off expression that had seemed like indifference had perhaps been more… Contemplative.
Millin frowned, his eyes half rolling in frustration, before he caught himself and plastered on one of those smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes.
“My dear…”, Millin drawled in painfully patient tones that made Batok set his jaw, “ ...If you’d like a game of cards, I’m sure you can find something in a tavern on your way home. There’s no need to keep all of us trapped down here-...”
“No, no, no.”, Soloas said, cutting in over the top of him. She seemed oblivious to the condescension in his tone, her eyes still set upon her infant, but there was a vigor to her tone, the impatience of someone with an idea on the edge of their tongue, who’s worried if the don’t speak it quickly it will be lost.
Soloas rose, moving to her child and collecting a couple of the blocks he was not using, then returning them to the table, looking around to make sure she had everyone’s attention, eyes sparkling.
“Why don’t we turn all of this…”, Soloas gestured towards all the books with a hand, then picked up a block shook it for emphasis, “ … into this?”
[TBC in Comments]
|
"Hello," the man on the screen said, "I want you to pay very close attention. This could be your only warning, I don't know if anyone else will be able to get the message out. I don't know if anyone else is even still alive. This is very, very important. Don't look at *it,* don't listen to *it,* don't even think about *it."*
I could hear the emphasis he put into the word 'it'. This wasn't in my job description. I was meant to show up at 12 am, grab my security guard ID card, patrol until 6, then go home and come back the next day at the same time to do the same thing. I was not meant to find a cryptic video playing on all the screens in the security office on my first night. Looking through the window to a few of the other rooms down the hall from the office, I noticed that it was playing on all the screens I could see. How the hell would they even set that up?
"I know this must sound strange," the man continued, "but if you are seeing this you must leave immediately. I can't leave the room that I'm in, or *it* will find me, and I can't trigger the alarm from here. Really, I'm just delaying the inevitable by hiding in here anyways. I know about *it.* *It* will figure out where I am eventually."
That's when I understood. He was going to tell me that this 'it' thing had broken containment, 'it' had killed the entire staff, and I needed to get away and spread the word to the world that 'it' was coming for anyone that knew about 'it'. Hell of a practical joke to play on me the first night I worked here. They must have guessed that I'd be nervous on my first night at such a high-security lab and decided to have a bit of fun. Hell, the place had an alarm system that would enter lock-down if the wrong door was opened at night, thinking about what would need that level of security would freak anyone out just a bit. This place was creepy enough without the prank, I kept on thinking I saw motion out of the corners of my eyes, in every doorway and down every hall.
"I've set this broadcast to loop every ten minutes, and to display on every screen I can remotely access in the facility. That should ensure that anyone coming in here will see it, and hopefully you'll know what to do. I'm sorry if I've already given you too much information, it's difficult to determine what exactly you'll need to know to deal with the situation, and what will alert *it* to your presence. This is Dr. John Green, Security Number 99873, signing o-"
That's when his head exploded. You might think that I'm exaggerating when I say that, but I'm not. It full on exploded, shards of skull and bits of brain flying in all directions. At this point I was ready to leave. The pay was good, but not good enough to put up with this shit. The only problem was that the doors locked automatically when I came in, and wouldn't open until my shift ended. The person I spoke to about the job mentioned it was a security measure, but I don't see why it's necessary. All I have is a walkie-talkie, and that thing is only good for contacting the other security guard, who called in sick today.
&nbsp;
It's 3 am now, I'm halfway through my shift. I gave up on patrolling two hours ago. I assumed that someone would have appeared to tell me that it's all a prank by now. I've rewatched the video countless times, trying to see a muzzle flash, trying to see anything that would cause that kind of damage to a person. All that I've noticed is a small distortion in the video the instant before Dr. Green's head explodes, that looks almost like a translucent figure reaching for him from just behind him and to his right. I can't help but wonder if that's the *it* that he was talking about. I can't help but wonder if *it* will be coming for me soon. I wonder if *it* will come for you soon, too, now that you've read this. The feeling of seeing movement out of the corners of my eyes is becoming more frequent. It has been since I saw the video for the first time. God save me. God save me. I don't want to die. I'm not ready to die yet. God sav
|
Basically, write a story about an infohazardous entity, where knowing or conveying information about the entity is dangerous in some way.
|
[WP] Do not talk about █████. Do not write about █████. Do not refer to █████ using any name. The more you know about █████, the more █████ knows about you.
|
"The one who shall not be named...?" Garrick offered hopefully, his aged whisper of a voice rising in question as he spoke.
Carris shook her head, her once dark hair now tinged with grey shimmying with the motion. She sat back in the wooden chair, dejectedly, frowning at the collection of tomes and scrolls scattered across the broad tabletop. She raised a single finger, then brought it down atop the tome open in front of her, her nail landing precisely below the blank space in the line of text.
"No. That won't work. It says right here 'Do not refer to ...", she paused, looking around significantly to emphasize the blank, before continuing, "using any name.', we can't just give... It... a different name, because it's smart enough to work out we're still talking about it.”
Garrick seems to deflate, crumpling in on himself, the wrinkles on his face being accentuated as he pouted in confused defeat. Carris sighed, looking around the table at the others seated with her in the high council. Five of the greatest minds of their generation, tasked with solving a seemingly unsolvable problem that had lingered for generations:
How do you warn a populace of an enemy, when discussing or even thinking about the enemy empowered them?
Garrick represented the largest of the current religions and was considered an expert on morality. He was, however, regrettably poor at thinking outside the box.
Carris herself was a scholar of philosophy, a subject matter which required a great deal of coming at topics at odd angles in an attempt to explore concepts. But when the concept itself was aware and toxic, even the tools of philosophy seemed inadequate.
Millin was a politician, making him seem both superfluous and vital to the endeavor. Politicians would most likely be the ones to implement whatever policy they came up with. They were also fairly expert in twisting words and understanding the desires of the populace… But still, a politician.
Batok and Soloas were married. Batok was a master of linguistics, while Soloas was one of the foremost mathematicians in the known world. Perhaps if their child stopped distracting them, they might come up with some way to express the adversary in a way that it could not leverage. For now Soloas watched the child in the corner as it, blessedly, quietly played with a series of wooden blocks.
The elders who wrote the books had left spaces, gaps in the histories in their attempt to get around the problem. They were reasonably confident that this would not draw the attention of… Carris shook her head, trying to squirm around the concept. But the problem was the populace.
If Garrick left this room and warned his ‘flock’ or even some of his family not to think of ‘The one who shall not be named’, then a day later that warning could have shot through the entire population like a wildfire, drawing the attention of the… Thing beyond. Which would cause disaster.
The books were also clear, however, that the… darkness must not be forgotten. It would return at some point, manifesting into the world, and if the world then turned their attention to it they would simply make it stronger. The world needed to know how to ignore something without you ever actually telling them to ignore it.
Batok growled in frustration, slapping the tabletop and causing the scroll before him to bounce, unfurling a few more lines unevenly as it came to settle again.
“It’s not possible!”, he complained to the room at large, sitting back and pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose, his voice tight with frustration.
The rest of the table looked to him, some sleepily, some mildly alarmed by the sudden outburst, and his wife with a frown of consternation that he would risk upsetting their child to say what they all already feared.
“According to the scrolls, as far as the Elders could tell, the… Thing… Was infinitely intelligent. It is vaguely aware of our entire world, but mentions of it feed it a tiny portion of power and thus draw its attention. Thinking about … Such things directly, has a similar effect, but giving such an entity a name is worse. But whatever way you refer to it still becomes linked to the concept and thus linked to the thing itself!”, Batok continued
“Which means, linguistically, there’s no way around this. Even if you were to pause when referring to such a force, you risk that pause becoming associated with it. Then every time anyone pauses in a conversation, it could feed the blasted evil. The Elders were fairly confident that if you used a different name each time, it did the least harm, but there’s no way to get a populace to actually do that… If we warn the wider world, within a generation they will fall into the habit of using this term or that and then the whole exercise is for naught.”, Batok concluded, slumping back in his chair wearily and sighing.
Carris looked around the table and saw Garrick, Batok and Millin doing the same, each looking concerned and lost and hopeful. Each a mirror of her own feelings, seeing no solution but hoping that one of the other great minds present did.
For more than a century the unspoken council had met, a small cabal of the greatest minds meeting but once a decade to debate and discuss the problem for no more than three days. The invitees had shifted over the years as members became too old to continue, the numbers varying slightly but never more than a dozen. Enough to keep the knowledge alive, to consider the problem, and to be trusted with not speaking or thinking about the problem too much between meetings so as to make the other aware.
This was Carris’ second time in attendance, Garrick’s third and probably last. The other three were new and she and Garrick had rather hoped they would bring some new insight. So far they had not.
Carris frowned, looking at Millin, Batok and Soloas. New members were selected by unanimous decision of the existing, brought in from as disparate locations as possible to protect the knowledge from loss to cataclysm or plague. It also reduced the risk of members discussing the problem when not in council.
They had not realised Batok and Soloas were married, or they would not have invited both of them. Carris had only realised they were married after they had both sworn the oaths and had the great dilemma described to them, and by then it was too late to do much about it. The risk of a married couple discussing or thinking on the issue between sessions was too great a risk, even with their vows not to, triply so if both people in the couple were members. The council preferred the unmarried and the celebrate, to minimse risks, but mistakes and exceptions were made from time to time.
Soloas had been animated and brilliant during the first day, suggesting ways to express the dilemma as a pattern or a formula. But Millin had pointed out much the same problem that Batok just had; You give that to the populace and before you know it, they’ve given the formula or symbol a name and then you’re just as worse off as having used an alias. Since then Soloas had seemed disconnected, seeming to listen and react when people made suggestions, but more interested in watching her child play than adding anything.
The whole process was disheartening… It always was. That’s why they’d been meeting for a century with no luck. How do you teach a populace to not think of something? People are stubborn, tell them not to think of an elephant and they’ll think of it out of instinct or spite.
Carris sighed, glancing towards the dwindling fireplace and the hour glass draining above it. Maybe an hour or two until the end of the third day, then they would all be dispatched back to their homes with sealed chests containing some portion of the books and scrolls, to spend the next decade waiting and trying not to think on the greatest problem in the world. It truly was maddening.
Carris shut the book before her and rose, feeling tired and defeated, “Alright… I know there’s a few hours left, but I think we’re done here. Would anyone object to us finishing a few hours early?”
Carris looked around the table, Botak and Millin nodding to her, Garrick giving her a small frown.
“It’s unusual…”, Garrick intoned, eyeing her suspiciously… Before shrugging and closing his own tome, “... But not unprecedented.”
Garrick was halfway to standing, his hands beginning to draw tomes and scrolls in towards him when Soloas spoke, her voice quiet and contemplative, but something in the tone freezing them all in place.
“What about a game?”, she asked, still watching her child playing with the blocks. Something in the way she said it gave Carris pause, wondering if that far off expression that had seemed like indifference had perhaps been more… Contemplative.
Millin frowned, his eyes half rolling in frustration, before he caught himself and plastered on one of those smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes.
“My dear…”, Millin drawled in painfully patient tones that made Batok set his jaw, “ ...If you’d like a game of cards, I’m sure you can find something in a tavern on your way home. There’s no need to keep all of us trapped down here-...”
“No, no, no.”, Soloas said, cutting in over the top of him. She seemed oblivious to the condescension in his tone, her eyes still set upon her infant, but there was a vigor to her tone, the impatience of someone with an idea on the edge of their tongue, who’s worried if the don’t speak it quickly it will be lost.
Soloas rose, moving to her child and collecting a couple of the blocks he was not using, then returning them to the table, looking around to make sure she had everyone’s attention, eyes sparkling.
“Why don’t we turn all of this…”, Soloas gestured towards all the books with a hand, then picked up a block shook it for emphasis, “ … into this?”
[TBC in Comments]
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Here I am, Dr. Blackley. You are Manfred Blackley, PhD. How do I know this? You spoke a name once, a name that sticks to me, almost as effectively as your name sticks to you.
You can keep trying to ignore me. You are quite good at it. For thirty and one risings of your sun you have ignored me. Amazing, really. You have kept me here, thinking to starve me, but I am hardier than you think.
I have fed on your name tag, Dr. Blackley. On your credit card in your pocket. On the number of hairs that cover your left arm. All of these provide information, and information is sustenance for me. You seem startled by this, afraid. More information for my stomach.
I divine your purpose from your eyes. You want me dead, so you can return to Maria. Manfred and Maria. So cute, your alliterative marriage. You had her moved as soon as you knew what I was. You used your influence to shut down this wing of the hospital. Now it's just you and I.
Believe me, I would kill you if I could. But this bouncy little ball of meat is hardly fit to crush your windpipe. I know too well my own bones, their weakness and lack of hardness. But in counterpoint, are you able to kill me?
I think not. You're a gentle man at heart. You wouldn't break the body you worked so long to make, you and Maria. It took you four years. Here I am, Dr. Blackley. Your son, Coleman Blackley. A monster? Maybe. But still your son. You don't have it in you to stop me from devouring all of the knowledge, all of the information in this world. Because I . . . Oh, surprising. You do have the guts.
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[WP] You're sitting around bored fiddling with stuff in your pocket when suddenly the text "CHEAT ACTIVATED" appears in-front of you for several seconds.
|
Johnny knew what to do next. He jumped up twice, squatted twice, leaned to the left and then the right twice, tapped a Bee, thought of the final letter of his country, and clicked the any key to start.
“The Konami Code” he thought to himself.
He decided to test his new limits, the text couldn’t have been fake. He decided to punch the solid brick wall only for it to shatter completely... his fist. He fell over on the ground, writhing in pain.
“Maybe I’ll heal fast” but in ten minutes nothing happened. He looked over to his son, playing Super Mecha Death Christ 7 (DLC, Characters, Maps not included) and saw the text “CHEAT DEACTIVATED.”
He looked over to where he was standing, sure enough there was a mirror.
“GOD DAMMIT BOBBY YOU CANT EVEN BEAT THE GAME WITHOUT CHEATS!”
“Sorry dad, I don’t want to spend 40 hours to just get a sense of pride and accomplishment”
Edit 1: Fixed Konami Code sequence
|
This is my first story. Hope you enjoy. :)
“Finally! Can’t wait to get home!”
Honestly, couldn’t tell you how dull my job was. Sitting behind a computer screen and typing, just boring I tell you, boring! Wish something interesting could just happen. The moon was as high as it could ever be. Of course, that’s something I’m usually used to. In the distant, a lonely car sat under the street light, unbound by the frost. Yep that’s my car, the Golf Gti Mk1, old but still kicking.
I Walked down to the car and got in. “Damn its cold out there!” I said with chattered teeth. It may be cold but at least I can get home to my wife, and maybe… get really warm together. I reach to my left pocket in hopes of fishing my out my keys, but no luck. Just great…
VRRT VRRT
Picking up my cell phone, I receive a text message and read the following, ‘CHEAT ACTIVATED,’ it was odd to say the least. Whatever, probably some silly teen prank, but I would be lying if I wasn’t surprised by the lack of any number but zero on the contact. I continue to wrestle through my right pocket, and there it is! My key. Time to drive.
No longer than a few seconds of revving up my tuckered-out car, lights of blue and red, glinted closer and closer, their sirens echoing the streets. Must be some ambulance or police vehicle, I suppose. Suddenly, a helicopter peered over the town's buildings, hovering with it’s giant torch beaming towards… my general direction, no way… I must be a bit knackered. Surely it can't be my car. I glance outside my car's window, maybe there was a chase happening? Who knows.
The car releases a tired groan, “It’s bout’ time.” I set it to first gear and push down the pedal. As I was about to drive out of the car park, the sirens intensify, more helicopters cover the sky like swarming seagulls. I think its best to just get out of here, fast. Soon, a few digits of white cars that glowed with yellow and blue, multiplied. All police vehicles barricaded behind the parking space. Helicopters panned their searchlight at me.
What the fucking fuck?
It just got worse, what shook the ground and sounded like a stampede was a bunch of Big mighty tanks, rolling in with their barrels aimed towards me. I am so definitely dead, all I wanted was to snuggle with my wife as we watch tv, I didn’t mean what I said with that earlier statement. Oh god, why me? Why! I sobbed, snot leaking down my nose. You know what? I think God actually listen to me, this will be a exciting chase for me indeed!
I spin into a U-turn and take the open exit. The hundreds of cars tailing me down the streets, tanks blasting their shells and Helicopters with gunners hanging off them, how thrilling! I would give this awesome chase Five stars!
Thanks for reading, Let me know what you think!
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[WP] You're sitting around bored fiddling with stuff in your pocket when suddenly the text "CHEAT ACTIVATED" appears in-front of you for several seconds.
|
"CHEAT ACTIVATED"
The giant glowing message just sat there in the air. It was a blinding white-ish color, and very blocky. To be honest, It wouldn't've looked out of place in Pong. I have no idea what it meant, or how I even activated it. All I knew in the moment were the confused stares from onlookers as I just stood there. Then, the text just vanished as suddenly as it popped up!
&nbsp;
I tried a few simple movements to test it out. A few simple jumps, running around in circles, punching the air... nothing. I just looked even crazier in public. Maybe that was the cheat? Look batsh*t crazy in public? Some "cheat" that is! I just gave up and walked into a random coffee shop, hoping nobody from out on the street would notice me.
&nbsp;
I ordered my usual, plain black coffee and a blueberry muffin. The guy behind the counter mumbled something about a price, but I wasn't really paying attention. I pulled some change out of my pocket, and to my surprise, it was the exact amount! Perhaps that's the cheat?
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
...nah, funny coincidence.
|
"What is this?" I think to myself, scratching at a place on my chin.
Suddenly the text blinks and changes: "Chin scratched at 12032017144655"
I stop suddenly and turn my head, trying to see what everyone else is doing. The room is full of people and there's a buzz of conversation everywhere. They don't seem to be bothered by anything out of the ordinary, so it must just be me.
Text Changes again: "Head rotation 155 degrees left 42 degrees up".
I reach out and the text disperses before me. I am so utterly confused. Then, all of the sudden, the Text changes again: "Raise leg 20 degrees".
I can't help but raise my leg.
I'm baffled. I try to move, but I cannot. Commands begin to come in one-after-another-after-another. Every command that happens, I end up performing without any possibility of fight.
The commands have me doing jumping-jacks and running in circles and karate-chopping people. Of course the others yell and try to stop me, but these commands seem to also give me great strength as well. I am carrying 3 people on my back as I run.
Then the Text blinks and becomes solid: "Quit Game. Are you Sure? Y".
I gulp and blackness drops over me.
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[WP] You're sitting around bored fiddling with stuff in your pocket when suddenly the text "CHEAT ACTIVATED" appears in-front of you for several seconds.
|
Johnny knew what to do next. He jumped up twice, squatted twice, leaned to the left and then the right twice, tapped a Bee, thought of the final letter of his country, and clicked the any key to start.
“The Konami Code” he thought to himself.
He decided to test his new limits, the text couldn’t have been fake. He decided to punch the solid brick wall only for it to shatter completely... his fist. He fell over on the ground, writhing in pain.
“Maybe I’ll heal fast” but in ten minutes nothing happened. He looked over to his son, playing Super Mecha Death Christ 7 (DLC, Characters, Maps not included) and saw the text “CHEAT DEACTIVATED.”
He looked over to where he was standing, sure enough there was a mirror.
“GOD DAMMIT BOBBY YOU CANT EVEN BEAT THE GAME WITHOUT CHEATS!”
“Sorry dad, I don’t want to spend 40 hours to just get a sense of pride and accomplishment”
Edit 1: Fixed Konami Code sequence
|
"What is this?" I think to myself, scratching at a place on my chin.
Suddenly the text blinks and changes: "Chin scratched at 12032017144655"
I stop suddenly and turn my head, trying to see what everyone else is doing. The room is full of people and there's a buzz of conversation everywhere. They don't seem to be bothered by anything out of the ordinary, so it must just be me.
Text Changes again: "Head rotation 155 degrees left 42 degrees up".
I reach out and the text disperses before me. I am so utterly confused. Then, all of the sudden, the Text changes again: "Raise leg 20 degrees".
I can't help but raise my leg.
I'm baffled. I try to move, but I cannot. Commands begin to come in one-after-another-after-another. Every command that happens, I end up performing without any possibility of fight.
The commands have me doing jumping-jacks and running in circles and karate-chopping people. Of course the others yell and try to stop me, but these commands seem to also give me great strength as well. I am carrying 3 people on my back as I run.
Then the Text blinks and becomes solid: "Quit Game. Are you Sure? Y".
I gulp and blackness drops over me.
|
|
[WP] You're sitting around bored fiddling with stuff in your pocket when suddenly the text "CHEAT ACTIVATED" appears in-front of you for several seconds.
|
Johnny knew what to do next. He jumped up twice, squatted twice, leaned to the left and then the right twice, tapped a Bee, thought of the final letter of his country, and clicked the any key to start.
“The Konami Code” he thought to himself.
He decided to test his new limits, the text couldn’t have been fake. He decided to punch the solid brick wall only for it to shatter completely... his fist. He fell over on the ground, writhing in pain.
“Maybe I’ll heal fast” but in ten minutes nothing happened. He looked over to his son, playing Super Mecha Death Christ 7 (DLC, Characters, Maps not included) and saw the text “CHEAT DEACTIVATED.”
He looked over to where he was standing, sure enough there was a mirror.
“GOD DAMMIT BOBBY YOU CANT EVEN BEAT THE GAME WITHOUT CHEATS!”
“Sorry dad, I don’t want to spend 40 hours to just get a sense of pride and accomplishment”
Edit 1: Fixed Konami Code sequence
|
"CHEAT ACTIVATED"
The giant glowing message just sat there in the air. It was a blinding white-ish color, and very blocky. To be honest, It wouldn't've looked out of place in Pong. I have no idea what it meant, or how I even activated it. All I knew in the moment were the confused stares from onlookers as I just stood there. Then, the text just vanished as suddenly as it popped up!
&nbsp;
I tried a few simple movements to test it out. A few simple jumps, running around in circles, punching the air... nothing. I just looked even crazier in public. Maybe that was the cheat? Look batsh*t crazy in public? Some "cheat" that is! I just gave up and walked into a random coffee shop, hoping nobody from out on the street would notice me.
&nbsp;
I ordered my usual, plain black coffee and a blueberry muffin. The guy behind the counter mumbled something about a price, but I wasn't really paying attention. I pulled some change out of my pocket, and to my surprise, it was the exact amount! Perhaps that's the cheat?
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
...nah, funny coincidence.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm a bot, *bleep*, *bloop*. Someone has linked to this thread from another place on reddit:
- [/r/highlander] [\[WP\] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.](https://www.reddit.com/r/highlander/comments/7ignwl/wp_you_accidentally_kill_a_person_you_instantly/)
&nbsp;*^(If you follow any of the above links, please respect the rules of reddit and don't vote in the other threads.) ^\([Info](/r/TotesMessenger) ^/ ^[Contact](/message/compose?to=/r/TotesMessenger))*
|
Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I am an Irish or maybe Scottish character from a show called highlander in which I weild a monster of a sword and as an eventuality will become the last of my kind since we are all trying to kill each other and I'm the main character of the show.
Also I created /r/iamverybadass
|
Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Rey Crave, he was a normal traveler, he appeared one day in this village filled with dirt, horse shit, and sand asking for temporal refuge. He looked suspicious as all hell, but even so, they accepted him. It might have had to do with the fact that he had a lot of money in his person or because he was really charming.
He made a name for himself in this town, not only he was touring, he was helping out when he could and even sometimes when he shouldn't. All of his goodwill was breath of fresh air for the town, they didn't like him at first, but eventually, all suspicion was lost. They were used to travelers making a mess when they arrived and not cleaning up when they left. it was the kind of town no one cared for.
Despite all of this, he wasn't someone who stood out much, unlike some of the people who lived here, he didn't have any special talent whatsoever, all he had was his goodwill and that special charm that made people trust him as if people were drawn to him, identify with him somehow, until eventually he was known by all.
He was offered a chance to move in here, he was so appreciated that he was offered to work for one of the richest people in town, as a servant. He, of course, accepted, he had no reason to refuse. He lived and worked in that house for years, he was a nice addition to it and as expected made everything in the house flow better.
He lived a normal life, made close friends, fell in love and eventually got a house on his own. he started a family and even had children, or so I'm told.
But, what was his objective? his *original* objective, it feels like he came to this town for some other reason than just sightseeing, it's almost like he forgot midway what he was supposed to do and decided to leave everything behind. I knew of Rey, he had many different names, many different builds and many different personas, for every town he visited. For every town, he *ate*.
And this is just like those cases, and at the same time is not, probably because it's the last? or probably because he actually liked this good for nothing town that had nothing precious to offer his being? I guess his objective and his origins is something I'll never know, not in the state he is in now.
In the distance, I could see a half destroyed building, the remains of his house. I could see something red and black pulsating within, like a heart, and the cries and moans of all the people that lived in this good for nothing town, they were like faces carved on his gigantic form, twitching, bleeding from every injury the many muscular arms that erupted from within his body provided.
But no matter how much he tried, there isn't a single talent nor a single action that could help him, no amount of intelligence could help him now and of course, the memories only reminded him of all the lives he forcibly took. forever haunting him.
He couldn't do it, he wasn't able to kill himself, to take out all the people he absorbed after his addiction took over, and of course there was nothing I could do, just a normal traveller chasing after legends, only watch as he suffered in there for eternity trapped in a cage of meat, the many lives he took screaming at him in a thousand voices.
***
Any critique you can provide is really appreciated - [r/Onni21](https://www.reddit.com/r/Onni21/)
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Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The trembling finally subsided, but even as I gazed at my hands there was still a sort of ethereal aftershock subtly and persistently effecting my perception. Even the normal exercise of recalling memories seemed strained and foreign, as if the empty space normally occupied by only my mind was somehow finding resistance and invisible obstacles. I could not direct my inner eye directly at the source of this resistance, it seemed to hover just on the edge of my awareness darting away as I turned towards it, seeping obstruction into my intentions when I tried to turn away from it.
Finding the proper delicate balance between attention and avoidance finally, like overcoming the surface tension of water, I managed to break through this emergent barricade between my mind and memories. It hit me all at once, the accident played back in my head like two overlapping movie reels. On one reel, the memories made sense, they were the memories of myself in my car heading down the road that I drive every day on my commute home. I remember the hypnotic effects of the approaching headlights on the opposite side of the road, and the brief wonderment I felt as a pair of lights broke off from the endless stream and suddenly grew larger and larger until the light was all that I saw, until abruptly darkness descended.
The second reel was causing me to feel nauseous, the images did not match any I had ever seen before. The car interior was not a car I'd ever driven in, the hands gripping the wheel were not mine. A phone on the passenger seat was ringing and the name displayed on the screen was not a name I recognized, but at the same time none of the scene felt completely foreign to me. I felt on some deep level, and knew that this was not a dream, or a fabricated thought - this memory was as genuine as the first. The scene continues from the first person point of view and I reach down for the ringing phone, but an unlucky bump on the road causes the phone to fall in front of the seat. The call suddenly feels critically important, the name on the screen starts to pop out at me with urgency so I pursue the phone during its tumble. As my hand inches on the floor towards the phone I feel my body weight shift sideways and my hand on the steering wheel is jerked towards the passenger seat. I never even manage to get my hand fully around the phone before the sound of screeching metal and crumpling plastics give way to darkness.
I gasp for air and look up from my hands again. I look around and see the wreckage all around me. I'm sitting in my ruined SUV, the back end of a small sedan sticking out from underneath my smoking hood and emergency lights extending in every direction.
I suppose this numb feeling is shock, but its something more. I dont feel nothing, I feel too much. When I think back on the events leading up to the accident, my mind forks and I have two divergent mornings. The further removed from the accident I get, the less I can remember which memory feels more genuine. Sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around me I try thinking back further than this morning. I somehow have access to two entirely different minds, full of their own history and memories and feelings of joy and pain. I can remember birthdays surrounded by two entirely distinct sets of families, I can remember schoolyard conflicts from entirely different districts, and most discerning I can remember two entirely different faces looking back at me from the mirror.
The realization that my mind was no longer alone would have brought the old me to my knees, but this new me, this dual me had a different idea.
We returned home, our lives forever changed and intertwined. I still had a vague idea of self, but no longer choose to identify in the singular. That was the old me, this new me will go forward as a plurality, embracing my diversity of mind. We quickly ascended the stairs to the master bedroom. The house was entirely empty and silent except for the faint beeping of electronics, and the slight rustling of bed sheets as the cat adjusted itself at the foot of the bed.
Next to the bed, machines stood stoicly all around it, beeping the melancholy song of life support systems. Wires of every gauge seemed to run from the computers into and onto the woman in the bed. Seeing the woman brought a powerful surge of energy to the original host of my mind and quickly that plurality was push aside in favor of the original self.
Her eyes were closed as they had been for almost two decades now. Twenty years asleep in a coma the doctors said was irreversible. If I had any tears left I wouldve shed them, but my dried up ducts remained without wetness as I leaned in to kiss her forehead. While my lips touched her forehead, I let my self-mind relax as I reached towards the power cord supplying energy to the machines supporting my wife's mortal slumber. I did not have the strength alone to do what must be done, but with my new duality I found it possible. We pulled the cord out of the wall and heard the somber songs of the machines fade into a susurrus.
Our breath caught, our heart seemingly frozen in time between beats. Suddenly, I could feel it. My mind, once mine alone, had gained another occupant. This new addition was a blazing beacon of light, dwarfing every other emotion and memory I'd ever felt with overwhelming waves of love and warmth. Every late night whisper, every book and joke, every loving caress was amplified and magnified to infinite degrees. It vaporized the very essence of the loneliness and sadness built up over the past two decades.
The girl I fell in love with was back with me, and she would never be taken from me again.
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Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
*There's a monster inside everyone of us.*
The slow, calculated trickle of fresh blood announced the arrival of Darren Joyman in the sheer blackness. There wasn't even a flickering of light, only the damp, heavy darkness of an unknown place.
Darren was a truly smart man. Years ago, a lost bullet blew his best friend's life away, a bullet Darren himself shot. He felt the intense thrill of murdering a man blazing through his blood and core, growing into an unusual pain. A pain that wasn't physical nor emotional. It was much stronger than that, and to Darren it felt *right*.
The thrill lasted a second or two, and suddenly the guilt faded away. Call it magic, or sheer madness but in Darren's mind strange things took place. His best friend's memories became his, he now grasped concepts that moments ago were unknown to him, and he could whistle too. If he focused hard enough, he could heard the voice of his friend thanking him.
And so the monster was unchained.
---------------------------------------------
Down there, in the pure blackness, the painful babbling of men with broken jaws along with their tears striking softly against the ground, killed the silence. A familiar, terrifying sound joined them today. The steady, calculated *thump* of the concrete being walked on, growing closer and closer.
It suddenly stopped, somewhere in the darkness. Then, the clattering of steel bouncing against the concrete joined the painful cries, and then Darren talked:
"Shut up, or I will turn on the lights."
For a brief time, the babbling came to a halt and so did most of the tears.
But one.
In the sheer silence, it struck the ground with the strength of a lightning, thundering across the place and sealing the fates of many.
Darren whistled joyfully as he stepped gently towards somewhere. A cacophony of hyperventilated chests and hammering hearts joined the concert.
Two lamps with dim lights came to life. Enough to blind the eyes of the twenty starving and scruffy men tightly shackled against the walls of the windowless place.
"You know, if you were to tell me I would use this basement for something when I bought it, I would've laughed at your face," Darren said as he walked.
After many pronounced blinks, the eyes of the men managed to dissipate the flash in their eyes. There, in the center of the basement stood Darrel. hands.
"Let alone livestock."
---------------------------------------
/r/therobertfall for more not so great stories!
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Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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